Chapter 59. Obi-Wan's Sithly Decision
A red blade and an inchoate scream of rage erupted into empty air where once Obi-Wan had stood.
But no longer.
"Goo…d, goo..d," crooned Sidious from afar, orgasmic shudders of delectable delight tingling along his nerves at seeing through the Force his "new apprentice" and his desired apprentice locked in mortal combat. What more could a Sith lord desire? His tongue still tasted the foul currents of the Force though that moment had passed, that moment when one flick of a finger had separated life from death – when his chosen one, Kenobi, had defeated that death.
It had been a most untenable position; few could have survived a lightsaber jammed into one's ribs – but Sidious's confidence had not been misplaced; the Force's revelations true.
Glorious destruction had sprung forth and pierced a Jedi's armor if not a man's body: in the crucible of chaotic reaction a Jedi was dying, soon to be reborn a Sith. Soon – soon Kenobi would come to him and kneel at his feet to offer the tattered remnants of his soul. Then, Sidious would flay whatever tarnished gleams lingered until this servant of the light became a master of the dark.
It was young Kenobi's destiny, written in the inky emptiness between the stars where souls were shredded to bits and their light vanquished – a most apt comparison, for what was a Sith but a life with a black hole for a heart, feeding on decay– for life, no matter how strong, just like the stars in the heavens, was in eternal decomposition from the very moment of inception.
Light was Life and neither was everlasting. Dark and Death alone were eternal.
With almost childish delight, Sidious inhaled the putrefying stench so deliciously polluting the currents of the Force. A marvelous morsel to whet his appetite, this charade of – contention - he had engineered. Kenobi theoretically had no chance; a betting man would have placed his life on the outcome – and had, for the would-be-Sith had forfeited his life the moment he had decided to confront the Jedi, if not at Kenobi's hands, then at the true Sith's hands.
So he drenched himself in the sweat, passion and fury roiling around two young men battling for their place in the shadows – one knowingly, one not. One, a sacrifice to the devouring dark, yet believing himself favored in his lust for retribution and revenge; one, favored by the Force, yet thinking himself forsaken by it.
Would Kenobi sacrifice himself if he knew the price of winning? The light held him tightly enough yet though the coils of darkness already surrounded him.
Jinn had done this, tainted this paragon of virtue and slit the shell of compliant servitude; darkness now spilt across the threshold and crept ever inward, finding inroads in shattered cracks of self-esteem; when Kenobi reclaimed the Force he would command what he once had deferred to. With finesse and delicacy, Kenobi would devastate the light once his allegiance was twisted, unlike this sham and a shame, this other "apprentice," who was little more than a mere tool, even more so than Maul, a battering ram of fury incarnate whose sole task was to create a worthy successor to Sidious himself.
For the first time since Maul's death, Sidious was confident he had not misread the Force, no matter how improbable its revelations had been.
Kenobi would be his.
"Watch out, Padawan!"
Qui-Gon rarely panicked. It seemed entirely appropriate to do so when his padawan was one finger twitch away from rejoining the Force prematurely.
Just as the celebratory breath of released tension was equally appropriate one breath later.
Knowing that the lecture to come regarding the idiotic folly of nearly scaring his master into a rash promise to the Force that he would do almost anything to have it keep the young man alive and safe – even, perhaps, accepting the Council's judgment without argument at least every other time he wished to challenge its collective wits – would blister the young man's hide worse than the lightsaber would have done…the Jedi master stilled, his nightmare forgotten.
He slumbered on.
The blade had sizzled entirely far too close for comfort.
No sigh of relief whistled past Obi-Wan's lips, no self-congratulatory pat on the back and no admiring mental compliment on a perfectly timed and executed gamble. Calculated and risky, it had been a desperate move with no guarantee of success but when a lightsaber was pressed to one's stomach, desperation trumped deliberation.
A wrench and twist of his torso in a chrono pirouette; a pivot on his left foot a mere fraction of a second before the blade had ignited had saved him, though the blade had scorched past his ribs so closely that even now he could feel the lingering hint of heat. So narrow was his escape that the slightest hesitation or miscalculation on his part would certainly have disabled or killed him right then or there.
That was assuming there was any thought in his actions, rather than instinctive reaction.
Still, through countless drills of the most improbable situations, the diligent practice of muscle response, and hours learnt to translate mental visualization into action, the young Jedi had known that the lightsaber's center of gravity had inadvertently been allowed to shift to its emitter end, a natural result of being jammed against Obi-Wan's stomach. To shift one, you shifted the other. The result: a sudden, involuntary, and quite infinitesimal dip of the business end of the weapon.
And as Obi-Wan knew, every action has an opposite and opposing reaction.
