SPINDLE OF FATE
by Cascadia
See Chapter One for notes, disclaimer, etc.
Reviewer replies are located at the end of the chapter.
OO OO OO
CHAPTER TWO
Obi-Wan held his breath as he waited at their apartment door. His heart pounded out a nervous rhythm and he was beginning to feel just a little sick. Had it really been so long? Had the last five years truly been real and all of the torment and horror more than a black phantom?
Qui-Gon looked to him when the door slid away. "Home, my Padawan." He beckoned the young man to enter ahead of him, then followed Obi-Wan in. Myriad lights founted into luminescence as Qui-Gon made a quick trip around the apartment, turning on select lamps and overhead light fixtures yet leaving a flood of moonlight to bathe the main room as he remembered Obi-Wan liked. He returned to Obi-Wan, frozen inside the threshold, and gently pulled the emotion-stricken young man further into the main room.
Obi-Wan acquiesced in silence and settled on their old damasked sofa. It was the same hazel-colored, silken-patterned sofa that the young padawan had broken down one evening while in a fit. It still sat with a slight downward slope in the middle, a little uncomfortable if one were not used to it, but Obi-Wan found the couch as perfect as a threadbare sleep shirt - just as comfortable and just as much a symbol of home as anything else.
Qui-Gon had disappeared into the kitchen to heat a pot of tea. When he emerged, a spare few seconds later, he was startled to see the young man's cheeks shining by the threads of white moonlight that poured through the wide windows. It was tears.
He rushed to the sofa and engulfed Obi-Wan, held him fiercely, driven by a blazing emotion to protect, to defend and make things right . . . if at all possible. No more wilder desire had he ever borne.
Obi-Wan was limp in his embrace, head tucked under Qui-Gon's chin, arms curled inward, pale and shattered. A broken china doll in his hands.
He had to fix it. Qui-Gon wanted to prevent any more tears on Obi-Wan's part, but he had lost all control of a situation that he had never had control of. Of all the horrors in a universe that should have subsisted on love this one - this one - was the one horror that touched the deepest core of his soul. It was the frost that killed the root.
"You are not alone, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon repeated again and again until his throat turned sore. "You're not alone, my Padawan. Not alone, not alone."
The teakettle screamed until its voice died and the room fell into silence. Finally when tears were spent they pulled apart and Qui-Gon grasped the younger man's hands as he had done earlier on the ship. "Tell me . . . tell me what happened, where have you been, my Padawan?"
A shadow of anguish fluttered briefly over Obi-Wan's features, his eyes downcast, pallid face glistening wet. "So much happened. So long did I think to give up hope, to believe my life would be for nothing. To end in tragedy." He felt Qui-Gon squeeze his hands, and he peered up.
"If you prefer to not talk about it . . ."
"I want to. I need to," Obi-Wan answered. He inhaled deeply and stared out the window, not seeing the ceaseless air traffic but some distant, painful image etched in memory. "When I disappeared the girl, Loresce, had me locked up in her father's tomb. Then some others came, and I was taken to a ship . . ."
O
Misery hung thick in the dusty air, almost corporeal and yet unspoken in the darkest bowels of the ship that was reserved for the most dangerous of slaves. Every inhabitant, be it human or otherwise, knew their dreadful destination, knew the unnamed fate that could very easily befall any of them, knew that meager hope lay beyond the moment's breath. Terrified, most of them understandably were. But they had learned to keep their heart's desires and hopeless pleas to themselves - for no one wanted to catch the eye of the head slaver . . . .
Obi-Wan lifted his head from the dirt-scattered floor. He still lay where a squad of guards had left him. He was a Jedi, they had surmised not from his attire - for he still wore the black leather trousers and vest he had worn as a gladiator in Dimisfree - but from his padawan braid that trailed from behind his ear. A simple symbol so telling to those who hated the supposed 'arrogant, dangerous elite of the galaxy', as many termed them. More than once in his young life Obi-Wan had found himself exposed by that thin silken braid and his life endangered.
Looking back over his shoulder to the thickly barred cell door, the padawan saw that his tormentors were all gone. No one waiting around to hurt him more.
Too weak to hold his head up any longer, he pressed his cheek back to the cold floor and closed his eyes to the dark gloom of his cell. With his eyes shut, he could sometimes ignore his wretched situation. Sounds of rattling, scraping chains could be heard, but other than that he could almost imagine himself lying on the cool metal deck of Garen's apartment at the Temple, catching summer rays. He was in pain, however, and that fact alone destroyed the illusion.
