A/N: Just want to thank you again for all the reviews! They really mean more than I can say. I decided quite a while ago not to do individual responses within my story, because I always find that irritating when I'm reading a story on this site and have to scroll through pages of blather to get to the good stuff. So I decided not to inflict that on anyone else. But if you ever want a personal response, to any question or comment you might have, feel free to email me! I'm pretty prompt in answering those. Thanks again!
Chapter 6: Questions
It was not an easy night. The medicine was unsuccessful at keeping Obi-Wan in a drugged sleep after an hour or so, and the fever worsened despite the antipyretic, much to Julune's displeasure. She wasn't much surprised, though.
"He's weak," she explained to a worried Qui-Gon, halfway through yet another fever-dream. The boy usually calmed somewhat when someone touched him, so she sat beside the couch, again holding his hand and caressing his forearm in smooth, measured strokes. "He obviously hasn't been taking care of himself, whether because of depression or malaise or plain indifference. The human body can only bear lack of food and sleep for so long. No doubt the exposure exacerbated the problem, but I'm willing to bet that this has been coming for quite some time."
Obi-Wan tossed his head, moaning softly, and muttered something that sounded too much like: "Dead, all dead, should be me."
Qui-Gon frowned. "Will he have enough strength to recover?"
"He'll have to," Julune said grimly. She looked up and offered him a tired smile. "Of course he will. We'll do all we can to help. By morning we'll know better what else we should do."
They took turns sitting with the boy, soothing the almost-incessant hallucinations, forcing medicine and fluids down his protesting throat whenever they could. At times Obi-Wan was aware of their ministrations, and was either achingly grateful or unbearably confused that anyone would care for him. Both reactions made Qui-Gon's chest hurt. No child should think so little of himself.
He listened attentively to the boy's ramblings, hoping to learn some clue as to what had happened to him between the Enrichment Zone and Bandor. But the words were broken and nonsensical most of the time, and those statements that did emerge relatively intact were pleas, self-recriminations, and declarations against the dark. Obi-Wan saw only pain and despair in these specters, and Qui-Gon could not tell if they were past memory, future fear, or merely the present concoctions of an overwrought mind.
The worst bout came some time in the early morning hours, during Qui-Gon's watch, as luck or the Force would have it. Obi-Wan had been sleeping for a time, his breath still coming much too quickly for true slumber, sweat-slicked head rocking occasionally as if to dodge a blow or shake free of unwanted hands. Qui-Gon had been sitting in the broken-down recliner dragged over next to the couch, reading his datapad, or at least pretending to. There was no one to convince, though, Julune having retired for a couple hours of sleep.
Abruptly, Obi-Wan began to struggle, throwing off the covers and writhing half-off the couch, a hoarse cry tearing from him. Qui-Gon dropped the datapad and lunged forward to catch his upper body before it struck the floor. The bare shoulders in his hands jerked at the contact, fever-bright eyes flaring open in shock and terror to stare up at him in a cruel semblance of lucidity.
"Make it stop!" Obi-Wan's tone was not begging, but ordering Qui-Gon to listen and obey. "Make it stop! You are the key!" A small hand shot out to grip the front of Qui-Gon's tunic with more strength than any sick youngster ought to be able to muster. "You can make it right!"
Qui-Gon passed his arm around the too-warm body and tugged it back onto the couch. He could not straighten back up, though, the urgent hand wrapped in his tunic preventing him. He bent over the boy, trying to see clarity past the pain in his eyes. "The key to what?" he asked gently. "What do I need to make right?"
A spasm of frustration crossed the flushed features. The hand in Qui-Gon's tunic was shaking, the unexpected strength all but burnt away. "It's all wrong," he insisted. "I told you before. It's all . . . all wrong. All of it."
"All of what?"
"Everything!"
Obi-Wan's entire body was shaking now. But the strength of his conviction had not waned. If only Qui-Gon understood what he was convicted about . . .
"What do you mean by everything? The path of the universe? The motion of the stars? The course of sentient events?" Qui-Gon had not intended to be facetious, but he belated realized that the words sounded sarcastic. Hopefully Obi-Wan was too mired in fever to notice.
Apparently so.
"Yes!" he said. "All of that!" The boy hesitated, a wrinkle of hesitation appearing on his forehead. "Except that bit about the stars. Not much you can do to change that."
Qui-Gon frowned. That last had sounded very lucid indeed. Perhaps he should try a different tack with this.
"What is it that I need to do?" he asked. "How can one man change the fate of the universe?"
Obi-Wan's face abruptly crumpled, and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, his hand falling away from Qui-Gon's tunic. "I don't know. I don't know! Why can't I see the answers when I see the questions so clearly?"
Qui-Gon caught the trembling hand as it fell away, holding it loosely in his own. Absently, he began to rub his thumb in slow, careful circles over the sweaty palm, his eyes still fixed on the boy's face. "What questions do you speak of?"
Obi-Wan's breath began to calm with excruciating slowness, seeming to ease in rhythm with Qui-Gon's repetitive strokes. "Of . . . of . . . darkness. Death. Chaos. War. Lots of war. And it all looks the same." Sluggishly the blue-gray eyes revealed themselves again, staring at Qui-Gon with weary resignation. "I've been dreaming of it for weeks now. Every time I sleep my eyes are filled with it, with . . ."
