Master Apprentice
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Title: Sound of Snow Falling
Author: TheWrongImpressionist
Beta: MerryAmelie
Archive: MasterApprentice, Fanfiction.net
Category: Qui/Obi, Crossover, Alternate Reality, Romance, Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13, possible eventual R
Summary: in which Obi-Wan gets an education in the Living Force (whether he wants it or not), Qui-Gon further embraces his not-so-inner maverick, and Voldemort engages in a little biological warfare.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated at tukitaka@gmail.com, as writing fiction is very hard for me, and I take great pains to produce quality work.
(back to Chapter 3)
-four-
-indigo-
"I must leave."
If he keeps his hands in his sleeves, they can't see them shaking.
"But I come back."
He stands at the edges of their forest, wrapped in his robe, the hood pulled over a face he knows has gone pale and strained. Four sleepless nights and meditation, no substitute.
But they don't need to know that.
"And those who remain ill?" The younger male Herdleader stands, his condition much improved, but rests a portion of his weight against his mare's side the other Herdleader. In the falling of sunset, they cast a single cool, violet shadow onto the snow-crusted forest fringe. "I understand you've healed those sickest, but I worry that the recently afflicted shall weaken during your absence...."
His back is to the sun, so they can't see when he closes his eyes. "Yes." Quietly, he doesn't deny. "I am sorry." It is this he feels worst about. And his only consolation is "No one dies, while I am gone."
Of this he is certain, and because he is certain is the only reason he leaves. Days of constant work have given him a safe time-buffer in which no patient is far enough along in the disease that his leaving will cause permanent damage. He knows better than to work himself to uselessness and isn't at that point yet, not so long as he can still take in the Force but the need to work swiftly, to repress the virus faster than it could mature, was there.
And so he satisfied it. And later, when the situation isn't so imminent, he'll let himself pay the price fully, with more than just the trembling of limbs.
"Your Healers know what to do. Maintain the quarantine. I return quickly."
They watch him for a moment, unspeaking and silent, but not hostile. Occasional far-off shouts of laughter fill the still, empty air sporadically, filtered by space and thinned by winter chill the children at the school take advantage of their free time and the snow, on clear evenings like these. But never too far from the castle; tethered by instinctual, invisible boundaries, seldom straying out of sight of the watchful adults who pause at a window, by a door, just to check of whom the children aren't even aware.
It reminds Obi-Wan of the crθche though only distantly, and only with vague sentimentality. While his time as a crθcheling was not unimportant, the truly significant part of his life didn't begin until he was eleven and a half, and Qui-Gon entered his life for the first time
in the Temple, in a swamp garden, Obi-Wan watching the man wriggle bare toes into the slimy earth like any youngling, green life all around him and water lapping at his feet, the heady, fresh smell of dirt and heat and citrus and sweet thickening the air, and the Master letting himself be watched until Obi-Wan approaches, wrinkling his nose at the smell, at the heat, at the sensation at everything for which Qui-Gon is purposefully there to experience. Who only smiles, and reaches down to the ruddy, smooth mud, scooping some onto his fingertips from beneath the pooling wet and placing his fingers just there in the center space of Obi-Wan's eyes. And laughing warmly when Obi-Wan immediately wrinkles his nose even more
"...and you're sure you're unaffected by the virus?" the woman is saying, shifting slightly, watching Obi-Wan, unaware of his distraction. "I do not mean this as a complaint but I think it wiser that you should keep to your quarantine, as well."
Obi-Wan watches a long tentacle creep out of the lake. It plucks an entire shrub from the shoreline and drags it under. "Perhaps. But I must leave. I am fine, and I am certain to remain so."
The man asks, "And this other man you're bringing back you say he will be willing to heal us, as well?"
When out of stasis and awake, "Yes."
The man nods gravely. "Then on behalf of the Herd, Callidora and I extend our thanks, and acknowledge our debt to you and this man upon your return. Should you want for anything, you have only to ask either of us, and, be it in our power, it will be granted."
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I need no thanks."
The woman actually smiles a bit. "So I've heard." She shares a glance with her husband before looking seriously at Obi-Wan. "But don't doubt the sincerity of our offer."
