BREATH OF NIGHT
Cascadia
See prologue for notes and disclaimer.
A special thank you to my lovely readers! Athena Leigh LOL, yeah, Qui-Gon can be trouble to gamblers. :o) Thanks! , Daarthe Lemelemie Thanks for reading! , and Lay'ren Thank you! Here's more of the story.
Just a little note about this part: The second scene is dedicated to the wonderful CYNICAL21. It was her beautiful and imaginative writing in An Untimely Frost that inspired this scene. Hope you all enjoy it. :o)
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CHAPTER 7
Sometimes it was hard to understand, to be so completely reliant on it, to trust everything you did to its invisible hands. It would never abandon him no matter where it led him . . . or left him - as it sometimes felt.
"I am not alone," Obi-Wan whispered against the pain that broke his body. He blinked hard, sweat stinging eyes bright with lingering pain, and tried to find a spark of that soothing presence that could take him and hold him in its power and wipe away the physical discomforts that engulfed his body. It was there, but all he could sense was a hazy scintilla, the rest kept at bay by the gleaming golden bands that decorated his wrists.
He reached for it again, slightly out of desperation, slightly out of cognition that it could help - if only he could grasp it. If only.
A heavy weakness overcame him - again - and he gave up on touching that caressing energy again.
But then there were gentle hands touching him, a touch coolly relieving and warmly lulling.
"Oh," he gasped quietly, involuntarily voicing his pleasure.
"I will not abandon you, Obi-Wan," the words tenderly fell to him. Words of comfort, words of hope. "And neither will the Force."
A small frown creased his brow. He had thought he was dreaming, but the hands on his back continued rubbing something cool and consoling of the pain that resided there. It was then that he realized there was silken soft fabric beneath him.
"Master?" he said, his breath light and full of misery.
The hands paused. "Yes, my Padawan?" the baritone replied.
Obi-Wan moved his head to find the source of the voice and ignored the lancing pain that action sent through him. Against a blast of white light lay a dark silhouette of a very familiar shape.
"Master," he tried again to reach for - something - to bring everything into perspective.
And Qui-Gon seemed to know. He always seemed to know and provide the perfect answer every time.
The gentle hands began smoothing that cool substance over the padawan's back again. "They think that they can break you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, somberly. "They think that their game will suffer, and you are an example to those who believe it should be stopped."
Qui-Gon paused, sapphire eyes skittering worriedly over the cuts that marked the padawan's back by the whip they had used on him. Dipping his long fingers in the jar of saffron ointment again, the master smeared more of it across the broken skin and sent more healing Force energy into the hurting body. Perhaps Obi-Wan could feel some of it.
But why had he not stopped this? Qui-Gon fumed inwardly that his padawan - his padawan - had suffered so. And what got him the most was that he had stood by when they had tied Obi-Wan to the post. He had stood by when the glass-tipped whip had been brought out. He had stood by when it had snapped through the air and Obi-Wan had tried his best to remain silent. He had stood by - because the Force had kept him from interfering.
No, no. It was not the Force's fault. There were things that he did not always understand about its leading, but this time had nearly broken him.
"When can I go home, Master?" the softly spoken plea was like another stab to his heart.
And there were tears threatening to form in Qui-Gon's eyes. Reluctantly, he met the questioning aquamarine gaze and, unable to hold it, his gaze slid away - to the padawan's torn back, then to the cobalt coverlet and followed its cascade down to the floor.
An inexpressible ache burned in the padawan's chest as he saw the hurt that struck Qui-Gon. "Master, please don't look away." His tone was faintly pleading. "I'm sorry if I've made you feel . . . bad."
Automatically shaking his head in denial, Qui-Gon said, "Obi-Wan, you haven't . . ." But then he stopped and raised his gaze back to Obi-Wan's, saw there the barest hint of shame.
"I have," the padawan repeated, and the room seemed to grow brighter. "And I've made it worse on myself because," he paused, his voice growing quieter, "I can't let this thing go. I almost want to believe that I deserve this, but . . ." he swallowed, saw his master's softening expression.
"No," said Qui-Gon, quickly. "You do not deserve this."
Obi-Wan bit his bottom lip, forced himself to not look away. He had to face this. He had to.
When he saw Obi-Wan was still attentive, Qui-Gon said, "you must examine your guilt. Examine the circumstances, everything that led to it. Then bare your heart to the Force. Pour everything of yourself out. Let the Force burn away what you cannot. The situation that brought on that guilt cannot change, but your heart can. Let it be cleansed and made whole - free - again."
