Archive: Yes. To Master/Apprentice and SWAL, and anyone else who asks nicely (though lord knows why anyone else'd want it.)
Rating: R, I suppose.
Warning (contains spoilers): This story features reasonably graphic violence and a lot of mental, emotional, and physical distress on the part of Obi-Wan. Also (gasp) strong implications, and some memories, of m/f sex, but the only attempt at showing same was apparently so tastefully discreet that two of my beta readers had no clue as to what was going on in the first draft, so I took it out and will use the lovely poetic image I came up with at some future time ;). Obi-Wan is 16 in this story, and there are intimations that he has had some sort of, um, contact, with a boy his age. Absolutely nothing happens during the timeline of this story. For obvious reasons there is no sexual contact of any kind (even sexual thoughts) between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan in this story. I can't think of anything else anyone could possibly find offensive, except a slight disapproval of Dark Jedi. This is pre-slash -- it's background and buildup.
Spoilers: Set well before The Phantom Menace. Major, major spoilers for the Jedi Apprentice books, particularly #2: The Dark Rival. This story doesn't give away the plot of that one, but it does retail all of the backstory which is gradually revealed over the course of that book.
Summary: Pre-slash, first in a planned series. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon re-visit a planet which holds pleasant memories for them -- and find it not so peaceful this time around.
Feedback: Hell yes, as much as you like. To ceciliaregent@hotmail.com. I've never planned anything as ambitious as this series (which I hope will slowly bring us up to TPM and just beyond); I'm feeling insecure about the story and the whole venture; and I would dearly love any and all commentary you might be willing to provide. I promise to respond to all of it, too.
Notes: If it weren't well past midnight, I would write a properly metered and rhymed Ode in honor of my beta readers. As it is I'll content myself with announcing to the world that Raven, Megan, and Richel provided encouragement, speculation, warnings of confusion, and -- in Richel's case -- a note of every single place where I inserted an extra space after the dash in "Obi-Wan." I cannot thank them enough.
The sudden absence when the hum of lightsabers ceased made the room seem abnormally quiet. Qui-Gon Jinn swept the hilt of his weapon across his body and bowed his head to his opponent, who returned the courtesy. "May the Force be with you," Qui-Gon said.
"And with you, Master," the boy across from him replied, still poised to act. He seemed a rock of steadiness, but Qui-Gon could sense a tendril of impatience underneath. He was working through it well, though, and Qui-Gon decided he deserved his reward.
"All right, Obi-Wan. That's enough for today," he said, and pointed the hilt of the lightsaber at the door to the changing room.
Obi-Wan Kenobi fairly sprinted for the door as soon as he was dismissed, barely pausing to flash a grin and honor his teacher on the way out. The single slim braid that was the only vanity apprentices of his level were permitted flew out behind him, contrasting with the spiky crewcut that shaped the rest of his head. Sweat-drenched clothing revealed the rest of his body clearly, to Qui-Gon's satisfaction. The boy was growing into himself; he'd never be close to his master's height, but he no longer tripped over his own too-long shins.
Good muscles, too, Qui-Gon thought as he analyzed his apprentice's run across the salle. Perhaps he could use a little more work there, or there, that would give him more spring when he leaped. The Force could only take one part of the way. Qui-Gon made a note to concentrate on those areas in the next day's workout, but on the whole he was pleased with what he saw in Obi-Wan. The sixteen-year-old had been trained by the Jedi almost from birth, and had had the personal attention of Qui-Gon Jinn, one of the best swordsmen in the order, for the last three years. He could hardly have failed to be a superior athlete; truly, though, Qui-Gon thought, he is one of the best that I have seen for his years. He nearly touched me today with the saber. Keep this up, and the apprentice will outstrip the master!
The Jedi smiled to himself at the thought as he finished toweling the sweat from his own neck. With Obi-Wan out the door, released to an evening of freedom in the planet's main city, he could concentrate on his own exercises. He tossed the towel onto a bench at the edge of the room and returned to the center. He bowed to empty air this time, although no less concentrated for all that. The saber, powering up, was a comforting sound.
He began to run through flexibility and balance exercises at the next level up from those he had been doing with Obi-Wan. Giving them all the grace and power he could, he relaxed into the Force and let it lead him up to the next level. Allowing the Force to guide his body through the leaps and spins it asked of him, his mind was freed to go over, once more, the events of the day.
It had been peaceful. Both he and Obi-Wan were glad to be back on Deolos; they had mediated a settlement between two warring peoples almost three years ago, at the very start of their partnership. They'd been back twice now to check up on the progress of the planet, and each time had spent enough time on the surface that they could let acquaintances develop into friends.
The morning had been spent in an extremely amicable meeting with representatives from both sides of the old dispute. Qui-Gon was -- justifiably, he thought -- proud of the treaty he had designed for them, and they seemed to be living up to its dictates. The afternoon's tour of the city and some of the outlying farms only confirmed the picture of an idyllic peace which seemed almost too calm only three years after such a catastrophic war. Rebuilding had progressed at a dramatic rate and the strides made in developing the capital city even since their last visit were clearly visible.
The two Jedi had returned to their quarters in the palace barracks well-pleased with the situation, and dispatched a preliminary report to the Council on Coruscant with a request to pass the information along to the Chancellor of the Senate. Qui-Gon had promised Obi-Wan a night free from duties, time to catch up with friends his own age, away from the formal world of the palace. First, though, the evening workout which no Jedi, of whatever power or age, would consider forgoing.
Qui-Gonn's body swung up to the next level of exercises, the highest, as he reflected on his apprentice's performance. He took considerable pleasure in the task. Even Obi-Wan's warmups were flawless; really, the boy had extraordinary talent, and his discipline was to be commended. Qui-Gon wished he would work as hard at his diplomatic skills. Although he himself had found the morning's meeting refreshingly relaxing, he had sensed and quelled a bored Obi-Wan's cooped-up frustration almost a dozen times, once narrowly avoiding an Incident. The Jedi sighed mentally. To have the energy of a sixteen-year-old...which returned him to the workout. The free- saber duel had been exciting -- although Qui-Gon had never been in real danger of being hit, Obi-Wan was definitely progressing. Again fighting free-form, although this time teamed with his master against practice droids, he had submerged into the Force, and the deep bond which tied the two men, with ease. Qui-Gon always enjoyed the team workout. Against droids Obi-Wan did not often become frustrated or angry enough to disturb his connection to the Force, and the Jedi pair had developed a graceful partnership in battle, enhanced by the bond they shared. Qui-Gon looked forward to the day Obi-Wan would exhibit the same control against the real, living enemies they were so often forced to confront. More and more frequently, it seems, these days. The galaxy is heating up -- more disputes, more violent "resolutions". I know the Council has noted the pattern; I wish they talked to their field operatives more often. We're in danger of being stretched too thin. All the more reason to give Obi-Wan good training, then. When he had that control, Qui-Gon knew that the real battles would be as...beautiful...as the antiseptic training sessions were now.
The boy was developing real style, too, which was all to the good. It was a distinct style from Qui-Gon's. He was becoming quite an acrobat, prone to spending large amounts of time airborne during combat. Flips and somersaults were his strengths. Whereas Qui-Gon's economy of motion and clipped, almost quiet style displayed his discipline and afforded him the opportunity to use his tight control to his enemy's disadvantage, Obi-Wan's expansive movements barreled through his opponents with sheer energy. Qui-Gon knew he practiced those flips on his own; his teacher had a decided preference for remaining planted firmly on the ground, and had refined that tendency to the point where, in Obi-Wan's initial training, he had given only token weight to jumping. As it became clear where his apprentice's desires lay, however, Qui-Gon had revised his opinions and begun to lay more emphasis on the acrobatics.
