The Matter of the Next Moment

A Vignette by LuvEwan

PG

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Master and apprentice deal with intense claustrophobia, and the importance, or unimportance, of the future.

In the avalanche of stone and slate around them, frail streams of the outside world came through like taunting whispers. For hours, their cramped haven had been lit by a cross-section of sunbeams that only served to illuminate the stagnant dust that hung constant in the air.

But now, the shifts in the sky had transformed the space into a place of darkness, with only hints of sallow moon glow.

To those that roamed the wreckage of the war zone, there had been no survivors. The invaders had been swift in their attack, with their sleek weapons and ammunition that seemed pumped from a wicked, bottomless well, a barrage that left the natives running for the hills-or pounded into the earth.

Yet from the communal grave of rock, there were a pair of hearts that withstood the violence. They beat through the long hours that followed the initial assault, and though the rhythm had grown thready as of late, it was still there.

One of the prisoners, trapped in that sharp cluster of fallen hunks of stone, could very nearly appreciate the irony of the situation. After all, Obi-Wan Kenobi reflected wearily, their hearts were loyal to neither side.

He had watched dusk romance the daylight, wooing his own eyelids towards the relief and release of sleep. But he had only slipped once…perhaps twice. Now was when his resolve would be sorely tested, as the heat gave way to cool breezes, their quasi-captors settled down around their murky campfires. And the aching pull of his own injuries strengthened.

But his duty would have to tip the scale, as it had his entire life. The body was a little thing, not even a speck in the cosmos or in the Force. With that perspective secured, Obi-Wan knew it should have been easier to dismiss the grind of bone and sting of bruised flesh.

Right now, he couldn't much imagine the grand sweep of the Universe, how it blanketed out into eternity, with billions of stitches as its intricate framework. He could see the dried blood on his Master's face. He didn't have to conjure up the image of his teacher's hand, the already callused skin dried in the arid atmosphere, as it ran down the side of his outer thigh.

There was a gaping wound there, staining the apprentice's legging an unnatural burgundy, and lending frail shadow to his eyes.

In their pocket of life, there was enough room for Obi-Wan to lay out, but Qui-Gon's considerably longer legs were tucked in. And neither could move from their intimate proximity to one another, unless they were willing to risk the mercy of jagged edges.

Their blood had seeped into enough of the blasted rock.

Since their unlikely capture, Qui-Gon had focused his energy entirely on two areas: dampening their presence from the cruel life forms around them, and trying to channel the pain of Obi-Wan's injuries away from him.

The Padawan was nestled in the warm circle of his mentor's arm, crags looming around them like malformed claws, frozen as they closed in on their prey. The older Jedi had not dodged death without consequence, deep gashes marking his cheek and an ugly graze along his neck. But little talk had been devoted to their wounds. When they chanced words at all, they were spoken in whispers, and their hot breath intermingled in the claustrophobia.

The subjects were purposely casual. After death's cloak had brushed against them an almost desperate craving for normalcy resurrected, with short discussions of favorite kata moves, desserts. Anything but the fragility of their sanctuary.

Obi-Wan leaned against Qui-Gon's chest. Beneath his eyes, a frenzy was welling, of walls meeting and air escaping, of choking in a vacuum-and things composed in dark, sinister colors.

It had been his method of escape since before he could remember. At the cusp of utter panic, Obi-Wan had to make some sort of joke. "Master?"

Through the pall, Qui-Gon reached out to stroke the damp curls of his hair. "What?"

Barely emerged from the silence, but Obi-Wan could hear. "Did you ever think you'd be buried alive?"

An incredulous-but amused-rumble came from the man. "Morbid Padawan."

Obi-Wan craned his neck to look up at the profile outlined by a meager pouring of light. "Well, did you?"

Qui-Gon rubbed his thumb along his apprentice's unshaven cheek. "I suspected it."

For whatever reason, Obi-Wan laughed. Softly. "Really?"

"Mmhm. I just figured I would have been dead first."

"But you can't bury a dead person alive."

Qui-Gon's eyes went distant for a moment before he replied. "Don't correct your Master."

Obi-Wan stifled his chuckle and settled against the teacher, pressing his face in familiar tunic fabric.

Qui-Gon continued to gently toy with the Padawan spikes, staring up with the blindness of thick night. "Did you ever think about that?"

The apprentice sighed. "Not really. Before today, I mean. Today I've thought about it quite a lot."

He had not meant it to settle so somberly over them, but the reality of the situation refused to be ignored forever.

Qui-Gon drew his companion closer. The sweat, the stench of blood and the grit would have repelled anyone else, but the toil of the day had erased reservations. If they were to end their journey here, in a cage of powerlessness, the Master would at least have that much in his control.

Obi-Wan knew major movements could incur disaster, so he was surprised to be nestled in a version of an embrace.

"What have I always told you, Padawan?"

He didn't need to consider the question very long. "To live in the moment." Obi-Wan murmured.

"Right." Qui-Gon's words stirred warmth in his hair. "Then what does the next moment matter? Or the last? Right now, we are here. And we're safe.

"Most of all, we're together, my apprentice. You and I. In this moment."

Obi-Wan smiled. His own nature was never to dismiss the past or look at the future without some measure of worry. And despite the disarming platitudes, he could not abandon that which was so deeply ingrained in his psyche. "It doesn't matter, Master." He answered, after a time. "I would follow you to the mouth of all evil, if that's where the Force led you." He immediately grasped the hand that reached for his. "So perhaps today is a jarring one. But you're right. We're together. That's the least I could hope for. And the most."

The kiss was a feather's scrape across Obi-Wan's forehead, the only sound in the final age of night before morning was born, and spilled through the seams of the barren stone stacked around them.