He stopped, knew it sounded simple, but was anything but. Though he knew Obi-Wan understood, had learned well the ancient writings of Jedi mystics, knew how to put them into practice. The most difficult obstacle was that with the boy's personality, he assumed things far beyond his reach as his responsibility, his fault, his guilt, so any problem was usually a challenge to let go.
"I will try, Master," Obi-Wan said, his resolution threaded in his tone.
A gentle smile curved the master's lips. "Do or do not," he lightly admonished, then reached up to ruffle short russet strands.
Obi-Wan drew out his right hand from where it rested under his head to swat the offending hand away, but Qui-Gon was quicker and captured it.
"Obi-Wan?" The master's eyes widened.
As his breath caught, the padawan suddenly tensed, felt his back aching in protest. He tried to pull his hand away, but Qui-Gon retained a firm grip on the wrist.
"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon repeated, his voice trembling slightly. "What happened to your hand? I know it was not wounded in your fight." He had noticed it covered with something white during the fight, but had guessed it was for better grip. But now, at close distance, he could see traces of the skin beneath between the strip's edges.
The wrapped hand still hurt, and Obi-Wan had done little to help it. He squeezed shut his eyes, fearful of Qui-Gon's probing.
The nervous silence only unsettled Qui-Gon more. Carefully, he unwound the white strip of fabric from Obi-Wan's hand. The boy remained still during the ordeal, and when Qui-Gon had unveiled the burnt flesh he quietly examined it, then poured a concentration of Force healing energy into it.
Despite the gold bands that interfered with his connection, Obi-Wan instantly felt the soothing balm repairing his flesh, and sighed softly.
When he was finished, Qui-Gon looked once more at the young man stretched out on the bed before him. The creamy flesh of his back was still scabbing and appeared appallingly out of place on such a smooth and strong back. Thick eyelashes lay dark and soft against ivory cheeks and hid the bright and prismatic eyes from view. The slow, steady rhythm of the padawan's breaths indicated he was extremely relaxed, but awake - for Qui-Gon sensed it.
He raised a large hand and stroked Obi-Wan's hair. "Obi-Wan?"
As much as the padawan would have liked to ignore him, he just could not. Qui-Gon deserved an answer, and the tender concern that laced that baritone call plucked at his heart.
"Obi-Wan?" It came again.
"Yes, Master?" Obi-Wan replied with soft inflection and eyes still safely closed.
"Please tell me what happened to your hand."
Eyes, bright and gleaming aquamarine, slitted open, coyly peering up at Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan wondered briefly if he would be angry with him for his carelessness. "I . . . I burned it," he stated quietly.
Qui-Gon blinked and drew in a lung-full of air. "Burned?"
"Yes, Master. It was an accident," Obi-Wan explained. "I did it in the fireplace."
Nodding in understanding - and acceptance - Qui-Gon smiled. It brightened his heart that Obi-Wan was well for now. But he would leave with the merchant tomorrow.
And leave Obi-Wan alone, with nothing but the Force to watch over him.
~*~
He was blissfully aware of the surging tides, of the soft caress of silken waters and gentle warmth of golden sunlight that bathed him. Lying on his back with spongy sand beneath him, Obi-Wan closed his eyes as another dying ocean wave scrabbled tenderly around him, dissipating and retreating back to its vast and deep hold.
The sunlight was strangely comforting, the bright disk burning scarlet as it hung on the far edge of the sea. After Qui-Gon left that morning, he had gone through his normal routine here, then was allowed privacy on the beach - if you could call being diligently watched by soldiers along the stone wall, privacy.
He felt the barest tingle of the Force. His first instinct was to curse his inability to feel more, but he relaxed and let it spill over him. It was pure, sweet, and oh, so lovely. A tiny drop. Then another, and another. One by one, minute drops dripped down on him and soaked through him.
The revered, millennia-old texts of Jedi Master DaUria Ko'maho had spoken of such a discipline - the Toh Ang-Weh. Though not by forced suppression, the practitioner was to control the flow and keep it steady, but limited. It was to teach control, but allowed for Force manipulation through minimal supply.
He had never tried it, had heard that it was exhausting and only for those with advanced experience in mystic Force teachings. But he would pay anything for a constant grasp of that energy that had been extremely muted.
He needed it.