Better keep up with my student, he thought wryly, and finished the sequence he was doing with a series of leaps and flips which took him nearly to the high roof of the palace's training arena. You never know when it will come in handy. Perhaps I should turn somersaults over his head tomorrow -- he might be so shocked I'd be able to get in a killing blow! Actually, it wasn't a bad thought; he filed it away for future use. Obi-Wan ought to learn not to get complacent about his opponents' abilities.
Qui-Gon wound down his own drill with a simple lap around the salle. Breathing no harder than usual, he came to a quiet stop near the discarded towel and snagged it on his way towards the showers. Yes, on the whole, a very good day. He looked forward to a pleasant evening as well; he had his own reasons for giving Obi-Wan the night off. A smile crossed his face as he thought of his pretty friend A'le'ila, who had promised him several uninterrupted hours of intelligent conversation and excellent wine "if he sent that sweet child somewhere else for the night."
Obi-Wan would not be thrilled at being described as a sweet child, but since Qui-Gon did not intend to let him know of A'le'ila's existence, let alone her epithet for him, he could take no harm from either.
Obi-Wan dressed, as he always did, with care and pride. It had never been strange to him, to wear the uniform of a Jedi -- he'd been wearing it since he was old enough to walk, an unwanted sixth son suddenly discovered to have both a strong connection to the Force, and a place in the world. But it remained, after all these years, a source of deep comfort. He still shivered when he thought how nearly he had missed the opportunity to ever wear it again. Qui-Gon had saved him less than three weeks from what would have been, as far as he was concerned, oblivion.
So as he jerked his boot-laces tight, he was grateful. He checked in the mirror briefly, making sure that everything was straight, nothing stained. Satisfied that he was at least presentable, he slipped out the door to the Jedi's quarters and teased the lock shut with a whisper of the Force. He had given up clattering down stairs long ago; his boots hit the treads of the stairwell so lightly that nobody not listening could have heard them.
Emerging into the street, he turned right, exchanged a word with the guard, declined an escort, and set off with his robe wrapped tightly around him. It was windy on Deolos, something which his fond memories of the planet always seemed to make him forget. Next time, he promised himself, I'll wear a pair of tunics.
There were no clouds, however -- the upside to the wind -- and the beauty of Deolos was eerie, bathed in starlight. The glow picked out the fine white stone that most buildings were constructed of, making it seem to emanate a light from within, and the clean streamlined architecture reminded Obi-Wan of spaceships poised gently against the rich, pearl-scattered velvet of the sky.
At this time of the evening most Deolians were settled indoors, and Obi-Wan had the silent street to himself. He was almost to his destination, however, and before he became thoroughly distracted, he wanted to check in with Qui-Gon. He pulled the Force to himself and felt it settle into him, gossamer-light threads wrapping his synapses. Grasping one of those threads to himself and extending it, he was startled to find Qui-Gon shielded from him. The shield was not so heavy that, had the need been great, he could not have broken it; but it definitely discouraged casual contact. He was worried for a brief second, but decided that Qui-Gon merely wished to spend time with his own friends -- and without the risk of his apprentice's often-unguarded thoughts seeping across the city. Obi-Wan flushed slightly at the thought that Qui-Gon needed to shield in order to make up for his own shortcomings at keeping his emotions private.
In time, will it come. First, learn control, you must. As always, when he gave himself good advice, his mind took on Yoda's speech patterns. He smiled ruefully, and then, reaching the correct doorway, again with pure pleasure. An evening entirely free from the Jedi Order was a rare occasion. He planned to make the most of it.
The bar was brightly lit and Obi-Wan blinked as he ducked through the door. If the street outside had been quiet, the contrast was immediately evident, as music blared from the speakers and a healthy cross-section of Deolos's youth shared laughter and alcohol. Although he still wore the uniform, Obi-Wan felt a few of the constraints of his position fall away from him. He responded gladly to a wave from one corner of the room, where five Deolians gathered around a table draped with light-giving bubbles.
"Obi-Wan!" they said in greeting as he emerged from the press of people he had ducked through to get to the table. "It is good to see you again, my friend," added Ste'che as he stood to greet the young Jedi.
Ste'che had risen as gracefully from his seat as he did everything else. Obi-Wan met his handsome friend halfway. He set a kiss on Ste'che's left cheek, received one on his own right cheek in turn, and then leaned in to end the greeting by joining his lips to Ste'che's. The two shared a secret smile; the greeting, outwardly proper and formal, held a promise of more to come later that night. Obi-Wan shivered at a sudden, perfect sense memory of the last time he had been on Deolos.
Not too much time to reflect on that, although Obi-Wan's pulse had quickened at the last kiss. The other four were crowding round him now, exchanging kisses with a casual familiarity that Obi-Wan reveled in. He was drawn into the group again with warmth and kindness, and all six teenagers quickly settled back around the table as Ll'aus'ta gestured for more wine. Obi-Wan saw with pleasure that a sixth glass was already in place on the table. "You expected me?" he said, indicating the glass.
Ll'aus'ta shook her head as she poured out the next round. "We weren't sure exactly when you'd be coming, they only told us the Jedi would be arriving shortly. And anyway, who knew if Qui-Gon would let you off for a whole evening?"
"Seeing as he doesn't spend nearly enough time training you as it is," Ste'che added with a straight face.
"Of course," his sister continued placidly. "We know you can never spend enough time in your Master's company." Obi-Wan blushed faintly at the teasing, but smiled readily enough. Ll'aus'ta returned the smile and spoke again. "No, we hoped you'd be here one of these nights, but the glass was intended for someone else. A human like you, Obi-Wan, but older. A recent conquest of Ste'che's."
Now it was the Deolian's turn to blush, although it was hard to tell under his light blue skin. Obi-Wan's heart clenched slightly. Of course Ste had a perfect right to 'conquer' whomever he chose, and Obi-Wan had always known that he did. Didn't mean he had to like hearing about it, though.
"Ll'aus'ta exaggerates," Ste'che said mildly, but with a quick glance at Obi-Wan. "Manto is only a friend." Obi-Wan could not deny the quick flash of relief he felt. "You'll like him, Obi-Wan; he spent most of his childhood on Coruscant, and I think he's traveled since then even more than you have. You should have a lot in common."
Obi-Wan grinned, his quick downturn in spirits as quickly forgotten. "I'm sure I will," he said, and raised his glass, borrowed from the absent Manto, to his friends.
Qui-Gon dropped his head back against the couch, more relaxed than he had been in a long time -- since the last time he'd visited A'le'ila, to be precise. Dinner had been long and leisurely, with only three well-chosen guests, all of whom -- save Qui-Gon -- were now on their separate ways home. The Jedi, as he'd expected, had received a faint tug on his sleeve in passing which said he was to stay.
A'le'ila had settled with her head in his lap and was playing idly with a strand of his hair. The planet's trade commissioner, her skin glowing the delicate green of new shoots, sighed contentedly. "I'm glad you've come, Qui-Gon," she murmured. "Although no doubt you've used your Jedi arts to discover that already."
"Mmmm. I'm often forced to use them in order to comprehend the feelings of one so inscrutable as yourself, honorable commissioner," Qui-Gon said drily, and was rewarded with a laugh deep in the Deolian's throat.
"Such a mystery, am I?" She half-raised herself, and Qui-Gon bent his head to meet hers. The kiss was sweet, familiar, and Qui-Gon regretted having to break away from it.
"A'le'ila Zedor," he said, giving her her title in her own language, "After we do this I shall be good for nothing but foolish grinning for the rest of the night. And you did promise me conversation and wine if I sent my apprentice away."
She accepted the compliment with grace equal to that with which it had been given, inclining her head. "You've had both already. However, if you wish to wait, we shall." She lowered herself back down to his lap. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Why do you think I've already selected a topic?" His hostess said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. Qui-Gon gave in. "Too fast for me, lady. All right, then. I do have a question." He paused to take a sip of wine, and decided on bluntness. "Can this peace possibly be as firm as it seems?"
