REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia
See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.
CHAPTER 4-SLIDING AWAY WITH THE PAIN
All he knew was the heavy thump of his heart that filled his chest and the blood pounding in his temples, as he stood frozen, unable to look away from the man walking casually among the festival throngs.
A nightmare? An illusion?
A mistake?
Whatever the cause, whatever the ultimate truth, the outcome remained the same: he saw Nim Tarren as alive as any man - and not with the surgically-altered face of Dajer Quaykin, but with the real face of the man as seen in his recent dreams and in the Temple's criminal records.
But this had to be all wrong.
Tarren is dead, his mind screamed.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
In an instant, he was there again; the terror alive, the hot breath, the roaming of dirty calloused hands on his skin, all as fresh as the day it had happened.
A large hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder, and he jumped from the unexpected touch, coming back to his senses from the shocking horror.
"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon's voice threaded through his jumbled thoughts, drawing him back to the realm of the present.
He turned to his master, as a torrent of nausea descended heavily upon him. Unable to speak, he simply stared at him, and noticed how the air thickened in warmth around him, blocking out the icy coolness of just seconds ago.
Qui-Gon saw the wide-eyed stare and the paper-white face, and frowned in worry. "What's wrong, Padawan?"
"Master Jinn? What in the Sith are you doing?" Premier Sherveld spat out, stalking back to them, with his body guards trailing.
Obi-Wan looked back to the crowds, searching frantically for the man he had seen, and saw that he was no longer around. Bowing his head, he dropped his gaze to the ground. "I. . . just feel. . . ."
"What's wrong with your apprentice?" Sherveld said irritably, without a trace of compassion.
"I'm not sure," said Qui-Gon in a calm voice, his eyes never leaving Obi-Wan.
Aware of both men looking at him, Obi-Wan tried to still the cold, trembling sickness that engulfed him. He pressed a shaking hand to his lips, determined to not show the weakness he felt. But the violent heaving of his stomach was too much, and he quickly surrendered his kaerish soup to the wooden planked boardwalk - as well as across Qui-Gon's boots.
Qui-Gon grabbed the boy to keep him from slumping to the ground, and heard the Premier huff in disgust.
The man hissed through clenched teeth, wrinkling his noise. "Send him back to your hostel, Master Jinn." He turned around to his guards. "Get someone to clean this mess up," he absently ordered a soldier, who bowed and left.
"Obi-Wan?" called the soothing voice of his master, purposely ignoring Sherveld.
Through the din of the noisy crowds, the voices echoed, distant and hollow. Still disoriented, Obi-Wan found the steady, but worried, gaze of Qui-Gon.
Sherveld impatiently tapped Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Send the boy away, Master Jinn. I haven't even shown you the best things yet."
"I'll be fine, Master," Obi-Wan answered in a soft tone, casting his eyes downward, feeling shame for disrupting the Premier's tour. He sluggishly struggled to straighten up and stepped back from Qui-Gon, pushing the steadying arms away.
"I'll escort him back to our room, Premier," said Qui-Gon, catching the glare Obi-Wan sent him. "Then I'll return, and you may show me whatever you wish."
"But, you can't just-"
"I can, and I will, Premier," Qui-Gon interrupted smoothly. "If you wish to wait for me, good. If not, that's your decision." With that said, he swiftly directed the distraught padawan away.
As soon as they were out of sight of the Premier, Obi-Wan jerked his arm out of Qui-Gon's grasp.
"This is not necessary, Master," the boy insisted, turning to face the Jedi master. He leaned against the stone wall behind him to hide the unsteadiness he felt. The pale light of a festival globe painted him in dim, ghostly illumination.
Qui-Gon stood with the light at his back, crossed his arms casually. "I think it is, Padawan." Even with the lack of sufficient light, he could clearly see the boy's wan features.
Passing a shaking clammy hand across his brow, Obi-Wan wiped away the warm dampness of perspiration. "I'll be fine," he panted, swallowing the bile at the back of his throat. "Really."
Qui-Gon nodded. "Perhaps, but you're not now. Anyone can see that."
"I can take care of myself, thank you," Obi-Wan argued respectfully. "But if I must go back to the hostel, I can walk back by myself. I don't need a nursemaid."
"A nursemaid?" The master's brows arched. "I have been called a great many things in my career, but a nursemaid is not one of them. However, I will walk you back to the hostel. And nothing is going to change that."
"I'm not a child," the padawan pressed.
"You're eighteen, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon continued in his elegant, calm manner that often times annoyed the student. "Whether or not that's a child is up for debate, but I am still your Jedi master and you will do as I say."
Unable to think of any reply, Obi-Wan simply glowered at him, with that determined jaw set and eyes flaming bright blue. He vaguely wondered why his master's face was now a blurry smudge, and what had happened to the gravity here that made him suddenly feel so heavy. When another gush of nausea washed over him, he turned away, rolling against the wall, wanting to hide it, but his knees grew weak and he slid down the wall to the boardwalk.
