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 SIX
Lightning embers sparked at the far rim of the mountains, their short quick violence glancing white against heaven's gray backcloth. Day was near an end, and those gathered beneath the stormy skies stood solemn, eyes downcast and transfixed upon a small mound of earth.
"Dust whence we came . . . to dust shall we return." Xanatos' voice carried clear across the courtyard, though he spoke with hushed breaths.
Obi-Wan knelt just to his side, Yulo looming behind him, others – nurses, doctors, and sundry workers – crowding near. A man with a shovel in his hands stepped back from the mound, having just covered the child's coffin with earth, and brushed his nose with a dirt covered hand.
Xanatos gave an aggravated sniff and took a deep swig from the bottle he held. "Day is done," he declared as he raised the glass bottle overhead in salute to the coming storm. He was drunk.
The others seemed to take this as a dismissal and drifted away until only Obi-Wan, Yulo, and Xanatos remained.
"Why?" Obi-Wan said, as the departing footsteps dimmed. His voice was soft in his sorrow and he felt sick inside, enraged and broken by a conflicting war of emotion. "Why did you do it?"
"Someone had to pay for your endless . . . endless disobedience," Xanatos slurred. He staggered over to a low railing that ran along the edge of a promontory, its steep drop falling away to a perilous distance.
"Why couldn't it have been me?" Obi-Wan softly asked, but he knew it was all futile, the fight already lost. "The boy was innocent."
"What is life?" the failed Jedi inquired of the dark cloud rack. "What is hope?" He took another long draw from his bottle, the golden liquid sloshing, and then cradled it to his chest. "What is . . . anything once we've tasted the bitterness of failure?" He twisted around, swaying as he did so, to face Obi-Wan. "Tell me, Obi-Wan."
Obi-Wan refused to look at him. He disliked the man – almost hated him – but had never seen him so helpless in his debauchery.
"Come, come, come, old padawan. Tell the young master where he's failed." Xanatos heaved a deep sigh and turned back to the fast approaching storm. The wind blew his black locks away from his face.
Obi-Wan raised his grief-stricken eyes. His posture was slumped and hopeless. There were no words of comfort. Nothing to balm the pain for either of them. He searched for something to say and found nothing.
Xanatos stretched out a hand to test for raindrops. "You're too old to fail, young padawan. And I'm too young to care." He barked a cynical laugh and peered back at Obi-Wan, who blinked back his tears. "Just like me and Qui-" he faltered, voice gently breaking.
He drew his arm back and pitched the bottle over the rail, its crash distant as glass exploded on jagged rock far below. He staggered as he released it, and for one thrilling second Obi-Wan thought – even hoped – Xanatos would follow after the bottle.
"Qui-Gon cared for you," Obi-Wan said, his voice husked by grief. He found his thoughts clearing when fat drops of rain plopped atop his head.
"He," Xanatos started, "he cared for himself!" The former Jedi wheeled around, legs becoming entangled, and he fell to the ground.
"It was you," Obi-Wan said, standing, shoulders braced confrontationally. "You were the problem-"
"What do you know about problems?" Xanatos demanded. He pushed himself to his knees and glared, eyes darkening with angry hurt.
"What do you know about children?" Obi-Wan wondered if he pushed too far, but his own sorrow drove him with reckless disregard.
Xanatos stood up, unsteady and holding onto the rail for support. He looked from Obi-Wan to Yulo and back to the padawan again. "What do I know about children?" he repeated, his tone waxing cynical again. A flicker of insanity glazed his eyes.
Obi-Wan continued to glare at him and crossed his arms.
Xanatos chuckled skeptically. "Good question, young padawan. Good question." His breathing grew ragged as clouds opened up and rain suddenly poured on them. "Tasten was my," his voice fell to a whisper, ". . . my son. . . . I'm a failure in everything, you see. In everything."
In his shock, Obi-Wan froze even as Xanatos came up to him and clumsily pushed the padawan back. Unprepared, Obi-Wan landed sprawling across the upraised mound. With a quick hiss, Xanatos drew out a knife, its slender blade as long as his forearm. The rain slid like tears down the shiny silver metal.