A'le'ila was quiet for so long that Qui-Gon began to truly worry about the answer to his question. He had thought that relations between the two factions were, in fact, as good as they appeared. Could he have been wrong, after all?
Finally the Deolian spoke, letting the lock of hair she had continued to fidget with fall back to Qui-Gon's chest. "On the whole, I think you need not worry. The leaders you met this morning have truly worked well with each other; they are friends now and will cause no disturbance if they can help it, will try to fight it if it arises within their own ranks." She paused, pursing her lips. "There are a few young people, around the same age as your apprentice or a little older, who have begun to catch the attention of myself and a few other leaders, though. They take a great pride in their affiliation, even wear clothing to match. This might not be so bad in itself, but fights between small groups have been reported in the last few months. Rest assured, though, I am keeping a close and personal eye on the whole situation. I've even discussed an official response with Ell'art Zedor, although we're waiting a while for that -- we don't want anyone to get unduly alarmed."
A crease had appeared between Qui-Gon's brows as she spoke, the fact that it showed at all a measure of the trust he placed in her. "Why were the Jedi not told of this before now, in a slightly more formal setting?" he asked, deliberately neutral. He must take care not to forget that A'le'ila, however out of the ordinary, was a member of the Chcloss faction herself.
He studied her closely as she weighed her reply. "Not everyone you spoke with today knows of this, Qui-Gon. It has not become such a problem that it is generally noticed outside the circles of the young. I make it a point to keep my eye on that sector of the population. Most do not. And, as I said, Ell'art and I do not wish to worry anyone without cause. You should not worry either; I don't think very many people are involved in this. It's certainly nothing urgent at this point."
Qui-Gon accepted the answer, but knew he would talk it over with Obi-Wan later. He wondered if the boy would see any signs of trouble tonight; perhaps it would be a good idea for him to do some digging in the next couple of days.
He put all thoughts of his apprentice out of his mind, then, to take the advice he gave Obi-Wan all too often: concentrate on the moment. He looked down at A'le'ila, her hair fanned out, waiting amused but patient for him to decide if he needed to know anything else. Yes. The moment. He ran his thumb over the curve of her cheek.
"Hold on," Obi-Wan said. "Could you repeat that, Ja'oli?"
The Deolian's blue face was flushed from the wine. "I said that Me'au'oa is a seudita Chcloss, Obi-Wan."
The tone was aggressive, the word so filthy that there was no good equivalent in Standard. And Ja'oli had finished by making a reference to this girl's faction. Obi-Wan was not anything like drunk enough to let that pass by. "What's she done?" he asked, exerting the Force cautiously to be sure he got an accurate answer. He wished he hadn't drunk quite so much, it certainly was easier to control sober.
Ll'aus'ta answered for Ja'oli. "She's the Chcloss standing by that table over there." She pointed cautiously. "She led the Chclisi, that's the six of them at the table, against Ta'bo'an's Tatili last week, and four of them are still in bed. They can't get medical care because they'd be arrested for fighting. The Chclisi are ruthless, but Me'au'oa is the worst of them all."
Obi-wan sorted through the implications of her words and came up with one result: tell Qui-Gon, but get more information first. "Let me be sure I'm right," he began slowly. He's always trying to teach me not to jump to conclusions. Diplomacy Corps, here I come.... "There is faction fighting going on again?"
Ll'aus'ta nodded. She seemed surprised. "Didn't you know, Obi-Wan? It's not the officials, maybe that's why not. But we--" she struck her chest with a clenched fist "--we saw the Chcloss rising again, and we could not let that happen. The Toreo must survive on this planet."
Ste'che, next to him, seemed to suddenly sense the change in Obi-Wan's mood. "Obi-Wan, she's right," he said soberly. He took Obi-Wan's hand under the table. "We're all Toreo; in the conflict we saw our families almost wiped out by the Chcloss. They're more powerful, there are more of them. Their old men and women may be reconciled to us now, but those our age are jealous and proud. They'd willingly take us from this life just as their elders took ours. We have to at least defend ourselves."
Obi-Wan looked around the table. Each of the five Deolians, all blue-skinned, was nodding agreement. Could they be right? he wondered. He trusted them; if they said they were being threatened.... He looked over at the table Ll'aus'ta had indicated earlier. The six green-skinned Chcloss were dressed in deep jades and emeralds. He couldn't read the glance the leader cast at him when she noticed his scrutiny of her group, but she immediately turned back to her friends and said something which caused them to laugh, low and dangerous. Obi-Wan snapped his attention back to his own table. Why had he not noticed before that everything each of them wore was blue, complementing the tones of their skin? Perhaps because there had been absolutely no hint of trouble anywhere the Jedi had gone today. Ja'oli was glaring at the other table.
He looked uncertainly at Ste'che, whose hand he still held. "Obi-Wan, it can't be helped," the other boy said. "We don't like to fight, and we only do when we have to, but you must understand that we have to be ready. Almost everyone our age in the city has joined a hliri."
The word he'd used meant something like a small group of friends, halfway between clique and gang. Obi-Wan squeezed his friend's hand and let it go. "All right, Ste'che," he said. He stayed seated for a few moments more, planning his strategy; he'd have to go through Qui-Gon's shield after all, this was important enough. He wished he didn't have to cut his evening off. It had been so wonderful, until Ja'oli had taken one more glass of the purple wine than he should have done. He doubted he'd be able to justify saving this until the morning, though, and he had absolutely no desire to be reprimanded for that level of negligence. Qui-Gon was strict enough about small mistakes. He permitted himself one small pang of regret for the lost night with Ste'che. Some other time. Well. If I claim I've been summoned by Qui-Gon, I can leave and start to deal with that shield once I'm alone outside.
He feigned surprise, jerking his chin up and staring at a point above De'il'a's head, across the table. After a few seconds he nodded briefly, then brought his eyes back down to find them all, as expected, looking inquisitively at him. "It's Qui-Gon," he explained. "He wants me back for something, didn't tell me what. I've got to go -- I'm sorry." Sorry about the lie, my friends. He said the last two words especially to Ste'che, sending his regret through his eyes.
The five Deolians voiced their own regrets. "He might have kept his promise -- what can be so urgent it can't be dealt with in the morning?" Ste'che grumbled, but he knew well that Obi-Wan would never defy his master by delaying even a few minutes. The ritual of the kiss was repeated in reverse between Obi-Wan and all five of the others. The Jedi held Ste'che's hands a moment longer than was really necessary, but just as he was about to turn away, the other boy looked past him with pleased surprise. "Manto! You're just in time. I thought you were going to miss meeting our good friend." Obi-Wan turned to face the same direction as his friend and felt his heart seize with terror.
It was Xanatos.
Obi-Wan's second of inaction was fatal. Staring at his master's former apprentice, the one who had turned to the Dark Side, who had almost killed both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan on their second mission together, Obi-Wan panicked. He floundered, grasped for the Force, failed utterly. It was too late. He was wrapped in a cocoon -- the kind of web a tarantula must weave, he thought somewhat hysterically -- stronger than anything Qui-Gon had ever put on him, even to hold him still long enough for healing. This is not meant for healing, he told himself.
Very perceptive, someone said into his mind, and suddenly Obi-Wan felt filthy. No one but Qui-Gon had ever spoken to him in that manner. Jedi usually waited to be asked. Just hold still, my friend. This won't take long. Obi-Wan wanted to shudder, but he couldn't even control his body enough to do that, let alone scream, run, draw his lightsaber, or any of the other thousand things he would have given up years of life to be able to do. He could only take a deep breath, which he did, and feel himself give Xanatos the kiss of greeting. His lips seemed to shrivel against the other's.
"This is a surprise," he heard himself say to the others. "We have met before."
