Light danced around him, intense blue surrounded him. Obi-Wan blinked his eyes, disoriented. I'm in Qui-Gon's – no, Anakin's eyes – and his world slowly came into focus. He half lay and half sat, huddled against an icy wall, on a ledge that sloped downwards. Soft light surrounded him. Illuminated evenly this deep down, with no shadows or bright beams, this place was almost welcoming and surreal in its peacefulness, soothing but for the bone-chilling coolness that penetrated to his innermost being. He could feel the icy tendrils in the pores of his skin and the follicles of his hair, in his bones and in his nerves, indeed, in every cell of his living body as the warmth of the living interfaced with the chill of inevitable death. It was not a place for the living, not for long. It was serene and it was deadly. A beautiful place to be dead in, this tomb that was not, had he not lived.
He sat up, too quickly, and the chasm swirled around him. Oh, dizzy, he groaned, leaning his head back and taking several deep, hurting breaths. Should wait…rescue, but the Force danced in front of him, beckoning. Speak, it would not, but gesture it would.
Stay, slumber here forever; move forward, life? Was that what went unspoken, or more likely, unheard?
Obi-Wan Kenobi would follow the Force, even to his death, should it beckon. Its will was his, after he took care of a few necessities and the first was to try to contact Anakin. Again, his comlink went unanswered. Blasted thing probably wasn't working, probably jarred when he had slammed into the ice. The shock of hitting solid ice had knocked the breath from him and apparently the comlink had fared no better.
He forced himself to eat some rations and emptied another hypo into his arm. All it did was dull the sharp stabs of pain, but anything that minimized the pain allowed him to think more clearly. He had forgotten how much he relied on the Force to get him through life's aches and pains.
He carefully slid a hand inside his tunic and touched the shoulder that had decided to get well acquainted with a ship's bulkhead, biting his lip to hold back the moan when it came. As expected, the shoulder felt misshapen and swollen to his gentle fingering. He didn't know if it was broken or bruised, but it didn't really matter. He worked the hand of that arm inside his tunic as a makeshift sling, hoping to avoid any jostling of that arm. His other arm was in far better shape, a muscle or a tendon pulled, perhaps, something that would heal quickly if rested, capable of use if he just avoided hanging from it.
He finished his preparations to move on, to find his way back to his padawan and hopefully, help. Bivy sack – stuff back into belt. Try comlink, again, give up on comlink and stuff it back into belt, too. Pull oneself to one's feet and prepare to live another day. Ready, he thought at the Force. Lead on.
The ledge was slippery; his boots not made to grip ice. Each foot step needed to be precise in its placement, his concentration total. The last thing he needed was to have a foot slip out from under him, sending him tumbling. He stepped carefully, balancing himself with a hand on the wall when he could, focusing on nothing but the step he was making so that it wouldn't be his last.
In some places the ledge was so narrow he had to face inwards, creeping slow inch by slow inch on his toes, face pressed into the ice – a good excuse to close his eyes, for he could see nothing but white anyway – as he focused everything on touch – where his hand was, his toe, until finally he was able to face forward again and take a shaky breath. That was fun, he murmured, just to hear something, anything in this silent place.
He slumped against the wall for a brief rest and his thoughts turned again to Anakin. He was safely out of the crevasse, Obi-Wan knew, but was he safe? Had he made it to the tree line and made a shelter? There could be other crevasses that might claim his padawan. He had been sure that the route he had picked out was relatively safe. He was wrong. He had guided his padawan into danger, rather than protecting him.
Should he die down here, he knew any other Jedi would do a better job of protecting Anakin. Not one of them could do worse. Some Jedi already had doubts about his abilities or the Council's decision to knight him, let alone letting such a young and untested knight train one so late to the Order. Their doubts would have been intensified had they known that Qui-Gon had named Anakin as the child of prophecy, the Chosen One, and that he had been given to a new knight's care.
Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he had been over-confident in his abilities. It didn't really matter though. He was Anakin's master until and unless the Force chose to bring him home, rather than sending him home.
He would never get home if he merely continued to rest, besides he was growing chilled. He needed to keep moving, move until he could move no more. Obi-Wan walked when he could, slid where he needed, tiptoed when necessary, until the ledge led him onto the floor of the crevasse, fissured and rough but solid enough. Falling, as in to his death, was no longer a danger, but falling was a distinct possibility; he was getting dangerously cold and weak and the light was fast failing, as was he.
He didn't know how much more strength he could pull out of himself. He would have to dig deep, find reserves he didn't know he had. Obi-Wan was wearying out much sooner than he would have thought; the cold as well as his injuries were conspiring against him, but they had a formidable foe – his will. His sheer stubbornness.
I promised to hang on, he reminded himself sternly. I have to rest…I can't continue on until I rest, nor can I continue on in the dark unless the Force is with me to guide me.
At least moving had kept him somewhat warm, moving slowly had allowed his clothing to dry on his body. He had been all too aware of the danger of sweating. He would be at least dry, but the cold was intense - a hint of dampness, his exhalations visible – and he had little way of regulating his body temperature.
Besides rest, he needed food and water. Food and water were life, so he awkwardly fumbled for his lightsaber and promptly dropped it, his hands too numb to grip it. Thank the Force he hadn't tried to get to it somewhere where dropping it would have meant losing it. He let it lay on the ice as he fumbled awkwardly to get his hands into his armpits to warm them. Once the stiffness left them, the pin and needle sensation of returning circulation fading as he wiggled his fingers, he pulled one hand out and retrieved his lightsaber. He plunged it, ignited, into a cavern wall.
