A/N: Obi-Wan's story will be broken up into several chapters. I hope it doesn't seem too abrupt or cliff-hanger-ly, though. And thanks to Celadrian! Your reviews make me squiggle with delight, blushing furiously.
Chapter 37: The Heavy Weight of Ice
Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, one hand absently fingering Qui-Gon's tunic under the afghan. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was deliberately calm. As he had when he spoke about why he preferred Qui-Gon's touch to Julune's, he seemed to take himself away, to a place where he didn't have to feel what he was talking about. The reaction worried Qui-Gon, but he understood it, and he held himself in silence, accepting.
"I . . . I don't know how to start. There's too much to say."
"Begin at the beginning," Qui-Gon suggested quietly, still gently lacing his fingers through his son's hair, trying to smooth out the tangles without disturbing him. The boy nodded, and drew in a deep breath.
"We, we exited hyperspace," Obi-Wan began slowly. "I was standing in the cockpit, looking out the front screen. It wasn't Coruscant. There weren't any lights. It was red. It looked like a desert planet, hot, full of canyons. I turned to ask Andros Martin why, where we were, and then I saw that he wasn't a Jedi. His clothes were . . . different. And he was smiling. I looked at his fingers, and I remembered . . . I remembered him holding my chin, making me listen . . ."
Dreamily, the boy raised a hand, trailed a finger lightly across his jaw, though those bruises had long since faded, and been replaced again, and again.
"He was the one who kidnapped me the first time, from the Agri-Corps. I was sick then, I couldn't fight, couldn't understand what was happening. But this time I could. I understood everything. He told me why he had wanted me, something about Force-sensitive slaves bringing a lot of money. Then he put the collar around my neck, and I fell."
Obi-Wan pressed his face to Qui-Gon's broad shoulder for a moment, shuddering, trying to regain his distance. Qui-Gon wrapped his arms more tightly around the boy and held on, fighting the terrible sensation of helplessness, trying not to ask why he could not cure this, could not provide enough warmth to dispel this deep chill. It seemed that his son was always cold, now, always struggling to breathe under a weight of heavy ice that coated every finger and toe, every hair, suffocating him, driving him down, reaching into his soul with sharp, icy fingers like a disease of bitter night. Qui-Gon wished with everything he had that he could fight this battle for his boy, or at least stand with him, but in this, as in too many matters, lately, Obi-Wan warred alone.
"Do you remember the name of the planet?" Qui-Gon asked, somewhat desperately. It was a silly question, irrelevant, it didn't follow, but he hoped that if Obi-Wan could concentrate on facts—as meaningless and impersonal as they were—he would be able to get through this.
And Qui-Gon wanted to know. Someday he was going to go that place, and find the people who had dared to hurt his child, and he was going teach them exactly why they ought never to do it again. He didn't allow himself to think of this now, but the seed of it was there, germinating deep in his mind.
Obi-Wan shook his head and settled further into his father, finding what rest and peace he could. "The first days were . . . fuzzy. I didn't catch much of what was going on. I felt—I felt far away. It was as if all of my senses had been cut in half."
"A Force-inhibiting collar, it was," Yoda's strange little voice growled, and Qui-Gon wondered if that had truly been anger, or if he was imaging it.
"You were in shock from losing your ability to touch the Force," Qui-Gon murmured.
Obi-Wan nodded absently, soft hairs tickling the man's neck. "Yes, I thought that might be why. Not then, of course. I couldn't think then. But I thought a lot, later."
The boy fell silent again. For a time the older beings were willing to wait, to let him gather his thoughts, but soon Qui-Gon realized that Obi-Wan was losing himself. He was traveling too deep into the cave of memory, letting the light fade behind him, and soon the path back would be gone. He resisted the urge to shake the youngster out of his stupor, instead squeezing him a little tighter and pressing his cheek against the soft hair.
"Obi-Wan?" He voiced the precious word urgently, burying his fear. "Come back, son. Come back to us."
The slight frame started, and Qui-Gon almost felt awareness flowing back into him. Obi-Wan drew a shuddering breath and pressed himself more firmly against his father.
"I'm thirsty," he murmured.
Qui-Gon cast a longing glance toward the kitchen, but he couldn't fetch something to drink and hold his boy at the same time. Yoda divined his dilemma and waved one small hand as he hopped off the couch, scooping his stick up off the floor as he hobbled toward the kitchen. "Return soon, I will."
Qui-Gon turned his attention back to his son. He twined his fingers through the reddish locks and left them there, a steady reminder of his presence. "How are you feeling?"
The child was still too shaky, his face too warm despite his constant shivering and the chill that seeped through the rest of his body. He was still weak, though his back had been healing well with twice-daily treatments. Whenever Qui-Gon paused to listen to his breathing, there was still that slight edge, that laboring, congested pull. It required too much of the boy simply to breathe, draining him of strength that ought to be used elsewhere in his healing. Qui-Gon hoped that it wasn't worsening, but he couldn't tell. It certainly didn't seem to be getting any better.
"I'm all right," Obi-Wan murmured, as always.
"Please, son." Qui-Gon let his hand lay a little more heavily on the boy's head, a slight physical pressure to emphasize the plea in his words. "Please tell me the truth. How do you feel?"
Silence for a moment, then Obi-Wan shifted against him. "I feel . . . I feel safe," he said, his voice no longer cold and lost. "I feel warm, and loved, and comfortable. I don't think I could talk if I didn't, Papa Qui-Gon. I wouldn't be able to say a word. But I can, because I know I am safe here."
"That wasn't quite what I meant." Qui-Gon swallowed his tears and quickly kissed his son's forehead, hiding the tremble in his voice, delighting in the surge of happiness that filled him from his toes to the top of his head. "But thank you. Thank you, Obi-Wan. I'm very glad to know that."
