REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia
See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.
CHAPTER 14-ALONG A PATH UNKNOWN
He will survive.
The words he had spoken to the healer nurse on Rymie echoed back to him, now sounding flimsy in their easy conviction. How had he been so sure?
The dark imprint on Obi-Wan's mind was something he had never encountered - nor ever heard of - before. One hope laid in the vaulted archives of knowledge that the Jedi had stored over millennia. Another, in the mystic guidance of the Force. Whether or not either one would save or fail Obi-Wan was as of yet unknown.
Was he a fool?
Sapphirine eyes shaded in contemplative worry dropped to the lustrous wristlet cradled in his hand. Silvered links, as shiny as the day he had first spotted it in the tiny jeweler's shop beside the Arboretum Dome on Rymie, lay pliant to the shape of his palm.
Obi-Wan had not worn it . . . yet.
He released a shaky sigh, then realized that his hand was trembling.
He looked out the floor-length viewport at the haunting distance of deep space. Like the gentle golden glow of countless candles did stars flicker and burn at their own ancient places in the spacious sanctuary. Even as the universe, in all its breathtaking beauty, slowly died it gave no indication of its final fate.
He half-turned, his gaze taking in the form sheathed protectively in blankets on the bed, soft light from a single glow lamp illumined the room in peaceful dimness. Obi-Wan had not yet awakened, but Qui-Gon sensed the boy's awareness surfacing.
"Mas- ter," Obi-Wan murmured sleepily, gently stirring.
Quickly, Qui-Gon moved to the bedside, pulling a short metal stool with him as he went, and sank onto it.
"Master," the padawan hoarsely uttered, a little more plainly. Eyes still closed, he was giving weak pushes to the blankets, as though trying to free himself from their grasp, while a frown wrinkled the young forehead.
"I'm here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon consoled the boy, resting a large hand on a young strong shoulder. "You're safe now," he added, then winced knowing that it was in actuality a lie.
The soothing voice of his master wrapping around him, Obi-Wan relaxed, lines fading from his brow, soft rose lips parting in rest, and he grew still once more.
Qui-Gon watched the youthful face until the frown returned and eyes dusky from slumber slitted open and darted confusedly about the room.
"Where . . ." Obi-Wan's gaze settling on Qui-Gon's face, "where are we?" he asked, hearing the cruiser engines' almost inaudible humming.
"On our ship, heading to Coruscant," the Jedi master answered with a thin smile.
Obi-Wan levered himself up, pushed the linen sheets and coverlets down to his waist and languidly stretched. "But," he stopped, a grimace fell across his face, and he pressed his hands to the warm skin where his wound had been, "but what happened? How long was I out?"
Qui-Gon sat back, straightening his spine. "Not long. A few hours. We left shortly after you emerged from the bacta tank."
"The bacta tank?" Obi-Wan repeated for himself, staring out the viewport at the gleaming stars clustered at the ageless core of the galaxy. His thoughts tumbled about as he tried to piece together the last things he could recall.
"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon interrupted the padawan's thoughts. "We could not find your lightsabre. But I did find this." He held out the bracelet, and the brightened face of his padawan made Qui-Gon smile.
"Can I wear it now, Master?" Obi-Wan stretched out a slender arm, and clear eyes rose to the elder man's with a childlike joy in them.
"Of course," Qui-Gon replied happily. He slid the linked band around the boy's wrist and snapped the clasp in place.
"Thank you," whispered Obi-Wan, his eyes traveling over the inscribed wristlet. He looked back at Qui-Gon. "I suppose I can always make a new 'sabre." He sounded disappointed, but hopeful. "But how did the fighting turn out? And what about . . . what about Rymie?"
"The army was defeated. Their leader disappeared. And then we left soon after you emerged from the bacta tank," Qui-Gon summed up.
"But what about Rymie?" the padawan repeated.
Something briefly flickered in crystal blue eyes. Qui-Gon stood and padded to the viewport. "Rymie is a good planet. A prosperous economy and enviable trade, a just judicial system, booming population, possible Force-sensitives. . . ."
