A/N

Rkccs: Thanks :-)
Jedi Keliam Kenobi: Any more mind tricks and my brain'll become a lump of jelly – you wouldn't want me incapacitated, would you:-) But your trick's worked, anyway (feeling helpless)
amber75 (shudders) Have updated…
Yasona Black: Chocolate! Wow. Here's your…er…bi-weekly (I hope) fix :-)
A. NuEvil: Thanks…sure, he has to face it again :-). You'd better settle yourself for a long term of camping/cliff-hanging- this'll take quite a while, before it's done :-)


Note: You people are wonderful :-) – and therefore, a nice loooooooooooong post, to satisfy your voracious appetites. This marks the end of pre-written material…so bear with me, until I cook up the next one.

Note2 : Sentences within '/' indicate telepathic conversation. Sentences in plain italics indicate just thoughts.


Part 8

The night had passed very much in a manner Obi-Wan had expected—and dreaded. Vague and unsettling dreams had flitted across his sub-conscious mind…what was surprising, however, was that none of them had featured the Ischila. He had half-expected to be haunted all night by the specter of a bright marble chasing him from the Temple to eternity, and had been immensely relieved to find that it had spared him—for that night, anyway.

That did not, mean, however, that he could rest peacefully. The confrontation played itself out in his mind, suggesting too many alternatives, and confusing him until a headache resulted even in his dreams—at which point he had been forced to awaken.

It was, consequently, a rather different spectacle that confronted Qui-Gon when he knocked on the door to his apprentice's sleep-quarters, as dawn broke over the Coruscant heavens. Surprised to hear a murmur of welcome, he walked in, to see Obi-Wan kneeling beside his bed in a posture of meditation. His padawan did not seem to have derived much benefit from this exercise, however—faint circles ringed his eyes, and there was a translucent quality to his skin that one did not usually associate with good health.

During the early years of their apprenticeship, Qui-Gon had discovered his padawan's tendency to relive entirely too many horrible memories during his hours of sleep—and had initiated the boy into certain methods of meditation calculated to allow his mind to rest. Over the years, he had reason to believe that Obi-Wan made good use of them—too much use, in his opinion. That, however, was the bane of his existence…and what could not be cured had to be endured as best as possible. Much as he appreciated Obi-Wan's gift of foresight, he wished the Force would sometimes give the younger Jedi a brief respite.

Light filtered in gently through transparisteel embrasures, dimmed to allow just enough of it for the occupant to recognize the objects within—but only just.

"I gather that didn't go well," the master murmured from the doorway, as he watched Obi-Wan lean back against the bed with a sigh.

"Not really, no," was the brief answer. The apprentice remained in that pose, eyes closed—until he felt Qui-Gon's presence move away. "Am I early enough?" he asked with a smile, preparing to rise.

"Stay there a moment, padawan," came his master's voice, and Obi-Wan, after increasing the room's illumination, sat down, mildly surprised. He raised his eye-brows, shooting a quizzical glance at Qui-Gon as the master walked in again a few minutes later, holding something in a steaming cup.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Master Qui-Gon Jinn?"

"I am his evil twin. I defeated him in a duel, and, er…" Qui-Gon sat down on the edge of the bed, followed by a grinning, albeit wide-eyed apprentice. "Buried him under the Ver'it stairway leading to the Council Chamber."

"Disposed of him, did you? It's a good thing our exalted Council members use the turbo-lift—they would have a fit, else. I ought to have guessed it—when I was greeted by a cup of something steaming, instead of being force-rolled out of bed."

"I suppose it didn't occur to you that I might ask you the same—meditating, instead of being lost in pleasant dreams at this time of the day." He handed the cup to Obi-Wan, who wrinkled his nose doubtfully at the swirling green liquid. "And you will drink that—all of it—with no objection whatsoever."

Obi-Wan frowned at the cup, drew a deep breath, and poured its contents into his mouth—and coughed convulsively a moment after swallowing the liquid. "Ugh. Expect a terrible and devastating revenge—both for this, and for burying my master in such a…cavalier fashion. The least he deserved was a ceremonial robe."