"I do not. But I can't accept it."
The woman flicks her tail and makes a noncommittal noise from between her teeth. "Hmm. Nonetheless, the offer stands." And Obi-Wan lets it go at that, bowing and beginning to turn-
"Before you go, though," she adds, and he pauses, "I will ask that which the Elder is too stubborn to. Could any wizard be healing us right now, if we were to consent to alerting the castle, or is this something only you know?"
He faces them again, pausing contemplatively, then shakes his head. "I do not know. Perhaps. But I heal...differently, than many wizards." But he's no Jedi Healer, and the situation here is slowly growing past his ability to contain on his own and this is why he must leave, even if it means letting early sickness advance in a few. For though the Living Force guides his actions with a singular intensity, it is no substitute for a second sentient being. One who communes with the Living Force naturally. One whom he has left among strangers for long enough, no matter how trustworthy they may be one who is his responsibility, and his alone. One whom he needs now not as a Master, but as a fellow Jedi. And the forest will be good for his Master, even if he must remain in his Padawan-induced stasis.
Even if Obi-Wan has to close his eyes against the sudden urge to hear his Master's voice
"You could elaborate, perhaps?" the stallion asks undemandingly.
He shakes his head. "I lack your language, to explain what I know. But what I know is not much." And they accept his answer without any real sense of bother as he feels, though they'd hoped differently, they expected as much.
"And so you leave. But you know best what you must do," the woman says, shifting to accommodate a matching transfer of her husband's weight and tilting her head slightly. "I would like you to know that Tanos and I will speak to the Herd while you journey. There is no need for another like Kaylah, and no further need for the kind of blindness that let her become that way. It is time to let trust lead our way."
He tips his head in a bow. Word of the mare's near mind-death spread quickly despite or perhaps in accordance with the Herd's cultural uprightness. For days, mixed emotions had swirled about the centaurs in tight eddies of conflict; but, eventually, censure of the husband's short-sightedness won the majority. Expected, in a race faintly dipped in the Unifying Force.
Another unexplainable phenomenon of this planet.
"As I was in no condition to do so before," the man adds solemnly, "I give you my personal thanks, for my brother's life, for my niece's life, for my own, as well for those of my brethren. Had you not crossed Morgwen's path that day, her mind is not the only one that would now be lost to us."
There is no coincidence; there is the Force.
Qui-Gon's voice whispers through his memory. In silent reply, he smiles, simply; and while their minds are opportunely focused on their gratefulness, he asks the centaurs, "When I leave, you let me ask for the help of wizards at the castle?"
At his question, the woman and her husband trade a significant look. "We're thinking about it," the man sighs pensively. "You must understand it isn't just the Elder. As a whole, this is not an easy thing for us. Wizards are generally not an option we consider."
Obi-Wan turns slightly, bearing a measured, meditative look. "Perhaps you must."
"Yes." The centaur nods solemnly. "Perhaps we must."
This is the end of their conversation; Obi-Wan gives a bow, turning to take his leave, drawing the Force about him like vetiver and frankincense, Qui-Gon's robe a warm blanket in preparation for his extended sprint he'll be relying on it to feed his body nourishment, to feed his mind sleep, to feed his muscles swiftness, because he has no time to stop.
The centaurs each raise a hand in farewell. "Good pastures on your travels, wizard Ben," the woman calls.
He nods in thanks, and, without another word, turns and leaves.
Running to where his Master sleeps.
~*~
The foreboding comes upon him gradually vague, elusive, fleeting, and source-less but the realization of it swoops quicksilver between one breath and the next in startling rubescent flashes and the smell of iron.
He stumbles, stops. Swallows with a tongue dried in winter air, and pants, his hands on his knees, the fabric worn and rough beneath callused skin. The clear, pale sky of early blue dawn caresses the back of his neck warm and comforting, on flesh gone suddenly cold. In the distance, streetcars and people wake to the trail ends of pre-dawn birdsong.
....Something dangerous approaches.