A small series of quick chirps invaded his drifting thoughts. The droid.
Remaining still, Obi-Wan waited until the serving droid warbled an indignant response for ignoring it and rolled away to deliver a measly meal to the next cell, before he tried to get up.
Gingerly, he pushed himself to hands and knees, gasped as a sharp pain lanced though him. A rib, presumably broken. Normally, he would have reached for the Force, for it could help relieve the pain, but all he had sensed for days now was an empty numbness that despaired him by its insurmountable estrangement. A lifetime of training for naught without that sublime power to channel it away.
It was not only the golden bands placed on his wrists by the Dimisfreens that interfered. Those would have dimmed his Force sense and numbed him somewhat, but not destroyed any hope of a whisper touch. He also wore a metal Force-inhibiting collar that sent him into an almost dreamlike state - a waking realm of isolated reality and an unnerving fear of feeling alone. An initial unease of the golden bands' effectiveness to impair his Jedi-abilities when they had first seen him prompted his new owners to snap a slender metal circlet around his throat. Thereafter, they had proceeded to do with him as they pleased.
Slowly, mindful of his ribs, Obi-Wan scooted next to the food the droid had left: a small bowl of brownish soup with small lumps of some unidentifiable meat floating in it, and a moldy slice of golden diwi fruit. What he would give for some of Qui-Gon's latest cooking - exotic Ki-Amounna cuisine, learned directly from the Raja's personal chef.
Connected by a short chain, heavy metal cuffs encircling his wrists made it difficult to eat, and there was no spoon. But he drank the soup, then chewed the slimy fruit with willful mindlessness. Even as he tasted the unsavory meal his thoughts turned to his captors. He had wondered at his treatment ever since being brought aboard. If he was to be a slave, why then, if they planned on selling him, did they treat him so savagely? His worth would certainly diminish the more damaged and marked he was.
After he finished eating, Obi-Wan left the empty bowl near the door where the droid could retrieve it and crawled to the wall at the other end of his cell where he lay down and pulled his knees toward his chest until a spike of pain gave him pause. Though it had not been enough to eat, his stomach felt satisfied. Days of privation had gotten him used to hunger. Somehow, in his dreadful state, he drifted into slumber.
Not long afterward, he woke abruptly to the sharp clanging of metal on metal. Groggy aquamarine eyes opened, realized that he had fallen asleep, that it happened far too often these days. But no less a surprise when considering the dearth of sufficient sustenance and the shock of Force-inhibition.
"All right! Everyone up and to your door!" A human guard strolled by Obi-Wan's cell, his harsh voice ringing down the corridor while he banged a metal rod in his hand against cell bars as he walked along.
Obi-Wan hesitated, but was standing by his door when the guard returned. He could see other prisoners gathered at their doors, looks of dread and unbridled trepidation quivering their filthy forms visible even in the ship's dimness. He wondered if he looked the same.
"Not you," the guard shot at Obi-Wan, eyes hard and lips pressed into a thin sneering line. "You've got a different destination, boy."
Uncertainty shimmered though Obi-Wan, knotted like a paperweight in his stomach as he watched every cell but his own emptied and the prisoners herded out to be presented for sale. Then everyone was gone. The din of their processional departure gradually faded to the faintest sonance. Alone, he was drowned in a sea of desolate silence.
O
"Why did they abuse you?" Qui-Gon inquired in a tone of gentleness. "And why were you not taken with the others?"
Obi-Wan inhaled deeply. "They wanted to put a slave tag in me and hadn't one that would work in such close proximity to the Force-suppressors I was wearing." His hands twisted into frustrated fists. "They abused me because I was a Jedi and outlaws like that don't like Jedi."
Qui-Gon nodded, eyes full of compassion and understanding. "I'll get you that tea." He heated the water again and returned with two mugs of tea, their brims smoking with hot steam. When he handed Obi-Wan a mug he observed the unsteadiness of the young man's hands, the subtle way the liquid in his mug trembled like a gale-tossed ocean.
"I'm all right," Obi-Wan assured him, surely noticing what Qui-Gon had witnessed. The quiet determination of his tone and his unwavering gaze sent a flood of ease through the Jedi master. "It's just a difficult thing . . . to talk about . . . to anyone." Obi-Wan set his mug on the sofa table and revealed a vulnerable fear deep-set in his round blue eyes. "You must know how happy I am to be back, to be free again."
