You're Nowhere

A Vignette

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(A look inside LE's mind: "Hmmm. A few incomplete stories sitting around, waiting to be finished. What to do, what to do…Oh, I know, a vignette!)

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. What a shame. Think what I could do with that franchise…(Shirtless Obi! All the time!)

Insomnia brings brief illumination to a monumental rift between Master and former apprentice. An alternate universe piece, beginning from The Phantom Menace on.

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I'm looking through you

Where did you go?

I thought I knew you

What did I know?

You don't look different

But you have changed

I'm looking through you

You're not the same

Your lips are moving

I cannot hear

Your voice is soothing

But the words aren't clear

You don't sound different

I've learned the game

I'm looking through you

You're not the same…

You're thinking of me the same old way

You were above me

But not today

The only difference is you're down there

I'm looking through you

And you're nowhere…-John Lennon Paul McCartney

-

The azure radiance was stitched through the darkness in long sweeps, rising in graceful arcs and darting down quickly. The design left in the welling black was intricate, but began to fade as soon as it appeared, leaving a strange, fevered mist in its path. There was a melodic undertone in the form of a gentle, electric hum. The sound lowered and rose in unison with the flexes of light, with such delicate nuance that it could have easily been mistaken for a natural voice.

But, if that were so, the harmony would have been far more beautiful, because the voice was. Or perhaps it was only the kind embellishments of memory that led Qui-Gon to believe that. Time didn't heal all wounds, but it allowed the mind a measure of delusion, to pretend said wounds were merely bruises, instead of the massive, deep, bloody gashes they were. Maybe that voice wasn't the warm dulcet, both cultured and simple, elegant and personable, that he claimed to remember. Or maybe it was.

He watched the color work its way through the pall, able to glimpse snatches of the young, intensely focused face that was bathed in saber glow. The instances of illumination never lasted long enough. They came in fast beats, though not nearly as fast as the lightning cadence reverberating in his chest. He saw the flicker of a tensed muscle, the strain of a gold-flecked bicep.

Beyond the vibrant lattice stood a fitting backdrop of midnight. Keeping in tone with the hushed arena, the sky was a balmy mixture of obsidian and sapphire, beaded with the occasional sparkle. The wind had been cool in the day, but layers of glass and permacrete blocked the soothing touch in this late hour. Qui-Gon could hear it thread through the leaves, but could not feel it drift along his flesh.

On a smooth temple, a fresh coat of sweat was forming. Qui-Gon immediately knew why; the level of exertion was dramatically increased, as the performer leapt from simple to advanced kata. It was not the form he himself would have preferred. But still, the movements stirred a familiarity in his bones. Often, he had joined in the particular brand of battle dance out of compromise, learning technique he had never appreciated, honing skills he would never use. After all, he would never stray from his chosen form, when met with true danger. Nor would the other.

A sharp thud returned him to the moment, as bare feet slapped against the slick wood.

Abruptly, the thin stream of overhead lighting was expanded to fill the entire space.

"I don't recall inviting an audience," Obi-Wan remarked, standing with weapon in hand, heaving chest awash in the fire of his achievement. His leggings hung low on his waist, ending in tatters at the calf. He was leaner, much of his body worn away by the unrelenting duties of his station. The hardship of that loyalty was present in his face, in the new lines drawn shallowly around his mouth and eyes.

Qui-Gon studied the eyes that were, in turn, studying him. Grayer, he thought. Gray rimming blue, blue encircling green, as it had always been. But now the gray was thicker.

In spite of the obvious friction, the Master smiled. "I apologize then. It wasn't my intention."

And in truth, it wasn't. The lengthening night had stirred restlessness in the older Jedi. He couldn't find solace in his books, in the tendrils of steam rising from his teacup, certainly not in the cold cushion of his bed. The more secluded avenues of his mind had been well traveled, and certain doubts had been disturbed from their hidden places. Meditation proved ineffective. It provided only a thin screen between him and his troubles.

