DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
Mace Windu hesitated on the threshold of Yoda's private chamber, seeking within. The pure white flame that was Yoda flickered in response. He pushed open the door, and entered.
Folded upon his knees in the middle of his meditation circle, Yoda's eyes were closed. His hands rested peacefully by his side. His expression was serene.
"Forgive me for intruding," Mace said.
"Yours, forgiveness is," replied Yoda, and opened his eyes. "Wondering the Council is, hmm, about what I am doing?"
"Yes."
With a grunt and a small sigh, Yoda hoisted himself to his feet. "Told them what, have you?"
"Nothing. How can I, when I have no idea myself?" Another hesitation, then he said, uncertain, "Yoda ... do you know what you are doing?"
Yoda glanced over his shoulder, and a swift smile warmed his eyes. "Doubting me, are you?"
Mace swallowed. For all his experience, for all he was a senior on the Council, Yoda could make him feel like an untrained Novice with the mere lift of an ear. "Never," he said, meaning it.
Yoda grunted. "A comfort, that is," he replied, only mildly sarcastic. Then he turned, and his expression was sombre. "Afraid am I, Mace. Most afraid."
If Yoda had said he were dying, the shock could not be greater. Never in all his years on the Council, in the Temple, had he heard Yoda admit to fear. Nor seen it writ large in the expressive eyes, as he saw it now. He dropped to his knees.
"Why? What has happened? What have you seen?"
"Dire things," Yoda whispered. "Dire things."
"Obi-Wan?"
"He lives. For now. But his trial is upon him, and unexpected is its form. When away from the Temple I sent him, these events did I not forsee. Clouded was his path. Danger, I saw, yes, but of the spirit. Or so I thought. Instead --"
Swiftly he said, "What you did had to be done, and the Council agrees. Support for your actions is unanimous."
Yoda was shaking his head. "Understand you do not."
"Then explain it to me," he said. "Let me help."
For a rare, brief moment Yoda's hand rested on his shoulder. "There is no help," he said, and his voice cracked with sorrow. "Only pain, and patience."
Fear chilled him. "You cannot bear this burden alone."
"No," Yoda said at last. "I cannot. Come, my friend. To the Council we will go. Together must we watch, and together must we move, if it is the will of the Force."
"Move?"
"In meditation on the future will we join," Yoda pronounced. "Then all that I know will you know, Mace Windu. And fear."
Mace had thought that learning of the Sith reborn was the worst thing he had ever experienced.
Clearly, he'd been in error.
Shmi eased her shoulders against the wall, stifling a groan. Everything hurt. She couldn't bear it any longer. The suns had cleared the horizon, and light spilled through the narrow grate set into the top of the dungeon wall. The foul smellling torches had burned out maybe two hours earlier, leaving thick blackness and a nasty aftertaste in the air. Her belly was a cavernous yearning, her tongue coated, her eyes dry and gritty. And oh, dear Lords of the Living, how she ached.
Touching fingers lightly to the sleeping head still pillowed on her breast, she whispered, "Obi-Wan?"
Supple as the wind, he was on his feet. "Shmi. Are you all right?"
Unhearing, momentarily distracted from her myriad discomforts, she stared up at him. How was it possible? Last night he could barely move. His flesh had been torn in a score of places, blackened and bruised with blows. His brow had been split, and his lip. His cheek. Now he was as lithe as a sandtiger, and his pale skin was unmarked.
He grinned. "The Force is a powerful ally." Then he held out his hand, inviting her to join him upright.
She offered an apologetic smile. "I don't think I can," she said. "I find myself a trifle ... stiff."
He dropped to her side. "Forgive me. I should have thought."
"It's all right. You needed rest more than I."
His hand against her cheek was cool, and kind. "I am so far in your debt it will take a lifetime of service to balance the scales between us," he said. "But let me at least make a start." His hand moved from her cheek to her wrist. Strong fingers wrapped loosely about her bones, and he closed his eyes.
She gasped as a tingling warmth suffused her. Sighed as her frozen joints and muscles melted. Smiled as stabbing pain gave ground to glowing comfort.
