The Threat of Waking

By LuvEwan

PG

Summary: Obi-Wan deals with the after-effects of prolonged captivity. Companion piece to 'If I Were To Close My Eyes'.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

It isn't necessary to have read 'If…" before reading this, although it is recommended for the full effect of the story, the impact events had on both characters. This does not begin in the same place as 'If…", since I think this is where the real story begins for Obi-Wan. The story can be found in my author profile.

This is dedicated, as always, to my readers. So many of you have become friends, and I think I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for Bill Cosby, spokesman for a certain wobbly dessert. (Hee hee.) I have to thank in particular some writers who have influenced my own perspective of Obi-Wan's character: Sheila, obiew, Lurkalidth, red, diane (and a bit for Qui-Gon, too!), Shaindl and of course, CYN. There are so many of you who always have me thinking and analyzing things, and as a result, I hope I've given him more dimension than I began writing him with. And anyone whose taken the time to give any kind of review, thanks so much. I probably wouldn't 'have gone through writing this one without support-I know it's going to be difficult for me, so your efforts are greatly appreciated.

In addition, this site has provided me with wonderful, dedicated readers such as Athena Leigh, ewan's girl and shanobi. My deepest thanks to you guys.

One: Delusions

"Obi-Wan, the salle's going to be full. I don't relish sparring in the corridor again."

A dark mark runs across the paper. I huff and grasp the crumbled bit of eraser between my fingers. Once I've rubbed away the clouded charcoal, I hold the thick, cream-washed paper back.

I shouldn't be able to afford such a luxury, but the sketch pad was a gift, a retreat of merely twenty-two pages. I can go to it for expression, for diversion on a long trip between missions and planets. It gives me the ability to capture an image that would otherwise be fleeting. I can suspend a blink, long enough to etch the scene into my mind, then to the paper.

Some I erase, others I would never dream of diminishing.

I tilt the work towards the lamp. Light, carefully composed lines web together in a pair of ovals. Between them is the beginnings of a distinctive nose.

With narrowed eyes and pursed mouth, I appraise the likeness…and my grip loosens from the book, as frustration tightens in my chest.

Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think I was capable of it?

"Obi-Wan, I'm going to look ridiculous sparring with MYSELF—about as ridiculous a you will scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush!"

"One bristled?" I murmur in reaction to one of the threats he favors. I stare at the sketch a moment, as if by sheer hope talent will miraculously flood my veins, and perfection will leap to multidimensional life.

"Padawan—"

I slip the battered pad into a deep drawer of my desk. "I'm coming." I try not to be irritated by his persistence. I know which priorities belong at the peak of the Jedi totem.

But I just wanted a few more minutes, to shade in the temple, to finish the bridge—

Time enough for that later.

I grab my sash and head into the living room.

Master smiles. "Kid, you better wake up."

My eyes open to aching slits.

"Did you hear me, kid?"

I blink as my surroundings solidify from gray mist to dismal slate and brick. My heard doesn't sink…it doesn't plummet, as it did in the early days and months. The pang is gone, the one that left me curled in a ball, huddling in shadow.

After this long, I don't feel any of that. It's a kick in the side when you're already beaten, and nearly numb to the blows.

I know where I am.

And I know where I'm not.

I won't let myself linger in a delusion. He is gone…because I am gone.

Maybe he's home.

Or maybe my captors have been lying. I have no reason to trust them, to trust the murky, unreadable clots that represent their hearts. He could have suffered a similar-or worse-fate than I have.

I can't sense him.

And so it's with an empty soul I stand.

In the beginning, I would have wiped the dust from my skin.

Now I only swipe a forearm across my eyes.

"Don't know why we hafta stand at attention. They just walk by."

My cellmate is a member of a small-in-stature, Humanoid species. With pale skin, ruddy hair and gray eyes, he has quickly blended into the landscape. I don't notice his short, tattered leggings or tattooed chin. Even now, as he grumbled the words he repeats every morning, it's as if I'm looking at an outcropping of a wall, a lump with lips through which pass a lonely, ugly monotone.

He's never asked my name.

In turn, I have stayed my distance, except for the tense moment when we must stand, shoulder to shoulder (relatively speaking), while the guard strides by, one eye, beneath a heavy brow, trained on us.

Then I return to the corner, back braced by unyielding stone. Staring forward, my periphery is striped by rusting steel. At certain angles, light gleams and reveals the smudge of aching fingertips.

I can be honest.

A few are my own.

But no more.

My memories of freedom are no longer fresh, nor the recollection of his face. In early desperation, I dragged my fingers through the layered grime over the floor, until they were raw. My eyes were watering, my head was fogged by exhaustion. So I settled into the fanciful little belief that he was with me, shallowly emerged from the dust.

It couldn't last.

While I slept one night, a guard or maybe even Cellmate, dragged their foot through the feeble sketch.

I didn't attempt to salvage what remained.

Now, a single eye is left.

I wanted to be consoled that he was watching over me.

But the bars are unmoved and so am I.

I'm not a child anymore, protected by my own, illogical sense of optimism. There is no shelter here. When it rains, the water seeps through the cracks and falls on my face. He doesn't catch it, in his wide, rough-hewn palm, or pull me from its path.

I'm marooned here, on a private patch of hell, praying I'll forget that I ever resented his presence, that I wanted to be alone…

Forget that I ever knew a life outside this place.