"Wretch." Qui-Gon gave his padawan's braid a brief tug. "Considering your remarks, padawan," he reached towards the young man, and tipped his chin. "I assume you're feeling better."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Whatever that concoction was, it appears to have worked," he spoke. "I do feel better. Thank you." He looked up curiously. "What was it, by the way?"

"I'm not certain you should know…but you're a Jedi apprentice, and are expected to bear things with equanimity, after all."

"Ugh," Obi-Wan murmured again. "I suspect that is a prelude to something truly horrible."

"I wouldn't let Master Yoda hear that, if I were you. A legacy from the ever-green swamps of Dagobah, padawan mine—a doubly distilled version, I believe, handed down to me by my own master." Qui-Gon watched Obi-Wan's face assume a pained expression. "It is supposed to have powers of revival that are almost magical. Feel better, do you?"

"With respect, Master Jinn's twin, I am swiftly revising that opinion."

An echo of Qui-Gon's chuckle reached him as the master left the room. "Rise, padawan, and prepare to meet another day in the life of an adventurous Jedi."

"How I look forward to it," was the apprentice's laconic answer, as he gathered his tunics and left for the refresher.


Obi-Wan elected to spend the morning hours in the Archives section—Qui-Gon having informed him that he had been placed in charge of an Initiate sabre session. The Council, it seemed, had been eager to take advantage of the master's unexpected stay—which promised to be of some duration—and had promptly pressed him into service. Obi-Wan himself had been relieved, to a large extent, from sundry duties he would otherwise have been expected to undertake—including classes on certain subjects he had elected to study in depth, between missions.

"I wish you joy of them," had been Obi-Wan's passing comment, as master and padawan left their quarters.

"For shame, padawan," came Qui-Gon's reply. "Especially when you enjoy teaching as much as I do. I recall quite clearly, your enthusiasm over a sabre assignment you undertook two months ago."

"All a deception, I assure you. I hated every minute of it."

"Ah. That, I suppose, is why you've asked for another assignment, time permitting, next month."

Obi-Wan bit back a smile. "I—er—have my eye on one or two of that class, who seemed…especially promising."

Qui-Gon merely quirked an eye-brow at him which spoke volumes and left for the Initiate training rooms, while Obi-Wan, chuckling, continued his journey to the Archives section.

On entrance, his eyes first sought out Knight Donan—but the Artifact-Keeper did not appear to be present within those hallowed halls of knowledge. Obi-Wan made his way past various silent masters, padawans and researchers, intent on their work, and settled himself at a data terminal.

In the end, it was as Qui-Gon prophesied—all the data-chips he had managed to rout out of the library had contained lurid and perpetually vague accounts of visions, large black shapes, fear, despair and anger. Most were reports of sundry individual encounters with the tiny marble, and how it seemingly manipulated events—descriptions of which had to be read, to be believed. They had happened centuries ago, judging by the dates…and aside from a renewal of apprehension, did nothing towards assisting Obi-Wan in his quest.

And, predictably, there're no clues as to how to defeat—or even confront it, mused the padawan as he sat back in his seat three hours later, a finger absently stroking his chin.

One thing, it appeared, was glaringly obvious. In later reports, if one followed a chronological order, Jedi masters were mentioned in the accounts…but Obi-Wan had yet to find a report that described such an account directly, by the Jedi—any Jedi. This puzzled the padawan exceedingly; until a well-timed search of the database corresponding to the period he was searching in unearthed a fact—a section of the Jedi Temple library had been destroyed in what had been a catastrophe—during the last years of the Sith wars. A large portion of the Archives had vanished; lost in the mists of battle…what remained now was merely a painstakingly gathered collection of reports in the succeeding centuries from all corners of the galaxy. This accounted for the existence of legends, rather than facts—and the complete absence of any Jedi reports.

Another question occurred to him as he sat hunched over the terminal. Heaving a sigh, he checked his chronometer, and decided to do what he had privately termed his last resort.