He longed for the abandon of physical labor, to work his body into exhaustion until he had scarcely enough energy to crawl back to the apartment, let alone dwell on ancient qualms.

But it seemed he was destined to brood, to unearth what had been buried.

"Then we were here for the same purpose?" A towel lifted to Obi-Wan's outstretched fingers.

"So it would appear."

"Hmm." The Knight rubbed his head dry, "You should have said something earlier. I would have cleared out." He started for the double doors, each step resounding in the hollow arena.

Somehow, the sound was worse than silence. Qui-Gon looked at him walking away, the last, soft vestiges of childhood shed from the rigid silhouette. A sharp chip of boulder dislodged from his throat. "I didn't think I needed to speak for you to be aware of me."

Obi-Wan paused and turned. "Then you're not very observant. Times have changed."

"And you along with them." Qui-Gon observed. "Your kata has improved."

"Thank you, Master Jinn." The eyes dropped for the barest sliver of a second. When they lifted, the steel there was galvanized. "I'll leave you to your exercise."

Qui-Gon sighed. The tinge of self-defense in the tone was reminiscent of the Council meeting eons before. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, but the space between them stretched into infinity.

He had been foolish to believe that a few warm words in the Gungan marsh could successively bridge the gap. He believed it at first, for the hasty foundation was only gradually eaten away, and he was too busied by his new apprentice to notice the holes, even as they multiplied and widened. The final break came, but he didn't understand when the luminescent smile evaporated, and the ready wit was exchanged for a reserved, even caustic, demeanor.

The real torture came when he would see his former student with his friends. Among peers, initiates or even Masters, Obi-Wan was himself. He was gentle, or animated, or submerged in the quiet, reflective talk he was known for.

It seemed Qui-Gon was the poison. He would walk by, and the air became pregnant with heavy tension. His presence halted whatever tranquility Obi-Wan had garnered.

He stepped inside the arena, and the gorgeous laser work was snuffed out.

Qui-Gon didn't want to be so affected by it. Their relationship was buried in an early page of history's tome. Life was constantly turning, to fresh words and new circumstance. It didn't dwell. And neither should I. But something in him was clinging to that old pain, something that compressed his lungs and stole his breath. "I hear that you were the leading member on the mission to Buulia. That was an impressive success." He looked into the other man's eyes, "The Council was right to choose you."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "There was no choosing involved, Master Jinn. I was nearby. It was convenient."

"Don't fool yourself," Qui-Gon responded, with a measure of sadness, "Buulia isn't a distant planet. It would have been equally 'convenient' to dispatch someone from the Temple."

Obi-Wan stood, absently wrenching the towel in his hands, and said nothing.

Qui-Gon crossed his arms. "You must know that it was your skill that led the Council to their decision."

"And you must know that it's late."

"It is." The Master agreed. "I didn't expect to see anyone else here quite this late."

A swallow was visible in a lump down the column of Obi-Wan's neck. "That makes two of us."

Qui-Gon nodded with a small smile—the expression wasn't returned. "Why were you here at this hour?"

"I was practicing. Wasn't that obvious enough?"

"Nothing about you has ever been obvious, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon assured him. And oh, how that was true. Perhaps as a young Padawan, the longing and need to please had been evident, a bright strobe through the Force, but as he matured, more of Obi-Wan was concealed. Namely, his pain. Of all the changes Knighthood wrought, that trait remained whole and untouchable. His pain was his, and he guarded it like a terrible treasure.

Obi-Wan appeared not to have heard the comment. "And what brought you here, Master Jinn?"

"A supremely irritating case of insomnia. My mind doesn't share my body's need for sleep, I suppose." He ran a hand through his hair. "Anakin has been a…challenge lately."

"Yes, but you're always up for a good challenge."

It wasn't malice twisted in the tone. On the contrary, the observation was delivered flatly. Qui-Gon blew out a breath. "I'm not a young man. I'm beginning to believe I cannot afford much more ambition. Anakin is the end of it."

"I'm sorry to hear that." The sentiment was not evident on his face.