"That is extraordinary," she murmured. "How do you do it?"
Releasing her, he sat back on his heels, clearly pleased with himself. "Better?"
She laughed, and stretched her arms above her head. "Oh, much! Thank you, Obi-Wan. I feel like a new woman."
"No need for that," he said, and pulled her to her feet. "There's nothing the matter with the old one."
She swatted him. "Not so much of the 'old', thank you, young man. Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?"
His face stilled. "I don't remember my mother," he said. "I left my parents before my first birthday."
She could have bitten out her tongue. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to --"
"No. It's all right. The Jedi are my family, and have been for many years."
"Yes, of course," she said. But couldn't help adding, because she didn't approve of such a regime, "Still. It must have been hard, sometimes. Every boy needs his mother. His father."
"I had a father," he replied, unthinking. And then he flinched, and turned away from her. Said, "No!" harshly, when she reached out her hand to him.
"Obi-Wan ..." She sighed. Stepped close, and turned his face toward her with a finger. "Listen to me," she said. "I do not know how the Jedi counsel in such matters, but I will tell you what I have learned in my life. Humans love. Humans grieve when love is lost. There is no blame or shame in loving, or grieving. The only danger lies in denial. The more we say we don't feel these things, the louder they clamour to be heard."
She could sense the conflict in him, feel it raging beneath the finger laid gently against his jaw. His eyes were stormy, rebellious. For two heartbeats, three, he held fast against her measured gaze. Then his shoulders slumped, and he released the hot pent air from his lungs.
"I feel as though a limb has been torn away," he whispered. "I turn to find him by my side, where he has been for the best part of my life, and he is not there. I hear his voice, and I look, but it's someone else with a trick of his speech, a turn of his phrase. I feel so lost. So incomplete. With each passing day the pain grows greater, not smaller. I don't know what to do, Shmi. I miss him more than I can live with."
Anakin. She nodded, beyond speech. His words showed her own pain to her, in a mirror too bright for bearing. Her hands lifted, unbidden, and framed his young face. "I know," she told him, trembling. "I know."
How long they stood there, silently holding each other, she never knew. She didn't hear the cell door open ... but Watto, she heard.
"So, what's this, eh? Cosy, very cosy, I think!"
Obi-Wan stiffened and stepped away, arms releasing her. Filled with a cold and angry pride, she turned to face her master.
Watto smirked. "Sorry to interrupt, you know, but I wanted to say goodbye, yes?"
"Good bye?"she echoed. "Why? Where are you going?"
Watto scowled. "Back to my business," he said. The beating of his wings was loud in the silence. " What's left of it. You and your precious son and that damned Jedi, between you I might as well go bake myself in the desert, I think."
She laced her fingers together until they were bloodless. "Watto, you know I did not hurt you on purpose. I was only thinking of Anakin, I wanted him to have a chance, a --"
"Ha!" Watto flew at her, arms waving. "You think I care what you want? You ruined my life, you and that cheating, swindling so called peace man! You--"
"That is enough," Obi-Wan said. His hand was raised.
Watto knocked it aside. "And you can shut up too! Jedi! The galaxy would better off without you, meddling and cheating and swindling honest businessmen out of their slaves! What's it got to do with you, eh, that's what I want to know!" Flying closer, he leered into Obi-Wan's set face. "Never mind, eh? There'll soon be one less of you to worry about, heh heh heh!"
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
He spun to face her. "Jabba's got plans for this one, yes? Plans for you, too. I'm saying goodbye because I'm leaving, and you're staying!"
"Staying?" she said faintly. "Here? Why? Watto, what have you done? Have you sold me?" She could hardly breathe. "To Jabba?"
He cackled. "Ha! Stupid woman! Are you cracked? Jabba likes his slaves young and beautiful. You haven't been either for a lotta sunsets. I don't know why he wants you, and I don't care, eh? When he's finished he'll send you back, that's all I know. That's all I want to know. For the rest, you'll find out soon enough, eh?" With a final leer he spun in mid-air, flapped back to the door, and banged on it. "Hey! You out there! Open up!"
