REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia
See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.
CHAPTER 2-ENTER THE DIM
Sunlit in times of joy and tempestuous in times of vexation, the boy's eyes met those of his Jedi master as he entered their shared apartment, and the dead look within them shot straight to Qui-Gon's soul.
The Jedi master was seated comfortably on a sofa in the common room. A data-book in his hand was tossed aside as he stood. Pulling himself up to his full height, he crossed the room to where his student stood in a daze just inside the door.
"Obi-Wan," the master spoke gently. "Are you all right?" He pressed his hand flat against his padawan's back and rubbed slowly.
Stepping abruptly away without a word, Obi-Wan headed toward the window where the soft, damask plum drapes had been gathered back, revealing the quiet treading of night. His gaze drawn to the outside world, he stopped before the framed transparisteel and looked past his own reflection, caused by the single lit glow lamp, to the passing traffic.
In concern, Qui-Gon moved behind his padawan. Tenderly, he wrapped his strong hands around the boy's arms and pulled him back into a warm embrace.
Obi-Wan made no move to escape, allowing himself to fall pliant against his master's chest. The gesture was intensely caring, and he dearly wished for more. It seemed that his life had become taken over by unmoved individuals - people trying to help him, but falling terribly short of reaching him on the inside. They all dealt with the outside, with occurrences, with dreams - not who he was, not who he had become.
But who had he become? He was not even sure of that himself.
"Tell me, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, tugging gently on the boy's silky padawan braid. "What is troubling you?" In tenderness, he slid his hands up and down, stroking Obi-Wan's arms. He watched the pale mirrored image of the room reflected on the window. Obi-Wan looked worn, exhausted, shoulders drooping.
After a faint sigh, Obi-Wan answered in a whisper. "Everything."
Qui-Gon paused his massaging, affected by the weight of his padawan's confession. "Everything?" he inquired, hoping to receive a more specific explanation.
"Yes," came the quiet reply. "I feel," Obi-Wan searched for the words to convey the feelings that he himself did not completely understand. "I feel alone - like no one really knows me or. . . or cares about me."
Disengaging the boy from his grasp, Qui-Gon turned him around to face him. "Obi-Wan," he said, with a slight sternness. "You know I love you as a son, and I care far more about you than you probably realize."
But Obi-Wan's gaze remained downcast in avoidance. He knew Qui-Gon meant those words, but he did not want to see the pity that too often graced the master's face these days, and that he simply could not face again.
"I hope you already know this," the Jedi master went on, trying to reach the broken, hurting heart that hid in fear, "but I don't know if I could make it to the next day without you, Padawan," he gruffed. "I don't think I could live without you in my life. I don't think I would want to," he finished in a voice barely audible.
The youth's eyes, crystal in the sparse light, rose slowly, shyly, catching the glint of the glow lamp. For a moment, he just stared in the shaded midnight of Qui-Gon's eyes, searching for any trace of the pity that he feared would be there, but there was nothing but the splendor of love.
For a brief second, Qui-Gon wondered if he had reached that part in the boy that trembled on the edge of despair.
Obi-Wan released the breath he did not realize he had been holding. "I know that, Master," he said softly, breaking eye contact. "But I can't help what I feel. Healer Pasheso seems. . . so. . . removed - so uncaring."
"That's his job, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, folding his hands. "He isn't supposed to be there to love you, to be an intimate part of your life."
"I know," the padawan said, bleakly. He gazed at the floor, finding the utter unimportance of the color of the carpet.
"And what about Garen? He told me he was looking for you today," Qui-Gon pointed out, with a thin smile.
"He found me," the accented voice quavered. His pink lips, quirked a forced half smile.
But Qui-Gon saw the facade for what it was. "He's a good friend, Obi-Wan."
A sudden pained look fell over the padawan's face. "You're right, you're right. You're... always right," said the padawan, in a voice drenched in defeat. Turning away in frustration, he rested his forehead on his hands pressed against the window, squeezing his eyes shut.
Qui-Gon stepped closer. "What is really bothering you, Padawan?" he asked with a gentle inflection.
"I don't know. I really don't," the boy's voice threatened hysteria. "I feel like I'm walking around in a shadow. That no light can reach me. That I'm followed by phantoms - by things that aren't really there. And I don't know what to do." He whirled around, commanding his master's gaze. "I feel like he is there," he whispered.
The haunted expression kept Qui-Gon silent.
"Tarren." The Jedi master said it like a curse, after he had regained his voice.
