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 9)
-ten-
-shades of revolution-
Mace Windu receives the urgent summons from the crecheling with surprise. “Continue,” he tells his former Padawan; she nods, a dutiful Knight as always. To the crecheling he says, “Take this message to Master Yoda.” The girl's eyes widen; she runs off quickly to do as told.
He strides out of the practice hall and into the main corridor, purposefully and authoritatively taking up the center of the halls. Younger Jedi duck to the side to get out of his way, despite his projection of calm.
When he reaches Communications, he bypasses the public chamber and goes directly to the private Council channel. It's already up and running; he can see, faintly, the outlines of two figures, the image flickering and jumping every so often, the signal made poor by distance.
Mace sits. “Qui-Gon?”
“Mace,” comes the reply, garbled as the image. The second figure – he assumes it's Qui-Gon's Padawan, a quiet boy by the name of Kenobi – bows.
Mace shakes his head in disbelief. “Where are you?” Barring Kenobi's one vitally important and singularly disturbing missive, it's been over a year since Coruscant has heard anything from the oft-errant Jedi Master and his Padawan.
“...planet...Living Force...to the natives, Earth...Wild Space.”
“Wild Space? What's the nearest charted planet?”
After several fuzzy transmissions, Kenobi leaves the frame; when he returns, the signal is clearer, and Mace can finally pinpoint the source.
“Icthilia?”
“Affirmative.”
Mace shakes his head. “You're far out there, my friend.”
No reply, except a laugh.
For the next hour Mace takes note of the story of Qui-Gon's ten-month imprisonment on the planet Yachta, subsequent escape with his Padawan, pursuit of the slaving ring, and attack of the Sith. Then the shorter figure steps forward, and Kenobi tells his piece. Mace has him go over details of the Sith multiple times before he's satisfied with his notes on the subject of their long-lost enemy.
When Kenobi finishes, Mace is left...unsettled. “Leave, Padawan.”
A glance at his Master, who nods; Kenobi's image walks out of sight.
“Yes, Mace?”
“Something is amiss with your Padawan, Qui-Gon,” Mace asserts bluntly. He is surprised again when Qui-Gon only nods.
“I am aware.”
“You're aware?” Mace repeats. He leans closer to the holo-emitter. “And since you're aware, what do you plan to do about it?”
“I have already put measures into place. Obi-Wan shall not use the Force until he is balanced again.”
“Good....” But that's not quite it. “Qui-Gon, it's not only the traces of Dark I'm worried about. The Unifying Force tells me of great uncertainty concerning your Padawan's future.”
“There is great uncertainty concerning anyone's future, Mace.”
Mace presses his lips together. “You divert. You must feel it as well.”
“And if I did, what would you have me do? The Force will guide him to the future of his choosing.” Still said with the calmness that let him routinely face down the ire of his peers.
Mace sighs. “And if the future of his choosing becomes a threat to the Order?”
“It will not.” Firmly.
“Qui-Gon-”
“I respect your intuition, Mace, but my feelings tell me my place right now is with Obi-Wan. Wherever this takes us is of no consequence. In his moments of uncertainty, I will be there, and that is what is essential.” He pauses significantly. “I take our connection and my place in it very seriously; never doubt that.”
Again Mace sighs. “As long as you're cognizant of the dangers.”
“Better than most, my friend.” Said softly. A pause, then; Mace thinks back to Qui-Gon's first Padawan and the unmitigated tragedy of the once-promising boy's Turning. And its effect on the Master; many were certain he would never take another Padawan, and for years, continued refusals testified to the speculation.
What about Kenobi changed his mind?
Mace clears his throat. “We'll confer and get back to you, this time tomorrow.”
Qui-Gon nods.
“And Qui-Gon.”
“Mace?”
“I'm glad you're alive.”
~*~
The next time Mace sets out for the Communications chamber, he's not alone; with a spryness belying his true age, Master Yoda leads the way into the room and seats himself, absently rubbing the gnarled edges of his cane once or twice before stilling. Mace follows suit, then turns his attention to the holo-emitter, already up and running, its bluish image showing Qui-Gon and Kenobi, both seated as well – although it looks like they've chosen to move the emitter from its place the day previous, for both sit on the ground, legs crossed, and in Qui-Gon's case, Mace suspects, feet bare.
It was something that the oft-contrary Qui-Gon might do when meeting with the Master of the Jedi Council, after all.
“You may cease glaring at me, Mace,” comes the humor-laden voice of his friend; Mace expertly and cleanly clears his mind, and his expression consequently eases.