Ll'aus'ta looked confused, bless her. "But Obi-Wan, you didn't say anything when we told you his name."
"Manto is a nickname only," Xanatos interposed smoothly. "When Obi-Wan and I knew each other I went by my full name."
Ll'aus'ta accepted this. Why not? thought Obi-Wan despairingly. It's even true, up to a point.
"But Obi-Wan is just on his way back to his master," Ste'che said regretfully. "Will you join us, Manto?"
Xanatos shook his head, glossy black hair rippling. Obi-Wan noted dully that he had dressed entirely in blue. What is he up to? But there was little time to wonder.
"I have not seen Obi-Wan in a long time. I'll walk him back to the palace -- that is where the Jedi would be staying? -- and we can talk on the way." He paused. "Would you like to come, Ste'che? I could use some company on the way back."
No! Obi-Wan's mind cried out. No, stay here, stay here, please, let me be the only one he takes!
Of course Ste'che did not hear him. He said a quick farewell of his own to his friends and his sister, mindful of the danger of keeping Obi-Wan away any longer. Xanatos smiled, friendly, at Obi-Wan, and drew the boy's arm through his own, Ste'che falling in on the other side as they went out the door and into the dead and empty street.
Obi-Wan felt naked and smothered at the same time. The Force had been stripped away from him, leaving him totally exposed, and yet there it was, stifling him, allowing him no options. He watched, helpless, as Ste'che too was bound under Xanatos' seemingly endless command of the Dark Side. The other boy had time to cast him one look of disgust in the moment between realization and invasion.
He'd been put to sleep at the end of their journey with the ease of lifting a hand, tossed roughly into a dark void where he lost touch with even the control he still had over his mind. He had awakened flat on his back, aware that the Force no longer swaddled him, that it was in fact available for his use. Joy surging through him, he had clutched for it, sent a pulse of distress -- Qui-Gon! -- only to find that the room at a minimum, and perhaps the entire house, was shielded. Somehow he knew the shields were smooth, inside and out. He damped down the rush of despair, allowed himself to be calm as Qui-Gon had taught him. If he could not control his surroundings he would control himself. A way would open.
Floating in his fragile calm, he knew he needed to find out more about his prison. He sat up carefully, surprised to have no headache, no soreness of any kind. The amount of power exerted on him last night should have left him aching. Encouraged, if puzzled, he looked around and had yet another shock.
Well, what were you expecting? Straw and rats? The room was large and sunny, furnished with an eye to comfort and taste. Desk, chair, and sleeping couch were all of white oak, burnished in the sunlight of a very early morning. There were two pillows on the sleeping couch; an open armoire at the end of the room held blankets. Most miraculous of all, the windows were not only glass merely, without bars, but one of them was open.
What is he doing? Obi-Wan knew it was pointless, but felt obligated to try anyway. Sure enough, one step too close to that tantalizingly open window brought him up against a wall of shields, and there was where the pain waited, a numbing shock to the hand that the Jedi, cautiously, had held out in front of him.
Obi-Wan leapt back, clutching his hand. The pain rocked his fragile concentration. He clung to it, coaxed it back into place like a cloak around him. The room was inviting but Obi-Wan had no doubt it was riddled with traps, just waiting to be tripped. Xanatos' style: concealing and revealing, he remembered Qui-Gon saying. A pile of clothing caught his eye, half-buried under the unused pillows of the sleeping couch, and he blushed both for his nakedness and his failure to realize this salient fact earlier, and then again in rage at the thought of Xanatos undressing him, or worse, using the Force to make him remove his own clothing.
Half-expecting another energy bolt, he walked cautiously across the room and picked up what had been left for him, a pair of loose pants and a simple smock. He pulled them on quickly, missing the heavy weight of Jedi clothing, the rough swirl of his cloak, the stiffness of his boots. Not the biggest thing he had to regret, though, and, prison explored, he sank into the lotus position with his back against the couch and set himself to remember everything he knew about Qui-Gon's failed apprentice.
Qui-Gon has had three Padawans. The first became a Jedi Knight. The third is me. The second is Xanatos. He was a rich man's son but gave it up to follow the Jedi. Qui-Gon loved him as a son. He was overprotective. Xanatos was a bully, but good at lying to Qui-Gon. He was proud. At the end of his training he threw over the way of the Jedi, helped his father make war on his own people out of greed and ambition. Qui-Gon killed his father. Obi-Wan felt the tiny rush of pride which came whenever he thought of Qui-Gon's accomplishments. He drew on Qui-Gon and they fought, but Qui-Gon could not kill him. He escaped, and did not give up his lightsaber. He adheres to the Dark Side and the Force is strong with him. He is ruthless, very intelligent, over-confident, still ambitious, still greedy, still proud. He always has a back door. He is tricky and he plays games. He wishes to harm me both to hurt Qui-Gon and to take revenge on me for the other time we met.
That was all, a pitiful store of knowledge, but perhaps some of it might be of use. He hoped Ste'che was all right. The look he had seen in his friend's eyes, aimed directly at him, had hurt. After this was over -- it will be over -- he would explain. If he could. He steadily ignored the fear which pulsed beyond the armor of the Force. It had its own place, it could stay there. He would explore the boundaries of the shield. He would be still. A way --
The door opened instead, and Xanatos walked in. Handsome, confident, marred only by a scar on his cheek in the shape of a broken circle, the Dark Jedi paused in the doorway and did not speak. Obi-Wan was not stupid; he knew better than to move or speak first. He let the Force whisper to him, and he waited.
The silence stretched. It was Xanatos who broke first, setting one booted foot against the door frame. Obi-Wan suddenly felt very aware of his own bare feet.
"I believe it is customary at times like these to say something along the lines of 'So, we meet again, Obi-Wan Kenobi,'" Xanatos said. He was not smiling. "But I'm not interested in prolonging this. Your master will know very soon that you are missing, as soon as he returns to your quarters. It's in my interest, for now, that he not know I'm involved in what is going to happen to you. His response has to be to others, not to me. So, much as I'd like to draw this out, it's going to have to be quick."
Xanatos paused to consider Obi-Wan's reaction, which was outwardly minimal. "What are you going to do?" the boy asked, tone as blank as any Xanatos had ever heard from Qui-Gon. He was being taught well, and the thought sent a flare of pure fury spiking through the Dark Jedi. He welcomed it, used it to feed the shield around the room. It was crucial that what happened next not be allowed to get through to Qui-Gon, and Xanatos knew from long and patient study just how powerful this Obi-Wan had the potential to be.
He took a step into the room, then two. The boy didn't move from his seat in front of the sleeping couch, but Xanatos saw his shoulders move back fractionally, pressing him closer to the furniture. Good. There was much fear in him already. "I'm going to find out everything you know about Qui-Gon," he said simply. "Every detail, every look he's ever given you, every scrap of approval he's tossed your way, every punishment he's handed down. Every rumor you've ever heard about his past." And now he used the Force, almost laughed at the power he rode, he wrestled, he contained, he controlled. He lifted the boy to his feet, and though Obi-Wan tried hard to use the Force he had about him, his control was too shaky, his outrage and fear too strong, and Xanatos easily shrugged it aside. He didn't even bother to lock a looped shield between Obi-Wan and the Force, the way he'd done last night. He could see how his contempt stung the Jedi, pushed him to higher levels of emotional turmoil. It was as good a block on the boy's use of the Force as any shield he could have invented himself. He took three steps forward and looked straight into Obi-Wan's eyes. "And you're going to tell me, and then I'm going to kill you, just as I killed your friend."
No warning, but his lightsaber, set to a low power, was in his hand, and he swept it down against Obi-Wan's unprotected chest. The scream, though devoid of the information he sought, was satisfying.
