Legacy
Book I
Chapter 19
Qui-Gon piloted the ungainly Raptor down toward Niffrendi's crazed dome, eyeing the closing gaps between black and roiling masses of cloud with a fluttering pit deep in his gut. It was just as well that Obi-Wan had delegated the onerous task of piloting to him this time – by playing the trump card of total incapacitation – for even the Jedi master was subject to some apprehension in the face of such titanic chaos.
He set his jaw and plunged downward, disappearing into the nebulous upper atmosphere. Lightning seemed to taunt him, appearing like spectral fingers in the periphery of vision; more than once he shied away form imagined destruction, jinking and juking a ragged path through the narrow tunnel-gap between two storm fronts. Black curtains closed behind him even as he plummeted for the distant surface, the Paxellian ship's drives rumbling low and ominously as he pushed the engines to their limit, siphoning strength and stamina from the Living Force, from the raging skies themselves.
Twisting, diving, rolling, he tumbled down through noise and blinding light, buffeted by gusting wind, by violent pressure pockets – and was spat out of the roiling storm's eye, hurtling wildly over blurred landscape. Mountains flashed below, panning out to a wide plain painted sickly grey beneath a smothered sun; rain bleared the viewport, hail rattling off the superheated hull; they lost altitude rapidly as console lights flashed and gauges dropped to empty.
No more fuel.
His landing was a masterpiece of inelegance, a controlled fall that ploughed a soft gash into the glacial plain's sodden surface, sending up twin tails of mud and grit behind them, The Raptor lurched to a standstill, spinning through a half-circle as it skidded drunkenly into a lopsided landing.
Obi-Wan jerked awake with the harsh motion, grunting in protest as the crash harness jostled injured ribs and shoulder. Rain hammered against the fuselage, a grim counterpoint to the sparking and bleeping of shipboard alarms.
"Come," the tall man urged his companion. "We need to find shelter."
The young Knight blinked, scowling muzzily at the dim cockpit interior. "I've missed something."
"Nothing worth writing home about. Easy, now." Qui-Gon hauled his former padawan to his feet, slinging an arm about his waist and guiding their shuffling steps through the hold to the ramp. "We aren't too far from Kerrn's people… just stay with me a little longer."
They were drenched to the bone so soon as they set foot outside the ship; Niffrendi's fickle heavens showered down icy torrents upon their heads, plastering hair to foreheads, weighting their clothing with sodden cold and miring their boots in sucking mud.
Qui-Gon cursed silently as Obi-Wan sagged alongside him, vitality waning as the elements exacted severe punishment. Their predicament was a grim reminder that even a Jedi was vulnerable, not exempt from nature's dictate and law: they were but creatures of flesh and bone, fragile vessels for a boundless Light.
They sank down together, the younger all but senseless with exhaustion.
"Qui-Gon," he muttered.
The tall man knelt, calling upon the Force, reaching for borrowed time, grace to close the gap between need and present circumstance. His companion slumped against him, utterly spent.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too. But we're not finished yet."
The young Knight gazed down at their thoroughly soiled attire. "Filthy," he observed, plaintively.
Qui-Gon spared him a bitter chuckle. The rain cascaded down their faces, weeping trails dripping from matted hair, clinging in droplets to the older man's beard. "I'll grant you: this is a far cry from Chandrila."
"Not our most glorious moment," Obi-Wan remarked, dryly, head lolling against the older man's chest.
Perhaps not, but the Jedi master was not done yet. He gritted his teeth, slung his ailing friend over his broad shoulders, and staggered upright, slogging doggedly onward. The Force would provide a solution.
His steps slowed, dragged, eroded into a wistful shuffle. The rain softened to a despairing drizzle, its forlorn pattering a fit accompaniment to his rasping breath.
And then, faint but unwavering, a tiny lantern glow appeared over a shadowed ridge. The tall man peered through the darkness and obscuring mist at the weird apparition, halting in place.
"He-llo!" Kerrn's voice carried over the empty plain. "By damnation, is that you? What in the karking hells are you still doin' out here? Git!"
Gratitude infused his limbs with w final burst of strength; Qui-Gon hurried forward to the rendezvous, Obi-Wan moaning softly as his weight shifted.
Kerrn carried an antique lantern, the sort powered by a removable chem.-cell. "For kark's sakes!" he exclaimed upon their mutually astonished reunion. "You two look like … never mind. This way – we got another entrance to the Holes down here."
He led the way down a steep embankment, wending down a narrow trail into a deep gorge. At the rocky bottom of this natural canyon lay a riverbed already shin-deep with runoff from the rain, and a small cave hewn into the cliff-side, one sealed with a pair of rusting blast doors. They waded and sloshed their way to the threshold, Kerrn's bobbing lantern in the lead.
"How did you know to look for us?" Qui-Gon inquired, quizzically.
The elder waved a gnarled hand. "Lookout saw a ship crash… thought it might be more raiders. I weren't expecting you folk to show up outta nowhere again." His eyes narrowed, and he blocked the open doorway. An inviting gust of warmth wafted up from the tunnel beyond. "But you ain't gladiators atall, now are 'ya? The truth now."
The Jedi master bowed his head. "No. I will explain later."
"Thought not," Kerrn grunted, waving them inside. "Well? Git in – the Scythe's not done yet. Only fools and idjits will be outside the next day and a half, and I hope you ain't neither of those either."
Qui-Gon heartily concurred with that optimistic wish.