/Master ?/ He reached out tentatively. /I hope I'm not disturbing you…/

The response was instantaneous. /You are. /

Obi-Wan pulled back at once, puzzled and mortified. /I apologize, master…I shall ask—/

Almost at once, the padawan felt amusement float through their bond. /I should have laid the foundation for a joke, before I started on one. You're not disturbing me, padawan—the sabre session ended a few minutes ago. I assume you contacted me after having estimated the duration of the lesson?/

Obi-Wan smiled, relief suffusing his body, which seemed to have tensed within a few short moments. Force, but I'm nervous.

Qui-Gon seemed to have sensed something of his padawan's emotions. /You know that you can contact me at any time—unless I'm in the middle of combat or some such thing…in which case you'd probably be present with me, padawan. I would have answered you, even in the middle of a saber class. /

The smile on Obi-Wan's face broadened, and he turned away towards a window, trying to escape the intense scrutiny of a pair of junior padawans, apparently curious at the swift changes in his luminous eyes—not to mention his expression.. Telepathic conversation may not have been unheard of among masters and padawans—but it was still something of a rare accomplishment, involving considerable skill and a remarkably strong mental connection. Most master-padawan teams managed with strong emotions; brief words and images—full-fledged conversations for minutes on end, along the lines of what Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan indulged in would have proved exhausting for most. The first few months of Obi-Wan's apprenticeship had, indeed, followed the general vein common to all such relationships—until Qui-Gon had dredged up, from the padawan's mental recesses, remarkable skills that included telepathy, among other things. Long training sessions, interspersed with practice, and aided by two or three intense missions had perfected an apparently difficult accomplishment. Aside from proving to be immensely useful during difficult negotiations, it had other uses, as both master and apprentice had discovered in later years. As Obi-Wan had once remarked, telepathic abilities were of immense use during long ceremonies, which involved intricate speeches running for hours…Qui-Gon was saved the effort of memorizing unimaginably complicated rituals and phrases, without committing some error or the other—especially when aided by an apprentice who simply sat in a secluded corner of their assigned quarters and rattled off said speeches with inimitable style.

That particular technique had saved them many a time, he recalled—even earning a medal of honor from an overjoyed Governor of Radia III—which a rather discomfited Qui-Gon had accepted, albeit in a dignified manner.

/Day-dreaming, padawan/ Came a voice in his mind, and Obi-Wan shook himself into wakefulness. Gathering wayward strands of his concentration, he turned to the data-chips he had collected, having forgotten the padawans who still darted curious looks at him.

/Radia III came to mind, I'm afraid./ He answered.

Puzzlement, and then acceptance coursed through the bond. /An interesting mission, padawan—although I can't guess what should have triggered that mission in your memory. I sincerely hope we'll have no more recourse to so many speeches./ A few moments were spent in sharing mutual amusement, and then the master continued. /I assume you're still in the Archive section. What was your question?/

/I can understand why reports of Jedi confronting Ischila a thousand years ago aren't to be found here…but I would've thought you and Master Yoda would have provided the temple with your own./

/Master Yoda decided that we would not, padawan. Personal confrontations along the lines of what Master Yoda and I—and now you—dealt with are not to be recorded. For one thing, each confrontation is different, and each Jedi will have to find their own way to win it. Previous accounts will not help there…and besides, the true test of the Ischila is to face it with as little help as possible. I did not record it for this reason—and neither will you. /

For some reason, his master's last sentence filled obi-Wan with a strange sense of pleasure—and determination. /Ah. That's why you let me access the Temple records. You knew I would find nothing to aid me, there./

A smile. /The only details to be recorded are the names of Jedi who actually did attempt a confrontation, the approximate period they did it in, and the end result…nothing else. Most Jedi never do attempt it, padawan…if and when do, they will have to be satisfied with information about who did so, before them. You see, it is ultimately their own heart they must look to, to find the answer./

/I'm not surprised only two Jedi attempted it, in the last thousand years./

/Indeed./

A pause ensued.

/Have you learnt what you wanted?/ came Qui-Gon's voice.