So this is what I need in order to relax, Qui-Gon thought as he slipped out the back door to A'le'ila's house in the dark hour before dawn. He had declined her offer of a bed to sleep in, an honor he knew she rarely accorded to anyone, even the rarefied few she permitted to share that bed for a few hours. He hadn't been sorry to decline; he never slept easy these days unless his apprentice was across the room. That was home, and Qui-Gon sent a wordless thank-you to whatever gods were listening for the gift of this boy, so different from the last one.
It had been good, with A'le'ila, nonetheless, although she was not home. It always was. He trusted few people as he trusted her. She had not asked that he stay twice, accepting the decision without comment, and had instead offered what he could accept with pleasure, an oiled massage which actually brought on a second round. Qui-Gon had been incredulous. "You are a fountain of youth," he had said to her, laughing. And after they finished that, she'd insisted on completing the interrupted massage. Qui-Gon had decided he would simply leave all his bones lying on her bedroom floor, where she'd tossed them as non-essential, and merely ask for a cart to get what remained of him back to his quarters.
After all of which, here he was, and he supposed he might almost as well have stayed to sleep the night. He hoped Obi-Wan wasn't worried about him, but when he cast about for any sign of his apprentice's distress, he found nothing. Probably sound asleep hours ago.
He reached the barracks their room was located in shortly after; the trade commissioner's house was on the palace grounds and not so very far from the guards' cluster. They'd been offered more luxurious accommodations on their arrival, but had chosen rather to be as close to the salle as possible. All right, Qui-Gon amended. I chose. But I don't think he minded too much. Easier to just go out from a barracks than an ambassador's apartment of state. He brushed the Force across the eyes of the guard at the front of the building; he didn't really want to talk to anyone, even a courtesy greeting. Oh, I feel good. And old. And ready to sleep for a week. He climbed the stairs, concentrating on being weightless, and twitched the lock that Obi-Wan had set hours ago -- wait. Hours ago. This hasn't been disturbed since he went out just after the workout! Qui-Gon realized with a jolt. His mood shifted abruptly and he almost jerked the door open.
The room was quite empty. There was only a bathing room beyond, and Qui-Gon knew it was unoccupied. Don't panic, he told himself. There's at least one good reason he could be out this late -- the same one you have. Just check. He settled himself on his own bed, leaning against a pillow. The tension he'd thought completely drained by the night's activities was back in his shoulders with a vengeance, but he ignored it, sent the fear away, sent away the pain. He was one with the Force. Obi-Wan, he said gently. No response. He hadn't really been expecting one. He tried again, this time submerging deeper. He scanned the city, and as much of the countryside as he could reach, maintaining a strict hold on himself. Finally admitting defeat, he released the Force and sank back.
Obi-Wan was not worried. He was not in pain. He was not happy. He was not shielded from Qui-Gon. He simply...was not. The Force did not know him.
Xanatos brought the saber down yet again, this time across his captive's shoulders. The boy knew it was coming, by now, and didn't cry out.
"We can get started any time you like, Obi-Wan," Xanatos said. "You can tell me about the first time you heard Qui-Gon mentioned. When was it?" The boy's mouth remained stubbornly shut, although Xanatos set the tip of the saber against his wrist and held it there until the flesh smoked. Obi-Wan's eyes strayed to the wrist, fascinated, but he snapped his head back to stare blankly a little to Xanatos' right.
"No," the boy said unexpectedly. Xanatos was pleased, but a little surprised. Perhaps some headway was being made, after all.
"Call me 'Master,'" he suggested pleasantly. The word would be a big step on the way to being granted access. All he got in return, though, was a soft sound, halfway between a laugh and a snort.
This would not do. He did not have the time. Qui-Gon would be home soon, it was a good hour past dawn and even if that pretty commissioner was as wearing as Xanatos had heard, his former master had always been an early riser. It had taken too long to bring the boys here, too long to deal with the other, too long to cover his tracks in the Force, too long, now, to get what he needed out of this stubborn baby Jedi with the ridiculous martyr complex. He wanted very badly to set the saber to a higher level -- everyone had his breaking point and more could often be learned through relative delicacy -- but sometimes, he had learned through experimentation, it was better just to smash his way through and worry about any details he might have missed, later.
"Look at me," he said abruptly, and when Obi-Wan didn't he emphasized the command with a sharp tap of the saber. Obi-Wan's gaze rose to the bridge of Xanatos' nose. He knows somehow that this is something dangerous. Smart child. Make me do it the hard way. The Dark Jedi seized the Force and wrapped it around Obi-Wan's eyeballs, dragging them up, forcing them to focus on his own. He only needed to hold them a split second -- and he was through, ripping down the boy's mental barriers, shredding them and tossing them aside like so much trash, raking through his memory. There was one section which might as well have been labeled 'Qui- Gon,' so clearly did the Jedi Master's imprint shine. Good boy. Don't be subtle. Make it easy for me. Xanatos took all of the thoughts and memories in that category, sorted them out. Most were relatively mundane, although even those might have their uses. One at least was deeply -- interesting. He wondered if the boy was even aware he had this, it was so well-buried under a stack of other thoughts. That might have been something in a few years. I wonder what Qui- Gon's opinion on the subject is? Probably nothing, knowing the insanely heavy conscience of the other man. He wouldn't take it if it was offered to him on a platter, if he thought it was only hero-worship. He could figure out a good use for the information later, though. First he did a cursory check of the boy's other mental systems, trying to dredge up any more hidden tidbits of Qui-Gon's presence. It would have been easier to do if he had been let in by an exhausted or defeated Obi-Wan; that he could overcome the resistence without too much trouble didn't mean he'd wanted to. But there was enough, easily findable, that he was pleased to discover that the forced blunt tactics had probably been not too bad a second choice, after all.
He withdrew from the young Jedi's mind and stepped back. He had been too absorbed in his task to really monitor the boy's reaction to his brutal invasion, but he was more than happy to study the fallout now.
The lightsaber had left ugly burns wherever it had struck and they stood out against the boy's flesh. I'll have to leave his own saber a few feet from him, as though those thugs had hit him with it before he died. Better, though -- much better -- was the expression on his face and the knot of horror Xanatos could feel without even reaching out through the Force. I suppose that pays for your part in my last meeting with Qui-Gon. It's a good thing for you we won't meet again, boy -- I'd have to find a way to make you hurt even more.
"Stay there," he said aloud, and knew that Obi-Wan heard him. "I'll be back for you soon." He didn't bother to close the door on his way out.
Qui-Gon ripped off the informal tunic he had dined in and dug through his bag for the most impressive item of clothing he owned, the rank-bearing robe of a full Jedi Master. He jerked it down over his head. What if he tried to contact me and couldn't get through the shield? Oh, Obi-Wan! The worst part was that he couldn't ask anyone who knew the planet better for help. If Obi-Wan's disappearance was a result of renewed faction fighting -- and that was one cause Qui-Gon could not rule out, given his conversation with A'le'ila last night, which loomed larger and larger in his thoughts with each passing second -- then he could not be sure in whom he could trust. Even A'le'ila. The thought sent a flash of pain down his spine, but he did not shove the fear and pain into the tiniest spot he could. That was an apprentice's mistake. Instead he gathered it all to him, clenched it in one mental fist -- and then released it. He felt it dissipate as he wrapped his dark brown cloak over the robe. No need to advertise himself. He was strong in the Force.
He reversed his earlier course, this time nodding to the guard. "Have you been on duty all night?" he asked. It was not quite dawn; perhaps the man had not yet been relieved. When the guard nodded, Qui-Gon sighed in relief. "Did you see my apprentice leave here yesterday evening? He's young, but he would have worn a brown cloak like mine."
"Oh, I know him, sir," the guard said. "Yeah, he left right after I came on. You're in luck."
I don't believe in luck. "He's not," Qui-Gon said sternly. "He didn't come back on time."
The guard rolled his eyes in sympathy for the absent Obi-Wan. "You probably don't need to look too far for him, sir. He turned right. Young kid like that, out for a night -- the bars over towards Tir'lia."