Still sounding amused, Qui-Gon continues. “What news from the healers?”
“From what you've described, your disease is telepathic in nature-” Mace begins, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped between.
At his proclamation, Kenobi shifts. Mace pauses. Despite Qui-Gon's assurances, thoughts of the Padawan still bring about great unease, and he's resolved to watch the boy, if for no other reason than to protect his Master from further damage at the hands of errant Padawans.
“They speculate that the Draethos,” he continues after a moment, “having had telepathic powers far beyond that of its race's normal prowess, was the originator of the disease. Close proximity combined with thoughts of the intended target – the intended unshielded target – result in transmittance of the disease. This is why Kenobi's continued efforts were thwarted; the centaurs, being unshielded and in a close-knit herd, were vulnerable to the disease as soon as he cleared it from their systems.”
“A resilient disease,” Qui-Gon remarks. At his left, Kenobi merely watches, face calm and unworried. “Have they any idea how the Draethos was able to gain such skills?” he goes on. “A mind strong enough to wipe that of two Jedi Masters shouldn't occur naturally in this race.”
“We suspect the Sith,” Mace admits. He trades a glance with Yoda; the diminutive Master is serene in his acceptance of this fact, despite the pain any loss of life must cause one so Living Force-sensitive. “If the Draethos were telepathic and Force-sensitive, it might be possible, under a Sith's tutelage, to strengthen the mind through the Dark Side. We're not sure when the Sith would have had access to the Draethos,” Mace adds, “but perhaps the better question would be when wouldn't it have had access to the Draethos. Since we were unaware of the Sith until Padawan Kenobi's message, it would have had no problem wandering the galaxy as it pleased.”
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “And now?”
“Now,” Mace asserts grimly, “we are watching. For it, and its Master.”
Qui-Gon nods. “So you, too, believe what we faced was the apprentice.”
“Yes. The Master would not directly face such a danger. What I want to know,” Mace leans forward, “is why the Sith would indicate interest in a Draethos to begin with. If it wanted the minds of the Jedi destroyed, why not just do it itself and move on?”
“Because it didn't want them destroyed,” Kenobi speaks up unexpectedly, surprising Mace. Qui-Gon no doubt sensed the interruption coming, for he appears completely unruffled and accepting; approving, even.
Mace suppresses what is half a frown of disapproval and half a grimace of wry admiration.
“It wanted them controlled,” Kenobi continues. “Either the Sith wanted the Jedi to be seen doing something, or only the Jedi could do something. So far it seems those we've met had no idea of the Jedi presence in the north, but that does not mean the Draethos, controlling the Jedi bodies, didn't reveal our presence to others.”
“And whatever the Sith needed the Jedi to do, it couldn't put in the time and effort to do it itself.” Qui-Gon complements his Padawan's line of thinking naturally, like one river flowing seamlessly into another. Something about that disturbs Mace on a fine level; perhaps the implication of familiarity and mutual attachment. But Qui-Gon knows better than most the danger of attachment; he would not let himself get unnaturally close to his Padawan, and he would not foster such a tie in Kenobi. He wouldn't, but....
“And what connection does the Sith have to the crystal nursery?” Kenobi finishes, looking, now, at his Master, as if Mace and Yoda aren't even there. “There is no coincidence; there is the Force. The Sith chose this planet for a reason.”
A sense of commendation in Qui-Gon's voice as he replies, “Precisely, Padawan. We simply have yet to discover the reason, but I have no doubt we will if we continue our exploration of the nursery.”
Kenobi half-bows, a graceful gesture, even from the floor. “Yes, Master.”
They talk for a while more, about the Sith, the disease and methods of treatment, the Draethos, and the Temple. Mace is halfway desirous of getting Qui-Gon alone again to discuss his Padawan and the unease he still feels around the boy, but the opportunity never presents itself and, soon enough, their transmission draws to a close.
Leaving Mace unsatisfied. He begins to rise when a murmured, “Hold,” has him sitting back down again. Yoda has been silent and observant throughout most of the transmission. Now, he watches Mace with moss-green eyes, ears relaxed and face calm.
“Troubled, you are,” the Master states. “Unsettle you, Kenobi does.”
Mace dips his head in a bow. “Yes, Master Yoda.”
A pause, then: “Spoken to me, the Unifying Force has. Watch him, I do.” A hand, then, on the top of his bowed head, a gentle pat from an elder to a youngling. “Well, all will be.”
Inexplicably, Mace feels reassured, as if he truly is a crecheling receiving comfort. He nods again. “Yes, Master Yoda.”