"So you've decided to recommend it for admission to the Republic?" Obi-Wan asked, facing his master's back. "But I thought we weren't finished examining everything."
Obi-Wan sounded all the more the young and unseasoned padawan he had been when Qui-Gon had first met him, and the tall Jedi held in a smile.
"Are you still sore?" Qui-Gon hedged, his eyes trapped in the shimmering mist of the Nymphina Nebula.
Obi-Wan nodded suspiciously and answered softly, "yes, Master."
"You must be hungry, as well. Stay here and rest." Qui-Gon's voice - and posture - was very stiff. Turning, he crossed to the door to depart. "I'll bring you something from the galley."
"Master." There was accusation, however so faint, in the padawan's accent.
Qui-Gon stopped, waiting, his face still towards the door.
Obi-Wan tilted his head slightly. "A man I greatly admire once told me never to hide anything from him. Does that advice also apply to him?" It was soft and respectful.
Finally, the aging face turned towards Obi-Wan, and it looked older than it ever had.
Seeing Obi-Wan's speculative frown and eyes searching his for further explanation, Qui-Gon continued with reluctance, barely above a whisper, and there was a thread of apology twined throughout it. "The imprint on your mind, Obi-Wan. Only Jedi healers can . . . help."
Obi-Wan's eyelashes fluttered. "I guessed that much, Master." And he still had that innocence about him.
"Yes, but . . . they're discussing it now, Padawan," Qui-Gon swallowed past the lump in his throat, "and they don't know if they can help."
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but there was a swelling silence that descended upon the entire room, and words failed him. Suddenly, he felt as cold as the vastness of space.
"I'll bring you some food." Qui-Gon heavily sighed and then strode out.
The form was draped with a coarse, pasty white cloth. Strips of adhesive tape wound around and around, betraying the shape that hid beneath.
He shivered even as he stepped closer, drawn like a swarm of draigolets to honeyed nectaria blossoms.
He's dead, the pilot had told him. Don't go disturbing the dead.
The pilot had been concerned, but would not prevent him from seeing it if he wanted to. That was why he had asked the flyer, rather than his master. Qui-Gon would have been less than enthusiastic about his examining a cadaver - and certainly more opinionated.
Now at the edge of the table, he raised a hand, fingers splayed and hovering over the figure. This was real, he reminded himself. The man was dead.
A thickness in his throat was swallowed with difficulty, and he was trembling. Trembling with all the fear he had ever known.
No. . . . Not quite. There was one single greater fear.
But. . . .
He suddenly wanted to run away and cry in a darkened corner of the ship, like he had once years ago when Qui-Gon had nearly died. Horrified, the young padawan had wept until worry for his master had sobered him, prodding to return to the master's bedside.
"Obi-Wan?"
Startled, he felt his heart nearly jump to his throat.
A large hand gently pressed between his shoulder blades, then slid up to clasp the nape of his neck as Qui-Gon stepped around into view. Concerned eyes fell upon him, and he felt the full weight of their regard, but he refused to look at them.
"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon tried for a response again. The master sadly watched as Obi-Wan turned his back to him, so he let his hand fall idly back to his side. "He's dead, Padawan," he said delicately. "Look if you must."
Obi-Wan stood still, silent and unmoving with his back to his master. Then he slowly shook his head. "No, I trust you," his voice only vaguely unsteady.
"Obi-Wan, what do you remember of . . . the first time you met Tarren? In the speeder garage?" Qui-Gon pushed back the quivering discomfort he felt at this type of forward questioning. "Padawan, look at me," he said, inflecting gentleness in his voice. "Please don't be afraid."
Obi-Wan shifted, eyes filled with embarrassment slowly slid toward Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon's face was entirely serious and held all the concern that Obi-Wan had ever seen there, but the boy's stomach churned, nevertheless.
"What do you remember?" Qui-Gon again asked. "Is it confusing?"
Obi-Wan gave a small nod.
"Does it not all fit together? Some things conflict?"
After a slight hesitation, Obi-Wan nodded again.
"Do you remember being raped?" The master's voice caught on the last word, but he held the padawan's gaze and Obi-Wan did not look away.