Muted warning thrums through his mind, a slow and steady drumbeat against the rapid pulsing of his heart; rising like a watchful hawk, he squints into the daylight, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He sees more than just the wintry landscape...but not enough, his touch with the Unifying Force unrefined and made unreliable by this planet, so chaotic is its Living Force.
-and with a swift fierceness that knocks the breath from his lungs, in that moment he longs for a different planet: Ryloth, and its dim, warm, twilit Rock Gardens colored all in freckled pale greens and coral; colored stones soft like a cat's purr, borne adrift by the wind, tinged with the exotic history of a thousand different origins; the tender vulnerability of thirteen ritual days of meditation, granted and spent in the Gardens as a request for his last naming-day; and watched over by Qui-Gon, who does not need to touch his Padawan's mind for Obi-Wan to know that he's there and watching-
-he lets the longing go. But as he turns to the south and his Master, the looming pressure of prescience, thick and fatidic-
-stays.
~*~
A knocking at the door. Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband across her knitting, and he met her eyes above the antique sewing machine cushioned on his lap, bits of thread and bobbins strewn about his pockets. They weren't expecting any visitors by regular door, not with the kids all off to school and snow settling in. Any reasonable guest would Floo ahead....
She magicked her needles to pause mid-air, gathering herself up and over to the door while Arthur gently set his machine on the floor and reached for his wand. A glance at the kitchen clock showed that none of the family, relative or adoptive, were in danger including themselves. Whoever was outside meant them no harm....
She peered out the tiny window but couldn't see much other than the grayness of snow and an indistinct earth-tone figure.
"Who is it?" she shouted, and leaned her ear close to the dark, worn wood to hear the reply.
"Intercommas!" Arthur suddenly burst out. "That's what we need Molly, dear, Muggles have devices for just such a thing as talking through a door-"
"Not now, Arthur," she hissed repressively. He reddened and calmed, but scrawled a note in the air and sent it zooming to the refrigerator, where it attached itself firmly to their to-do list.
A muffled greeting echoed dully through the door. A certain few words, however, caught her attention, and she flung the door open with a warm smile on her face.
"Ben! Hello, dear, do come in, come in now-" she ushered him in, though he politely knocked the snow from his boots and removed them before padding from foyer to kitchen in socks, obediently following Mrs. Weasley's imperious hospitality.
"Arthur, look who stopped by-"
"Ben!" Mr. Weasley smiled in genuine welcome and strode over to the young wizard, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. The young man greeted them in return, taking a moment to tell of their children's continued safety at the school, and to thank them again for keeping an eye on Quinn.
But, though he was courteous as ever, it was clear Ben was in something of a rush and couldn't linger. That was alright, but when Mrs. Weasley heard the cause for the rush-
"Dear!" She exclaimed, looking at Ben in bemusement. "If you needed to collect your father so bad, whyever didn't you just take the Floo? You're a bit old to be gallivanting off into the snow without giving a thought to practicality, I think!"
"Or you could have owled, and we could have arranged something," her husband added with a concerned frown. "You really came all the way here on foot?...It's a wonder you're not frostbitten and frozen as a popsicle."
Ben shrugged, looking sheepish. "My home, there is no Floo, no owls...."
Mrs. Weasley just threw up her hands. "Young men, I swear."
"Well, when we get enthusiastic, sometimes we get forgetful, eh Ben?" Her husband smiled at him understandingly, though his look towards her was appeasing. "I've done that myself more than once, haven't I now, Molly."
She sniffed. "More than once."
He quickly turned back to Ben, now just as sheepish. "Er, well then....Shall we see to your father?"
While Arthur led Ben down the hall, making conversation about the centaurs and Hogwarts, Molly went to the kitchen and set the cutlery to preparing a cheese sandwich for, if she recalled properly, Ben was a vegetarian. She also dug out an old scarf and gloves of Charlie's (or Bill's, or Percy's, one could never tell) and cast some warming charms upon them before whisking along the completed sandwich and returning to the entryway.
Arthur and Ben were just returning as well. As before, Quinn floated alongside Ben, who kept one hand on the other man's shoulder.
If she looked close enough, the fingers on that hand caressed little circles, the kinds of circles she might draw on Arthur's chest after waking up together some content and sleepy morning but the thought made her uncomfortable and a little uncertain, so she pushed it away as best she could. Father and son, they were, and fathers and sons didn't....