The hand leaves his head; a tap of a cane, and he feels Yoda's massive Force-presence, vaster than the ocean, leave the room.
~*~
Now that his Master is with him, meditation comes to Obi-Wan as smoothly as the movement of a bow over strings, as calm and refined as the drop of a pebble into a pond and its subsequent ripples. Of course, though meditation is easy to slide into, this doesn't mean it's an entirely pleasant experience once he's lost within the stillness of his mind, for then he has to fend off wayward thoughts that prey upon his serenity like wolves.
Foremost among the predators: the increasingly distressing feelings he has for his Master. He doesn't lie to himself; now that Qui-Gon is awake, Obi-Wan's gentle affection has grown exponentially into something that can no longer be ignored. He named it, once, during the Draethos attack. He will not name it again with the term he suspects; such would make it more real, and less able to be uprooted and released to the Force. This is what he knows he must do, and this is what he tries to do, and yet....
Then the image comes, and it isn't the vision he's accustomed to receiving from the Unifying Force: it's simply that of a book, pages strewn loosely on a shelf. Grateful for the interruption, he lets his mind center upon the image; studies it; and stands, leaving his Master meditating calmly on the floor.
His footsteps pad gently along the corridor. He follows the image in his mind past the room he's taken as his chambers and to the doorway of his Master's. Along their bond, he asks permission; upon receiving it, along with a gentle query that he ignores for the moment, he nears the doors. They slide open with a soft skksh. The room is one of two that were once used by the Jedi tending the nursery; like himself, his Master has straightened away the evidence of struggle but kept his presence minimal. His outer robe lies with the sleeves dangling over the edge of the bed; nothing more.
Before he heeds the image in his mind, Obi-Wan runs a hand along his Master's robe; picks it up, flicks it once to let it hang straight, and folds the garment neatly, laying it at the foot of the bed.
Then he goes to the shelves and finds the book in his mind. When he opens it, the pages, their edges yellowed, smell of dust and old age. His eyes come to rest on very familiar words:
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force.
One of the first things any Jedi learns: the Code. He turns over the book and looks at the cover. Master Odan-Urr, the originator of the Code. The Master's various teachings are nothing he hasn't heard before in some form or another; many entries exhort the necessity of having no emotion. He knows this. He knows this, and he isn't sure why the Force has led him to this volume-
Emotion, yet peace.
He snaps the volume closed.
Opens it again, and is unsurprised when the pages fall open to the same words. This time, he reads:
Emotion, yet peace.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
Passion, yet serenity.
Chaos, yet harmony.
Death, yet the Force.
And when he finishes reading, he sits down where he stands, legs crossed on his tall boots, and reads it again. The words remain the same. He can't quite comprehend past the shifting world-view in his head, but he knows that the differences in wording are life-changingly significant.
When he strides back into the main control room of the nursery, his Master immediately turns to him, though he remains seated.
“Padawan.” A question without asking.
“Master,” he returns evenly. He settles on the floor next to his Master, feeling the coolness of metal beneath him. Qui-Gon watches.
Obi-Wan lays the book on the ground between them. His Master doesn't look at it, merely continuing to watch his Padawan. Obi-Wan wastes no words; fine diplomacy is his Master's skill, and there is no need for it between them. There hasn't been for years-
-coming to his new chambers, feeling the excitement of finally having been chosen, and his new Master greeting him at the door, his long brown hair unbound, his feet comfortably bare; then watching his new Master's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles in welcome, then smiles wider as Obi-Wan goggles at his audacity to break from decorum so. Blurting as much to his new Master; hearing him laugh-
-so he simply begins, “Did you know the Code was once written differently?”
Qui-Gon allows some curiosity to show. “Yes, I did.”
Frustration. “Why did you never tell me?” he demands, then takes a moment to breathe and regain his composure. His Master watches without judgment.
“...I had not thought it would interest you,” he finally says. “You have always adhered to the Code as it is written now and with such devotion I feared you would see anything else as heresy.”
“Then isn't that precisely why you should have shown it to me?”
His Master blinks in surprise. Smiles slowly, and with the beginnings of a humble pride the origins of which Obi-Wan doesn't know. “Very good, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, brushing that distraction aside. “...Master. I ask you; what do you make of this old Code?” And he reads aloud what was once the Code, before Master Odan-Urr's meditations.
Qui-Gon listens with inquisitively tilted head and interested eyes. “That is how I live, Obi-Wan,” he says simply when Obi-Wan finishes.