Qui-Gon nodded encouragingly.
"But I can't feel you," Obi-Wan lamented, eyes waxing ever wider. "Our training bond, I can't sense it."
Qui-Gon shifted his gaze away, to the wall, to the floor, to the ruby glimmering heart of his tea.
"I guess it's just been such a long time that . . ." Obi-Wan continued, trailing off in thought.
Qui-Gon stood abruptly. "My tea's cold. How's yours?"
"Uh," Obi-Wan felt his mug, swirling its contents slowly. "My is, too. But," he darted to his feet and grabbed Qui-Gon's mug, "let me get it." With a fragile smile the young man fled to the kitchen.
He was standing at the stove when Qui-Gon entered, his boots abandoned on the floor by the table. A tiny red flame fluttered below the kettle - a silent dance of heat and light - while Obi-Wan scanned the old familiar surroundings of the kitchen. A solemn sense of bittersweet diffused the scene; the young man was at once home and in strange lodgings. Had it been so many days - years even - since this place had been more than memory?
Obi-Wan roamed searching eyes about the room. "This is all right . . . and wrong." He slumped into a chair, shoulders sketching his unease.
"It will take awhile, I'm sure," Qui-Gon confided. With a gentle hand he squeezed Obi-Wan's shoulder, all the while holding those entrusting eyes with his own.
Obi-Wan looked away, as if he were about to say something but chose otherwise.
Qui-Gon moved to the heated kettle when it began screeching and poured two fresh mugs of tea, then he took a chair across the table and sat facing Obi-Wan.
"It was weeks later," the young man began hesitantly as he accepted a hot mug, "before anything unusual happened. The beatings continued. Threats, near-starvation," Obi-Wan let out a shaky breath. "I was beginning to think nothing was ever going to change . . . ."
O
Footsteps suddenly sounded, intermingling with the rattling and scraping of chains.
Obi-Wan pressed himself against the cold back wall of his cell, his heart hammering as the distant plodding grew louder. It was more than one person, of that he was sure.
One hand moved inside his leather vest to protectively cover his broken rib, the thick metal shackle sliding up his slender arm. He regulated his painful breaths that wanted to come faster. Just breathing hurt. The black of his pupils widened fractionally, bleeding into the aquamarine that surrounded them, as he stared through the bars where his tormentors would first appear.
In a moment it could begin, and he would be powerless to resist so many strong arms. He drew himself in tightly, arms and legs curling up as if he could disappear within his own body and never have to come out to face them again. At last, one small gasp escaped - or was it a sob? - as several dark forms gathered outside his cell door.
Cold dread violently twisted his stomach. How many more beatings could he take until an internal hemorrhage sent his body beyond repair? Or until something gave inside and all that made him Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Padawan, withered up and died?
A despairing faintness washed over him as many sets of hands reached out, locked on his arms, and jerked him to his feet. He stood within the circle of guards - two humans, a rodian, a zabrak, and a very tall gotiard - swaying slightly, expecting the fists to come.
"Come on, boy," said the human with the swarthy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair. "You're going to see the Doc."
When Obi-Wan's expression unconsciously turned shocked, they laughed abrasively and started dragging him toward the door. The door! A ridiculous joy rippled through him, having been confined to his cell since waking up here. Maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe . . . Convulsively, he swallowed, desperately hoping it so, for he feared a tiny part inside of him would break if not.
He was propelled along the corridor of cells where could see other prisoners - slaves - huddled behind thickly barred doors, looks of dread and unbridled trepidation quivering their filthy forms visible even in the ship's dimness.
A lift took them up several flights; they spilled out into a long corridor. Lights were brighter here, walls and floors generally cleaner. Conditioned to the gloom on the slave level, his eyes were stung by the harshness. Immediately, he squinted, but was given no time for pause as they propelled him several paces to a closed door that slid open at the touch of a button.
After dragging him through the door, they forced him to sit on what appeared to be an examination table, and then moved to stand at the other side of the immaculate room. Obi-Wan looked around at his surroundings, also taking in the scent of bacta that lightly scented the air. There were various cabinets, a sink, a disposal unit, and a short, thin man with receding hair and a gray imperial.