"Here, Ben," she said instead, handing him the scarf, gloves, and sandwich with maternal care, which he accepted with a smile, immediately donning them and taking a bite of the sandwich with his free hand.
"You sure you'll be alright?" Her husband's voice was disbelieving, his face worried. "And Mr. Quinn? I know we've bundled him up as best we can, but it's terribly cold out...."
In the middle of a bite of sandwich, Ben just nodded. Mrs. Weasley frowned a little. He seemed awfully hungry.
"Well if you do find yourself in trouble, send up a flare of some kind, or even better, a Patronus, if you can do one," Arthur suggested. "We'll keep a lookout for you."
"And send an owl when you make it there safely," Molly added sternly. "Don't just let us picture you wandering around in a blizzard for days on end. And say hello to the children for me, tell them I miss them already, and tell them-" She swallowed. "Tell them to be careful."
~*~
Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap-
"Stupid flies," the old man muttered, shifting on his rickety seat until it creaked. Stupid bugs got caught under the glass and killed themselves, bouncing around like Morse code 'til they died and he had to clean 'em out. Nasty task, that. Least sometimes the rats ate 'em after he dumped 'em out back 'cause somehow he couldn't throw 'em in his own bin, not when that meant they dotted his moldy bananas and leftover crusts like little raisins. Little crunchy insect raisins.
Tap tap tap tap tap-
He cracked an eyelid at the yellow light humming above his head. Too bad he hadn't seen that young foreign bloke around for a couple of weeks now. Kid came in to buy a newspaper every couple of days. Said he was looking for odd jobs so one day, when he decided the bloke was trustworthy enough, the old man pointed out the flickering ceiling lights and said, "If y'can fix 'em, I'll pay ya."
The kid'd done the job and pretty damn well, at that. And a few days later, he came back just like clockwork for his newspaper. But in the perverse way the world liked to work for old men running corner stores in small old towns like Redlynch, this light, this one waited 'til the young man stopped showing up to cause a fuss. And now it was the only light that flickered in the whole damn place. And it was going to drive him crazy.
A clattering of worn chimes against the door, and the man grouched a bit to himself as he sat up.
"Out in a minute," he called from the back room. A stretch and a shuffle later, and he stumped his way over to behind the counter, a radio droning on at his side and a decades-old cash register atop the peeling laminate. Patting the uneven surface until he found his glasses, he indulged in an exaggerated double-take when he saw who was standing by the counter, newspaper in hand.
"Why, speak of the devil!" he chuckled. "I was just thinking of ya. Still in the market for a spot o' work?" He waggled his eyebrows at the flickering light. Sure would be handy if the kid was, 'cause maybe he could get him to empty out the dead bugs too-
Tap tap...Tap tap. Tap-
The young man shook his head.
"Not today, Mr. Cobb. My apologies." He set a boxed lunch, a newspaper, and a rather skeevy tabloid on the counter. "How are you?"
The old man eyed the tabloid with distaste. "Back's been acting up, but not too bad, I guess. Y'ought not to read those things, y'know." He peered closer, squinting his wrinkled features into a frown. "Come now UFOs? You don't really believe in that kind of codswallop, do ya?"
"Not really, no."
"Well then." He nodded in skeptical approval. "Why ya buying it?"
The young man shrugged, a fluent roll of the shoulders, and didn't reply other than to pull his plain brown jacket closer to his narrow frame.
"Suit yourself, I s'pose. S'your money." Grudgingly, he rang the tabloid up with the lunch and the nice, informative newspaper. Nothing wrong with good old-fashioned print. The cash register opened with a merry ding, clashing nicely with the soft jazz song crackling over the speakers, and the young man gave him the cash.