A moment later one of the grunting guards swung the door wide. Without looking back Watto flew past its head. The door banged shut again, and they were alone.
"Do not worry," Obi-Wan said fiercely. "I will not let anything happen to you."
For some reason, that struck her as outrageously funny. She started to laugh. Then she cried. Then she laughed again because truly, it was all too ridiculous.
Then she was silent.
After all ... what was there to say?
They took Shmi away sometime around noon. He could not save her, or himself, because they shot him with a nerve dart through a hole in the door, so that all he could do was lie in a twitching, spittled heap on the hard floor and watch as they hustled her away.
For a third-rate gangster stuck on a dustbowl at the far reaches of the Outer Rim, Jabba knew an awful lot about controlling Jedi.
The suns had set, plunging the dungeon into unleavened darkness, before he'd managed to work the last of the poison out of his system. He was cold, and hungry, and close to despair. He had to get out. He had to rescue Shmi: the thought of returning to Anakin without first saving her made him feel sick. He was a Jedi. He had faced a Sith Lord in mortal combat and prevailed. Surely he could escape the clutches of a Hutt? Even one as well prepared as Jabba.
What would Qui-Gon have to say ... his Padawan allowing himself to remain locked in a Hutt dungeon with only a few weak-minded trogs standing between him and freedom.
He wouldn't be pleased.
In fact, he'd be peeved. Cross. Monumentally unimpressed.
So. Time to go.
It was the work of minutes to summon a guard and bend it to his will. Misdirection took care of the others. Stretching his awareness to its fullest extent, he made his way along dim corridors, up worn stairways, past more inhabitants of Jabba's villa. The Force flowed freely, like fine wine from a jug. His body was incandenscent with its presence. Pausing in an alcove, he centred himself and sought for Shmi. The time they'd spent together had confirmed for him her unique imprint. He knew without effort the shape she made within the living Force, the way she bent it about her body. In a crowd of thousands, blindfolded, he would find her.
And there she was. But of course, she was not alone.
He entered the blazingly lit room with his head high. He was one Jedi amongst a horde of barbarians ... a proud tradition. Stories were told in the Temple of the Knights who had gone before. Brave. Dedicated. They met their deaths with honour, upholding the Code with their last breaths.
Well. It was unlikely that anyone from the Temple would know what had happened to him in this place, so the chances of someone singing 'The Ballad of Obi-Wan' around the fire one winter's night wasn't something you'd want to bet on.
But he would know. And Shmi would know. And perhaps, somewhere, somehow, Qui-Gon Jinn would know, and not be too displeased with his Padawan. After all, it was Qui-Gon inspired meddling that had landed him in this trouble in the first place. If anything, his Master should be proud.
Shmi was smiling at him, a small tremble of lip. Burdened with chains, she was secured to a post in the floor. Afraid, but unharmed. Her fear burned him.
High on his dais, kept company by a female Hutt -- Gardola, surely -- surrounded by his exotic slave girls, Jabba saw him and smiled. Reached out and patted his consort's lumpish hide. Said something that encouraged a sycophantic titter from his gathered entourage.
"Welcome, Jedi," the translator droid said. "We were wondering what was keeping you."
Anger. Loathing. Repugnance. The living Force stirred, questing darkly. He closed his eyes. Subdued emotion. A Jedi was a cool white flame burning in the heart of the universe. Touching all, yet remaining untouched. He exhaled slowly, and quested towards Jabba's mind. If he could bend it, impose his will upon it ...
It was like sinking his teeth into rotten fruit. Rancid. Fermented with greed and cruelty. His stomach heaved. Even more distressing, the realisation that this was a mind proofed against manipulation. No chance of forcing Jabba's hand.
Patience. Another solution will present itself.
Startled, he abandoned his attempt to coerce the Hutt. Qui-Gon?
No. He was alone. Forever and always.
But it was sound advice, so he took it.
Jabba was speaking. Obediently the droid said, "Are you not even curious, Jedi? Do you not wish to know what I have decreed for you?"
Silence was a potent weapon. He wielded it now.
Jabba growled and leaned forward, stabbing the air with an emphatic finger. The droid said, "You have interfered in my plans. You have cost me money. You have lived too long."