"The pathetic life forms of the Universe will have to start rescuing themselves." Qui-Gon chuckled, but it felt forced, even to his own ears.

Obi-Wan regarded his former teacher with pale, penetrating eyes. Outside, the wind cut a ragged howl across the night. "Perhaps it's better that way."

"How so?" Qui-Gon prepared for the jab even as the question parted from his lips.

It took a moment before the younger Jedi replied, and during that moment a great deliberation rolled hard along his countenance, "It's better to learn to take care of yourself," He said at last, and shook his head; "There isn't always someone there to rescue you."

Qui-Gon knew where the answer was rooted. He had planted it there himself. His gut was clutched up by the anguish and he actually had to look away, to grab onto composure instead of guilt, so that he was able to speak. Still, the words were painful, and it was a struggle. "Can I ask you something, Obi-Wan?"

"Alright." Fearless. At the very surface, Obi-Wan was fearless.

Qui-Gon stepped closer to him, until all that could pass between them were specters. "How badly did I hurt you?"

Obi-Wan's gaze was unblinkingly solemn. "You didn't hurt me." His voice was softer, "You taught me, as an instructor should. As a final lesson, it was fitting."

"Yes, it was the final lesson, wasn't it? And it was the wrong one." Qui-Gon studied him again: the drape of auburn down to the ears, the desolate slate in the eyes, the light bristles concealing the boyish dimple in the chin. With a ridiculous amount of hesitance, he lifted his hand, resting it on a naked arm. "Obi-Wan, you didn't have a Ceremony."

Obi-Wan shrugged off the remark and the hand, as though the touch of both had left him bone-chilled. "It didn't feel right."

"You earned your place in the Knighthood. You needed to be acknowledged."

"No, I didn't." Obi-Wan argued, "I'm a Knight. I need no more than that."

"Not even one last spar with your old Master?" Qui-Gon raised his eyebrow slightly, "I promise, you don't have to say a word," He glanced at the sweat still slick on Obi-Wan's skin, "Unless you're too tired?"

That ignited a silent conflagration in Obi-Wan's eyes. "Of course not."

"Good," Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulder. "But the duel has a condition. If I best you, we'll talk. I want to talk to you, Obi-Wan."

"Then I guess the opposite would apply if I bested you." Obi-Wan threw the towel aside. "And I'd get what I want."

Qui-Gon nodded. "If that's really what you want."

"It is."

And despite the wear of complete separation, it was in perfect unison they moved to their customary positions, and performed a few basic stretches.

Then the lights were lowered to dense black.

The twin buzz of enlivened blades crackled in the dead quiet. Emerald and azure. As it had once been. Spirits filled the shadowed arena, pouring from Qui-Gon's memory with crippling vividness.

His Padawan, all gangly limbs, moving with the mixture of excitement and confidence of the very young. His Padawan, unveiling a new technique in the midst of a breathless contest. His Padawan, laboring with his ever-industrious focus into the early hours. His Padawan, a man of grace who wielded the weapon with finesse, who wasn't concerned with the flash of it all, who would fight sparingly and intelligently.

But he isn't my Padawan. Qui-Gon looked ahead, across several feet to where Obi-Wan stood, half-lit by the saber's haze. I took that away from us both.

"Are you ready?" Obi-Wan called.

His reply gusted up like frost in his throat; his flesh prickled. "Yes."

Obi-Wan engaged him first, moving the saber back and forth with a twirl of his wrist.

Qui-Gon was ready for the strike. He forced the blade back, following with a gash through the darkness. It missed its mark; Obi-Wan leapt over the sweeping electric line with remarkable ease.

They traveled the length of the arena, barely pausing in one spot before migrating to another. The fight was an almost eerie symphony of scraping breath, whirring blades and heavy steps. And beneath it all, the atmosphere was swelling with mounting emotion.

Obi-Wan was more than holding his own, Qui-Gon knew, but the pure spirit of his spar had been tainted. There was shivery power behind every blow. It had to be an instant of fantasy, but Qui-Gon thought he could hear the frantic beating of his old student's heart.

