PG
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Idea courtesy of the lovely shanobi, who always offers up some of the best.
On the transport home, Obi-Wan is plagued by the memory of his decisions on Melida/Dann.
O
There were places in the universe where shadows dwelled, where they prospered and could gut the very air. Nothing, not even the strongest, purest light, could withstand the pull of it, and the brilliance would sink to the core of the darkness. It was said that oblivion existed among the living, within those black holes.
If one had presented itself to Obi-Wan Kenobi at the current moment, he would have gladly given himself to it, and disappeared completely in the void. He wanted to disappear, to be gone—to have never existed. After the events had unfolded to their bitter conclusion, so richly painted in scarlet death, he had studied every minute detail, searching for the point when he had veered from the sacred course, and chose recklessness over steadiness, impulse over sense, strangers over his Master.
He was certain there was an instance of truth, when he stood perfectly balanced on the line, and toppled. He peered into the past, to those dust-washed, war-riddled days, looking for the mistake. But in the end, the same belief was always renewed: He should never have been born. That was the fatal flaw, and though it had been beyond his control, he felt the scorch of shame conflagrate his belly.
His musings stirred the space chill, and he burrowed deeper in his robe, crossing his arms and tucking his chin against his chest. He felt the familiar thrum of a warm, laboring engine beneath him. Those gentle vibrations soothed his body, easing strained muscles of flesh and thought. He decided to focus entirely on that. He wouldn't permit stray notions. He couldn't…for they had already threatened to consume him.
And he couldn't be overtaken. He had to retain a semblance of clarity and composure. Because, despite all that had happened, he still wanted to be a Jedi. He hated himself for that lingering, incurable, fierce desire; he was foolish to think he would be allowed in the Temple again, let alone welcomed back into the ranks he had so hastily shunned. But it would beat like a mad drummer's fevered cadence, as long as his heart did. He wanted to meld with the Force and serve its will—from the time of his unfortunate waking to the Universe, he was told his purpose, and it would be his purpose, the reason for breath, until he could no longer seep that breath into his lungs.
Obi-Wan knew that he would collapse to his knees and beg every last member of the High Council, of the Order itself, if it were the only way to regain what he lost---no, what he deserted. He'd stir Master Yoda's infamous stew, and let the odious steam waft up around his face, he'd take midnight duty at the crèche, he'd even polish Bruck Chun's boots.
A tear stung him, and he wiped it away quickly, fearing that more would come, born of those simple memories of home. Force, I can't leave…Please…
He was jolted by the rap at the door to his small transport quarters. Immediately he was scrubbing at his eyes, hoping they didn't harbor traces of his loss of control. "C-Come in."
Qui-Gon Jinn stood there in the doorframe, as noble a figure as Obi-Wan could imagine. His profile was strong; his eyes sharpened sapphire wisdom. He looked mystic, mythical, and it was during these glimpses that Obi-Wan would realize how unequal their partnership was, that in order to be at level with his (former?) apprentice, Qui-Gon had to drop from his rightful place, down to the murk where Obi-Wan was. And now…now that Obi-Wan was clumsy, incapable and a betrayer, it seemed unlikely that Qui-Gon would tolerate falling any further, no matter how compassionate and selfless the man was.
This is it, Obi-Wan thought, staring with aching eyes at his mentor; He's going to tell me. He's going to tell me it's over. He wasn't surprised, of course. He'd been preparing for this since the day his braid had been woven. Still, his chest was full and tight, and his skin prickled. He didn't know what he would do without this guiding force of his life, but he knew he deserved to find out.
The man was walking over to him, and Obi-Wan had the abrupt thought that he was on the floor, huddled like a sniveling child. But his limbs were locked, and he was motionless as his teacher approached. Perhaps this was the viewpoint of a tiny, grasping insect, seconds before the foot descended.
