Title: Of
Shadows and Broken Dreams
Author: Stormqueen
Timeframe:
During RotS (contains some spoilers)
Genre: Obi-angst, no
doubt about it.
Characters: pretty much entirely
Obi-Wan
Summary: After the duel of Mustafar, Obi-Wan
reflects upon what has been, what is, and what will be.
Notes: Written in response to the Shakespeare quote challenge on the Jedi Council Forums, and inspired by the following quote…
"When sorrows come, they come not as single spies, but in batallions."
-Hamlet
Who am I?
He knelt before a sleep couch aboard Padmé's private spaceship, attempting to meditate as the craft flew to the nearest MedCenter. Ashes coated his tongue, his once-pristine robes seared by flames, his face caked with sweat and dust. His very soul ached, his heart cracked behind carefully contrived shields. His mind refused to quiet, screaming in the aftermath of that horrid battle.
Who am I?
"I am Kenobi," he whispered, clinging to the name. "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi."
No he wasn't. He couldn't be.
Obi-Wan was dead.
Then who was he?
A shadow, barely alive.
Just when things had finally seemed to turn around, and Obi-Wan had felt the faintest glimmer of hope that the war would finally end, his universe had exploded. He'd been hunted by his own troops, the Jedi systematically exterminated, and…
Yes, he decided. Obi-Wan was dead.
After all, how could he be living? The galaxy as Obi-Wan had known it had been utterly destroyed. Everything the man had ever loved, had ever stood for, was annihilated as the Empire surged forth. Obi-Wan had been wiped away by those so-called cleansing flames, yet another victim of the Emperor's tangled web.
The man's death had begun, he decided, the moment Obi-Wan had stepped into the Temple, the Force wailing around him as he surveyed the bodies littering the floor. Obi-Wan had staggered through the corridors, his fingertips running along the smooth walls, his stomach churning in revulsion. It was a battlefield of the worst kind, with children gutted by a lightsaber blade, one that was supposed to protect them.
The Temple was supposed to be safe; yet somehow it had been completely devastated.
He shut his eyes, trying to will away the images of shocked faces, the smell of burnt flesh. He tried to block his ears, to stop the crunch of gravel from filling them.
Tears threatened to slide down his cheeks, but he drew a heavy breath and repressed them.
What had been the second blow against Obi-Wan?
Vader.
The sight of Anakin, the man who had been Obi-Wan's brother, his most trusted friend, swearing an oath to serve a Sith had knocked the man senseless. He barely remembered slamming a fist on the controls to shut the recording up, shock roaring in his ears and drowning out his own weak denial.
Strange that he could still recall the exact sheen to Master Yoda's eyes, heavy with pity and sorrow.
Things blacked then.
He couldn't recall how he got to Mustafar, only that he had, and he instantly wished he hadn't come. Seeing Anakin twisted and evil had nearly broken him completely, but the same power that had gotten him off Coruscant gave him the strength to fight against one he had loved like family.
He had hated every minute of it, but his job was done.
Anakin was dead.
Obi-Wan had died along with him, the lava consuming his very soul.
He opened his eyes then, trying to focus them on the sleep couch, and did his best to ignore the despair gnawing at his flesh.
What was he supposed to do now? The Jedi were no more; Vader had seen to that. His life had been ripped to pieces as the galaxy had been turned on its head.
He had nothing left.
What am I?
"I am a Jedi," he whispered desperately, shutting his eyes and his arms winding around his torso. It was all he'd ever known; all he'd ever been taught.
But that had been taken from him; the Temple lay in ruins. He couldn't be a Jedi any longer.
So what was he?
"I am…"
A murderer.
The hell of Mustafar had consumed what little remained of Obi-Wan, leaving behind a monster, a man who had killed his own brother. He was no better than Vader, leaving a wounded man at the edge of a lava flow and watching as flames consumed his flesh.
"I hate you!"
Those vicious yellow eyes still burned up at him, those tortured screams still rang in his ears. They'd been seared into his heart, clawing at his already shredded spirit.
He was never going to forget them.
"I hate you!"
He curled in on himself, resting his forehead to his thighs, his eyes burning with tears that fought to be released. A Jedi knew no sorrow; a Jedi knew no grief. He was not supposed to mourn for those who had gone. He was not supposed to cry.
But he was no longer a Jedi.
A strangled sob struggled from his throat, tears leaking down his cheeks and pattering against the cloth of his trousers. His shoulders shook as he clutched his sides, fighting to control the raging darkness within him. Grief racked his body, feeding on his very bones, and he could do little to stop it.
I am no longer anything.
He resisted the urge to howl, fought to control himself without using the Force, which would draw unwanted attention if Yoda had failed. His entire body trembled from the effort, blood welling from his lip when he bit through skin, but the pain only grew worse with every passing moment.
Like a dam, his control finally snapped, leaving him weeping uncontrollably. His screams echoed off the walls as his fists lashed out at the durasteel floor. He pounded against it mercilessly, as though it could relieve the blinding ache that had settled in him.
This wasn't fair! he screamed. Why had it been him? Of all the thousands of Jedi, why had he been the one to face Anakin? Why had he been the one chosen to kill him? Why couldn't Yoda have agreed to let him face Sidious? Why couldn't they have gone together?
"Master Kenobi?"
He drew a shuddering breath, half tempted to yell at the droid, to set the machine straight. Obi-Wan was dead. What remained was nothing more than a shadow, a husk of the man he had once been.
"Is everything all right?"
No, he wanted to shout. No, he was not all right! These hurts were too much; they were too great. He wasn't able to shut them away, to siphon them into the Force. He was stuck suffering until he finally went mad.
Calm yourself.
He opened his eyes slowly as fingertips ghosted over his forehead, his breath shuddering in his lungs. The words had lifted the haze from his mind, the gentle touch spreading a welcome warmth through his body.
You must remain strong; you still have a part to play.
He was sick of being a pawn. Was it his destiny to suffer endlessly? First he had lost Qui-Gon, then he had lost Anakin and the entire Jedi Order. What was next, something even worse?
The child. Think of the child…
He shut his eyes again, his breathing slowly steadying. Padmé's unborn child. It would certainly need his protection, should he choose to give it.
But what help could a shadow offer?
"Master Kenobi?"
You are needed. You know this; you can feel it. You must rise above your pain for now.
The warmth was back, flooding his veins and drying his eyes. He finally pushed himself up and ran his hands over his face as the door opened to admit a golden protocol droid.
"Master Kenobi, we are nearing Polis-Massa. Would you care to land the ship?" the droid asked and he drew a deep breath before responding.
"I'll be there shortly," he said, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper, and the droid left, servo-motors whirring as he moved.
He watched the droid go, his gaze far away. So he was still needed; that was why he hadn't been completely killed. He would have to continue to be a pawn of the Force until it decided he could finally die.
The man named Obi-Wan was already dead; there was no doubt there. The man who remained in his place was a mere shell of what had once been, broken in nearly every possible way.
But it would have to suffice. It seemed he had one more role to play before the galaxy was completely finished with him.
I will be Obi-Wan then, he thought as he stood.
I have no other
choice.
...fin...