He met the hateful orange gaze without flinching. "Then kill me."
Jabba laughed. So did everyone else ... except Shmi, who was staring at him in horror, shaking her head. Then Jabba replied, fat with satisfaction.
The droid said, "Jedi, I will. But not before you have earned what you stole from me, when you stole the boy."
"How can I steal from you that which you do not own?" he countered. "The boy was never yours."
"Everything here is mine," the droid translated. "Tatooine, and all that crawls and hops and flies and breathes upon it. Whether these things know it, or not. Including you."
"You own nothing but your thoughts and your deeds," he replied. "Paltry things, born of a paltry heart."
Enraged, Jabba roared and flailed. He tensed, expecting some kind of retaliation, but none came. For a moment longer Jabba wheezed and bellowed his rage. Then, abruptly, he laughed. Replied. The droid said, "When you are broken and bleeding and begging for a merciful death, Jedi, you will remember those words with sorrow. But before then, you will fight."
He frowned. Fight? Fight who, fight what?
Jabba leaned forward and licked his lips. Spoke again. The droid said, "You will fight for me. You will win for me. No one will defeat a Jedi. Everyone will try. You will make me rich."
The idea was so abhorent, so obscene, he laughed out loud. "No Jabba. You are mistaken. I will not fight for you."
The slave girl nearest Jabba's reach was an Ondarian. She was young and lithe and beautiful. Jabba tangled his thick fingers in her bronze hair, wrenched her head back and dragged a sudden vibro-knife across her throat. The girl collapsed. Gardola hissed her displeasure, and snatched her tail away from the spreading pool of blood.
"Ha mek chanunga bawa, Jedi?" said Jabba.
He needed no droid to translate that. "I am sure," he replied. Sickened, but determined not to show it. "I will not fight for you."
Jabba sat back and waved a negligent hand at Shmi. Spoke. The droid said, "Then perhaps you will fight for her."
Then the full extent of their danger crashed upon him, but it was too late. Jabba and Gardola were laughing. The hangers-on were pulling back, scuttling to safety. There was a cascade of light, and he was penned inside a containment field. His vision blurred and he thought he saw a red and black face, a prowling black robed enemy. Then his sight cleared and he saw it was not so. There was just himself, and Shmi. The glaring, leering faces beyond the force field wavered, rippling and distorted.
Shmi said, "Obi-Wan ..."
He shook his head. Rolled his shoulders. Something very bad was coming, he could feel it. Taste it. "You will be all right," he promised, and flicked his fingers. The chains binding her unravelled and clattered to the floor.
Beyond the containment field, a roar went up.
Shmi said, rubbing her wrists, "Obi-Wan, you must not do this. You must not fight for me. Go."
"And leave you behind, in this place?" He shook his head. "No. I will get us both out of here."
"I cannot leave," she said. "I have a device within my body. All slaves do. If I try to leave, if anyone attempts to tamper with it, it will kill me. I must remain here. And you must go."
"I will not leave you behind," he repeated. Something cold and horrible crawled over his mind. "Be careful," he said urgently. "Something is coming..."
From behind them, where the containment field connected with the wall, there came the sound of gears grinding. A section of panelling slid wide. They heard a snuffling grunt. Claws on stone. Caught a gut-churning, eye-watering whiff of something ... unspeakable.
Instinct and training sent his hand to his side ... but of course he had no lightsabre. He had no weapon at all. Nothing with which to defend himself, and Shmi, except long years of training and a bloody-minded determination that although he would indeed die one day, it would not be this day.
In his years of travelling the galaxy at Qui-Gon's side, he had seen many strange and terrible things ... but never a creature like this. Never encountered something so steeped to the marrow in the Dark side. At least, not before the Sith. And somehow this was different. The Sith's actions had been informed by a malevolent intelligence. The thing that now came squinting into the light was a lump of lethal flesh informed by nothing but instinct. By the blood driven need to kill, for killing's sake.
Behind him, Shmi moaned, an involuntary exhalation of terror and disgust.
Beyond the containment field, their audience howled and chittered and screeched with glee. Money started changing hands.