Counting out change, the old man asked companionably, "It still nippy out? Heard we're supposed to get some snow tomorrow. Not like we need it, eh?" He got fewer customers these days, especially in the winter, and a lot of the old regulars since his father's time had been dying off, God rest their souls; so he tended to make the most of what customers he had left. The younger ones, especially; plumbing them for conversation reminded him of when he himself was young and feeling that prime-of-life freshness. And this bloke in particular not only did he not seem to mind an old man's shameless chatter, but there was something...vibrant about him, in a way that he couldn't really describe. Like being covered in a cloak of white, but colorful as the view through a kaleidoscope and stiller than a frozen pond but not like any of these things, either. Just indescribable. But it drew one in like a moth.
Realizing he'd been woolgathering, the old man snorted at himself that kind of thinking was best left to dreamers and nutters, the kinds of people who'd believe in trashy rags about UFOs and werewolves and all sorts of ridiculous business. He'd never had the imagination for such things.
"It is very cold," the young man responded quietly.
Tap tap tap....
"That so?" Looking up, he handed the young man his change, saying sociably, "You sound like you appreciate it 'bout the same as me that is to say, not too damn much-"
then paused, blinking. He rubbed his eyes. For a second there, he was sure he saw-
"Did you see that?" he asked, staring at the spot next to the young man. "There was a man, floating there, and you-" weren't wearing faded blue jeans and a jacket, but a long brown robe, just like the man. Frowning, because it didn't make any sense and he didn't believe in hauntings, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt and so missed the second where his customer pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, looking disproportionately more drawn and pale than the aging of a few moments should physically allow the same person, but bleached and faded as an old photograph.
"There, that's better," he murmured to himself firmly, replacing his spectacles. When he looked up, there was only the young man, just as before a tad more tired-looking than a couple of weeks ago, now that he scrutinized more closely, but still pleasantly demeanored and very much normal. And no floating men, either.
"Is something wrong?"
The young man's voice, accented and soft, broke him out of the last of his reverie. "No, no. Just an old man's wandering mind." He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth, before admonishing firmly, "You, on the other hand, ought to do something about those black circles growing under your eyes." He looked at him sternly. "And I'm old enough to say that to you and get away with it, so you're young enough to have to listen to an old man's advice. Stop partying and drinking and get some sleep. 'S fun, I know, but you'll pay for it later."
The kid had the grace to smile and say, "Of course, Mr. Cobb."
"Well, I suppose I've held your change hostage long enough. Here's the last of it."
"Thank you."
"Welcome."
Tucking his purchases under an arm, the kid wished him a good day and turned to leave. The old man called out in parting, "And hey - if ya got a minute sometime, come back and fix the wiring, eh?"
He'd tried not to sound too eager, but he must have failed, because this time when the kid smiled at him there was amusement clear in his and he was not a man given to romantics, but this day, this moment, seemed the right time for it gentle eyes.
and if otherworldly fit those eyes just as well-
One last wave, a tinkle of chimes and the door closed.
And the old man was left once again with only the swift cold draft of the wind, the yellow glow and hum of the lights, the static crooning of the radio, the-
Tap...tap.........tap....
He sighed. Time to dump out the light.
~*~
He devours the lunch; reads and tosses the newspaper and tabloid into the recycling bin, and has discarded his guilt at pausing in his journey before the paper hits the stack.
Whatever the Force has been warning him of, it isn't to be found here.
~*~
Stasis is a delicate state.
In essence, it is the complete and dichotomous opposite of Force-enhanced speed a comprehensive slowing down of all bodily functions until their rate of change is so insignificant as to be nearly undetectable. Derived from Morichro, stasis is an indispensable tool for Jedi able to master it, for with it one can save a life teetering on the brink of death. But not without its own swath of accompanying dangers, all rooted in this fact: that while the body can be paused indefinitely, the mind cannot be held still at all not even for a fraction of a second.
There is a reason stasis is called the Living Death.
While in stasis, the mind moves constantly through image and thought aware of the passage of time, but as if in unceasing dream. A body left too long in stasis will die if the mind's natural lifespan expires; an incorrectly prepared mind, still expecting the sensory input of life, goes mad upon receiving none; a mind already convinced of its own body's death can cause that death, even locked in time; and if hurt while in stasis, the body cannot react to heal itself the merest pinprick can mean eventual death.
