BREATH OF NIGHT

Cascadia

See prologue for notes and disclaimer.

Thanks for reading, Athena Leigh, and LuvEwan!

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CHAPTER 6

Dimisfree was a kingdom soaked in tradition. Balanced on the brink of the aged Summer Jubilee, where the whole citizenry gathered for an array of showcased artistry and merrymaking, the kingdom was arife with joyous laughing and drifting crowds.

Qui-Gon wandered aimlessly among the busy muddle of men, brightly draped women, and boisterous children. The trip had unearthed little information on the fights, and even less on the laws concerning them.

King Nolab had answered the Jedi master's questions yesterday, yet offered only sparse elaboration on the subject. Even so, one thing was evident: whenever the fights were mentioned, Obi-Wan had been the centerpiece of conversation. Further, there was more resting on the fights than tradition and glory. Profit was as much of a draw as anything else - in the form of gambling.

After being recognized by the guards at the stone gate, the Jedi master marched through the open courtyard of lush, sun-baked gardens and entered a wide portico along the side of the King's mansion. Soldiers paced about the colonnade while servant girls carried woven baskets of colorful ripened fruits and ground grains.

He made his way through a short breezeway and into an open, sun-splattered quad. Even before he saw them, he heard the metallic clank of their weapons and the harsh breathing of the two combatants. A surge of pride filled Qui-Gon's chest at the sight of Obi-Wan easily driving his sparring partner back. Even with his access to the Force muted beyond usability, his pupil excelled in close combat.

But something was not right.

"No," Qui-Gon hissed, quickly recognizing Obi-Wan's savage, sharp motions that stemmed from anger.

When the blade of Obi-Wan's sword nicked the other man's shoulder, and a dark rivulet of blood appeared, Qui-Gon rushed forward, intent on stopping the padawan's unrestrained assault. The man fell back, sprawling on the ground with Obi-Wan over him.

The padawan paused briefly, breaths coming in ragged pants, then threw his weighty weapon to the side, where it landed with a dull thud on dusty earth. Bending over to rest his hands on his thighs, he concentrated on slowing his breathing. He knew his master was there. He had caught a glimpse of him, heard the quietly muttered protest, guessed at the growing dismay, the disappointment that his loss of control had undoubtedly caused. And now he dreaded to face him.

Slowing, Qui-Gon came up behind Obi-Wan and stopped, uncertain of what to say. He could hear the boy mumbling something between breaths, words over and over again. A few, he caught and identified as a serenity litany. The seventh one, Obi-Wan's favorite.

"Why, Master?" the padawan finally asked, his voice baring the weariness not only of his body, but also of his mind.

Qui-Gon stood there, momentarily faltering in words, and watched as Obi-Wan straightened and turned to face him. Coppery hair was wet and tousled, sweat dripped from ivory skin sheathed in black leather boots, pants and vest, and pale eyes with the faintest hint of anger stared at him.

Obi-Wan licked at the perspiration around his mouth, then inquired almost breathlessly, "why don't you leave me here?"

The question hung in the air between them. Qui-Gon knew exactly what Obi-Wan meant.

The deep sapphire of Qui-Gon's gaze softened, and he stepped close enough that Obi-Wan had to look up at him. "I will not abandon you," he softly enunciated.

But what was intended as reassurance struck like unwanted - or undeserved - exoneration, and Obi-Wan's eyes shimmered with self-loathing. The padawan suddenly felt dizzy and sick inside. "Master," he said quietly, respectfully, "you needn't stay just for me."

The Jedi master's eyes widened. "Just for you?" he echoed, more for himself. "Obi-Wan, I want nothing more than to grab you and run from here, as far away as I can. But I must obey the will of the Force."

"Perhaps the Force wants you to leave me," Obi-Wan suggested, solemnly, honestly.

Qui-Gon could only shake his head. No, the Force would never want that.

The boy half-turned away and rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand. "Then, perhaps," he spoke as a whisper, "I want you to leave me." Large hands suddenly clasped his shoulders, turning him roughly back around to face Qui-Gon.

"Never say that," Qui-Gon said gruffly. He noticed Obi-Wan flinch, saw the brief shadow of fear in the sea-colored depths, then gentled his hold.

For a moment neither spoke. Their eyes met and held, a million thoughts conveyed through sight alone. Obi-Wan's fear of being left and his feelings of immense guilt. Qui-Gon's fierce protectiveness and the underlying love for a son in all ways but blood.

Abruptly, the master pulled Obi-Wan into a huge hug, his bearded chin resting on sweaty spikes of russet hair. The padawan stood limply in the embrace, felt warm breaths on dampened hair.

"I will never abandon you, my Padawan," Qui-Gon declared softly. "Never."

~*~

They curled up into black ribbons, twisting and shriveling up. Orange flames danced above them, wood crackled softly in the darkness of his bedchamber, and he watched intently as the evidence of his repentance was destroyed by his own hand.

Sleep had been elusive to a troubled mind. So here, on a soft sable fur rug, he huddled in his deep-blue silken attire, a chenille throw wrapped tightly around shivering shoulders, despite the warmth of a summer's night.

Obi-Wan tore another strip of paper off, satisfied with the ripping sound it made, and tossed it into the fire.

He had found the crinkly loose-leaf paper and an ink stylus in the night-table drawer and, in the tradition he had abided by since turning fifteen, set down to write out his confession to Qui-Gon. It was always easier for him this way - to lay out his words, organizing them in the best way - before he actually confronted his master with it.

