Persistence of Blame
By LuvEwan
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Some things are hard to get over. Some things are impossible to forgive.
--
On Meezia he comes to understand he is numb to everything. He sees the blood fly from his skin, his own essence a watery red stain on thick teeth, and the color is his only indication that he has been caught.
It is easier to fight in the numbness, he decides, whipping his green blade in a merciless, deadly arc. Perhaps all Jedi should feel this…lack of feeling. It is about the moment, more than ever. All about killing, surviving, getting to the next mission.
He has never experienced such keen focus.
Transcending the self in the extreme, to the point where he barely acknowledges that the blood- his blood-is saturating his boots as fresh dye would sink into a supple new hide. And it takes him several long, blinking seconds to see that the creature's shorn head has landed between the boots of his silent Padawan.
His Padawan's boots are splattered with innards. The creature's blood was black.
Soon, it is all he can see.
--
He opens one eye and sees his Padawan's back, bowed over a table. He hears the ching of metal knocking metal. He feels the heat of infection, already flaring in the ragged wound on his right bicep.
If he dies, the Force will take him into its infinite warmth.
Obi-Wan rests a cold hand on his forehead. His Padawan is easily chilled, especially in space. "Our ship has been marked by the Meezian government, and by their neighboring systems."
So they will find no merciful planet to land on, to seek medical help, before it is too late.
"But I've found supplies." Obi-Wan continues with a forced touch of brightness. "The antibiotic should prevent any complications."
The assurances are for Obi-Wan alone, Qui-Gon knows. He himself is not touched by fear. Of course the searing bite will tear past any protective wall built by medication, as time hemorrhages in the search for a hospitable world. He wonders with a distant curiosity what will happen to his body, once his mind slips from its boundaries.
Will Obi-Wan blame himself? In this instance, he should not. Even the razored mouth of their enemy could not be the target of hatred. The creature had harmed Qui-Gon, but Qui-Gon ended its life. There was balance in it. Fairness.
And Obi-Wan was a very balanced individual. Levelheaded was how others often described his apprentice. A levelheaded Jedi Padawan did not scream when his teacher was made a near-meal by a mammoth beast, or vomit when a dismembered head rolled to a stop in front of him. He did not panic when the facts swarmed around him, spelling out imminent demise in empty darkness.
When Qui-Gon died on this pallet in this ship during this collapsed assignment, Obi-Wan would do the rational things. The necessary things. Afterward, he would be given a new Master and, in a few more years, become a very levelheaded Jedi Knight.
For someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi, his entire fate seemed written without need of supporting figures. Whether Qui-Gon Jinn or Mace Windu or a servant droid oversaw his instruction, the end result would be identical.
A strobe of anger overrides the throb of the swelling bite. Why would the Force bring Obi-Wan to him, when Qui-Gon could offer him no real impact? And Obi-Wan, what had he brought to Qui-Gon, except death?
--
His woozy sickdreams are little different from his usual dreams. In them, he is with her, and they are together. Her eyes possess the heat of life, love. And she can see, straight through his eyes to his heart.
She is laughing, and every ribboned burst is worse than the pierce of venom, because it is only memory, re-manufactured from an existence sealed off from him half a dozen years ago.
"I would pledge myself to you," she whispers.
--
He opens both eyes. The sting of salve has pried him from sleep.
Obi-Wan, bringing him back.
"I'm just changing your dressings." His Padawan informs him. "They need to stay as clean as possible."
Clean. Levelheaded and clean.
If someone kissed Obi-Wan, he would scrub his skin of the residue. He would not understand what that precious closeness meant. Even though his Padawan saw those last moments, when she was fading and Qui-Gon was grasping onto her, the concept remained foreign to him.
The salve suddenly sinks deeper and Qui-Gon hisses, trying to draw away. It is a feverish delirium that must make him say "Haven't you done enough to me?"
--
In his other dreams, he decides to leave Obi-Wan behind when the boy injures his leg. Without the obstacle, she is rescued. She lives. The days that were never allowed to unfold are now before them, limitless.
--
Still, Obi-Wan is in search of a place that will permit their ship's entrance. He is constantly moving in and out of the room.
Qui-Gon would tell him not to bother, but it would be a waste of breath. And he has less of it, as the hours wear on.
He wades in half-awareness until Obi-Wan presses a palm against his cheek, feeling in vain for coolness. Someone so civil and stern should not be so round-faced, Qui-Gon decides as he looks up at his student. Although, a deep line appears between Obi-Wan's eyebrows when he is worried, something better suited to an old man's features.
"You should eat," Qui-Gon murmurs.
"You should rest," Obi-Wan quietly counters, "and I will make us both something to eat."
--
She loved to eat fruit snapped off branches. He wants to find her in the Force and walk through an orchard forever.
--
Qui-Gon wants to spit out the melon cubes. They taste like the can, which is probably why Obi-Wan has left his helping forgotten on the table behind him. "We're nearly past Meezia's reach. You just have to hold on." Obi-Wan spoons more into Qui-Gon's mouth. "Then we can land and a real physician can see to this. And I can contact the Council about the whole mess."
Qui-Gon wants to say forget the Council, but even in this moment he cannot bring himself to disturb Obi-Wan that badly. Let his loyal Jedi Padawan remain staunchly devoted to the Code and those who guarded it.
"It isn't very serious. Very deep, I mean. It isn't deep." Obi-Wan assures him.
--
But the pain is so deep, so so so so far down in him. She is supposed to be alive and she isn't. She is supposed to be with him and she's not.
How long ago would they have pledged themselves, now?
--
How long ago since Obi-Wan had been in the room?
Qui-Gon forces both eyes open. He glances down at his arm; the blood is seeping through the top layer of gauze. The fever has to be ebbing, since he feels chilled.
"Obi-Wan?"
"Obi-Wan?"
His limbs are wobbly and liquid from however many hours he'd spent on the pallet. It takes awhile for him to sit up, a great while more to stand. The door to the fresher is open, the lights off, so his Padawan is in the cockpit of the modest transport. He hobbles toward it, holding his arm clenched against his side.
A brown-haired head is tipped against the arm of the pilot's chair.
"Obi-Wan?"
He expects this to rouse his student to attention.
"Obi-Wan?"
--
From somewhere, Qui-Gon salvages enough strength to get Obi-Wan from the cockpit to the pallet.
With the pale body stretched out, he can fully examine the claw marks that cover half his apprentice's torso. Obi-Wan was wrong—they are quite deep.
He had not considered why Obi-Wan used medicine and bandages to treat Qui-Gon, while avoiding Force-healing techniques. Studying the extent of damage to his midsection, it dawns on Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan did not have the energy.
The shock would have made him cold; the pain would have made him too nauseous to eat.
Qui-Gon wraps his fingers around Obi-Wan's and kisses a hot knuckle.
Obi-Wan is struggling to push up his eyelids. "Th-The bandages are gone."
Qui-Gon binds his apprentice's wounds with shreds of his tunic.
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