/I've gathered information—but I'm not sure I learnt anything of benefit. /

/That, Obi-Wan, is not for you to say—not at this point./

/Yes, master./

/Padawanit is approaching the 11th hour…meet me at the training salle in the End'rehel corridor in ten minutes, please./

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and bit his lip, allowing himself to acknowledge the little fist of nervousness that had lodged itself into his heart-that had reminded him of what was to come, all morning.

/I shall be there, master./


The salle was quiet.

Obi-Wan tried in vain to quell a knot of tension that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, in the pit of his stomach.

Jedi do not fear marbles.

I am a fool if I believe that.

This time, he had waited until Qui-Gon gave the word, before activating his light-saber. The master had opened the silver box, released the Ischila…and had waited almost a whole minute before he abruptly moved away.

"Begin."

A part of Obi-Wan's consciousness registered the fact that Qui-Gon had walked away to the farthest corners of the salle—almost, but not quite blending within the shadows. That same part of his mind also noted, with some surprise, that the master also took care to mask his considerable Force presence in the room.

Which was all he had time to do, before the Ischila claimed his attention.

Obi-Wan stared at the small object cruising gently a few feet away from him, turning slowly, as though wishing him to see all the colors it contained within its glittering self. Occasionally, it jumped a few feet in the air, drawing his eyes along with it, testing him out, seeming to judge, from his movements, whether he really was following its apparently aimless journey through the air.

At least it isn't blasting me out of existence. At the moment.

Obi-Wan chased the marble with his eyes, hands holding his light-sabre in a loose hold. He stood in a posture not normally adopted in combat—feet slightly apart, limbs in complete readiness for battle—yet, his stance would not alert the casual observer that such was the case. Obi-Wan sincerely hoped that Ischila had not been alerted, either.

He tensed as the marble winged its way towards him—slowly. Eyes widening, he watched as a shimmer of energy seemed to envelope it—and braced himself for the blast that he felt sure would follow…

...but which never occurred.

Amazement, coupled with wariness shot up in him as he watched the Ischila increase its luminous presence. Abruptly, a bright tendril of light flowed from the marble, winding its way towards him. Obi-Wan backed away, holding his sabre well before him, prepared to fend off the attack.

Receive it.

The padawan blinked and shook his head. The thought had jumped into his consciousness from nowhere, and Obi-Wan wondered, for a panic-stricken moment, if it had been his master. But no, Qui-Gon, if he could be sensed, still stood where he chosen to wait. Unmoving.

He stared at the marble, eyes taking in its shimmering aura—and felt, again, the unmistakable certainty that the light was not harmful. It merely wafted around the space in front of him, waiting for his approval. It would approach him if he let it; float away if he refused. How could I know that?

But he did. Whatever the Ischila might be contemplating, this wisp of light that wavered before his face meant no harm. He didn't quite know how…but his Force sense had delivered its verdict.

Besides, I will never know what it means to do, unless I let it make its move.

He lowered his light-sabre, and the light promptly wrapped itself around his head. There was no pain—merely a soft, soothing presence that seemed to envelop his mind with a certain mind-numbing quality. Was this the Ischila's way of rendering its opponent defenseless? No…he still retained his use of arms and legs, and could have moved back in a second, had he chosen to. For an object that had seemingly battered him out of his senses the first time, it seemed to be moving in an unusually circumspect manner, in its second.

Perhaps it has sensed that I am not to be taken lightly.

Obi-Wan frowned, as he tried to focus himself. That thought was out of place—it's probably trying to locate my weaknesses.

Numbness notwithstanding, his mental shields, when he tested them, still stood intact. I will not make an easy prey.

The light seemed to sense this obstruction, for it tensed around him—which was how Obi-Wan understood the slight pressure he felt. The effect was rather of someone knocking on the doors to his mind.

So. We test the shields now, do we? The padawan tightened his defenses to the highest limit Qui-Gon had taught him to, and waited.

The tendril of light left him, then, slowly weaving away from his face. For a brief moment, Obi-Wan experienced a spurt of dizziness, which left almost as soon as he had recognized it. His head cleared—the light had inflicted no damage. What I suspected—a probe.