The man was inscrutable, his face expressionless as he came near with an odd instrument in his hand. This had to be the healer. "Now, just relax. I'm going to check you over and make sure you're okay," he announced when he saw Obi-Wan's shoulders suddenly tense. "But first," he added with a tiny smile. "I'm going to remove those bands from around your wrists."
Obi-Wan glanced uncertainly down at the golden bands. They were designed to dim his Force-sense, and he would be glad to have them off, even though his Force-ability would not return with the slaver's metal circlet about his throat.
"Trust me. All right?"
The voice sounded almost warm, almost compassionate, Obi-Wan imagined. Hesitantly, aquamarine eyes flicked up to the healer. He wanted to trust him, wanted to trust someone, but he knew that was a near impossibility.
"All right?" the healer repeated.
"Why should I?" was Obi-Wan's soft reply.
"Because I won't hurt you," the healer insisted. He saw the flash of vulnerability in the youthful eyes that quickly looked away, past the guards, to stare at the far wall. Taking the silence for consent, he gently lifted one of Obi-Wan's hands and pushed the heavy shackle up his arm to get a better look at the gold bands. Then he went to a cabinet to replace the instrument in his hand with another one.
Nervously worrying his lower lip, Obi-Wan watched the healer's back.
"Now," the little man turned around, "I think this ought to do it." He held out a long, thick tool. "I've never seen any Force-suppressors like those before, but the material looks malleable to a beorion cutter." Again he smiled kindly at Obi-Wan.
Keeping his fears at bay, the padawan sat still while the healer efficiently cut the golden Force-suppressors off. When they were pulled off, the skin beneath was pink and abraded. His wrists had been pinched tightly for so long, that he could not help but to rub them when they were free.
The healer quietly cleared his throat, drawing Obi-Wan's gaze to met his own. "Are you hurting anywhere? Besides your black eye?"
Obi-Wan looked away, down at his wrists.
"I can't fix it if you don't tell me."
Silence.
The healer blinked at Obi-Wan's defiance. He turned to the guards. "Do any of you know anything?"
The rodian guard stepped forward, making Obi-Wan tense slightly again. "I'm sure he must be hurting somewhere," the guard reported.
Several snickers followed that statement.
The healer's eyebrows rose in shock.
"We ain't done nothin' like that, Doc," the swarthy human admitted truthfully. "None of us swing that way. And besides, the Boss would have our heads if we did."
Visibly relieved, the healer looked back at his patient. "Well?"
Obi-Wan remained motionless and withdrawn. That youthful gaze remained fixed on his wrists.
Sighing, the healer moved in front of the boy and carefully began feeling Obi-Wan's arms, then legs, watching for any sign of discomfort. There were several bruises he noted on his arms and chest, and of course, the black eye. Obi-Wan remained passive, seemingly ignoring the ministrations until a hand slid along his ribcage, causing him to grimace.
"Ah-ha!" the healer crowed. "I found something."
Obi-Wan's stomach did flip-flops. He had feared that any knowledge of his injury would be used to hurt him further, but now that the healer had discovered it, he inwardly pleaded that the little man's kindness would continue.
The healer passed a small handheld device across Obi-Wan's chest, discerning the break of one rib. A series of regular beeps accompanied the exercise.
"A simple, complete fracture," he diagnosed with a small nod. "I'd have you sent to a bacta tank, if we had one, but . . ." the healer shrugged apologetically.
The healer made sure the bones were aligned, then tightly wrapped the padawan's chest with some off-white fabric, to ensure the bones stayed immobilized and would heal properly.
Somehow Obi-Wan remained still, his face only mildly contorting in pain.
"Now," the healer broke the hush that had filled the room, "provided you stay clear of any more casual beatings, you should be fine soon." He frowned at the guards, who shifted uneasily.
"The Boss said it was okay," the rodian offered in lame excuse.
"But the Boss," the healer countered, "wants him well now, doesn't he?"
The zabrak grinned toothily, yellow eyes glinting. "Only because he wants to sell him for a good price."
Through it all, Obi-Wan sat still, quietly listening while he secretly trembled on the inside. The healer was presently facing a cabinet, extracting something from a shelf. The padawan watched him furtively, sharply inhaled when he saw something he recognized, something that made him jump up from the examination table.
But the guards were there immediately to restrain him. Someone backhanded Obi-Wan. Then he was wrestled back on the table and held there.
"You'd think he'd stop fightin' us after all we already done," observed the swarthy human.