Obi-Wan thought the failed Jedi was going to slay him right there, atop the fresh mound of rich, damp earth. And he welcomed it after all his misery.
In one swift movement, Xanatos grasped Obi-Wan's padawan braid, jerked it painfully out, and severed the woven lock from Obi-Wan's head. "Now we're both failures," Xanatos announced in a strangely calm voice and stalked away, leaving Yulo alone to watch over the padawan.
Obi-Wan levered himself up and checked to make sure his ear remained intact. He drew his fingers away to find a small trace of blood that was just as soon washed away by the weeping rain.
O
The room remained locked in quiet. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon both passed several shocked seconds in silence.
"I think," Obi-Wan had to clear his throat, "I think he was as broken as I was after that. Perhaps more. . . . It wasn't long until he sold me." He stared at his hands, fingers fidgeting.
Qui-Gon released a huge sigh. "I never would have imagined him with a son. Are you sure the boy was his?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan nodded again. "I guess. . . . I don't think he was lying. Despite his moral failings. He never said who the mother was, and I don't think the boy ever knew who either parent was." He turned a blank gaze to the tiled wall. "Tasten always called him 'Master'." Obi-Wan shifted to a more comfortable position and resumed his story. "When the right opportunity came up, Xanatos sold me to some place where I had to work almost nonstop in a hot field. . . ."
O
Under a blazing sun, he felt woozy as sweat rolled down him. The heat was unbearable. He staggered under its bold fire, was then caught by rough hands when he fell, hands grappling to hold him, hoisted him over a broad shoulder. He was upturned; the smell of dirt filled his nostrils just as it filled the air; a swarm of pesky flies buzzed around him. A bare moment before everything dissolved to gray, he briefly glimpsed a bright sun-emblazoned ground.
His stomach roiled with anticipation. What was in store for him this time? He had tried to keep going, tried to stay on his feet, but the sun seared unbearably hot and he had not eaten since yesterday's firstmeal - and that, only a small bowl of thin soup. Surely they could not blame him this time.
While he faded in and out, he could hear the raucous voices he had grown accustomed to, and would have shuddered had he been able. To his relief, he discovered that he was taken inside a shelter, for the air felt cool and wafted gently across his face like the soft caress of a Caganor summer gale. Such a pleasant memory twisted painfully in his chest, the anguish of what once was, too overwhelming to remember.
He moaned when someone abruptly dumped him on a lumpy cot. Rough treatment was expected here, but he never got used to it. In an effort to ignore whatever had been planned for him, he kept his eyes clamped shut and concentrated on the shallow bursts of his breath. It was thankfully easier to breathe in here, away from the heat of day. But that was usually the only advantage of such an unexpected visit.
"Bring a thing of water," a husky voice hovering above him ordered.
A waterlogged rag swept across his sweaty dirt-encrusted brow, down his cheeks, and along his jawline and neck; the icy liquid dripped down the febrile skin of his neck and soaked into the mattress below him, seeming to wrap him a blanket of refreshing coldness. He pressed back into the mattress, immensely comforted by the change in temperature until he started to shiver. The rag was pulled away and quickly replaced by a clean towel that blotted him dry.
"Relax, boy," uttered the voice. "You be feelin' better enough soon."
He shivered all the more at that, crying out in a raspy voice when hands pulled him up. He refused to open his eyes still as he sat on that cool mattress.
"This is the one?" a voice asked. "You sure you want him? He ain't been much help here. Can't bear the heat."
O
"That man bought me," Obi-Wan said. "The same man who brought me back here. He took me some place where they removed the slave implant and the Force-inhibiting collar, and then we came here." He exhaled, relief fluttering throughout him, and bent his head to rest in his hands. "I'm so tired."
"Would you like," Qui-Gon said, "to change into other clothes? Some of your old clothes?" He smiled at the brightening that came over Obi-Wan, and they betook themselves to the padawan's old bedroom.