Qui-Gon stopped a few feet away. Since their reunion on Melida/Daan, the tension between them had been unbearable, but it strung them together, creating a strange, unsettled roiling in their connection. The mental bond itself was a withering wraith, blocked on both sides. The Master had barely spoken a word to his charge, and after their ship slipped into the obsidian waves and violet ribbons of hyperspace, there had been only silence and distance.
Obi-Wan, in a greedy little section of his soul, had hoped that maybe that would make it easier, once he was forced out of Qui-Gon's life. But it hurt just as badly.
"Are you hungry?"
The boy was startled by the question. Hungry? It was foreign to him, though his stomach had been uttering famished little cries for hours, and his head was throbbing. "No, I—" He swallowed, "I'm fine." His voice was a strangled thing, and when he spoke, he wasn't sure it was his, if his mouth had ever moved. "Thank you."
And then Qui-Gon was crouching down before him, and Obi-Wan saw that graceful visage, and could see nothing else. He saw the creases deepening, the lines knotting. Above all, he saw the pain in those beloved eyes, the pain of treachery, needless pain…pain Obi-Wan had caused.
He gulped down the thickness rising in his throat, and chanced meeting that gaze.
"You should eat something, Obi-Wan."
But the imploration left him cold. He had become accustomed to a different title that chased the ends of his Master's sentences. He was used to being 'Padawan'. He didn't want to be Obi-Wan, 'Obi-Wan' delivered in vapid inflection. 'Obi-Wan' was solitary and awkward. 'Padawan' was a link to Qui-Gon Jinn, and the Jedi, and everything good that Obi-Wan couldn't be on his own.
Obi-Wan, not Padawan. It would never be Padawan again.
It struck him as incredibly selfish, that he should be worried about anything concerning himself, while Melida/Daan was in ceaseless turmoil, and Cerasi's sweet voice had been forever silenced, while his Master was here, the anguish bright in his kind eyes.
"Here."
Obi-Wan blinked, and a large roll was being handed to him, glistening with butter. He looked from it to Qui-Gon, then down again. He realized there was a metal tray on the floor, on which sat a plate of fruit, rolls, and ice water. His insides lurched, in wanting and in revolt.
"Obi-Wan, you're going to make yourself sick."
There was an edge of rebuke in the man's tone, and Obi-Wan accepted the hot bread, if only to prevent another taxing dispute for his Master. He ate, and gradually, the food warmed him, and he ate more, thinking it would satisfy the maw inside him. He took bites of roll and fruit, stopping for long swallows of the chilled water, waiting for the holes to brim up and close.
But when mere crumbs remained, he was empty still.
For a moment, the frustration outweighed everything, and he might have been panting. Something gripped hard onto his shoulders, hard enough to drag him from the frenzy. Qui-Gon's arms were outstretched, his large hands clamped down on Obi-Wan, as though keeping him in place, as if he would obliterate otherwise.
"Stop it," Qui-Gon said, with clipped conciseness, standing and taking Obi-Wan's hands, to bring him up off the ground.
Obi-Wan followed, because he couldn't fight it, too weak and beyond caring about himself. He watched with dull interest as Qui-Gon turned down a side of the bed, the food he had desperately devoured already heavy and sour in the pit of his gut.
"Get in and get some sleep." The Master ordered him, waiting for him to obey, then pulled the blankets around Obi-Wan's shoulders.
Obi-Wan watched him leave, and felt his head spin. The minutes had been a whirlwind. Had the man ever really been here, or was it a delusion, brought on by the trauma of the recent events?
He would have believed it a fantasy, and that it hadn't been Qui-Gon who coaxed him into nourishment, and the comfort of the bed…he would have believed it a ruse, if not for the ruination of that valiant spirit, bleeding through eyes of fading blue, and the loss of the smirking smile.
Not even the fertile morbidity of his imagination could rival the biting spark of reality, in that respect. Qui-Gon Jinn was heartbroken.
And he, Obi-Wan, had become the black hole, in which was swept away tender luminescence. He had stolen his Master's light.
Sleep did come for him, the result of enormous exhaustion, from the toll taken by wracking, silent sobs.
O