He sighed, eyes sliding shut again. His voice took on a dreamy tone, soothed by Qui-Gon's touch, but that only made the horror of his words stand out the more starkly. "How could I eat with the sight of blood and terror in my eyes? Innocents dying. Children. People I knew and loved—Bant, Reeft, Master Yoda. Light being swallowed by blackness, crumbling like . . . like a wooden sculpture rotting as I watched, a snow creature melting in the sun. Everything falling, falling. How could I sleep? I tried to change it. I knew no one would believe me, so I never told anyone about my dreams. But I fought . . . I fought hard to be a Jedi. Perhaps that was what ruined my last chance, in the end . . . I fought too hard."
One eye cracked open to study Qui-Gon with veiled intensity, buried by exhaustion but blindingly, piercingly bright. "It's all wrong. Please, make it right. Make it stop. I can't bear it any longer. It's all, all wrong, and I can do nothing to change it."
"Oh, you poor child." Qui-Gon felt all but incapable of words, even of thoughts. What could he possibly say that could balm these wounds? Such horrible nightmares were bad enough, but that the boy believed them, and thought himself to be the cause . . . "My poor boy. No wonder you've been so weary and sad."
Carefully, he reached his free hand to push the sweaty reddish locks back from the boy's forehead, and let his hand linger there when the murky eyes half-shut, tense expression softening slightly toward contentment. But the boy seemed to struggle against the comfort, his shoulders shifting uneasily, eyelids fluttering upward once again, then closing slowly as if inexorably dragged by the weight of soul-deep fatigue. "It . . . it isn't supposed to be like this," he mumbled. "You're supposed to be . . . supposed to be . . ."
"What, Obi-Wan?"
"My . . ." The boy suddenly fought into an upright position, throwing off Qui-Gon's hands. His body was rigid in the grip of yet another vision, eyes wide and staring into the distance, bruised chest heaving for air and bursting out in a yell. "No! My fault! Don't leave me alone! Please, Master!"
He fell back, the last of that unexpected strength finally drained away. "No, no, no, no, no . . ." It was a hushed murmur, desperate and futile. Qui-Gon caught him as he fell, wrapping his arms around the shuddering body from behind, finding himself sitting on the couch with no memory of deciding to move.
Obi-Wan leaned into him, limbs quivering, head rolling limply against his broad shoulder. Still the boy continued his quiet litany of negation, steady and relentless, an unthinking response to a great shock.
Qui-Gon wrapped his palm around the burning forehead. "What did you see?"
The chorus of "no, no, no" trailed off into silence. After a moment, Obi-Wan responded, his voice utterly calm. "A face, red and black. A red wall. A red 'saber blade. A cutting slash. Death. I can't get there in time. I can't stop it. I can't stop any of it. I am a leaf in a river. You are a rock. I can't change the current. You can, maybe, maybe. But I don't know how. I can't stop it. The river passes over the edge, and everything is falling, falling, falling."
Qui-Gon shivered. The length of the boy's body pressed against his emanated heat like a bank of red-glowing coals. Part of him wanted to push away, escape that burning, the calm terrible words. But the larger part of him pulled the weakened boy closer, longing to chase away the shadows by sheer will and the strength of his presence.
"Shhh," he whispered, reaching forward to capture the smaller hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over tense palms in the calm, slow circles that had brought a measure of peace before. "Hush now, Obi-Wan. Rest. Listen to my voice. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force."
He repeated the recitation several times, and eventually felt and heard Obi-Wan murmuring along with the cadence, his voice sluggish and hesitant, descending toward sleep again. But he was not saying quite the words Qui-Gon did. The boy was repeating, "There is no death, there is the Force. There is no death, there is the force." Over and over he said it, trying to convince himself.
Gradually Obi-Wan's voice faded and died away, and soon after that Qui-Gon stopped reciting the litany, as well. He continued his calming touch on the clammy hands, feeling the boy's slow slide into true, restful sleep, the stillness of the depleted body and mind. The youngster didn't feel quite as hot against him. Perhaps the fever had finally broken.
"That's my boy," Qui-Gon murmured, his breath passing over the sweat-spiked hair. "Be at peace. Rest and heal. You are safe here, always and ever. Everything is wrong, you say, the path has been changed badly, but it needn't remain so. We will find a way to make it right. We will make a new path. All things are possible with the Force."
He felt the boy's nod, slow but certain. A smile tugged at his lips, even as his heart continued to ache. The child trusted him. For no obvious reason, completely and absolutely, Obi-Wan Kenobi trusted Qui-Gon Jinn, a man he had never spoken to before half a day ago.
"Sleep, little one. I will guard your dreams."
Evidently Obi-Wan believed that statement, too, for soon Qui-Gon heard the even breathing, felt the limp repose of the slight frame in his arms. Finally, the boy had found a deep, peaceful sleep, free of dreams—fever and otherwise. It was a welcome relief.
Qui-Gon felt his own eyelids drooping, his rangy frame worn by hours of watching, compassionate heart and practical mind similarly exhausted. But somehow, he could not join his temporary ward in the blissful darkness of sleep.
None of the questions had been answered, and more had been raised. Qui-Gon could feel the boy's immense strength in the Force, and he also felt the difference from his own. Obi-Wan was powerfully connected to the Unifying Force. And that aspect of the all-encompassing energy was known for prophecy.
Were they dreams, or visions, that haunted this child so terribly? Qui-Gon hoped for the former and feared the latter. For if it were a true future being revealed in these ghosts of the mind, Qui-Gon was afraid that he had made a promise he would not be able to keep. And it would break his heart to fail in any promise made to this boy.
The most important question still lingered in his mind, taunting him with its truth, its blunt directness.
How could one man change the fate of the universe?