The boy nodded slowly. "You're welcome." Then he lifted his head, just a little, and let Qui-Gon catch a glimpse of pure blue, sparkling in subdued pleasure despite the pain that did its utmost to dull the joy. "I'm still thirsty, though."
Qui-Gon felt a low chuckle rumble through him, surprised at how right and natural it felt. "I think we can remedy that."
"That, we can." Yoda returned bearing three mugs, and Qui-Gon assumed that he must be using the Force to balance the unwieldy containers in his tiny hands. The Jedi allowed Qui-Gon to relieve him of two of them, then hopped up on the low table and sat cross-legged, bending contentedly to his drink, his ears seeming to quiver with simple pleasure.
Qui-Gon had expected hot tea, so he was surprised to find the mugs cool to the touch. Yoda noticed his questioning glance and nodded amiably. "Cool-brewed tea, my own blend, to soothe the youngling's fever. Tasted it before, Obi-Wan has. Enjoy it as well, you may."
Qui-Gon took a cautious sip, and nodded in pleased agreement. It was refreshing and sweet beyond the reach of ordinary water, and not too strongly flavored for a child fighting illness. Obi-Wan's hand shook too badly, though, his grip weak and unsteady, so Qui-Gon held the mug for him, letting him take the drink in with slow, careful sips.
Halfway through Obi-Wan turned his face away, and Qui-Gon set their cups aside. Silence held, but now there was a sense of gathering in the boy's stillness. He seemed to be trying out his words to himself, testing their accuracy. But he could not seem to break the shell of silence on his own.
"Did you ever come out of that haze?" Qui-Gon asked gently, helping him pierce a hole in the quiet.
Obi-Wan nodded, and pulled in a careful breath. "I was lying on the duracrete of the cell where we slept. I saw the moonlight and the darkness, and I heard the other slaves breathing. I hurt. They had beaten me, but I hadn't felt it much at the time. Everything was clear again, and I wished it wasn't. I guess my mind had gotten used to not having the Force."
Qui-Gon nodded encouraging, raising one hand to stroke the boy's smooth cheek. "That makes sense. You were able to process your reduced sensory input, after a period of adjustment. The mind is an incredible thing." He did not let himself think about the rest of his child's soft speech.
But Obi-Wan seemed to relax. As Qui-Gon treated this horrible narrative as just a story, he was able to do the same himself. "I spent a lot of those nights thinking. It was a way to get away from everything else. It helped. I thought about you and Julune, mostly."
This warmed Qui-Gon, and he could have smiled. But Yoda couldn't leave well enough alone, it seemed.
"During the day, what happened?"
"I worked in the fields with the other outdoor laborers, at least in those first weeks. We picked nona berries, in that season, anyway. They're very small, and don't ripen evenly, so we had to watch carefully to make sure we left the unripe berries on the bush. Making mistakes was bad. It was always hot, and water was rationed—we were given one half-liter for the morning and one for the afternoon. It wasn't enough. Sometimes people fainted, just fell over with their bags spilling berries over the ground, and the overseer would run over . . ."
Obi-Wan blinked, staring away. The other two waited, and after a moment he continued. "The berries grow in clumps, and there are little thorns all through the clusters. You can't avoid them, not all of them, no matter how hard you try." He raised his thin, shaking hand to Qui-Gon, and the man saw, for the first time with understanding, the tiny round scars that lined every finger, too numerous to count, a galaxy of stars that shone without beauty. Wordlessly he took the smaller hand in his broad one, kissed the trembling fingers, and held it to his bearded cheek.
Obi-Wan continued staring up into his face, finding strength there. "We have a quota. I almost never make quota. Not making quota is bad. At the end of the day we stand in a line, waiting our turn. The overseers check our bags, making sure there aren't any unripe berries, any sticks or leaves. Then they slowly dump the berries out on the weighing pan, and you listen to the dull pattering, like a hailstorm far away. You watch the little numbers at the bottom of the scale crawl upward, hoping and hoping. You know that if you're even one gram short, there's another guard waiting to the side with a whip. They are careful. They don't open the skin, most of the time, at least not on the younger slaves. But it hurts a lot, every single time. The quota is different for different slaves, and they think they are being fair. But I almost never make quota, and I work as hard as I can, I honestly do."
Qui-Gon did not like how dilated Obi-Wan's eyes were, how distant and unfocused. He especially didn't like that he'd slipped into present tense, reliving these memories so vividly. No matter how rigidly the boy tried to hold his distance, it didn't seem to be enough. But they had to get through this, and quickly.
"I know you did, son," he said quietly. "I know you worked as hard you could. It wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong."
Obi-Wan shook his head. "I tried to escape, twice. Once they caught me at the fence, and once while I was still crawling through the berry field. Those punishments were very, very bad. I broke the rules."
"Rules they made to oppress you, Obi-Wan. You had every right to try to escape. You should not have been there—no one ever should, but especially not you. You didn't deserve any of that."
The boy shrugged. "I must have. I must have done something really bad. I didn't meditate when Andros Martin came for me. I never found an answer to my visions. I've done other terrible things, too—that must be why. I wish I knew how to make it right, though."
"No, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon fought to keep his voice steady. "You never did anything to deserve any of this. No mistake you ever made could be enough to merit such a horrible punishment. You are the victim of a terrible crime, of many terrible crimes. Andros Martin was wrong to take you and sell you into slavery, your master was wrong to buy you, and the overseers were wrong to enforce his rules, and to hurt you and the other slaves. You did nothing wrong, and you must not think so."
Obi-Wan nodded, but Qui-Gon could tell that he didn't really believe him. They had a long way to go. This wasn't anywhere near over.