An odd fear washed through Obi-Wan as he stepped through the threshold and into the room where he had lived for many years. He clasped hands that inclined to shake and cursed the heart hammering nervously. This was his room; he should feel at home, at peace.
Familiar pictures of exotic lands hung where memory had dictated, and the same furniture in the same arrangement stood as he remembered.
"You kept everything," Obi-Wan nearly whispered, awestruck, "just as I left it."
"I knew you would come home," said Qui-Gon from behind him.
Obi-Wan rushed to the wardrobe, threw open the doors. "And all my clothes . . ." He gave a half-hug to Qui-Gon. "Thank you!" He quickly drew out an old faded pullover and matching loose pants.
Qui-Gon left then and returned to the main room while Obi-Wan slipped the soft coverings on and approached a floor length mirror.
There was the once familiar padawan but older, hair a bit too long for a pupil's cut, no padawan braid, but the same person nonetheless. As he stared at his reflection a recurrent fear crept into his thoughts again. Those large blue eyes were haunted and swirling with troubling shadows, gnawing doubts that seldom left his tortured mind.
With a despairing gasp Obi-Wan speed from the mirror and wambled back to the main room where his trembling increased to visibility.
Qui-Gon looked up at Obi-Wan's entrance and beheld the clearly distressed young man. "Obi-Wan? What . . ." He rushed to the young man, steadied and steered him to the sofa where they sat. "What is the matter, Padawan?"
Before he could reply Obi-Wan had to slow his quick, shallow breaths. He had to calm himself!
"Please," Qui-Gon implored, "what is it?" He slid his hands up and down the young man's arms, rubbing with a tenderness born of worry, until Obi-Wan waxed less tense and his breathing more normal.
Obi-Wan shook his head once, miserably, and looked away. "I can't . . ."
A frown furrowed Qui-Gon's brow. "Can't what?" He waited patiently for an answer.
"I can't," Obi-Wan repeated. "I can't be like I was." He sagged against the other man. "A padawan. I can't be one."
A long and difficult silence enveloped them until Obi-Wan spoke again. "You know it's been too long. I'm too old to learn what I've missed and become a knight . . . . It's been too long."
"You don't know that," Qui-Gon protested gruffly. "There are padawans that train for many, many years before attaining knighthood. It's just a matter of determination. I'm sure you can still do it." He tilted Obi-Wan's pale chin upward to look in his eyes. "I know you can," he whispered.
Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, his feelings telling him Qui-Gon was wrong, but his heart grasping desperately onto those encouraging words. He tried to smile. "Perhaps," he admitted softly, "but . . . you have to help me." He held his breath as he witnessed the uncertain pause and the quivering doubt in the Jedi master's aspect. He could still read the man.
"Now Obi-Wan," began the Jedi master.
"What?" Obi-Wan's voice tinged with a wounded edge. "What?!" A sudden wildness commingled of unhinged and frantic despair. "What? Tell me!" He was breathing in short, shallow gasps, shuddering in dread for fear that his dream - the thing that had kept him from losing himself throughout those five tormenting years - stood on a cliff's edge, poised to fall to its death.
"Please, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon begged, his expression wounded. "Let me explain."
Obi-Wan simply stared, transfixed, as his mind reeled in turmoil and whirling confusion. He could not accept refusal. He could not!
Qui-Gon took a deep, painful breath. "It started just after you disappeared . . . ."
O
When the pale gates of first light appeared in the sky, Qui-Gon was more than ready to rise from bed. Soft slivers of morning poured across his face, trailing from a slatted window like long fingers stretching to part his lashes and reveal the red-veined eyes that dwelt beneath. Pushing the sheets aside, he slowly rose and proceeded to begin another day without Obi-Wan.
The warm cascade of water from his ablutions refreshed him, wakened him slightly, though he had lain awake for hours it seemed as the night crept past in timeless infinity. After dressing fully, he left the 'fresher, binding his damp hair in a silver clasp as he walked to the kitchenette, then turned on a burner to heat a kettle of water for tea. There he stood still, eyes mesmerized by the tiny blue flames that danced about the bottom of the kettle until its shrill call rent the silence.