The clanging of the carillon from the bell tower nearby told Obi-Wan that they were almost back to their hostel. Situated beside a central park, the massive bell tower's peal rang out across the city. It was a landmark, tall and cylindrical, with endless rows of arches from top to bottom. Light from within beamed out from each arch, a mimicry of countless beacons, while the melody of the carillon broke from deep within its bowels.
Qui-Gon had said nothing on the way there, but Obi-Wan could sense his master's concern for him as he was guided gently back to their hostel. As they ascended the wide, stone steps to the elaborate arcade that led to the inner rooms, the soft golden flush of the glow globes painted the two figures half in shadow, half in dim washed gold.
Leading his student with a hand on his elbow, Qui-Gon creased his brow at the pale, young face. All the way back to their hostel, and the boy was still pallid. He mused, begrudgingly, that half of the silver streaks in his hair had appeared over the last few weeks.
As they crossed the threshold of their room, Qui-Gon flipped on the lights and walked Obi-Wan to the 'fresher, peeling his student's robe off of the slouching shoulders. He filled a small glass with water and handed it to the boy, who tentatively sipped and swished some water around in his mouth, before spitting it out in the sink. Then Qui-Gon took the glass, set it aside, and walked Obi-Wan to his bed.
"Would you like to lie down, Obi-Wan?" he asked as gently as he could.
Numbly bobbing his head, Obi-Wan sat heavily on the edge of his bed and fumbled with his bootstraps.
After a moment of painfully watching his padawan unsuccessfully try to unclasp the straps with trembling hands, Qui-Gon knelt in front of him, quickly and smoothly doing it himself. Then, he pulled the boots off, and looked up into the pale face.
Obi-Wan did not look at him, but instead laid back on the bed and felt the mattress dip when Qui-Gon sat on the edge of it. He blinked as a heavy and cold hand draped itself upon his brow and then stroked his hair, before abruptly leaving. Shame-filled eyes found the Jedi master who leaned over him. He was embarrassed for being such a burden, for being so weak, so vulnerable. . . so less than perfect. He felt the flicker of worry from his master, before the midnight blue gaze met his. Swallowing hard, Obi-Wan simply stared at him, and picked at the edge of the blanket that Qui-Gon had laid upon him. The only sound was the hauntingly familiar muted clangor of the carillon.
Qui-Gon sat back, rubbing his own temples, trying to ease the pain of another headache. The room fell into silence, as the bell tower grew quiet. He had felt a spike of apprehension from the boy just before he had been sick. But now, all he could sense were tightly closed shields.
"Obi-Wan," the master said, with a softened expression, returning his attention to his student. "How do you feel?"
Frowning at the question, Obi-Wan wondered what he should tell him. He knew what he had seen, but feared Qui-Gon would not believe him. Why should he believe him? Qui-Gon would probably think he was crazy to have seen Tarren. And it would only be another reason for pity.
" 'M fine," the padawan answered, his tone a bit tremulous.
Qui-Gon looked at him incredulously. "Is anything wrong, Obi-Wan?" he asked with evident concern.
"No," Obi-Wan said, annoyed. Closing his eyes briefly, he reached for a center of calm. "No," he softened the word to a whisper, falling lightly, soft as the glide of silk on silk. "I just want to sleep."
Qui-Gon studied the slitted eyes, veiled by the dullness of dissipating nausea. "Do you need me to stay?"
Obi-Wan closed his eyes again, refusing to see the worry etched on Qui-Gon's face. "No. Go back to the Premier. I'll be fine."
"Are you sure? Please tell me if anything is wrong." The voice held a slight strain.
Obi-Wan's stubbornness had always been grating on Qui-Gon's nerves. The boy continually dispelled any ideas that there was anything wrong with him, which - in some cases - produced unwarranted concern from the master, and worse, often sent him into an emotional whirlwind without just cause.
The boy bit his lower lip. "You worry too much, Master. Please, go." Desperately, he pushed the worry and confusion of seeing Tarren alive far to the vaulted concealment of his mind, where his master would never see it, and hid the boiling chaos beneath a surface of calm.
He told himself he should not be this weak. He was a Jedi, and a child no longer. But he could not deny that there was more than the worry, more than the half-healed scars. There was The Darkness - almost like a presence, a sentience, that wanted to harm, possibly destroy him.
It was that shadow that he had been walking in, his own prison that he carried with him. And he knew no way of escape. He had tried to let it all flow through him and into the Force, but somehow it had remained, leaving bitter traces of something unknown and foreign. Something so dark he knew nothing of.
He had come to the conclusion that what could not be released into the Force. . . would simply have to be endured. Whether it destroyed him or not. . . was out of his control.
Opening his eyes again, he met the steady blue gaze of his master. He caught himself plucking at the blanket again, forcing his hands to still. He knew he could not hide the darkness forever, his master would undoubtedly see it. . . eventually. Without a word, he closed his eyes again, silently willing the world to be right again - if ever it could be.