Obi-Wan blinked slowly, and nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"You were not raped, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon softly assured, seeing a flash of surprise in the boy's eyes. "The man who placed that imprint in your mind somehow placed new conflicting memories there. I sensed some of them when I escaped," he explained. "You were not raped. They only wanted you to think you were."
"To make me angry," Obi-Wan concluded, his thoughts and focus growing distant.
"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, his mouth a thin line.
Obi-Wan's head slowly bowed, but he said nothing. Neither one said anything for some time, and Qui-Gon tried very hard to ignore the small sniffle he heard.
Gracelessly, Obi-Wan wiped a sleeve across his face. Then he cleared his throat softly and spoke in a small voice, "thank you for rescuing me, Master."
Qui-Gon smiled, a little somberly. "I'm sorry you suffered as much as you did."
Obi-Wan raised his head, and to Qui-Gon's surprise a shaky smile lit up the padawan's face. "I may be wounded, Master, but I'm not broken."
Beneath the brave exterior was something raw and aching - wounds caused by Tarren that were still in need of healing. The man's death had helped to ease it along, but Obi-Wan had no doubt that over time they would become less and less distinguishable, fading to nothing or mere scars. He could and would go on, unless . . .
A shudder washed through him. For all the years that he had been at Qui-Gon's side, no threat had ever taken up residence inside him, not like this. With the prospect of the imprint remaining (or worse), a dark future loomed like a suffocating woolen shroud, maw gaping and claws imbedding deep in his flesh.
No. . . . He stopped himself. This self-pity was unbecoming of a Jedi, padawan or not.
Destiny marked his course, and that path was his alone to walk, Master Yoda had said.
Nodding his determination, he edged down a hallway to a door, being as quiet as he could. A stealthy peek in the room indicated that it was empty, so he slipped through the opening and waited until it had sealed shut before going in further.
The cockpit was empty, the pilot and copilot probably engaged in some social activity with Qui-Gon elsewhere in the ship, and that was all fine with him.
Qui-Gon had ordered him to bed-rest until they arrived at the Temple, since he had left the medical center before he would have been normally released. But the padawan had grown tired of lounging around, wanting to venture beyond his small cabin. And often did so without his master's knowing, as he was now.
He dropped in the pilot's chair, disinterested eyes flickering over the console of buttons, switches, and readouts until a flashing indigo light attracted his attention. Drawing closer, he rested the pad of his finger on it. It looked to be an indicator of hologram messages received. Impulsively, he pressed down on it, and sank back into the sable leather padding of the chair.
Bright and blue, a tiny holo of Yoda appeared on the console before him. The wizened old master stared ahead, his clawed hands resting patiently on the top of his gimer stick.
"Master Qui-Gon," the scratchy voice began, as the translucent shape flickered briefly, betraying its ghostly presence. "Concerned for Obi-Wan, we all are." His long pointed ears drooped slightly, and his rounded eyes blinked lazily. "Still discussing the removal of the imprint, we are. But plausible, it may be. Good, this is," and the little master smiled gently. "However," he went on more seriously, "mention to Obi-Wan the disagreement of a new master for him, you will not. Need that now, he does not," he gruffed, poking the end of his gimer stick to the floor. "If need you anything, in Council today I will be, and where you will find me. May the Force be with you, Qui-Gon." He bowed, the blue image blinked out.
Obi-Wan sat, stunned. Tears welled from his eyes, hot and burning. And he had to run, to go away somewhere, somewhere safe.
Within a breath, the padawan was on his feet, pounding from the cockpit and through the many halls. He blinked back the tears of betrayal. The pain of rejection that the Jedi had inflicted on him resurfaced, and he was that same twelve-year-old boy who had been told to leave forever . . . unwanted.
He was dizzy. So dizzy.
And alone.
A trembling hand braced him against the wall as he went, or else he would have fallen right there to the hard deck. He pressed on and on and on, and eventually found himself in a deserted dark room, where he sank to his knees on thin carpet. A sliver of light crept under the door, and the glowing dust of space peered in upon him from a large window, but he was alone. It was his cabin. And it was cold.