A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! Thanks for sticking with me so far, folks. Only one really tough chapter to go after this one, I think.
I actually didn't plan to post this chapter on this
particular day--it was supposed to be done yesterday, in point of
fact--but it does seem to have a thread of gratitude running through
it. Weird.
Chapter 39: A Father's Gifts
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of Qui-Gon's beating heart, the steady pulse of his breath. He tried to feel nothing but the warmth surrounding him, the security of being clasped safe and close in his father's arms. He tried to control himself, tried to stop the shaking that possessed his body. But still the images kept crowding in, relentless, holding him trembling in their strangling grip.
If he could only get through this last part, the week before he had finally made it home to Thyferra. With every statement he made, every word that described what the past months had been like, he could feel the memories unspooling and drifting away, tangled black thread unsnarled and pulled from the mess that was in his mind, thin and taut, cutting into his fingers as he dragged it out. But the relief of being free of each word was worth the pain it took to say it, or very close.
But this last part . . . Obi-Wan wasn't sure if would be the same. Didn't know if this would bring relief, or only condemnation. He doubted the former, expected the latter. But he had promised to tell everything. He would not make himself a liar, on top of everything else. Still, he could not keep his body from shivering even harder, making speech yet more difficult.
"Th-then one day, not m-much more than a week ago, m-my master had another visitor." Broad shoulders, smooth jowls, unctuous smile, oily voice . . . "I-I heard him speak in my, in my m-mind. He told me to be patient, that he w-would help me escape. I was s-so startled that . . . I forgot myself, f-forgot what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn't—couldn't remember what I was supposed to say about the visitor's feelings during the m-meeting. My master was v-very displeased." The thunderous expression that Obi-Wan always cringed from, the loud voice demanding what was wrong with him, the sharp fingers on his arms, shaking him, throwing him against the wall, and then the nightmare swish of air displacement . . .
"It-it was the w-worst b-beating of all, the worst I'd ev-ever gotten from my m-master. He was so angry . . ."
For a time Obi-Wan couldn't breathe. It was Qui-Gon's warm hand holding his cheek that brought him out of it, the urgent voice whispering soothing phrases against his hair. He couldn't catch the words, but that didn't matter. It was his papa's voice that mattered—it was all that mattered.
Obi-Wan arched into the touch, gasping for breath, wheezing, his chest aching. Then he reached up with both arms and flung them around his father's neck, pressing his face against the warm skin of his throat. He had never needed this more, and he had never been more grateful to have this, this strong, loving man who had become his papa, who had come into his life like a wash of tropical sunlight, chasing away the shadows and folding him into an embrace of welcoming warmth, asking nothing in return, only giving and giving and giving. Obi-Wan couldn't imagine what he had ever done to deserve this, and he could only offer up his pitiful thanks for the most amazing gift the universe had ever given to him—or to anyone, in all the history of the stars.
"I'm here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's strong, deep voice assured him, over and over again. "I'm here, my little one, my son. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here . . ."
All of the pet names, the tender little endearments, more gifts from this most generous of men. Each one worth a little more. Each one a pulse of warmth beating against the ice that held Obi-Wan's heart in its merciless grip, lifting the cold by painfully slow increments. Each one deeply cherished, a small gem in a hand that overflowed with them. Did Qui-Gon even realize how much these words meant? They fell so easily from his lips, treasures casually given. Obi-Wan dreaded the time when they would be withdrawn, but he knew it could not be avoided, for he had promised to tell everything. He clasped each loving phrase to his heart, holding the plenty against the barren time to come.
Obi-Wan turned his face slightly to speak, though he did not open his eyes. "I w-was ill then. The house ph-physician had to come s-see me, it was so bad." Hard, thin fingers pressing his wounds, making him cry out, dark eyes dull with distaste at his weakness, beautiful, melodic voice telling him to hold still, stop struggling, or she would call the guard . . . "And, and then it was dark, p-perhaps a day or two later . . . I heard shouts and calls, laser blasts, but I was too d-dizzy to stand up, I d-didn't understand what was happening. Someone grabbed my arms, p-pulled me to my feet, picked me up w-when I fell." Hands large and rough on his body, smoke in his clouded vision, his head pounding, unable to understand the instructions being shouted in his ear, and then the scrape of the sill over his abdomen as strong hands hauled on his arms, his shoulders screaming in pain . . .
"They pulled m-me out through a window, I th-think. I didn't underst-stand what was happening. But I saw—I saw the stars, and they were so very beautiful." Staring up into the darkness at the pinpricks of light, so distant, so gorgeous, then blurring strangely, shifting and rocking as someone picked him up again, and he landed on something cold and hard, and everything faded . . . "It was such a l-long time since I'd seen them. I'd almost forgotten. Papa, I'd like to s-see the stars again."
"We can go outside tonight, if you like," Qui-Gon's deep voice murmured gently. "It's up to you. But they are very beautiful here, that's certain. Later we can take a trip into the mountains, away from the lights of the city. Out there the night is so deep and rich that you'll think you can see forever."