"Stay still," he said to Shmi, not taking his eyes from the monstrosity before him. "Do nothing to attract its attention."
"Don't worry," she replied faintly. "I don't think I could move even if I wanted to."
Such a bright, burning courage she had. He spared her a quick smile. She smiled back, but her eyes were frightened. "Everything will be all right," he said. "I promise."
"Of course," she agreed. "Nothing to concern myself about at all."
The beast lifted its head, scenting. It had four limbs, heavily muscled, ending in claws like small scythes. Its shoulders were massive, hunched and brooding. Its hide was grey and scaly and covered in a foul slime. Small, feral eyes lodged deep beneath a protruding brow ridge, bright with mindless hatred. Saliva dripped from teeth too large for its mouth. It stood some five feet high, stretched perhaps eight feet long. It looked powerful enough to crush them without even trying. Seeing them, it lifted its top lip and snuffled. A growling grunt built low in its throat, and it began to weave from side to side. The fearsome claws clicked against the stone floor, slowly at first, and then with mounting urgency as its agitation increased.
"Shmi," he said. "Have you ever seen one of these before?"
"No," she whispered. "Have you?"
"No." He took a deep breath and gagged on the stench emanating from the beast, a thick hot effluvium of putrid meat. "Whatever you do, don't let it get within striking range. Stay behind me, if you can."
"All right." She coughed, and covered her nose and mouth with her hand. "What are you going to do?"
Good question. "Give it a headache. I hope."
Stomach rebelling, skin crawling, he reached out to the beast's slavering mind. The touch, the taste of it, were so bad that he retched. Sweat broke out over his quivering body, soaking him. Never in his life had he encountered a foulness like it. It was too much. He couldn't -- he couldn't --
Doubled over, hands braced on his knees, he heaved and spat, sweet sour saliva flooding his mouth. He was shaking so hard he almost fell over.
"Are you all right?" Shmi demanded. "Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!"
Beyond speech, he nodded. Lifted a hand to her, reassuringly.
The beast opened its mouth wide and howled, an ear-splitting shriek of rage and challenge. Then it charged.
Shmi screamed. Beyond the containment field, the panting onlookers echoed her cry, yowling bloodlust, urging the creature on. There was no time to think, or plan. With a cry of his own he leapt straight upwards, somersaulting over the beast's head to land behind it, out of harm's way. It spun, faster than looked possible, and charged again. He was vaguely aware of Shmi, scuttling to safety as he launched himself upwards again.
But this time the beast was ready for him. Screeching, it lunged upright, massive forelimbs swinging. Caught him by one leg, dragging him out of the air with a bellow of triumph. With an agonised grunt he broke free, staggered the thing backwards with a furious repulsion of Force. It rolled upright, swift as a Jedi, and rushed him again.
The next minutes remained forever blurred. He leapt, he somersaulted, he rolled, he pushed Shmi out of harm's way again and again as the beast did its best to tear him to shreds. Within moments he was bleeding, and the scent drove the creature to a frenzy. A small part of his mind was acutely aware of the uproar beyond the containment field as the audience screamed itself voiceless. A larger part of his mind was coolly, clinically aware that he was getting dangerously tired, and that very soon he would make a mistake. His first, and his last.
This had to end. Now.
He threw himself upwards and over to land on the beast's heaving back. One arm hooked around its throat, and with his free hand he searched desperately for purchase on its face. Acid saliva burned his fingers. Frantic, it bucked and rolled and twisted, trying to throw him clear. He felt something tear in his back, his shoulder. His grip loosened.
Now, now, do it now!
With a scream of utter revulsion he plunged into the beast's mind ... through a searing, seething cauldron of bestial fury to the ravenous core within ... and crushed it.
The creature shrieked once, a disbelieving cry of agony and defeat. Then it dropped, animate as stone, pinning him to the floor beneath all its leaden weight.
Barely conscious, he felt the thing being dragged off his crushed and aching body. Moaned, as pain fell on him from a great height. Someone was calling his name, lifting his head, cradling him in gently urgent arms. Then he was on his feet, hauled upright and brought face to face with Jabba, whose delight was as boundless as his evil.