This time, the attack truly started—and Obi-Wan was able to perceive the beginning.

With that, his perception ended. The padawan blocked the first blast of energy that followed the light-probe…but was unable to do much else. He spun around the salle, at first careful to keep himself on the mats, but it was soon obvious that the Ischila had no intention of keeping to the mats—or indeed, to the floor at all. Within a matter of minutes it had swept to the farthest reaches of the room, forcing Obi-Wan to follow in its wake. The padawan blazed a trail with his weapon, the blue blade leaving a stream of light as it spun around his body, protecting, defending, and deflecting seemingly endless blasts of energy.

Time lost its hold on him. A faint buzzing seemed to have enveloped the salle, as his mind swept over innumerable offensive and defensive maneuvers he had learnt and used in countless missions. His mind called out strokes, counter-strokes and feints that had proved useful, even fatal at other times; against other opponents. Strikes that had dispatched them within seconds…

…but which, apparently, had no effect over the Ischila. For every energy bolt that he defended himself from, the marble sent two, three or four blasts, directing them from all corners of the salle—or so it seemed, to his Force-numbed senses.

I can't see it, he told himself in despair, trying to contain his weariness and managing to turn a triple somersault which served its purpose, even if it wasn't very graceful. I can't sense its presence. Force help me…

He swept his sabre in front of him in an arc, avoiding yet another bolt—and almost doubled over as he felt a blinding pain on his back. Sweeping around in a classic pose adopted during the Meitre Stance, he barely side-stepped another bolt that had chosen his ankle as his goal…

…and crashed to knees as a blast found its way to his solar plexus. He braced himself for the final fusillade that would send him towards unconsciousness, gripping his sabre—but none came.

What…happened? His mind dredged up the thoughts weakly. He felt his grip on reality loosen, as his body slumped onto the ground further. Is that it?

He closed his eyes wearily. I hope it is. Oh, blessed Force, I hope….

I couldn't defend myself. Seven years as the apprentice to the best swordsman in the galaxy…oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Mighty, padawan Kenobi?

Not an apt choice of words.

"Padawan?" Obi-Wan barely registered his master approach, as Qui-Gon knelt beside him. "It's over—for now. I de-activated the Ischila. You had fought…enough."

"Oh." He tried moving his arm—the one that was trapped at an odd angle underneath his body, trying to protect his abdomen…and gave vent to a sound that was somewhere in between a whimper and a groan. Raising his eyes with difficulty, he stared into Qui-Gon's face, hardly daring to think of the appearance he presented.

Abruptly, he felt two strong hands slip in under him, raising him slowly off the ground. Carrying me? Oh no, no, no…

"The sooner we reach the healers, the better. They would be ecstatic to see us, I'm sure," Qui-Gon smiled as he looked into Obi-Wan's extremely pale face, positioning him in his arms as gently as he could. Judging by the apprentice's suddenly breathless expression, his whole body was being torn apart by pain.

"Just a few moments more," he spoke softly, as he slowly stood up, angling himself so that the padawan rested as easily as possible, against his chest. A flicker of worry swept through him as Obi-Wan's eyes glazed over.

"C…can walk, master," murmured the young man, against his tunic.

"I admire your resilience—but you will allow me to be the best judge of that, padawan."

Despite the pain that seemed to be oozing through every pore in his body, Obi-Wan raised eyes that glistened strangely—or was that a trick of the light?

"Going to…carry me to the healers?"

"Yes."

"Carried by master…nineteen years old…undignified."

"Not in this instance, young one."

"Made up your…mind?"

"I'm afraid so."

A sigh escaped the apprentice. "Thank you."

Qui-Gon watched, half in amusement and half in sympathy, as Obi-Wan closed his eyes, nestling against the master's shoulders, beginning to drift away into a half-lit land of dreamy consciousness.

The master held his apprentice closer to him, adjusted the silver box that held the Ischila safely within the numerous folds of his tunic slightly, and exited the salle.

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Tbc…