"Towards Tir'lia it is. Thanks, my friend." Qui-Gon inclined his head and set out at a brisk walk, a grim look on his face. Let him have met his friends someplace big and public. Someplace that many people have to have seen him.
The fifth bar he came to was the one. The girl who opened the door to him was sweeping broken glass up just outside the entrance to the kitchen when he knocked. Qui-Gon brushed her mind, soothing, coaxing. "Where's your master?" he asked.
The girl pointed with the broom end. "Out back. Gwan out if you like." Qui-Gon thanked her and ducked through the low door. Everyone here is so short!
The man in the courtyard was as blue-skinned as his girl. He recognized Qui-Gon's cloak immediately and bowed, looking up nervously. "Don't be afraid," Qui-Gon said quietly. "It's not about you or your establishment. I'm looking for someone -- a boy, sixteen years old, with short brown hair and a braid like so --" he indicated the Padawan braid with his hand "-- he would have been wearing a cloak like mine. Did you see him last night? I think he was meeting someone."
The bar's owner didn't have to even pause to think. He scowled. "Oh yes. He was with Ste'che and those idiot Torendi. Stupid children -- we just finished a lifetime of war! What do they want to go provoking the Chcloss for? Your boy's friends would've challenged the Chclisi right in the damn bar if I hadn't stopped 'em." The Deolian paused reflectively. "Course, that was after yours left. Took Ste'che and that human he's so thick with these days with him."
Qui-Gon stopped him, seeing that he was about to continue his rant against the young Deolians. That was interesting enough in itself, and put A'le'ila's information into a more alarming light, but he had to leave it until he found Obi-Wan. Ste'che, he remembered, was the son of a leading Toreo businessman who'd been a part of the initial peace delegation. He and Obi-Wan were almost exactly the same age. Another human in the party, though? "Who was the human?" he asked casually. "Do you know where he comes from?"
The Deolian shook his head. "Quiet type, that one. Seemed to know your boy from somewhere, kissed him real friendly. Little shorter than you, sir, black hair, always wears the blue." He indicated his own clothes, a sober brown. "Always watching Ste. Seems nice enough. Oh -- of course. Scar on his cheek, like a circle with a chunk taken out. Is he friends with your boy?"
Obi-Wan curled around himself on the floor. He hadn't even been able to reach the bed. The Force was not being kept from him by Xanatos, but he couldn't reach it, nonetheless. He wanted to whimper, but what if Xanatos heard? Not that it mattered. Everything had been taken anyway, there was nothing new left to find out.
He tried to concentrate on the itch and sting of the lightsaber burns. Focus enough, and you can make that go away. Accept the pain, welcome it, heal it -- come on, you know what to do! But he couldn't use the Force. His mind was a messier wound than the stripy burns on his body. He felt as if his whole head should be bloody, little rags of flesh hanging off where his barriers had been. He was laid open as surely as if Xanatos had used a whip.
The Dark Jedi was still in his mind; he could feel traces of the man clinging like damp cobwebs. Dirty, like the rest of him. He couldn't bear to think of Qui-Gon. He'd tried several times, but everything connected with his master -- his mind even hissed at the very word -- was twice as rawly painful as the rest of his mind.
Trapped, with the window open just a few feet away. If it weren't happening to him he might have laughed at the comedy of that. That window beckoned. But Xanatos controlled the window, just as he controlled Obi-Wan. There was no escape from this room except the one the Dark Jedi allowed.
Dimly he knew that beyond this room terrible things were happening. If he could believe Xanatos, Ste'che was already dead. He wished he could care. When the door darkened again, after a length of time he could not measure, he couldn't even bring himself to flinch away from his own coming pain. He knew it was time to go.
Qui-Gon knew now what he was up against, and the knowledge that Obi-Wan was in Xanatos' hands provided all the spur he needed to drive him without ceasing until he found his former apprentice -- and dealt with him once and for all. Grim-faced, he hurried through the streets. Xanatos had a purpose; he knew he had all the clues. They worried away at the ragged edges of his fear for Obi-Wan and he could not collect them into one place.
It was fully morning now. The Force hummed in him. It was giving him so much strength that he knew not much time could remain. Only a short distance from the house of Ste'che's father, though. He hoped the elder Deolian would be able to provide some insight into his son's recent friendship.
He never reached the house. Half a block away a young woman dressed in a blue clear enough to match her skin slipped out of an alleyway and set herself directly in his path. He stopped, uncertain if he recognized her.
She bowed slightly. "I remember you from the final negotiations," she said. "Qui-Gon Jinn, I am Ll'aus'ta Tador."
He inclined his head in turn. "Ll'aus'ta Tador, you have changed a great deal, but I remember you as well." She had been a shy child of eleven, he recalled, brought with her brother to witness the signing of the treaty for which her father had worked so hard. She had a stubborn set to her chin, now, and a worried look in her eyes which resonated with his own -- admit it, Qui-Gon -- fears. "May I serve you?" he asked, hoping desperately that what he sensed was right.
She gestured him to her side and took his arm. They fell into step together, retracing Qui-Gon's earlier path. "Sir, my brother has been missing since last night," she said. "He left the place where we had gathered, left it with Obi-Wan and our friend Manto, very early in the evening. I wasn't really surprised when they didn't return immediately, since Obi-Wan had said you called him, and Manto and Ste'che -- well." She ducked her head slightly.
"Go on," Qui-Gon said gently, though again he had to clench-release the anger which threatened the edges of his consciousness. "I didn't call him, but I believe there may have been some trickery involved."
Ll'aus'ta shot a sideways glance at him. "Or Obi-Wan may have made that part up. He was a little disturbed by some things we had been saying, and I think he wanted to talk to you."
"What things?" he prompted.
"We...were telling him about the faction-fighting that's been happening again." Now she was definitely nervous. Qui-Gon didn't have to try to sense it. "I think the boys may have become mixed up in it." She stopped speaking, and licked her lips. Qui-Gon would have used the Force on her in another second, but suddenly she made up her mind. "Sir, the hliri that my brother heads was challenged four days ago by a group of Chcloss. The meeting is scheduled for this morning, a little under two hours from now. When Ste'che did not return.... I have...begun to fear...that he was ambushed with the other two, in order to prevent him from fighting the Chclisi with us today."
Qui-Gon stopped, drew her back to the shadow of the houses, out of the way of other travellers. A pulse of anger beat steadily in his neck and it took all of his willpower to release it before he spoke to her. A Jedi Master again, he looked long and deep into her eyes. She returned the gaze, obviously afraid of him, but just as clearly telling the truth as he saw it.
"Why are hliri forming again in the city?" he demanded, showing her with his eyes that nothing less than the truth would be acceptable. He did not exert the Force to avoid deception, but he would know if she tried to lie. She only shrugged helplessly, though, and he sensed that the answer, so complex and enormous as to defy rational explanation, would not be of much help in any case. "More to the point, then -- when did you meet this...Manto?" He could not help the slight twitch of disgust that pulled one corner of his mouth, and he saw her surprise.
"About four months ago, sir. He and Ste'che became very fast friends. He helped to train the Torendi, he knew a lot about fighting."
"Do you know where he lives?"
She frowned slightly. "No, I've never been. What does Manto have to do with this? It's the Chclisi I'd be more interested in finding."
"I wish I were too," Qui-Gon said softly. Things were beginning to come clear to him. The Force swept through him, gave him glimpses of a future playing out. Oh, Xanatos was clever. If Qui-Gon had done one small thing differently -- stayed the night with A'le'ila and come home too late, gone to a different bar-district in search of his apprentice, come only a short time before or after to the Tador household so that he met with the father rather than the daughter.... He had no doubt Obi-Wan's body would be very artfully arranged, probably along with that of Ste'che's and a few suitable clues to point the way towards some group of Chcloss. If that could not have started the faction fighting again, nothing would. And Qui-Gon knew, with some shame, that being given the body of his dead apprentice would probably have inspired him to allow that fighting to happen. He might even have sought out Obi-Wan's supposed murderers and dealt with them himself. How Xanatos, hidden in the shadows, would have laughed! Qui-Gon shivered. His own destruction, as well as his apprentice's, would have been assured.