Obi-Wan is very, very careful with his Master. In the dark of night, he runs along an stretch of unlit land, his palm anchoring to his Master's chest, and thinks about when he will take his Master out of stasis, and remembers those thirty minutes during which he put him in it so easy, too easy, to put a sleeping mind to stasis
But much more trying than he let on, in ways other than those he expected. To coax his Master's body in such an intimate way....
-especially given the unsound manifestations of his affection as of late-
He could have destroyed Qui-Gon's mind. Had he mishandled the process, he could have. Would have. And like fire to touchwood, his own mind would have gone with his Master's the danger of minds connected by a training bond. The danger of apprenticing a Jedi.
The danger of the Living Death.
He crests the rise of the hill. The forest and castle are dim specters past the whirring of the snowflakes, the cold a tangible smell crispness and ice. Wind shrieks through the trees with the snap of limbs shaking under the torrent, and his robe pulls against his skin in desperate attempts to take flight into the air's current. He leans down, bracing himself against the sudden buffet of shifting wind, his sight just as abruptly rendered all but useless in the face of the storm but he doesn't pause. His Padawan braid streaks in his wake, an esoteric pennon here passes a Jedi!
He draws warmth from the Force and forges onward, his Master in the protective shelter of his Padawan his robe and the watchful eyes of his Force-enhanced senses, extended in all directions to guide him where organic sight cannot. Steam rises at each touch of his feet to the snow.
-he thinks again of the Rock Garden. His Master is now the guarded; and he, the guardian, and against the impending darkness of terrible premonition he will-
Defend to the death.
~*~
In the shallow nook of deep-cut cave, he lays his Master down.
Faint whistling echoes down the dark passage as, outside, the storm continues unabated. Smooth, cool, and dry where the dampness of his robes doesn't soak, he kneels; the stone heats at his touch. Obi-Wan moves his Master to the place of warmth. Tucks his Master's robes more securely about the still form. Lifts the gray-streaked braid and lays it neatly on his Master's shoulder.
He should stand and leave, now but he doesn't. Because he wants to touch his Master's brow, draw a line down the crooked nose to feel the faint...slow...long puffs of breath. This, too, he doesn't.
"I'll take you out of stasis soon, Master."
His voice is steady. He isn't. Suddenly feeling overwrought with more emotion than he can handle abruptly, he rises, turning from his Master and snapping his robe closed about him, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. The Living Force is an insistent presence in his mind, urging him to to what? He can't tell. He's never been so in touch with the Living Force why now? Aren't the recurrent visions from the Unifying Force enough?
To what end is the Force trying to guide him?
"I have to leave you here a little longer just until I see what the Force wants of me. The people here are kind but don't know how to heal you. The Living Force is all you need, and that is best found out here, connected to the earth, and not in a hospital bed. When I take you out of stasis...perhaps a day, and I believe you'll wake." He opens his eyes, gaze unfocused. "I shall be very happy to see you, my Master. And I have missed your voice. You'll like this planet when you wake up-"
He cuts himself off his whisper sounds obscene. What is he doing? His lips compress, a single tight line. Get rid of this. Release it-
-but not near his Master, who doesn't need this kind of backlash. He should not have let himself become this way-
He grits his teeth, briefly, rubbing a hand to his forehead. He feels trapped. Draws his fingers along the underside of his jaw, tiny little lines of scar tissue raising as he exercises the incredible control he developed that difficult, dark time, to turn his body into living testament. He feels trapped, and his scarring twisted, intricate, interwoven, suggestive of vines, thorns, snakes, threads reflects it.
Healing the Herd it feels right. He doesn't doubt that. And he's prevented any deaths so far but to what end? The disease still spreads, pushing beyond his ability to contain, and all he's done to himself is become this this weakened Padawan, unable to understand the warnings given him by the Unifying Force, unable to channel the Living Force as it wants to be channeled, and holding ever more tightly to his Master when he knows he should let go.
When he leaves the cave, it is with the sense that at least Qui-Gon will not suffer further, nestled as he is on a nexus of Living Force energy, which can soothe him as Obi-Wan won't can't, not until it's safe to remove his Master from stasis. The Unifying Force has only grown louder the closer his return to the castle, and it's that bone-thrumming threat he'll deal with first before he brings his Master further into danger.