But Obi-Wan withdrew, pulling tightly within himself again. He'd forgotten that seeing the stars would involve leaving the safety of this home. It would be enough to see a patch of night sky through the window. That was all he needed. But it would be unkind to shatter Qui-Gon's pleasant plans. He sounded so eager, already looking forward to a trip that Obi-Wan didn't know he would ever be able to take. "All right," he murmured. "That sounds nice."
"It will be. When you're ready."
And this was another gift, this easy, gracious understanding. Obi-Wan buried his face in his father's neck again, hiding himself, trying to feel only the wonderful sensation of being held. Just when he thought Qui-Gon couldn't give anymore, that he had already given everything, he surprised him again. The least Obi-Wan could do in return was tell the truth, even as frightened as he was, as certain as he was that this would mean the end.
Resolutely, Obi-Wan turned his face yet again. He was going to finish this, no matter . . . no matter what. "When I woke, I was in a room." Rich, dark wood paneling, thick wall hangings, a canopy of dark green above . . . "I was in a, a soft, warm bed. It had been such a long time since I'd slept in a bed that soft. I d-dressed in clothes from the wardrobe—my own had disappeared. They were n-nice, soft and smooth." A red silk shirt flowing over his hand like water, pooling in a small puddle of cool fabric . . . "I was afraid, but I almost dared to believe th-that I had truly been rescued, by beings who were k-kind and caring. It was all so c-comfortable and warm, and I had been cold for such a long time."
Qui-Gon rubbed his back, murmuring his understanding. Obi-Wan did not risk a glance at Yoda. Surely the wise Jedi master knew what coming, knew how unforgivably foolish he had been.
"I ex-expected the door to be locked, but it opened when I touched it. I w-went looking for someone to tell me where I was, what was going on." Cold, rough stone against his palm as he shakily walked down the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall, his knees bending beneath him, as he flinched at every sound, trying to control his trembling . . . "I was still a bit d-dizzy and ill, but at least I was more a-aware. I turned a corner, and ran into s-someone. He caught my sh-shoulders as I fell, held me up." His master's last visitor, all arrogance wiped away from his face, his deep eyes concerned, his voice kind . . . "He asked me how I was f-feeling, and took me to a room with a table full of food. He l-let me eat until I was full. It had been a l-long time since I was full.
"He told me that his name was T-Torin Yumal. He wasn't a Jedi, he s-said, but he knew how to use the F-Force, and he sensed the ability in me, as well as m-my pain, and felt that he ought to help me. He said that he r-ran a tutoring agency for Force-sensitive sentients who weren't ch-chosen by the Jedi, and that he would be g-glad to help me as well." So many words, smooth and convincing and sweet, honey in the ears . . . "I . . . I wanted it. It had been such a long time since I had had any teaching in the Force, and I m-missed it. I missed it sorely. And I knew that I w-would probably n-never get an-nother chance. S-so I agreed. I agreed, Papa Qui-Gon. I agreed . . ."
And suddenly he was crying, deep, choking sobs that ripped at his chest and throat, that tore as they left him, each a snarl of jagged wire cutting as it moved through him and escaped from his mouth. He didn't understand where it was coming from. He hadn't cried like this since the day he had realized that he wasn't a Jedi. Not in all his time as a slave, not under the guard's whip or his master's fist, not even when he finally escaped and came home. A few tears had escaped that first night, and at odd times after, but those were mostly of confusion or release, and quickly over. This was different. This was pain. And this horrid, deep weeping was doing nothing to ease it.
Qui-Gon was murmuring against his hair again, soothing words in that deep voice of his that was as much of an embrace as his strong arms. But Obi-Wan couldn't hear him, couldn't hear anything but his own strangled sobs. Then the deep voice became more strident, the arms about him almost painfully tight, and eventually his father's words began to register. They were commands.
"Tell me, Obi-Wan. Tell me what happened. Tell me what that man did to you. Tell me, tell me now!"
And even this was a gift, as roughly given as it was, for with this order, Obi-Wan could find the strength to obey as he could not find the strength to pour out the words of himself. He had been trained from infancy to respond to orders given in that firm tone, and he had never been a disobedient child. Sometimes willful and wandering, his attention focused elsewhere until it was forcibly brought back to where it belonged, but never disobedient.
"Nothing," Obi-Wan gasped out, forcing the words past the sobs, determined to obey this kind command. "He didn't—didn't do anything to me. He didn't—didn't hurt me. He—took off the Force-collar. He—let me—feel the Force again." Gradually as he spoke the sobs came with less frequency, though his breath continued to hitch painfully, and every raspy word scraped at his raw throat. "He said—he wanted to teach me. And he did try." Obi-Wan pulled in a deep breath, and released the words that said everything he was afraid to explain. "He didn't do anything. It was me, just me. It was me, it was me, it was me, it was me . . ."
"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon's face pressed against the top of his head, startling him out of his self-condemning chant. His voice was strong. He would not be denied. "Obi-Wan, stop! You have not proved that to my satisfaction, and I don't want to hear you saying that until you have. I will not believe that it was your fault, not unless you can prove it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Now tell me, my precious little one, tell me what happened. Tell me everything."
And Obi-Wan was grateful for that strength, for he had none of his own. He clutched his father yet tighter, his entire body shaking with the effort, and let himself remember. He remembered everything.