In this instance and nearly simultaneously, Obi-Wan's attacker flinched backwards with a growled scream of annoyance and thwarted frustration. That instinctive counter-reflex to compensate left the lightsaber angled higher, out of play not for long, but long enough.
It was a perfect opening.
Before the now ignited lightsaber could descend and start its swing sideways to cleave him in two, Obi-Wan's hands clamped onto the saber wielding arm, above the elbow and at the wrist, and forced the humming lightsaber back and across his assailant's body. In order to avoid being burned by his own weapon, the other man had to deactivate the blade, drop the vibroblade in his other hand, and stumble two quick steps back before recovering enough to sweep his right leg out to kick Obi-Wan off balance.
By quickly shifting his weight to his left leg, Obi-Wan was able to absorb the kick and although he was not able to fully deflect it, he was able to retain his grip as the false Jedi sought to break his hold through sheer strength and verbal distraction.
So absorbed was his opponent, that the Jedi was able to full advantage of his opportunity.
He brought his free right foot down hard on the other man's toes while shifting his left hand to clamp over the saber-holding wrist; his thumb stabbing at the deactivation switch while his right hand feinted an uppercut to the face – a diversionary blow he had no immediate intention of landing.
It was a blow he couldn't have landed anyway, but it didn't matter. Obi-Wan had accomplished his goal: the distraction had also allowed his fingers to find and press upon the wrist nerves, allowing the lightsaber to fall from a suddenly numb hand.
And slap right into his waiting right palm.
Before he could close his palm around it, the other man lowered his head and charged, as implacable and as indestructible as a gundark, sending both he and the weapon flying helplessly through the air. The head butt to his midsection sent the Jedi catapulting against the wall, head first. Obi-Wan slid to the ground, dazed, blinking furiously to clear the spots from his eyes.
His ears were working slightly better.
Expecting the pain of his death to wash over him in his vulnerable state, he was confused at the verbal babble that washed over his ears: snarls, grunts, and the outraged hiss of an affronted feline woken from a cozy nap when the lightsaber thumped against its crate.
Some of the snarls were human.
Blistering invectives and foul epithets torched through the air, words Obi-Wan tried to dismiss once his mind began to decipher the sounds and discern their meaning. Words were not a weapon to fear, not a weapon to battle – not even these derisive and belittling words meant to diminish.
This was a fight for survival, not for bruised feelings.
Still, a part of his mind registered and wondered at some of the words, the raving that Obi-Wan's "interference" stood between "him and glory," that death was necessary to keep him from again stealing his "rightful place" and other incomprehensible threats and slurs.
The false Jedi clearly labored under a false assumption.
For Obi-Wan knew, should he perish here today, it would be as a victim of mistaken identity and not the advancement of one man's dream of power. In truth he was little more than the weakest of Jedi, not some supposed impediment to another man's path to power, not some powerful man in his own right – no, such was merely a wild exaggeration of a fanciful notion in an insane man's mind.
But dead was dead, intended victim or not, if he let the words disrupt his now-regained focus.
Much as he had done in Theed, at the mercy of a Sith assassin, he disregarded the adrenaline and emotion coursing through his body and his mind, heard not the thumping of his heart or felt the muscle impulse to action.
Instead, he readied himself for the inevitable explosion of motion to come – aware of tensed muscles, both his and the other man's, aware of the lightsaber that had dropped in the flurry of movement, aware that the last few moments had not assured success but only temporarily postponed defeat.
By sheer force of will alone, calm eyes met infuriated ones.
Physically, he was at a disadvantage, but Obi-Wan knew his vibroblade strike earlier had wounded his would-be killer. Remembering the spurt of warm blood, the damp squelch of sundered flesh, he was reasonably certain he had inflicted more than a glancing blow but a disabling blow, a killing blow, it seemed it had not. Regrets, no, he had none, not under the circumstances, but regret he had, for the circumstances.
Regrets that he might well survive only by making sure another didn't. Just like on…Naboo.
And just like that he was there once more, staring into half-crazed eyes, yellow then, not icy blue like those now before him.
Eyes widening in realization of impending death, a mouth cursing before puckering into an "o" of realization, a body split in two tumbling with just a spurt of vaporized blood - a tattooed horror who had tempted him to unthinking rage… Obi-Wan blinked the sweat of remembrance from his eyes as the "no's" and curses of frustration, past and present, melded and swirled in his ears.
The "no" torn from his throat as Qui-Gon fell…the tremble in his limbs and the disbelief in his heart as he skidded to his mentor's side subsumed by the knowledge he could – he would – save the man he held above all others – and the words, miraculous in their source and devastating in their meaning - "Why…do you live, not Anakin?"
The "no" of his denial…his master, Qui-Gon, would never say such a thing, to him or to anyone.
And the staccato scream "no" of this moment, torn from the throat of a thwarted assassin, a "no" he belated recognized as a "now."