Obi-Wan winced at the mention of the name. "Yes. And he won't leave."
"He's not here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon shook his head. "He's dead, and he'll never hurt you again."
The boy answered, with eyes wild and voice hysterical. "He hurts me every day-" A small sob escaped Obi-Wan, before he could bring the rising turmoil under control. He bowed his head in embarrassment and slumped in the cushioned chair behind him.
With a sudden movement, the Jedi master knelt in front of the boy and grasped the shoulders jerking from half concealed weeping. He gathered the shaking youth in his arms and held him tightly, engulfing him in a protective embrace.
Overcome by rampant emotion, Obi-Wan clenched his fingers in the folds of Qui-Gon's robe and buried his face in the coarse fabric. He did not try to stop the tears. He did not want to anymore. With total abandonment, he let himself release all of the insecurities of independence and reach for the strong protection of his mentor. He just wanted to feel safe again.
How he wanted to lose himself from the reality of what had become his life.
His life, for Force's sake - not some nameless person or non-acquaintance. This was his life. . . and it was real.
So very real. . . .
As Qui-Gon held his padawan gently, possessively against his broad chest, he sent calming pulses of the Force to the trembling boy in his arms. It hurt him so, to know the crushing devastation that Obi-Wan endured. But he knew, beyond any doubt, what he himself felt could in no way compare to the frightful distress that daily tormented his padawan.
That. . . he would never know.
But more than anything, he wished he could take Obi-Wan's pain away. But even more than that, he wished it had never been there.
In a black moment of roiling anger, he nearly lost control of the pure, steady Force waves, and they slipped from his control, vacillating and thrashing in agitation.
Closing his eyes, he pushed away the regret and his perceived failure to keep his padawan safe, and grasped the flailing Force waves, redirecting the serene pulses once again into Obi-Wan - all the while cursing himself for everything else.
This was not how it was supposed to be, he thought bitterly.
Obi-Wan had not broken down this way since that day on Lorminth, when Qui-Gon had finally gotten him to admit what had happened with Tarren. In the time after, the padawan had never cried in his presence, although he assumed Obi-Wan might have while alone or in sessions with the healers.
The healers had been very helpful, Qui-Gon thought. Under their guidance, Obi-Wan had been able to release a lot of what had been bottled up within him, and seemed to have healed some emotionally. But it was understood that they would be on this road for a long time to come.
He had tried to do what he could for Obi-Wan, but felt at a loss as to how to help anymore.
"I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered in the stillness. "If I had - there must have been something, something. . . ." He searched in futility for words to set the world right. Stroking the youth's soft, spiky hair while he cried quietly now, Qui-Gon stared dully out the window.
Darkness had fallen.
And fallen hard.
After a few minutes of quiet, Obi-Wan pushed away gently and sniffled. His eyes were red and puffy from shed tears; his eyelashes, darkened from dampness. But his face was nearly dry - thanks to Qui-Gon's robe, now damp where the padawan's face had been.
Qui-Gon slid the backs of his fingers affectionately across Obi-Wan's warm cheek, and tipped up the gently indented chin so their eyes would meet. There was a wealth of emotion in those beautiful eyes.
"I'm sorry, Padawan," the master spoke softly. "I want to do more. I want to take away all of this from you, but. . . I don't know how," he admitted helplessly, and saw a brief shadow of distress pass behind Obi-Wan's dulled eyes. "Remember, I am always here when you need me. And you can talk to me about anything."
Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, watching the pity once more form in Qui-Gon's eyes. Too much to bear, he slid his eyes back to the floor. His hand found the end of his braid and held it tightly.
Qui-Gon noted the insecure gesture, but said nothing. He had noticed Obi-Wan's habit of doing that for some time, but hoped that he would grow out of it as he healed emotionally.
After a pause of silence, Obi-Wan's eyes grew wide and darted frantically over the room. Then they settled on Qui-Gon. "It's too dark in here." His voice was unsteady, yet urgent.
The Jedi master blinked. "Too dark?"
Obi-Wan nodded shyly, looking away longingly toward the only light on in the room.
There was a slight hesitation before Qui-Gon stood and went to the other two lamps in the room, turning them on. Then he returned to kneel in front of his padawan.
"Is it bright enough now?" he gently asked.
Obi-Wan nodded again. . . slowly.
"Obi-Wan?"
The student's face turned from the glow lamp where he had continued to stare, almost mesmerized. The face was blank, expressionless.
"Are," the master was not sure whether to ask or not, "are you. . . all right?"