"You'd think," echoed another one, who favored Obi-Wan with a minatory expression.
Obi-Wan glared at them and raised his chin defiantly. It would be useless to argue; nothing would change. He faced the situation as well as he could . . . as well as his master would expect of him. His struggles to free himself continued, but the powerful hands of five guards easily held him down, and he was too weak from insufficient nourishment to offer much resistance anyway.
He turned a mildly mutinous gaze to the healer as he approached with a syringe in one hand and a slave-implant infuser in the other. Light briefly flashed off the long silver needle, and Obi-Wan tried to twist from the arms that held him. The healer touched the sharp, cold metal to his neck. He jerked his head away, groaning and wincing from the sharp sting, brows slightly scrunching together, eyes painted with distress.
The healer noted the discomfort that danced over the slave's face before he depressed the hammer and emptied a thick yellow liquid into the youth's bloodstream.
It took mere seconds for the tranquilizer to hit Obi-Wan; his struggles ceased; his thoughts softened into insensibility; lashes fluttered closed to settle peacefully against smooth, pale cheeks.
As his consciousness melted away into darkened dreams, he never saw where the slave-implant was injected.
O
"That meant that they weren't going to beat me anymore," Obi-Wan said, sounding slightly removed from the reality of it all. "It wasn't all bad."
"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, though he knew - and could discern from Obi-Wan's demeanor - that he was only looking for something to keep the whole experience from dragging him away, from drowning him under a dark sea of misery.
Obi-Wan remained quiet and reserved for several agonizing minutes. Finally he looked at Qui-Gon. He tried for a smile, but only achieved a quivering lip, which the paleness of his face only emphasized.
At a loss of what to do, Qui-Gon left his seat and pulled Obi-Wan to him, encasing the young man in a caring and tender embrace. They stood that way while they both wept silent tears, minutes clipping away as the horror of reality bled into the deepest part of the night.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat and pushed away from the strong arms that encircled him. He wiped a sleeve across his face while Qui-Gon dried his own and walked them back to the sofa in the main room. After they settled on the soft cushions, Qui-Gon waited in patience for Obi-Wan to continue when he felt up to it.
"It was strange," Obi-Wan said in a detached voice. "To be sold, like . . . like an animal."
Qui-Gon only nodded.
"Have you noticed," began the young man, "that I haven't called you . . . 'Master'?" His voice was soft, and he glanced quickly away, feeling ashamed, ever out of place in the world that should have been secure and easily welcoming to a tormented spirit.
"Yes." Qui-Gon said no more, waiting.
A quick in-drawn breath from Obi-Wan preceded a difficult swallow, and still he remained reserved, held suspended between doubt and confusion. "I was in the hands of a slaver," he finally whispered. "They sold me. I had to call someone else - someone terrible and desirous of dominating power - 'master'." His eyebrows knitted in distressed bewilderment. "I was lost, alone. No one around who could help." He looked up, wanting understanding, wanting a word to sanction his - to him - misbehavior. "I didn't want to, I didn't."
Qui-Gon looped an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "I know."
Several small sips of his tea seemed to calm Obi-Wan, before he continued . . . .
OO OO OO
To all: it feels strange to be posting a story after being away for a year. As a matter of fact putting up that first chapter was just as nerve wracking as posting my first story.
Expect the next chapter in a couple of days! I plan on posting updates about that often.
Banshee Fay: Thank you for the welcome back! I hope you enjoy! :)
Athena Leigh: It's nice to hear from some familiar faces! I was determined to finish this sequel, though a few times I decided I wasn't going to. But I just can't bear to leave something unfinished. Glad you're reading! :)
shadow warrior: Thank you! Obi-Wan is my favorite Star Wars character too. Hope you enjoy! :)
Sheila: It's nice to see you here! I'm not sure why I decided on Obi-Wan's calm return, but this story went through a couple of big structural changes before this senario was settled on. Most scenes, however, remained unchanged. Glad you're reading! :)
Clover Brandybuck: Oh, a Brandybuck! Any relation to Merry? (Yes, I admit I've turned into a bit of a Middle-earth fanatic in the last year!) The humor came unexpectedly, just seemed to want to happen. I'm so glad it fit in with the seriousness of the circumstance. Hope you enjoy! :)
Rieyeuxs: Well, thank you! It feels strange (and yet fun) to be posting again. I'd forgotten how much enjoyment it can be! :) Thanks for reading!