"Now – I will have my revenge!"
An aggravated growl, that "now," a crescendo of fury and frustration that culminated in a ferocious scream: "You pestilent pest will die, alone and unmourned, your rotting flesh shunned even by insects. Even a Sarlaac would vomit your half-digested carcass to spare itself a bellyache just as Jinn booted your ass out of orbit into a trajectory to nowhere. You pathetic, worthless failure – today will be the happiest day of my life because today is the day you depart it!"
"Only for Coruscant," Obi-Wan tsked-tsked, the retort arising from the small part of his mind that was pure irreverence, regardless of the situation.
"Your humor can be as dark as a Sith's alleged heart, padawan mine."
A long ago comment, that, accompanied by a chuckle and tug on the braid. He resolutely pushed the memory away, not needing the distraction. Qui-Gon had no place at his side or in his mind, not any longer.
He now stood alone: Qui-Gon had made that decision for them both.
Icy disdain spread over his attacker's face; Obi-Wan's quip all but dousing his incandescent fury. Obi-Wan quelled a soft sigh; a man outraged was a man who would defeat himself. Now he was going to have to do it the hard way.
I really wish that whoever it was that told me my humor is disarming was right.
"Coruscant? Your body, perhaps, perhaps to a dung pit; your soul departs to oblivion once I separate you from it," the false Jedi sneered, seemingly forgetting his earlier vow about disposing of Obi-Wan's body. "You are dirt beneath my heel, an insect to be ground to dust, a sacrifice to my place because despite all the darkness within you, there is not enough in you, 'Obi,' to steal my place yet again."
Obi? Only childhood friends called him, "Obi." This man was no one he recognized, yet the sneer, the accusations, stirred distant memories. As to the constant references to "his darkness" – had his brief brush with the dark on Naboo so tainted him that every Force-sensitive felt it?
Was he dark?
Not perhaps as much as this man seeking to end his life, but dark enough that he might be better off to die half in light, half in shadow rather than entirely in shadow at some future time?
Before doubt could cripple him, there came from memory a reminder that he did not stand entirely alone, that he had touched the dark only to renounce it…a blessed voice, tender yet firm, chastising and proud, one that never had and never would lie to him: "Faced and defeated the dark you have, young one. Shame in that there is not, only strength: a pure soul recoils from what some might find enticing. Knighthood you have earned."
Yoda saw his darkness and yet believed in his light!
Thus buoyed, Obi-Wan threw himself into a forward roll and came to his feet with the lightsaber in his hand just as his assailant snatched it up as well.
Face to face, once again, the two wrestled for sole possession of the weapon.
"Pathetic little Jedi," his adversary hissed between clenched teeth. "Yoda's pet padawan can't even defeat a man thrown out of the Jedi as a mere boy – but then there are other paths to power."
A grim smile accompanied Obi-Wan's retort. "And many paths to defeat."
"And yours shall be on your knees, usurper." The taunt slipped to a smirk, the once encompassing rage tempered to amusement now, sly and delighted, and punctuated by a giggle.
"C'mon now, kneel before me. Console yourself with the delusion you're losing your braid while in truth you'll be losing your head."
"I think not!"
Using the lightsaber as a fulcrum to catapult himself over the assassin's head like a gymnast over a high bar, Obi-Wan twisted in mid air to smash the other man flat by using his knees as a battering ram. It almost worked. It would have worked against someone not Force-sensitive, or if Obi-Wan had had the Force to bolster his flagging strength.
But the Force was a powerful ally, and not just to those in the light.
So the Jedi crashed to the ground, splashing a damp mixture of feed, manure and spilled feed with an "oomph" of escaping breath as his target dodged aside. A grin split the false Jedi's face as he tapped the lightsaber against his hip, obviously enjoying the sight of Obi-Wan flat on his stomach, dirty hands outstretched.
"Oh, Kenobi, how unfortunate. How humiliating." Tap, tap. "You prostrate yourself when I merely asked you to kneel before me." He laughed, a twittering laugh that was oh-so-close to a giggle.
"I'm an overachiever, what can I say?" Obi-Wan grunted, tensing as heat from the lightsaber tickled at the back of his neck.
"Don't get smart with me," a mocking voice chided as the lightsaber withdrew. The voice turned playful. "Not unless you're in a hurry to end this game."
"Oh, I'm not, er, on a schedule." He propped himself onto his elbows; when there was no reaction, he slowly pushed into a seated position with his hands low in his lap and his eyes wary. This – sudden change in demeanor – was baffling, definitely baffling. An assassin should – assassinate his prey – not play with it.
The lightsaber again spun towards him; shied back, like a shy animal not ready to accept a human hand. Obi-Wan kept his face impassive and his hands at his side.