The duel continued in the shroud of night. When they saw each other, it was for but a pulse, and even then what they saw was blurred.

He wants it this way. He wants to hide. Qui-Gon blocked a reckless blow. Even from himself.

Soon their swords were in a tangle, dragging them face-to-face. Nothing could be heard above the desperate gasping of Obi-Wan's breath. And in the Force, his suffering was a miserable, bright beacon. It was horrible to behold—but it told Qui-Gon what had to be done.

All at once, the lights returned in shuddering, artificial brilliance.

They could see each other, every rivulet of perspiration, each quiver of a lip. For an eternity, they were staring; hair drizzled around them, unyielding to the press of the weapons. The rage was potent to Obi-Wan's battle, but in the end, Qui-Gon was stronger, sending his opponent flying back.

Obi-Wan landed on his stomach with a sick thud.

Dropping his saber, Qui-Gon rushed to his side, not sparing a second to register the victory. "Obi-Wan." He crouched down and extended a hand. "Are you alright?"

When his fingers touched on the hot curve Obi-Wan's back, it was as if he turned a switch.

Obi-Wan began to weep, face pressed on the cold, buffed floor, hands curled to fists.

Qui-Gon laid his palm across the base of the other man's neck. "Obi-Wan?"

"You—You won." The Knight sputtered between hoarse, weak sobs, "You bet knowing that I…that I would lose. And you were right. I lost." He inhaled sharply, "Are you happy?"

"No." Qui-Gon burst with feverish passion, "I'm not happy, Obi-Wan. Because I know you're not. I just want to talk to you. I want you to tell me—"

"That it hurts?" Obi-Wan murmured. "Fine. It does." He tilted his head away from Qui-Gon's scrutiny, "Now will you go?"

Qui-Gon moved his hands to Obi-Wan's shoulders. "No. You matter to me. I want to make this better."

"You can't." Obi-Wan gasped. "You can't, it's…it's too late."

"I didn't discard you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon said, as the moisture slid daggers in his eyes, "If that's what you think."

Obi-Wan sat up, leaning on one hand while wiping his face with the other. "I just…I just don't believe that. Maybe if you went to the Council without Anakin there. Maybe if it was a natural progression…" He laughed, "But it was, wasn't it? It was the natural thing to happen. It's the way things are for me." He wet his lips, "And it isn't self-pity. It's acceptance. This is the way things will always be. I was a Padawan because I forced myself in. I'm a Knight because I was forced out."

"I didn't force you out, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon braced the side of his face, was nearly clutching it, "I wanted you to be a Knight. I wanted there to be a Ceremony to honor you."

"It wouldn't have been real. Don't you understand that?" He stood, so that he was looking down at the face, "I couldn't have endured it. It would have been too much."

"You were ready."

"I was ready for what happened. But I wasn't ready for Knighthood." Obi-Wan's smile was soul-crushingly melancholic. His eyes were swimming red. "I just don't have enough faith."

He was walking away then. Qui-Gon thundered to his feet and raced the short distance, catching him by his shoulders. "Obi-Wan," He wheeled the man around to face him, "I'll do whatever it takes to right this. Gods, Obi-Wan, you have to let me make this right. You can't live like this."

"Or is it that you can't live like this?" Obi-Wan wondered. "Do you want your conscience sated? Then imagine that you did make it right. Imagine that I'm fine, and that I'm not unsure of every step I take. You do well with delusion, Master, when it suits your needs."

Qui-Gon gripped tight to the shoulders. "That isn't what this is about. This is about you. I hurt you, Obi-Wan. I've scarred you, so badly. Don't you want to make that right? Don't you want to heal?"

"I told you," Obi-Wan spoke slowly and carefully, "It's too late."

Qui-Gon tried to restrain him, but this time it was Obi-Wan who emerged the victor. He wrenched free, and left the arena without uttering another word.

Qui-Gon stood where the confrontation had ended, the far-off night winds now biting at his skin.

End