There would be time to dwell on that later. Not for the first time, Qui-Gon cursed the weakness which made him susceptible to his former apprentice's manipulation. But he knew now, he was certain of it, and better, he knew what he had to do.
"Ll'aus'ta," he said. "You'll have to show me where this fight would have been."
"Master," Obi-Wan said, almost under his breath. Was that good enough? He had his answer when the lightsaber caressed an already-painful burn. "Master!" he yelped quickly, much louder.
That was enough. Misery clamped down on what was left of his consciousness. The Force was a dream far beyond the reaches of his universe, which right now consisted of himself, the tall man next to him, and the body on the floor. But the lightsaber removed itself and he almost gasped in the purity of his relief. He could do this. It would only be a little while longer.
"Pick him up," the man said.
He did not resist. No point. Save his strength, that was the thing. He concentrated so hard on not falling when he bent that it came as a surprise to find himself crumpling after all, took him a moment to realize that a burning strike of the saber against his shoulders had actually sent him toppling to the floor. He landed hard. Sweat and dust stung his back.
"Apprentice mine, you know what to say when a command is given."
"Yes, master," he said softly, no defiance in his tone, and he was allowed to push himself up, to take the body of his friend in a hold over one shoulder.
Xanatos smiled to himself. Yes, blunt tactics could be fruitful. The boy was so drained by the experience of having his mind half-raped away that it took very little to get him making the right noises. Xanatos stored each one of them carefully away. One day, long after today, he would come directly to Qui-Gon. He would present these memories, show Qui-Gon, not tell him, how the boy had felt, how he had been broken, how he had died. It would be the final touch, although in the time which stretched between now and then, he would use what he had learned in the pillage of Obi-Wan's mind to make Qui-Gon ready for the blow. Hundreds of ways to undermine the Jedi Master's calm composure presented themselves, a crystal path branching into a delta. Qui-Gon would turn himself to the Dark Side through his own actions after his apprentice died in the faction fighting of Deolos. Imagining it sent shards of pleasure through Xanatos' brain. It might have been easier to turn the new apprentice rather than the master, but this would give Xanatos infinitely more satisfaction. It began here, now, with a death. And a revenge.
I wish it weren't so noticeable when a six-foot-four Jedi Master breaks into a dead run. Qui-Gon quickened his pace regardless, squinting into the sun. He saw Ll'aus'ta, forced to lengthen her strides as well, shoot him a resentful glance. She did not know, because Qui-Gon had not explained it to her, why they were moving so fast. The fight was not for hours yet.
By then it would be too late. Qui-Gon prayed as the Jedi did, by releasing himself into the Force, that he might be in time. Please, was the substance of the prayer, although it had no words. Please let me change the course of this path.
Obi-Wan did as he was told and set Ste'che's body down against the wall which ended the blind alleyway. He knew vaguely that he was close to coming full circle, very near to the bar he had left last night, back before the nightmare had truly begun.
Xanatos had cloaked their passage with the Force. Obi-Wan had watched the eyes of everyone they passed slide over and through their forms, as if they weren't even there. Obi-Wan wondered how he was hiding his profligate use of the Force from Qui-Gon. Mysterious, are the ways of the Dark Side.
The thought of Yoda rose unbidden from the morass of his mind, somehow untainted with any stink of Xanatos. He clung to the tiny spar which had been flung to him.
He winced at the sound of the Dark Jedi's voice. It told him to drape himself across his friend's body. The artist did not take much time with his creation, but he made sure maximum damage from the saber-burns would be on display. Finally, he removed something from the interior of one of his vast sleeves and set it near the two boys, one living, one dead, though the object was not quite close enough to touch. Obi-Wan saw what it was, and his pulse quickened.
"Ah-ah," Xanatos warned, and Obi-Wan's attention returned to him instantly. "No, my...apprentice, it's not for you." Obi-Wan thought he might have said more, but the alleyway exploded and he had no more time.
Qui-Gon did not stop to assess the situation more carefully. He simply acted, used the Force to bring an entire wall crumbling down, sealing off the little heap of bodies at the end of the alley and compelling Xanatos to concentrate on him.
He shed his robe in the first seconds of the battle, as Xanatos did. There was not much space. Qui-Gon deliberately crowded his former apprentice against the fallen wall, meaning to exploit his own close-up style and Xanatos' old difficulties with footwork. The robe would have only been an encumbrance.
Xanatos sneered at the Jedi Master's formal costume, but had no time for exchanging words. Fast and intricate the battle between them. Cut left, block right, cut high, sang Qui-Gon's mind. The Force filled him with living music. He bound Xanatos' blade up and over, about to twist for a disarm and a kill.
When the wall crumbled between them the first thing Obi-Wan did was to hold still. He thought he knew what had happened, but he did not reach for the Force to be certain, although he had enough training to accept his pain and release his fear. Instead he waited and let his ears work for him. Within ten seconds the hiss of two active lightsabers gave him his answer. Qui-Gon had come at last.
The knowledge left him strangely cold. It still hurt to think about the Jedi, but the parts of his mind concerned with the older man had begun to do what felt like scarring over. But he could not pause to worry that he did not feel. Someone needed him.
He pushed himself to his hands and knees, shuddering when he pulled away from the dead flesh across which he had rested. There it was, within his vision. His lightsaber.
It took time to climb the wall, but he would not use the Force to vault it. It was a heap of brick, easy to scramble over if he had been whole; as it was, he painfully struggled upwards, one-handed as he clung to his saber. He reached the top, and then he jumped.
Qui-Gon stumbled backwards, stung that he had been fooled by the trick. Perhaps he was not so calm as he had believed. The bind had been turned back on him through the simplest of disengagements and he had to duck out of the way quickly to get out of the way of the Dark Jedi's lightsaber.
"Sorry," Xanatos said. "Time to use the back door, Qui-Gon." Breathing harder than his former master, he gathered himself for the jump that would take him to the top of the new 'wall' and away. Qui-Gon guessed he had a speeder hidden on the other side. Time slowed and broke around him like a crashing wave as he started forward, began his own jump, knew that he would be too late.
And then Obi-Wan was there. Not in tune with the Force, but physically present, lightsaber in hand, emerging from the escape route Xanatos had planned, taking the Dark Jedi totally off-guard and knocking his lightsaber out of his hand.
Xanatos looked stunned. He glanced from his still-clenched hand to his former captive, who now held a saber to his throat with a steadiness which belied the purple bruises and angry burns which covered his exposed skin and made Qui-Gon's shoulders ache in sympathy.
Seeing that the boy was not about to immediately end the standoff he had created, the Dark Jedi decided to ignore him, turning towards the one with power. Qui-Gon approached him slowly, warily. Before he could raise his own saber Xanatos spoke.
His words came to Obi-Wan through the noise of a distant sea beating in his ears. It was like the sound the Force made, he thought dreamily, as he heard his former captor tell Qui-Gon that it was impossible for him to kill an unarmed man.
"You failed at it once," Xanatos said, holding Qui-Gon's eyes. "You will again. You can't bring yourself to commit a murder." Obi-Wan sensed another conversation, this one based in ancient memories.
Qui-Gon shook his head wearily. "No, Xanatos, you don't understand. This isn't a murder." He took the final step forward and brought his saber down. "It's an execution."