"You don't want to play spin the lightsaber, Kenobi? My turn again, it seems." He again tapped the lightsaber against his hip before once more spinning it towards Obi-Wan, where it slowly rotated, just tantalizingly out of reach. "You never were into games, were you?"
"Nothing is a game where the stakes are life or death."
"Spoken like a self-righteous Jedi." The words were spat like a curse. The voice sharpened. "Did you know others gave their lives so that you might as well? You were clueless to their pain while I feasted on it; their blood is on your soul, you know. Some Guardian of Justice you are, Kenobi, why is that?" He pretended to think, then grinned wolfishly, "Oh, yes. You don't have the Force, do you?"
The false Jedi once again and oh so casually threw the lightsaber towards Obi-Wan and let it dangle for several heartbeats, almost within reach, before calling it back to his hand, the once nearly raving lunatic unnervingly ice and disdainful. "Oh, no, you lost it right – or did your precious light side snatch it back from your unworthy hands? You want it back, beg the dark side you recently and oh-so-gloriously indulged in to aid you – the light side has forsaken you, you know. Just like your master did – he knew, didn't he? Only the power of the dark can defeat death, but you refuse to embrace it."
A corner of Obi-Wan's mouth quirked upwards despite the precariousness of his position. "I prefer other embraces to that of the dark – and always shall."
"What other embraces, you self deluded liar? Phantom women – because we both know no woman would want an ineffectual Jedi boy squirming around on top of her while he's trying to figure out what goes where." A deliberately calculating sneer crossed his features. "Or did the padawan who once worshiped at his master's feet also kneel before him? Maybe you yearn for what you once had and lost when Qui-Gon found himself a new boy to warm your spot?"
Obi-Wan nearly snorted at the absurd accusation. The only embrace of that sort he'd almost known had been with Siri – the intimate embrace averted only at the last moment, thwarted by three little words.
The verbal jab not eliciting even a twitch of an eye, the assassin reverted back to earlier insinuations and accusations, these laced with threads of truth and perverted by falsities.
"You were always just a stop gap, you know that: weak and unwanted? Only theatrics and gratitude extorted under false pretenses allowed you to steal my rightful place." A Force push slammed Obi-Wan flat as the man stalked towards him. "Your own ineptitude has led us here: you to whimper and crawl from the power you fear to touch and me – to end your puny existence. You're too much of a coward to reach for your own survival."
The false Jedi made a pretense of sniffing. "You reek of fear."
"I call it 'unfortunate animal byproducts'," Obi-Wan corrected mildly, not bothering to glance down at the splotches staining his Jedi tunics.
"Fear!" The assassin bellowed. "You fear death. Fear is what drove you to save the master who renounced you. Fear you would be sent away now when there was no one to shield you. Fear is why you now sweat before me. You stink of fear. You fear the Force won't accept you in the death you fear to face."
There was some truth in the last. Without the Force, would he be forever denied rest within its embrace? With a mental shrug, he let that apprehension go. Perhaps he might find out, perhaps not, but to live, he had to live in the moment.
Which was an interesting exercise in itself: adapting his strategy at any given moment to face, in turn, an amused and playful man, or as now, a nearly incoherent madman.
"Lick my boots, brat…c'mon, on your knees. You don't get to die on your feet, you hear; I want you to hear your blood sizzling in your veins as my blade boils your skin and muscle." A yank of the Force brought Obi-Wan semi-upright; a Force assisted shove threw him to his knees. "But first I'll give you one last chance – reach within for the power to kill me – or die damned by your own conscience."
The Force twisted and buckled in chaotic disruption. Sidious inhaled deeply, eyes aflame and tongue flicking, searching for and savoring each molecule of this sensory feast.
Was now the moment foreseen, or did the Force tantalize him with a delay of the inevitable? He had seen Kenobi at his side, facing his old master Jinn. Was the boy's old nemesis the key to Kenobi's turning, or would it be Jinn in the future? One way or the other, the Force conspired to make Kenobi a Sith, a glorious Sith – less brutal than Maul but so much more intelligent, so very much more worthy of the title Sith Lord and, perhaps in time, Sith Master.
Granted, the Skywalker brat would be much more powerful, in time, but like Maul, like this "old friend" facing Kenobi, he was merely cunning and devious, twisted and angry; he lacked the subtlety to reign supreme. Maturity might mold the boy to a worthy Sith, or it might not.
Anger alone, hate alone, was not enough. Anger and hate created useful tools, men too blind to see how they were manipulated to another's bidding.
"Your moment of glory is at hand, my unknowing apprentice," he whispered. "Be a pawn to neither man nor the Force. Be master of both, not its instruments. Unchain your hatred and unleash your resentment of all those who mistreat you; let the darkness empower you. Destroy he who seeks to destroy you, my apprentice, this one whom you once knew – as Bruck Chun."