Obi-Wan lets out a breath. “Unfailingly unashamed,” he murmurs, then says, louder, “I thought as much, Master. This,” he taps the book with one finger, “sounds like you.”
His Master only smiles.
“...I don't know what to make of it,” Obi-Wan confesses, drumming his fingers on the floor, restlessly. “Master, why are we not taught the history of the Code?”
His Master appears unsurprised. “I suppose the majority of Jedi preferred Odan-Urr's interpretation, and over the years, the original form, through lack of interest, was relegated to the history books of the library instead of the classroom.”
Obi-Wan's shaking his head before his Master even finishes. “It should not be so,” he says. “Master, there is such difference between the two that I-” he shakes his head again, wordlessly.
“This troubles you,” his Master prompts quietly.
“Of course it troubles me!” Obi-Wan looks into his Master's eyes with the heat of his words burning between them; takes a breath, releases some of that heat to the Force and hears it dissipate with a crackle. “It presents an entirely different view of the Code. 'There is no emotion, there is peace.' 'Emotion, yet peace.' The first suggests a polarization of two extremes, a black and white picture in which there is no gray, no in-between, just one or the other, with strong implications that peace is what we must strive to attain, and emotion leads to the Dark Side. The second,” Obi-Wan draws in a calming breath, “suggests that peace and emotion can co-exist; that peace exists despite emotion, perhaps even alongside emotion, and vice versa. It implies that the two are interconnected, that there is a balance to be found in the gray. Master, I-” he breaks off, closes his eyes, opens them. “I must meditate on this,” he says, and rises abruptly. He sees his Master's acceptance in the way his eyes calm, the brief touch of his mind to Obi-Wan's; an invitation.
Meditate here, with me.
This, Obi-Wan can't refuse; he settles on the ground next to Qui-Gon, reclaiming the spot he'd vacated only seconds ago. He watches his Master's lips quirk faintly in fond amusement; feels his heart squeeze and his breath catch.
But this time, when he feels a return fondness towards his Master, he doesn't immediately quell the feeling or release it to the Force: emotion, yet peace. Is it possible to feel emotion and be at peace? The idea feels completely foreign.
Yet, for the first time in his life, he lets his... affection guide his meditation, like slipping into a warm sea and feeling the sand shift beneath his feet.
~*~
He feels the weight of the crystal caves around them like the gentle sound of a windchime being buffeted in a hurricane. It was not always like this; but the more they have stayed in residence, the more he suffocates under the general atmosphere of the Dark Side. Terrifying is the thought that some of that blackness might be emanating from him.
He sits underneath a giant crystal, delicate pale green with a mother-of-pearl shine, jutting out from the cave wall over his head, thick in diameter as his body. The crystals are overgrown in this part of the cave; his Master estimates at least two years since they've been properly tended, although those corridors they passed through on their way to the base have had more recent care. Perhaps this area of the caves was abandoned even before the two Jedi stationed here had their minds taken. While the small crystals were pleasantly warm, the giant crystals are hot as a sauna, and he has stripped off layers of cloaks like a snake shedding skin. Were he accessing the Force, he could cool himself....
He doesn't yet trust himself to draw upon the Force.
The more he abstains from its use, the more his head clears, and he realizes that his Master is entirely correct in not permitting him close contact to their source of guidance. Only distance has allowed his mind to let go of the supernatural and return to something more human, and in doing so some of the Darkness has seeped out of him like blood from a wound; painful, but necessary.
He enjoys being in the caves with his Master. Several days have passed in peaceful contemplation since their transmissions with Coruscant, neither seeking to fill the space with unneeded conversation, both working quietly to detect the source of the unease his Master felt days prior. Obi-Wan sleeps during the day and the dark of night, rising in the dawn and twilight to work beside his Master, who only sleeps at night. The return to his natural sleeping habits has brought him an equal measure of calm such as abstaining from the Force has.
“You're living naturally,” his Master has said, to which Obi-Wan simply bows halfway, braid trailing over his shoulder and touching gently against his robes.
Now his Master enters the chamber, ducking to squeeze his long, limber height under a protruding crystal. As he walks, one hand continuously lingers on the crystals, softly touching.
“Padawan,” his Master greets quietly.
“Master.”
His Master nestles into a nook of the crystals as tenderly as any youngling, placing his palms flat on either side of himself with open delight. The sight of his Master's face so full of joy makes Obi-Wan's heart squeeze-
- and where once he would have stifled that urge ruthlessly, now he only lets himself feel the emotion, naturally.
Emotion, yet peace.