Something passed behind Obi-Wan's eyes, something indistinguishable. Then the eyes turned dull again, lifeless.
Qui-Gon frowned. "Obi-Wan?" he ventured calmly, when it appeared he would receive no answer.
The aquamarine gaze fell, his head inclined toward the floor. "I'm fine, Master." It was a whisper.
"Are you. . . sure?" the Jedi master carefully prodded.
Obi-Wan's face flew up, his eyes defiantly meeting the master's. The chin set, determined. "I said I'm fine," he said through grit teeth, with a nuance of irritation.
Qui-Gon nodded in acknowledgment, and spoke kindly, "is there anything you want to talk about, Padawan?"
"I talk to the healers," the boy said quickly.
"I know," Qui-Gon said, watching the boy's tense expression relax. He didn't know how to bring it up, but it had to be soon. So he proceeded as gently as he could. "Healer Pasheso believes you've been doing well, and thinks it's time that you take up more of your duties."
The defiant eyes faltered, replaced by uncertainty, while a tiny spark of trepidation washed through the youth, before it was firmly stamped out.
The master smiled encouragingly before continuing, although he felt like he was betraying the boy he was trying to help. "Tomorrow, we're supposed to go before the Council and receive a mission."
The padawan's eyes widened. "A mission?" he asked, in a voice suddenly small.
"Yes. We're supposed to visit Rymie, to see about its acceptance in the Republic." Qui-Gon stood up.
Obi-Wan held his breath as a sudden heaviness settled upon him, and a sick gush boiled in the pit of his stomach. Something felt wrong. Something was wrong.
But what?
"Master? Do we have to take this mission?" He fought to keep his voice steady.
Looking sympathetically at his charge, Qui-Gon said, "I'm afraid so, Obi-Wan. I already discussed this with Master Yoda, and I'm afraid there's no way out."
No way out.
There had to be a way out.
But how?
The question fell silent, unanswered.
He wiped at the fogged mirror and stared at his reflection. His wet hair clung to his head like a cap, and fresh shower droplets rolled down his bare skin, amassing on the cool, tiled floor.
Drops still plopped intermittently in the empty shower stall behind him.
Sliding his hand across his throat, he nearly flinched from the gentle contact. There had been a knife that had once pushed with wanton threats of violence to his soft skin. And he had almost lost his life and more on that muzzy night.
He swallowed hard. Any remembrances set him on edge. But he had tailored a stoic facade - tailored after that irritating, serene expression of his master - to hide any apprehension he might have, as long as he didn't have to talk about it.
If he had to talk . . then he would be totally undone.
Qui-Gon was undoubtedly waiting for him, tapping his boot in impatience. And they say Jedi masters are calm. If Qui-Gon once more told him to hurry, he felt sure he would tell the old man off.
The old man? Where did that come from?
He nodded sardonically to his blurred self in the mirror - the same self that always agreed with him, even when unwise for both parties to do so. The Force was going to be dizzy trying to whisk away all of these straying emotions. It was definitely going to get a real challenge this time.
He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the mirror, while the plop, plop, plop continued in an irregular pattern. Wracking his mind, he tried to translate the chaos that had become his life into some form of understanding.
Once, he had been a bright, eager young child, sheltered by the tenets of conduct, schooled in the art of discipline. Life had been easy - too easy - as a crecheling and initiate. How impurity and worldly wisdom ever trampled those naive years could never be completely unmasked.
Now he was no longer that same child. Could never be again.
And whose fault was that?
If he had never met Tarren, if he had never been chosen to pick him up at the spaceport. . . .
He knew he was considered emotionally unstable - although they never told him that. And it would only strengthen that conviction to know he believed something was amiss. If they knew he wanted to avoid this particular mission, for a reason that even he did not understand, then perhaps they would never trust him as competent - just a hopeless case, they would say.
Hopeless.
Helpless? Funny how close those two words sound.
But he should be able to handle some things on his own by now. An eighteen-year-old padawan was not a fresh-faced crecheling in diapers. And Qui-Gon worried about him too much, anyway. He did not want to be more of a burden than he already was.
Nor did he want to see that. . . pity.
With a rise of stubbornness, he pushed the anxiety away and decided to keep his silence. The mission would be fine. Rymie should not be any problem, no matter the bad feeling he had about it.
Besides, they might think he was paranoid.
Or crazy.
But maybe he was. Maybe they were right. Or maybe he was simply overreacting.
Pushing off the mirror, he stared into eyes dim with dread, and shuddered.
Everything will be all right, he smiled grimly to himself.