"Ho, ho, ho," the Hutt bellowed. "Heg mewa to goro goro Jedi, ni?"
"So the Jedi will fight after all, yes?" the droid translated.
All around him, Jabba's court was exchanging money, grumbling and laughing and squealing, fizzing with excitement. Turning his head, wincing, he saw Shmi, held fast in chains once more. Although it hurt almost more than he could bear, he smiled at her. She smiled back, head high, but there were tears in her eyes.
Jabba leaned close. Spoke softly. Confidentially.
"You will fight," the droid said. "As often as pleases me. Or I will carve the woman like roast drogafowl. A piece at a time."
Then Jabba lifted a finger, and slid his eyes sideways. Shmi cried out.
Staggering, he swung about to look at her. There was blood on her face, and a grinning Voort stood before her, knife in hand.
Bright red hate scalded him. Anger burned his bones. The Force trembled. Pulsed. He closed his eyes, and with the meagre remnants of his strength banished all emotion.
Jabba spoke. The droid said, "That was for using the Force to kill the flin'hgt. Next time, it won't be a tickle. Next time, I'll take a finger. Or an eye. She will pay for every mistake you make, Jedi. How many of your mistakes can she afford, do you think?"
He made no reply. Jabba leaned back, and reached out to Gardola, casually caressing her neck.
"When the holovid of this encounter goes to certain ... beings ... of my acquaintance, they will wish to pit their finest fighters against you," the droid continued. "You will fight them until you die, or I have all the money I want. You will use no Force."
He took a deep breath. Let it out. "You are a fool, Jabba," he said. "A Jedi uses the Force every waking moment. We use it, and are accustomed to its use beyond thought or feeling. You might as easily say fight without breathing. It would do you as much good."
Jabba scowled. Cursed. Reconsidered. "You will not kill using the Force," the droid translated. "You will kill with your hands, or such weapons as are agreed upon. No lightsabre."
He shook his head. "I will not kill for you, Jabba. Not again."
Jabba roared. The droid said, "You defy me? Jedi scum! I will kill the woman now!"
"Then I will never fight for you," he replied. "You will lose face before all the beings of your acquaintance, and there will be no more money."
Another roar. Shmi cried out again, in fear and pain, but he closed his mind to her. Better for them both to die, here and now, than be a party to wholesale slaughter. If it remained just a matter of fighting, he would do it. Where there is life, there is hope, as Shmi had rightly told him. Every new day would bring with it the possibility of escape from this nightmare. But he would not, could not, murder on demand. And he very much doubted that Shmi would want him to, either.
These could be the last moments of his life. A shame. He would rather have died old and wise and in his bed, instead of young and foolish and beset by pain. Ah well. It was the will of the Force. Submit, and be joyful in surrender.
He closed his eyes.
Surly, resentful and curdled with hate, Jabba spoke. The droid said, "You say you will not kill. I say you will. Another bet to make me rich. Get out of my sight. You make me sick. And remember, Jedi ... she stands surety for you. There are things worse than death that I know you would not wish for her."
So it was over. For now. Pride alone kept him on his feet as they were hustled away, to a different dungeon this time. This one had two rough cots, and more blankets, and a bucket in one corner. They were thrust inside. Given wooden bowls filled with mush, and a container of brackish water. Then the door was dragged shut, and they were alone.
They hadn't removed Shmi's chains.
Seeing double, his body shrieking with pain, he released her, healed her wound and then fell face down on the nearest cot. He felt her sit down beside him, and rest a hand on his hair.
"Obi-Wan," she said. There were tears in her voice. "You must not do this for me. You must not violate your Code, betray your honour, for me. I will not have it. I cannot bear that responsibility. I would rather die."
He coughed. Rolled his head until he could see her, just, from the corner of his eye. "It is not your decision," he said. "It is mine." She opened her mouth to argue, protest. He said, "No. No more. Talk later. Rest now."
Maybe she replied, and maybe she didn't. He never knew. Oblivion crashed upon him, and there was only darkness and the blessed cessation of pain.