Just a little longer-
In an eggshell shroud, the snowflakes around his body freeze the delayed release of his frustration chills them into instant hail. They patter to his feet like pebbles; he steps over them: tread even, mind as steady as could be expected, and tired.
He meets with the infected half of the Herd. In the span of a night and a day, ten new cases have developed. Among this number are all the Healers, save one Bane, who has worked himself to exhaustion.
He meets with the uninfected half, located clear on the other side of the forest in the hope that distance will prevent what one Jedi cannot.
A hope in vain; the sickness has spread. Quicker and more virulently than he'd expected. Three new cases, of which the Elder is one.
A foal is dead.
His quarantine within the Herd has failed.
~*~
"Well, look who it is Ben! Haven't seen yeh around lately." The man grins friendlily, swinging a red and silver ax into the tree stump and letting it rest, handle-up, in the wood. Fresh-cut timber leans against the snow-powdered hut in precarious stacks. He wraps his dangling scarf more firmly about his wild beard, making his way through a yard of slushy, trodden snow and through the little gate at the end of the fence. Obi-Wan looks up; the man peers down at him, genial and surprised and concerned, but also with a healthy curiosity.
"You do alrigh' in that storm last night?"
Better now that his Master is safe nearby. Obi-Wan inclines his head slightly. "Yes, thank you. And you?"
"Oh, aye, I got on all right." The corners of his eyes crinkle into his grin. "I hunkered down with Fang all night, kept a nice fire goin' and roasted me a marshmallow that's the way to do it, eh? But I've always liked me a good storm. They can be right pretty," and he lets out a guffaw, "not that many'd agree with me, I suspect."
Obi-Wan smiles. "Perhaps. I like to be warm better, myself."
The man nods companionably, looking understandingly at the tuck of Obi-Wan's hands into his sleeves, the bunch of the hood around his neck. "Takes all types, don't it. But listen, you, er, want a cuppa?" He gestures to his house, undemandingly hospitable, and scratches the back of his neck. "I know yeh keep ter yerself, but I never mind the company. I bet Chewy'd like ter see ya, too."
"Thank you, but not today, Hagrid. If you are not busy, I would like to go to the castle."
"Oh?" The man scratches his head, a little confused, and shrugs. "Well, go on up, then. Shouldn' be a problem. You, uh, into sightseein'?"
"I would like to speak to Albus Dumbledore."
"Oh," the man says, but now with a whole new wealth of meaning. He tugs on his beard, regarding Obi-Wan speculatively. "Migh' I ask why?"
A series of images dance openly on the forefront of the man's mind, spanning outward to Obi-Wan's an old man in sparkling orange robes sitting across a tea set, the smell of mint; a flame-colored bird sitting on a perch, a silvery bird-shaped spectre winging through the sky; a hand on a large, hairy, insect leg; the aged wizard sitting at the head of a table, surrounded by others of his kind and tinged with grimness and hope.
"It concerns the centaurs...."
~*~
A Jedi!
"-must have survived the crash. He's aiding the enemies of a project of mine; he does not know what this world is, or he would have sought out the poles by now."
Of all the things to find interfering with his disease a Jedi!
"And you are certain he is alone?"
Low, thick, and slow as a funeral procession, the voice crackled with static; the small blue image, robed and hooded, wavered with distance; but the overwhelming sense of power coiled, potent, vicious was unmitigated. Absolute.
A peasant before an idol, the telepath knelt.
"Yes." A Jedi but not: "A single Padawan, and no more." His lip curled predatorily. "Masterless probably from the crash. A vulnerable mind I am certain I can take." And add one more Jedi to his pair-
"Describe this Padawan."
He did, reigning in curiosity, and was cut off midway-through with a gesture of fingers.
"No. You will not take his mind."
Though unable to see beneath the hood, the telepath had the distinct sense of narrowing eyes and there was no mistaking the harsh, vindictive pleasure in the following words, dark as oil and rasped out in a gravelly hiss.
"Kill him."
The telepath's head lowered in acquiescence.
"As you wish, Lord Sidious."
The image snapped out of sight.