Movements mechanical, he sluiced hot water into a mug and sprinkled the fine powder of liuna spice tea in the steaming water while he softly hummed an old Alderaani aria. The common room would be the most comfortable place to sit. He placed the kettle back down with a dull clack, entered the adjoining room, and sank into the plush cushions of the long couch. His large hands cradled the ceramic mug; he savored its heated surface and clung to its familiarity like a child lost in the depths of Coruscant's lower levels clung to his hopes of staying alive.
Constantly, his thoughts turned to Obi-Wan. How long had the padawan been missing now? Another day had faded into the past with no word on his padawan, another sun had set. Somewhat out of fear he had not allowed himself to count the days. For once he started down that path, there would be no return. He had felt confident that he had correctly handled the entire situation in Dimisfree, that he had heard the Force's quiet voice speaking into his mind. But now . . .
He was unsure.
In fact, he felt he had made a terrible blunder, and that Obi-Wan's sweet radiance would forever haunt him. Each memory remained a sparkling thread in the rich tapestry of the years they had shared together. But there was no hope in remembrance. Just a closed set of memories that, in time, would fade out of thought.
He took several slow, deep breaths. Emotions could not rule him. He should meditate. Then afterward, he could resume his search through records for any possible mention of the name Veschith - supposedly the name of the slaver who had taken Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon placed his mug aside and knelt in the middle of the room so that he faced the transparent terrace doors where the palest light waxed behind darkly silhouetted towers. Closing his eyes, he sat still as possible, and reached out for the Force.
In his mind, the patterns of living essence formed faintly, radiating out of everything, stretching and growing into white incandescence too blindingly bright. This was life, flowing through him and invigorating him like the oxygen he freely breathed. He relished its presence, passed among its welcoming translucence and was bathed by its transforming life. All this and more were available to guide him and comfort him, as he now sought. At once, loving energy seemed to transcend him to overflowing.
Just as he started to relax into it and let go of himself, the dazzling sources flickered, some disintegrating into shimmering dust, now gold, now copper. A series of flickerings followed, Qui-Gon in shock. This had never happened before.
Near panic, he waited and watched the radiance abruptly reassert itself and rise to its usual stable glow and vitality. All appeared normal now - the light, the precious flow of life, the loving presence that washed away all his doubts and fears.
He remained immersed in its glory for hours, never experiencing any further problems, though a question beckoned in the back of his mind. By the time he resurfaced, Qui-Gon felt refreshed in mind and spirit and body, his focus the clearest it had been in some time, and his faith strengthened - where it should be. Sapphire eyes shone with their usual vigor. It was the longest he had meditated since he had lost Obi-Wan. And he had desperately needed it.
But that brief faltering of breathing light left him perplexed - and not a little concerned. Perhaps he should ask Master Yoda. The old troll, as his former padawan Xanatos had often called him, held a vast knowledge of the Force that probably far surpassed any other Jedi in their entire history - even in the Order's vaunted days of yore.
Qui-Gon stood. The barest swell of dizziness swirled through him, but before he rested his weight against the couch's arm the vertigo was gone. Infinitesimal enough that he could have imagined it.
His eyes flew to the hanging wall chrono, its soft white light mutely blinking off seconds. Almost noon. Yoda should be making rounds in the training salles. Without further delay, he headed directly there.
He found the salles crowded. Padawans, initiates, knights, and masters mingled together in no apparent orderly manner. Shouts, screams, and general chatter filled the air with a constant clamor. It was pure chaos. Sweeping his gaze over the scene, he descried the short, green-skinned master amidst several small children. Carefully, he wound his way through the moving bodies, making as straight a line as he could toward the elderly master.
"Master Yoda," Qui-Gon began, a mere ten feet from Yoda. He blinked and hesitated when the large citrus eyes regarded him with wide-eyed alarm.
