Going slowly with this one, while my focus is on two larger fics. But I promised faster updates and that's what you'll get. I just can't guarantee super-long length. ;) I hope it's an enjoyable fic just the same! -LuvEwan

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He should have been prepared for it.

After endless, grinding hours, surviving the tormented days locked away from the outside world--crudely torn from humanity, Obi-Wan should have expected it.

Of course he recognized the pain of each lash, the blows sharp and quick, knowing the effects would last far longer.

But he had not, perhaps due to clammy bouts with delirium or the feverish throes of self-delusion, realized the falling whip and its malevolently skilled wielder took care in assuring the agony would echo.

To create ripples of memory embedded in his skin.

Obi-Wan touched a hand to his chest, where a thin, diagonal scar, once angry red, was faded to only a shade darker than his normal ivory pigment.

Bacta did wonders. Any Jedi, of any age, could attest to that.

Yet it couldn't reverse time, nor erase the crucial days between injury and healing.

He would carry these snaking wounds, these testaments of his greatest suffering, forever.

Quelling a wince, he pulled off the baggy sleep tunic, watching as his mirrored image revealed a half-stranger.

Someone he'd surely seen before, but in a different place, in a different phase of life and level of reality.

Obi-Wan remembered the chest, muscled and dusted with fine, nearly colorless hairs. But he couldn't recall such uncomfortable prominence of ribs, the rows jutting out and hinting at prolonged deficiency any more than he distinguished the morbid criss-crossing of thread-like scars covering them.

He looked down, running his fingers along the rack of bones.

And felt flashing of that hunger, intense and aching within his starved body.

So easily, Obi-Wan knew, he could let himself be transported back there, reassume the shivery panic that would keep him safe from the threat of poisons.

Slowly, his eyes lifted to his reflection.

Yes.

O yes, I would be safe. A skeleton so nicely sheltered and shielded.

He exhaled, close-mouthed.

No wonder he's been trying so hard.

Obi-Wan saw a wet glimmer in one clouded eye. He blinked rapidly in response.

There was another jarring surprise…

When had the swirl of azure and emerald in his eyes been reduced to haunting shadow, sheer against bleak, overwhelming gray?

Around the same time they got these black smudges under them. He wagered, quirking his lips hopelessly to one side.

A half-stranger. He could still see traces of the Knight of his former existence, the man who had faced death on numerous occasions, but had never felt its cold, stale breath too closely to his soul.

But that man couldn't be completely resurrected, for how could he ever forget the awful sensation of oblivion's desiring sigh? The all-too-tempting promise of eternally extinguished pain?

I can't. He grabbed for his garment, growing too cold as the air conditioning began another cycle.

Maybe…Maybe I don't want to.

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Obi-Wan stopped in front of the door.

It was open, forgotten in the struggles of that first dreadful, hazy night.

He trailed his hand down the slightly battered frame, remembering when the smooth wood was marked by short, neat slashes of a pen and scribbled dates.

There were countless times when Obi-Wan doubted his place in his Master's life, when he couldn't accept that maybe he could be worthy of such elite tutelage.

But, however distanced they were, their link remained, even when it felt dormant within his heart.

And, there was this.

He smiled faintly.

Obi-Wan pressed his fist against his forehead, jotting down a barely legible series of numbers, nibbling absently at his bottom lip. Sitting in the corner of his dimly lit room, atop his bed with back propped by the wall, the boy stared at the gargantuan equation with unmasked frustration.

"Seventy one?…No, that can't be right." He mumbled under his breath.

The door slid open, and Qui-Gon strode inside the small space, surveying the busied youth with a fond expression. "Still working at that?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "Yeah. I'm beginning to wonder if Master Tslaw isn't a Sith in disguise."

The man chuckled. "A common suspicion, I'm sure."

Obi-Wan grinned before returning to the text.

But Qui-Gon's eyes remained on him. He could feel their weight, and succeeded in ignoring it for scant moments. His studious resolve crumbling, he set the stack aside. "Do you think we could spar?" Normally, he wouldn't offer such a suggestion, but his weary defeat against the equation was forcing him to be forward.

Qui-Gon clapped his shoulder. "Perhaps later. Come with me."

Obi-Wan obeyed, standing and following him into the corridor. They didn't move beyond close proximity to his room, and he frowned. "Master?"

Qui-Gon just smiled his soft, rare smile, the kind that defined the lines around his eyes, and set them aglow. "I wanted to start this on your birthday, but I couldn't wait that long."

He would be turning fourteen in three days, and Obi-Wan laughed with confused curiosity. It wasn't often a novice apprentice witnessed the tables turned, the Master displaying such ridiculous impatience!

Qui-Gon produced a mechanical ink pen from his tunic, then braced his apprentice's shoulders with two large, gentle hands. "Now, stand about there." He instructed.

Obi-Wan took little, shuffling steps until he was against the right side of the doorframe.

"Okay." Qui-Gon murmured, stilling the Padawan's head with a hand against a smooth cheek. He grazed the pen over the spiky line of hair, drawing a line across the wood. "There."

Obi-Wan backed away and watched Qui-Gon sign the day and year.

Then, the man turned to him. "On your birthday, from now on, we'll see how much you've grown." He reached out and teased the cleft of Obi-Wan's chin. "If I can ever wait that long."

It was a tradition both Master and Padawan cherished. The last performance of the ritual was only a few months before Naboo.

Obi-Wan's eyes misted. White paint covered them now. Every milestone, sloshed over with thick, concealing coats.

"The docents did that while we were en route from Naboo." Qui-Gon explained, strolling over to him, his long hair damp and sleeked out of his face.

Obi-Wan flushed.

"I would've stopped them, had I known." He told him in a subdued voice.

"This isn't my apartment with you anymore." Obi-Wan shrugged, hoping he had successfully downgraded the extent of his disappointment--in Qui-Gon's perspective. "There's no need for them."

"There was no need to be rid of them, either." Qui-Gon touched his shoulder. "I'm glad to see you up."

"It feels much better to move around." The Knight agreed. "Mentally, I mean.

"Because really, I feel like I've run a marathon with Master Yoda strapped to my back."

Qui-Gon released a bark of laughter. "Well, isn't that a pleasant visual!" He guided Obi-Wan to the couch. "But you don't want to overdo it. I'll see what I can do about breakfast."