All at once, there were colors, ribbons of light, an intricate pattern too complex, too beautiful for explanation. And it surrounded him.
Another sea-foamy wave plashed across his bare chest, but he did not feel it.
What he was aware of was an alluring fragrance - tart as Alderaani wine, sweet as ruby teaberries. Then the angelic laughter of a child drifted through and replaced the sound of the moving sea.
He stood, no longer content to passively wait for . . . whatever happened next.
The light around him shifted, dimming to the faintest ethereal glow, and he saw a waking garden. Lush, green foliage dipped in morning's shy light trembled delicately in a shimmery breeze. Satiny rose, trumpet-like blossoms clung to a rich vine that wove up a dark wooden lattice and draped over an arbor that curved along the edges of the garden, enclosing it.
He wanted to ask where he was, but the stunning scene stole his breath.
"It doesn't matter where you are," a young girl's voice answered Obi-Wan's unspoken question.
Startled, Obi-Wan whirled around and saw Lyril standing by a chalky white fountain that gurgled gently. Soft light lit her dark crimson hair, the long silky tresses loosely swaying as she came nearer.
"But you're not dead," added Lyril, her lips curving up into a smile. She came forward and stopped before him, then took his hand in her tiny one. "Come."
Still confused, he allowed the child to pull him along a tortuous path paved with stones that gleamed silvery in the pale light.
"Where are we going?" the padawan finally managed, his eyes wide and darting around at the rich environment. If she would not tell him where they were, then perhaps she would say where they were going.
Lyril turned oval-shaped eyes to him. "That does not matter, either," she giggled.
"Then what does matter?" Obi-Wan asked as he forced them to stop.
"That you trust me, Obi-Wan." Something inexpressible moved in her amethyst eyes, something that belied of her scant years and spoke of boundless wisdom.
"Why am I here?" was all the padawan could manage to say.
Lyril smiled again, her cheeks still round and full from adolescence, then said, "you think you're right in clinging to your guilt?"
"I don't-"
"You do," the girl interrupted gently. "But it's not your place to."
Obi-Wan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Did you set the galaxies in their spiral? Did you light the inner fires of stars?" She cupped a delicate crimson blossom in her hand. "Did you make this flower?" she added softer and gazed up at him through long lashes.
"No," Obi-Wan said, exasperated and with quick exhalation of breath. "But that's-"
"What? Ridiculous? Naïve? No, Obi-Wan," she shook her head slowly. "You could never do those things. But, the Force loves you, nevertheless."
Obi-Wan nodded tentatively, surprised at the wetness in his eyes. "I know." His voice was thick with barely restrained emotion.
"It will also forgive . . . if only you will ask." Lyril clasped her hands together, twining her fingers. "Then you will be free."
Insecurely wrapping his arms around himself in a strangely endearing gesture, Obi-Wan turned away to hide the glistening tears that slid down his cheeks in silence.
"Why can you not accept that?" Lyril inquired softly. "Because you cannot accept that you are imperfect? That you need help? Obi-Wan, you never will be perfect." A tender sigh fell from her. "So full of light you are. But you are not the source."
He wiped surreptitiously at the moisture on his face. "I know," the padawan said quietly, afraid to trust a stronger voice.
"Do you?" The child's tone was solemn and empathetic. "Do you know that I am no less guilty than you."
Obi-Wan looked back at her. "But, you haven't-"
"You think me impeccable?" Lyril asked with elegant brows arching. "Perfection is not to be found here," she pointed to her chest, where her heart was. "Nor here," she poked his chest.
Obi-Wan stood in silence. And something shifted in the ache of his heart.
"Come," she repeated, taking his hand again and tugging.
And Obi-Wan felt compelled to let this small child lead him along the stone path.
From the distance came a tranquil sound. A low, steady hum that touched the beating of his heart as a gentle caress and seemed to beckon him. He realized that the further they traveled, the heavier he felt.
Once they passed through an ornately carved stone gate, the gardens sparkled with fine dust. Some flowers glowed, some were translucent azure and crimson and gold.
But it was the unfathomable blaze of pure white light that drew his attention. It rose from a floor of marble to embrace the skies and spanned as far as he could see from side to side. The essence of light was brilliant in heavenly radiance and too bright to peer into, but never glaring.
Obi-Wan held up a hand in front of his eyes. With legs now too weak to sustain his weight, he fell to his knees. "What is it?" he asked breathlessly.
"This is perfection, Obi-Wan."
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tbc