"Qui -"
He fell hard to the floor, a pain in his shoulder and a heavy weight on top of him.
"Master Jinn!" a youthful voice rang out from above.
Qui-Gon struggled to sit up, a bit dazed.
"I'm so sorry, Master."
Hands were fumbling around him, helping him up. Qui-Gon looked up to see Garen staring at him with a worried expression.
"Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry." Garen went on in that penitent tone.
Slowly, Qui-Gon stood, rubbing his aching shoulder. Nothing serious, he was sure. "I'm fine, Garen."
"But you . . . But I -"
"I'm fine." Qui-Gon gave the padawan his sincerest smile. "But might I ask just what you were doing?"
Garen flushed, but did not look away. "I was in the fourth section of the 20th kata, Master. Just coming out of a triple backflip." The dark-brown haired padawan wiped a hand across his brow, sweat darkening his clothes. His breathing was rapid from the intensity of his workout.
Qui-Gon bobbed a small nod. "Just coming out of a . . .?"
"Yes, Master Jinn." Garen's concerned expression left the youthful face, but his dark eyes remained enlarged.
Qui-Gon turned to Yoda as he approached.
"Your fault, it was not," said Yoda to Garen, who bowed and left after both masters fell silent.
Yoda's heavy-lidded gaze drifted to Qui-Gon. "Looking, you were, for me? When next time you walk through salles, remember to look where you go, hmm?" With his gimer stick he poked the taller Jedi for effect.
Qui-Gon felt chastised, though the large citrus eyes sparkled with amusement. True, he should have known Garen was there, should have sensed him, should have been warned through the Force . . . But he had not. His smile disappeared at that disconcerting thought.
"Yes, Master," Qui-Gon quietly admitted. "I have need of your wisdom. Is there some place private we can talk." He made a show of glancing at the crowds.
The little green head inclined. "Of course, Qui-Gon. Follow me, you will."
OO OO OO
Qui-Gon's story will not take as long as Obi-Wan's. In fact the next part is the last part of this fic. Then, POOF! I'll be gone. :) This fic was crafted from what was going to be a much longer story, but since I knew I was never going to finish it (because my interest lies elsewhere) I salvaged what I could and made it into this, to tie up the loose ends that 'Breath of Night' left and since I can't stand to leave anything unfinished. I want to thank all those willing to waste their time on my little swansong for reading along. :) The last part will be posted in about two days!
Also, I just want to mention that 'Crionti' as Xanatos' surname is my own invention as far as I know, and that I'd prefer no one else use it unless asking first. And of course the original characters (Tasten, Yulo, etc.) are mine as well. :)
Fudge: Thank you! Yes, Obi-Wan has been deeply hurt by the boy's death. And the moment when Qui-Gon tried to comfort Obi-Wan was fun to write! Thank you for your frequent reviews!!! :)
LuvEwan: Oh, thank you!! :) I'd never considered whether this was formulaic or not, so I'm thrilled that you say it's not and that there are plenty of surprises. I do try to make each story different in some way. And I do chose my words very carefully, and especially in this story I let the words flow more naturally than some of most recent attempts. Thanks for your frequent reviews!!! :)
Athena Leigh: Thank you!! I wasn't sure if the structure(of flashbacks intercut with present) would work very well with readers, so I'm glad you like it!! Thank you for your frequent reviews!!!! :)
Clover Brandybuck: Poor Obi, we do say that a lot, don't we? ;) Thank you for the frequent reviews, and also for the review of 'Hiding Master Sariel'. I'm glad you enjoyed my humor fic!! I think it's a product of watching too many screwball comedies, LOL!!!! :)
Sheila: If you had any hope for a nice Xanatos, it's probably gone now, huh?? Well, he is the antagonist in this fic, and this is how I see the character. I know it's probably quite a shock if you've read a lot of 'good Xan' fics. I think his arrogance has made him blind to what he's really doing ... until too late. This part should give him a little more depth, but it's a short story so I didn't try to develope him much. Thanks for your frequent reviews!!!! :)