On the padawan's fifteenth birthday, Qui-Gon had bought him his first ream of silk-skin paper, a gold stylus with one large cyan gemstone on the top, and a satiny black box to keep them in. He treasured it, and anytime he needed to pour out his feelings, the paper was there to catch them.

A padawan is not perfect - no Jedi is.

That thought, as well as his master's gentle presence and patience with him over the last few days, had driven Obi-Wan to decide a formal apology was in order to Qui-Gon for the blame for the master's injury and Lyril's death. It was the right thing to do. And it would place him in the expected position to let those feelings go to the Force.

But that would have indicated that he had thoroughly examined them, that his willingness to put the event behind him and unnecessarily dwell on it no longer would never be compromised. And he was not ready for that.

Another strip blackened into a wispy curl and turned to sooty ashes.

The fact that he always let Qui-Gon down weighed upon him.

One last strip of his confession remained. With a trembling hand, Obi-Wan held it closer to the flames; they jumped excitedly in anticipation. When the paper made contact with a tendril of fire, harried eyes reflected its orange glow, the flames of judgment condemning his would-be penance.

He knew Qui-Gon was disappointed with him. Not even able to control his temper during sparring, the padawan knew his master had seen him for the disgusting failure he was.

"Ah!" he yelped, quickly pulling his hand back. It burned, as if dipped in molten lava, and his fingers were reddened, the skin sickly glossy.

Biting his lip against the pain, he cradled his wounded hand to his chest and slowly rocked in the forlorn gloom of his chamber.

~*~

Qui-Gon was chilled by the swelling aura of bloodlust that reverberated through the Force, growing exponentially more intense the closer he got to the arena. Its malicious power loomed like a sabergrikk about to pounce its helpless prey.

People streamed through entry tunnels, the crowds spilling out into the open-air arena and spreading over the endless rows of seating. Although just another part of the Summer Jubilee, the fights drew the biggest crowds to Dimisfree, with travelers from distant kingdoms crossing vast distances to attend.

Even before he emerged from the cramped tunnels and into the royal balcony, Qui-Gon heard the deafening sound of the crowd. He had had to slam his shields down to keep himself from being overcome by the sheer malice that swarmed through the Force.

"You worry for him," Loresce's dulcet voice came from behind him.

Qui-Gon rested his hands on the stone balustrade that edged the balcony seating and overlooked the field of sand and dirt. His gaze was fixed on the heavy black gates where Obi-Wan was to enter.

"Yes," he confirmed without turning around. Her statement had not asked for a reply, but he felt compelled to, nonetheless.

"He will bring wealth to our land," Loresce said as she stopped at the balustrade beside him. "Like when I was a child." She sounded wistful.

Qui-Gon turned to her. "How was it when you were a child?"

"Much as it is today, only," she paused, and the afternoon sunlight touched on lowered deep-crimson lashes, "we worried not for our future."

A wild breeze tossed the Jedi master's hair, as Qui-Gon clasped his hands in billowing sleeves. "Your economy rests on . . . this," he said the last word with a note of disgust.

"Our economy rests on many things, Sulen Jinn," Loresce snapped, harsher than she had intended and using the title of a respected nobleman.

Qui-Gon stiffened slightly before he saw regret glittering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she softly spoke, and her gaze drifted to the gates where only moments ago Qui-Gon had been staring.

But there was more behind her anger than pride. She was hiding something that Qui-Gon could not quite place in his attempt to shield himself from the waves of savage depravity that surrounded him like the smell of the sea that hung on the wind.

~*~

In the brightness of the arena field, Obi-Wan stood with eyes skimming over the crowd, trying to locate his master, while he absently wiped his hands on the black leather of his trousers, careful of his wrapped hand. He was not afraid, but the sizzling heat from the sun burning overhead had him sweating even before his match had begun.

Qui-Gon watched from the comfort of the King's personal balcony. Obi-Wan's opponent, representing far-away Meerfell, was a large man with ample upper-body strength, thick thighs, long stringy hair. But he would more than likely be slow. Obi-Wan had the advantage.

As the two engaged in combat using swords, Qui-Gon found it difficult to refrain from using the Force to influence it - especially since his padawan could only feel a vague touch of its power and was unable to access it.

The boy is not helpless, Qui-Gon kept reminding himself. He will be fine.

The Jedi master retained a stoic façade, obstinately stifling his rebellious urges to interfere and disobey the Force's prodding.

He watched as Obi-Wan blocked skillful strikes and danced around the Meerfellian's attacks. Every move was accentuated by the excitement of the crowd. And Qui-Gon held his breath each time blood was drawn, knowing Obi-Wan endeavored to keep it to a minimum despite the inevitability that the precious liquid be spilled.

Obi-Wan ducked the heavy swing of the other's blade and easily swept the man's feet from beneath him. Then with a nimble kick, left him weaponless.

Standing with the rest of the crowd who waited for the killing blow, Qui-Gon swallowed heavily as his padawan, instead, shook his head emphatically, and the master almost smiled at the boy's bold defiance to the mandates of the bloodsport.

The blade of his sword held to the bigger man's throat, Obi-Wan stood unflinching as insults and food debris were hurled at him.

But of all the anxieties that Qui-Gon had conquered that day, none had challenged him like the one that gripped his insides as Obi-Wan was led away by a squad of guards.

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tbc