Ice hissed and melted, water ran, steam boiled and he lapped the water up – hot water, warmed by his lightsaber. This lightsaber is your life: he could hear Qui-Gon intoning those words to a careless padawan, and he found the strength to chuckle at the memory. His master had no idea the truth of those words. He could feel the warmth slide through him, his body perking up and his shivers finally abating. He ate some more rations, drank some more hot water, and felt much better. Obi-Wan didn't know how far he had come, how deep within the glacier he was, nor how much further he had to go, but he been granted another day of life and tomorrow would be another. One tomorrow he would find a way out, and one tomorrow he would find help.
Obi-Wan crawled within the thin cover of his bivy and rested, not slept; tossing and turning, and biting back a strangled cry of pain each time a move jarred his arm. He only had a few hypos left; he would save them for the day time when he needed all his focus and attention on his path, not his battered body. He lay shivering and cold, gathering his energy for a last push when weak light allowed.
At last, the absolute darkness began to soften into grays. His teeth were badly chattering and shivers were absolutely wracking his body, fighting the screams of protest from his arm for dominion over his weakening body. There was no reason to wait for the shadows to lighten even more; he decided he really needed to move before it was too late.
He melted more ice into hot water and choked down some rations before pushing to his feet. It seemed his survival was in his hands alone – his hands and his will. Times like this his stubbornness served him well.
He stumbled for hours, sometimes betrayed by his feet and suddenly flat on his face. It would be so much easier to just give up and sleep forever. Obi-Wan didn't fear death, death was peace. He would not reach for it, for he wanted to reach for life while he could. For himself, and for Anakin, for he didn't want to leave his padawan to mourn his master of just a few months. He all too well knew the pain of being left behind, and while he could, he would fight with every breath he had left to return to his padawan.
He would do it for Qui-Gon, he would do it for Anakin, and he would do it for himself. He would do it for a future full of possibilities.
So he kept moving, pushing himself wearily to his feet each time he found himself face down in ice. Moving exhausted him, but moving warmed him. Moving brought him that much closer to Anakin, and salvation. Moving was life, and he thought should he stop, he would never move again. The sun was long out of sight and shadows were again deepening the crevasse when he heard it – a ship. The rescue team had arrived. Obi-Wan stared upwards, hope and exhaustion in his eyes. Be safe, Anakin, let them know where you are. Call them to you! I am…coming.
As he lowered his head to move on, he felt suddenly dizzy. His legs didn't seem to want to hold him up any longer. He wavered, unbalanced and his vision blurred. Oh, not good, he moaned. And he fell.
With a half-strangled cough, his fingers weakly opening and closing with the spasms, Obi-Wan slid one hand to his throat and tried to massage it as he cleared his aching head, wondering if he had actually passed out. He was lying with his face pressed into snow and ice. His throat was full of snow, melting and numbing his windpipe; he wheezed and swallowed snow when he meant to swallow air. He choked and struggled for breath. He couldn't die now. Strength of will rather than strength of body brought him to his knees, coughing and choking, until he could bring himself back to his feet. Shakily he brought a hand up to explore his nose and cheekbones. Nothing was broken, only bruised, but his hand came away covered in blood.
Jamming the back of his hand against his nose, he wavered in place, getting his balance back.
Come, the Force beckoned.
I could use you, you know, he half grumbled. It would make surviving much easier than doing all this on my own.
With the Force or without, there was only one thing to do, one way to move, and one way to live. Stumble forward, step by step, and so he did – and then he saw it. Sky. The sun, low on the horizon and barely visible though clouds. Faint fingers of warm light stretched to his feet, backlighting thin arches and projections before him, turning the way before him into a path strewn with glittering crystals. They were twinkling and sparkling at him, or was it tears in his eyes, catching the lowering sun?
He blinked; was he imagining all this – but no, it was the sun – nearly sunset – before him. It took a moment to sink in, this beautiful reality before him. Before him, not above him. Daylight, at the end of an endless tunnel. Rescue, when he was so close to perishing. Life in front of him, if he could just get to it.
Not a mirage, not a vision, but life itself stretched before him, life made visible by light.
Light! He had always been a creature of light, and now light would save him. If he could just make it out of this icy slit into the open, before darkness descended. They would surely be searching for him, see him. If he could just get to the light, he would soon be warm and dry, safe, and most likely back with his padawan, to soothe and comfort him after these few days of uncertainty and grief.
And he ran…weaving, unsteady, faltering – to the light on his carpet of diamonds and burst into light as it faded into dusk. Above him he caught a glimmer of red as the last of the sinking sun touched the peaks far above before clouds swept in to wipe the color away. Darkness already surrounded him, so far below those jutting heights. He was too late. He fell to his knees and nearly wept. So close. Not close enough.
No moon, faint starlight, clouds. He was trapped with no gentle push or tug from the Force to guide him. Which way to go? Forward? Up? Down? Which way was safety?
Down was the tree line as well as potential fractures and icefalls to negotiate. Up: he thought the ship may have landed above, but the lowering clouds hid its location. He did not dare move in the dark; his Force senses were still too muted to trust, the terrain too treacherous to traverse without sight, even the rescuers position unknown and unseen. He was stuck in place until the dawn, and so here he would die – because his body had not been able to match his will, to get him into the light in time.
He knew he wouldn't survive another night.
"I'm sorry, Anakin," he whispered as he fell to his knees, before toppling face first to the ground. He had done all that he could, given all that he had; nothing was left.
All that he had left was his life, and soon - not even that.