The Wormholes at this end were rougher, the tunnel walls hewn haphazardly from the living rock, the various twists and turns of the sloped passages lit only by temporary glow-lamps set in ancient brackets. Kerrn led the way, finally waving an age-spotted hand at a dark nook offset from the passage where the greater number of Folk now huddled miserably around their portable heat generators.
"I'll fetch ya a spare," the elder gruffly promised, though it was doubtful there truly was an extra. In all likelihood, the old machine he did eventually produce was his personal property.
Qui-Gon bowed low in gratitude, and carefully lowered Obi-Wan to the hard floor while Kerrn coaxed the rheumatic heater into life and set a dim glow-lantern in one corner. "Here's a blanket or two. I'll rassle up Ayya and send her to ya.. She's got some medico savvy."
"Thank you." The generator reeked of hot metal and burnt plastoid, but it quickly softened the chill edge of the air, and dried the Jedi master's damp tunics and cloak. He made short work of his task, stripping away his injured companion's stiff and filthy garments and making a swift assessment of the damages. He grimaced at the sticky mess upon the young Jedi's thigh – a messy puncture wound had been crudely treated with stinking and greasy ointment, a poultice intended perhaps to heal but obviously inflaming the insulted flesh further. There were various minor abrasions and bruises, but two ribs looked off-kilter, and the right shoulder was swollen, bruised, and tender- possibly a dislocation that had also been badly set. Probing deeper with the Force, he discovered that his daring young friend had managed to complete his "rescue" mission while simultaneously battling significant blood loss and a raging fever.
"Obi-Wan," he growled, despite himself. When had the boy – man – learned such reckless disregard for limits? Or had he ever unlearned it?
His displeasure stirred the Force and wakened his companion from delirious semi-sleep. Blue eyes struggled to focus on his face, and then listed sideways, taking in the marbled mineral veins in the walls, the flickering glow-lamp, the steadily chugging generator. A furrow appeared between the young Knight's brows. "Where?" he inquired, thoughts slogging through turgid drifts of exhaustion and pain.
"We are with the Folk," Qui-Gon informed him. "Don't fuss."
Which admonition went unheeded. Obi-Wan struggled into sitting position, clutching one of the blankets about his shoulders and hunching beneath its folds. "Sith spit," he muttered, dropping his forehead against raised knees. Splitting headache resounded across their bond.
The Jedi master rolled back on his heels. "You need healing – let me do what I am able. We may be here some time, while the Scythe lasts."
"I can take care of myself," the younger man protested, voice cracking with weariness.
And there they were, back at the beginning of an endless circle, in which present and past chased one another's tails across the boundless stars, the new and the old at odds with one another when there was no true difference. Focus determined reality.
Qui-Gon looked past his obstreperous companion, into the Force, then smiled ruefully. "Nobody doubts it, Master Kenobi."
Obi-Wan's chin came up, gaze meeting the older man's briefly.
The tall man plunged boldly onward. "And I am deeply in your debt – the rescue was … very welcome."
Their generator's feeble warmth paled in comparison to that suffusing the Force between them. "My pleasure. Though you now owe me one. Not that we're counting."
"Not that we're counting."
"You look wretched yourself, anyway."
Qui-Gon's mouth quirked upward at the corners. "Ever the diplomat."
"Vanity ill becomes a Jedi. I speak but the truth."
After all, they were both more comfortable sidling alongside certain truths than uttering them openly. Qui-Gon eased into the newly forged accord, testing its resilience. "If we are embracing honesty, then I think it behooves you to accept help."
The young Knight bowed to the wisdom of this edict with all the grace befitting a Jedi. "You are right," he sighed, one brow arching upward sardonically. "I've had better days." He allowed himself to be eased back down, and suffered the subsequent coddling stoically.
"What in stars' name is this?" Qui-Gon wondered aloud, rubbing the odiferous salve between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh… Paxellian wonder-liniment. Kills the pain… microbes… every pathetic life form in a ten klick radius..."
The Jedi master frowned. "You should not allow non-humans to practice traditional remedies on your person; this is obviously mildly toxic to your system. Inter-species medicine is a tricky affair."
Obi-Wan gazed listlessly at the textured ceiling. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."
Which is one reason among many that you still need guidance. But the tall man did not dare speak the words aloud.
His former student sensed the thought anyway. A soft gust of something escaped his lips, and he addressed the stony roof, carefully avoiding eye contact. "I know."
"You do?"
"Yes." There was no acrimony in the reply, only a wistful acceptance.
"Is it so bad as all that?"
The young Jedi's head rolled sideways. He closed his eyes. "No. Yes. Maybe….I'm tired. I'm sorry, I can't – "
"Shh. We can sort out the details later."
"Focus… present moment," Obi-Wan slurred, the faintest of smirks tugging at his mouth even as he slid toward oblivion.
"Brat."
For a long moment he thought that his soft rejoinder had gone unheard – but his young companion could not resist the allure of having the last word. His brows quirked upwards haughtily as Qui-Gon leaned down to hear the barely voiced reply.
"…It's Master Brat now, if you please."
And Force help him if he didn't laugh aloud at the irreverent jest.
"Go to sleep," he commanded, drawing the Force's restorative power about them in a cocoon of golden radiance, a gentle and healing embrace to which they gladly and swiftly surrendered.
When Ayya peeked into their humble cloister a few minutes later, both men were fast asleep, faces drawn with exhaustion and yet softened by an inexplicable peace. She spread another fraying thermal blanket over the pair of them and tiptoed away, unwilling to disturb a scene of such unparalleled tranquility.