Qui-Gon nodded to the boy's entreaty. "You need to sleep now, Obi-Wan," he sent with Force persuasion, felt the exhausted boy fall asleep. Then he wound a lulling Force tendril of peace around his charge, and stood, doused the light and left, with a soft swish of the closing door.
The darkness had been birthed then. . . at the spaceport, when he had met Tarren. He just had not been aware of it. But he knew it for what it was now.
Oh, he knew a lot more things now. . . .
He stood against a dank stone wall; the rain of minutes ago staining the duracrete at his booted feet. His hands were tucked deep within the voluminous folds of his warm brown robe, and he ducked his head against a cool, rain-scented breeze that gently meandered by. The crowds were quiet as the late night arrivals wandered out of the spaceport's docking platforms. Only stragglers remained, one or two passing him by every few minutes.
The scratching of boots on wet 'crete bled into his thoughts. He looked up to see the lone dark silhouette of a tall, well-postured newcomer. The gait was sure, gliding almost, and certainly lacked nothing in diplomacy.
Watching the figure approach, he noted the formal cape of deep blue and well-groomed black hair, with misted streaks of gray. Hoping it was the man he was waiting for, he pushed off the stone wall behind him and stepped expectantly into the path of the slowing figure.
Dark shadows played across the man's face, as he came to a stop in front of him, bowing politely. "Padawan Kenobi?" the formal voice murmured.
"Yes, sir," the youthful, cultured voice answered, bowing in return. "You are Dajer Quaykin?" He straightened up, meeting the piercing dark eyes that gleamed with intelligence.
"Yes." The reply was drawled, thoughtful, and carried the nuance of something else, something hidden, as the dark eyes skittered over the padawan in front of him.
"I was sent to take you back to the Temple, sir," the padawan explained.
"Ah, yes. Qui-Gon must have sent you. He always was one to choose charming padawans, even if one of them was a bit too arrogant. But I'm sure you're not that way."
"Yes, sir. I mean, Master Qui-Gon sent me."
The speeder garage was swathed in shadowed gloom, with prison-gray walls and a thin black railing at the far end.
Master Qui-Gon sent me. . . .
It had never bothered him before, but. . . .
He pulled his rode tightly around his torso, hiding the ripped tunic beneath, and pushed himself to his feet, trying to blink away the darkness at the edge of his vision. But as he crashed back to his knees, causing a painful bruise that would count off the days until his life would never return to what was before, he wondered why a place of such torment had no bars.
He now recognized when the darkness had appeared, but the why. . . remained a mystery.
Usually, the driving blast of water against his skin was invigorating, but all he wanted now was to be. . . clean.
He had woken from a nightmare that was too vividly real, and dashed to the 'fresher, scrubbing himself until he was red. Perhaps if he could make himself clean enough, then everything would be all right again. He would be fine, and the darkness would be dispelled.
The Darkness.
It was there. He wanted it to go away, but how the Sith could he make it leave and never come back?
Desperately, he fumbled with the knobs, turning them as hot as they would go, but it was not enough. It was never enough. The steam clouded the shower stall, clouded the 'fresher, clouded his thoughts.
Yet still, he scrubbed himself. He was beyond feeling the burn, beyond the pain of the scalding gush of water, and if he had been able to form a rational thought, then he would have known when the water ceased falling, and when he was covered with a warm towel.
A strange sensation of sounds, distant and roaring at the same time, fell like windblown leaves through his mind. They tossed, haphazardly, carelessly, through the fogged passages of thought, and he suddenly saw the intense glare of twin midnight pools of sapphire. Swirling lazily into focus, they held the pity once again that he had so wanted to forget.
He so much wanted to forget.
"Obi-Wan!" the frantic voice mirrored the frantic stare, and together they called out to him, for something to make sense within him. . . . For something sane again.
But he feared he was beyond that.
"Padawan, answer me," the shouting voice edged into his senses again.
Gradually, the midnight blue eyes came into focus again. If he had not known his master better, he would have thought there was the swell of tears in the man's eyes.
A swell of pity.
With a heavy thumping heart, he instinctively struggled against the strong arms holding him, but they were too strong, or he was too confused.
Or maybe it was both.
He heard the voice again, pleading almost. Pleading to be heard. And he felt himself being violently shaken, jerking his head back from the force of it.
"Obi-Wan. What's-" Qui-Gon stopped, swallowing the words that he had started to carelessly say.
What's wrong with you? He knew what his master was going to say. What's wrong with you?
He wished he knew.
Oh, how he wished he knew.
He looked back to his master, whose eyes were now closed in concentration, and felt a lovely wind of peace blow through his soul. The peace felt so relaxing, so good, that he ceased struggling, welcomed the calming waves, and let himself be carried and tucked in a place of warmth.
Warmth and security. Qui-Gon was here. He felt safe again.