Two days later, with forty-eight hours of anxiety over Obi-Wan sinking into the past and many more looming in the future, Qui-Gon sat at tea with Ste'che's parents. As he had done with a dozen officials in the interim, including a sorrowing A'le'ila, he discussed methods of defusing the confused but tense situation which now existed between the young men and women of the two factions. It seemed that Xanatos had been stirring them up, but if they were willing to be stirred, Qui-Gon knew, relations between them must have had elements of strain already. It was his next job, as architect of peace, to shore up the stress points. The hliri had to be disbanded, counseled, given something more constructive to do with their time: in short, the entire peace process would have to be gone through again, this time with the youth with whom Qui-Gon felt he should have begun in the first place.
This particular set of officials, though, demanded something more than strategy. He wanted and needed to give them what comfort he could, enhancing his few words with the Force.
The thought of Ste'che led him, inevitably, to Obi-Wan again. How nearly he had escaped the fate of the Deolian's friend! More than friend, he admitted. Obi-Wan was growing up.
Qui-Gon wondered if he would get much further, though. He won't if he doesn't overcome this fear of the Force. I've got to help him get through the mental block. He wasn't certain that last night's actions had been for the best.
The evening's workout had been an unmitigated disaster. Obi-Wan would not grasp the Force. His body was healed, Qui-Gon had seen to that, but he would not take the most tentative step towards healing his mind. Still, driven by a belief that a return to routine would serve them best in beginning to recover from the time -- less than twenty-four hours! Qui-Gon marveled -- that seemed to have broken down three years of training and friendship, Qui-Gon had insisted they at least run through the first level of exercises.
Qui-Gon knew that Obi-Wan was pushing himself to his physical limit, but without the Force he seemed to have lost the spark which had formerly made him so entrancing. "Obi-Wan!" he had called, abruptly halting his own stretch in the middle of a sequence.
His apprentice had stopped immediately, stood straight and shaken his braid over his shoulder. "Sir?" he said, breathing harder than he should.
That was another thing. Obi-Wan would not call him "Master." He had not described, or allowed Qui-Gon to see, most of what Xanatos had done, confining himself to a quick description of being swaddled by the Force during the actual kidnapping and letting his saber burns speak for the rest of it. But it was abundantly clear that more had happened. Qui-Gon simply knew that the best way to inflict more damage was to push for the information he needed in order to heal his apprentice.
It was so frustrating that he could have screamed.
He walked out onto the salle floor. He did not touch his apprentice, instead gesturing towards the mat they had unrolled. Both men sat, Qui-Gon folding himself neatly, Obi-Wan almost collapsing. The Jedi exercises were punishing to a body that did not use the Force.
Qui-Gon had hesitated one more time. He hadn't wanted to do this. It would show too many of his own imperfections to the boy. Nevertheless -- it had seemed to be the only way.
So he had opened his own memories of the last two days, laid them out in careful order. He communicated with his eyes, telling Obi-Wan he would have to use their bond, use the Force, in order to understand what he was doing. He waited long seconds which stretched out like hours, holding his breath. Then he felt the boy's tentative first try, felt him gather his fear to him and then release it, as he had been taught. A minuscule grain of hope began to burn inside the Jedi Master.
He had not reached out, instead staying in the back of his own mind while he watched Obi-Wan look at what was being given to him. He had softened the time with A'le'ila (some things the boy did not need to know) but made no effort to hide the general outline of their actions. In all their dubious glory, the apprentice could see Qui-Gon's fear, his anger at Xanatos, his missteps, his wasted time, and finally the calm, the end of passion which had led to the killing.
When he was finished Obi-Wan had not spoken. He had closed off the link, but Qui-Gon felt him still holding tenuously to the Force, as if afraid to commit to it more fully. He had left the room then, and Qui-Gon had seen no more of him. Although the night had passed without Obi-Wan's presence in the room, he knew the boy was safe; he checked every few minutes to ensure the bond still existed, Obi-Wan still held the Force.
Reviewing the memories, he felt a change in his mind. Like sunshine seeping through a shutter, Obi-Wan permeated him. The bond flared.
A picture appeared, a certain room of a certain house. No words accompanied it, but Qui-Gon made his excuses as soon as he decently could. He had been summoned.
Qui-Gon checked in the doorway before he could truly disturb his apprentice. Obi-Wan stood in the center of the room, eyes wide open yet unfocused. Qui-Gon watched as a bowl lifted itself from the heavy desk, held its position in mid-air for a short time, and then returned to the desktop so gently that it barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that fell in a diffuse pattern across the room. No sooner had the bowl reached a safe landing than the desk's chair scraped out a few inches and levitated in its turn.
One after another each object in the room, from the heavy armoire in the corner down to the light blanket crumpled on the floor by the couch, took its own trip to midair. The performance lasted well over two hours, but although the boy had to stop several times for a brief rest, he never lost the unfocused stare which meant he was completely concentrated on the task at hand, at one with the Force. Qui-Gon stood quietly through all that time, keeping half an eye on the stairs and monitoring his apprentice. If the fine edge of control Obi-Wan maintained had shown signs of deadly stress he would have stepped in in an instant, as ready to cushion a fall as Obi-Wan was to let down the objects he lifted. But the young Jedi's diamond concentration never wavered.
When the last item -- a slim fountain pen from the depths of a desk drawer -- had been returned to its rightful place, Obi-Wan drew a deep breath, expelled it slowly, and seemed to deflate. He blinked, slowly, and turned to face the doorway. His pupils were slightly dilated and he had the dreamy look of one just come from deep trance, but that would pass. He did not say a word or make a gesture, but Qui-Gon felt that now, in truth, the time was right.
He let the Force guide him. This was too difficult for his own human judgement to handle without aid. Now was the moment, he knew, and so he emerged from his half-hidden post on the landing and enfolded his apprentice in his arms. The boy stiffened for half a second, then collapsed so quickly that Qui-Gon might have imagined the sudden awkwardness. There were no tears; none were expected. Qui-Gon could not remember his apprentice crying. But Obi-Wan's face pressed into his shoulder, Obi-Wan's body was fluid against his own.
He formed a name in his thoughts and let it hang, a faceted jewel. Obi-Wan. He did not push, did not even "knock." He simply held the name like a thing of great worth, and waited.
When it came it was not what he had expected, something excruciatingly slow. Instead he was no longer himself. He was of a piece with Obi-Wan's mind. He did not wince away from the still- raw patches. They were important. He shared, with sorrow and without passion, what Xanatos, his own creation, had done in order to take revenge. Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate leads to suffering. The Dark Side showed clearly in Qui-Gon's former apprentice. The Master let him go, as he spun to his thread to completion in the story. Obi-Wan's thread, the important one, continued, as it always would. There were no dead ends for him.
Qui-gon released the meld. For a very short time they stood together at the center of the room. Obi-Wan was the one to break the embrace, slipping out of his master's arms. Each stood straight, perfect mirrors of each other: hands tucked into the sleeves of their robes, heads held high, backs like iron rods. They stared at each other without knowing that they did so; and they did not speak, not even in their minds.
Without warning a tiny smile appeared on Obi-Wan's face, and Qui-Gon saw him make a decision. Not stumbling at all, he walked slowly towards the window, pausing for only a fraction of a second a few feet in front of it, putting his hand slightly in front of him. Where the shock came, Qui-Gon's new memories supplied.
Obi-Wan pushed the frame open the rest of the way and leaned out, looking down. Presumably satisfied with what he saw, he sat on the frame and swung both legs out, twisting his body to get a good purchase on whatever he apparently planned to climb down.
I can get out this way, now. A way he wouldn't allow me, didn't expect me to take. My own back door. The thought was Obi-Wan's, echoing clearly along the bond-link in explanation.
His upper body re-appeared in the window. Their eyes made contact. Qui-Gon felt the bond pulse between them. "Are you coming?" his apprentice said. "Master." The dying sunlight limned his silhouette. He reached out a hand.