The concept, once alien, is quickly pulling him in like a riptide, and he's willingly letting himself go. The old Code gives a kind of freedom lacking from the new Code. With his growing acceptance of the original Code comes an increased understanding of his Master's actions and words, past and present. It feels... intimate, to know his Master so.
“When we return to Coruscant,” Obi-Wan begins quietly, “Will you join me in lobbying for the teaching of the original Code, Master?”
Fondness, along their bond, and a few crinkles at the corners of his Master's eyes as he smiles. “Yes.” And for a long while, nothing more is said, and Obi-Wan is...happy.
~*~
More days pass, the time slipping by as softly as petals falling upon a pond. Hidden below in the caves, Obi-Wan's days pass in glimmers of reflected color, pinks and corals and teals, and the growing peace within him blossoms gently as the Darkness is leached from him like the sun fading shadow. His Master heats the crystals to water, and so they drink; his Master listens to the Living Force to find clusters of green life, and so they eat. His Master touches the Force, and vestiges of that touch echo along their bond like the soft press of piano keys, and with increasing abandon Obi-Wan feels himself pulled into all things his Master, without alarm and without worry.
The break in routine comes one day when Obi-Wan, meditating in a cluster of hand-sized crystals, feels his Master's approach with his rapidly developing seventh sense attuned to all things Qui-Gon. And so his eyes are open and his mind aware when his Master beckons to him with a hand.
“Come, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan comes.
His Master leads him along a twisting path of crystals he hasn't yet explored, and the farther they walk, the more that claustrophobic press of the Dark Side increases.
“You have found the cause of the disturbance,” he surmises quietly. His Master looks back at him, halfway, a flash of blue.
“Yes, Padawan.”
They continue some way before his Master halts, at a strand of crystals clustered like pearls, rounded oddly and bulbous, unlike the smooth faceting of the crystals Obi-Wan has seen so far. They reflect a dark orange-red light off his Master's hand as he gestures.
“These crystals, Padawan, are contaminated with the Dark Side.”
Obi-Wan reaches out a hand, just short of touching the crystals. Like a cluster of bees trapped in silk, “They're angry, Master.”
“Yes, Padawan.” His Master brushes a finger over the top of one crystal. “What remains to be seen is why.” He looks at Obi-Wan, now, with a glint of orange contrasting the deep blue of his eyes. “I have felt you healing these past days, Padawan, of which I am glad. Touch the Unifying Force. See if you can discern what I cannot.”
Faintly surprised, Obi-Wan recovers swiftly. “Yes, Master.” Reaching for the Force is a bit like stretching a muscle he hasn't used in a while; it pulls, but it also makes him shiver with a sweet, good feeling, up and down his spine, that has him closing his eyes in order to better savor the sensation. He gathers the Force around and in himself; lets it permeate him like a sponge; soaks it up and revels in it, just a little, without pride and with reverence.
He feels his Master's fondness and soft amusement along their bond. Opening his eyes with an exhalation of deep relaxation, Obi-Wan turns to his Master.
“I have missed this, Master.”
Qui-Gon reaches to him with a solid kind of touch, quite unlike the ghostly movements he gives the crystals. Places a hand on his shoulder, fingertips curling around the nape of his neck. “I know, Obi-Wan.”
For a moment, Obi-Wan cannot take breath.
Then his Master releases his hold, stepping back and allowing his Padawan access to the tainted crystals. Now that he's immersed once more in the Force, Obi-Wan wonders how any Jedi could ever miss the thick, choking feel of the Dark Side, so strongly does it emanate from these crystals. Quietly, his Master's presence fades to a comforting background hum as Obi-Wan releases himself to the Unifying Force....
...and, hours later, swims back to the surface.
His Master is seated upon the ground in meditation while his Padawan staggers backward a step, breathing heavily, as if he's just faced a physical attack rather than a solely mental one. His Master rises quickly, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders and a soothing touch to his mind.
“The crystals, Master,” he says, swallowing, “They're hungry. They pull.” He is inarticulate with the cloying taste of the Dark, creeping over his touch to the Unifying Force like oil and water – never blending, only combatants.
“Release it, Obi-Wan,” his Master urges. “Let it go. Remember the peace you have found these past days, and do not let the Dark take hold once more.”
Obi-Wan swallows again, then closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, once, twice. He peels back the touch of Dark with some difficulty, and only knowing his Master waits in stalwart support and utmost faith of his abilities allows him to fully cleanse himself. When he opens his eyes, the crystals have turned several shades darker with his release; they're a deep blood-red, beautiful and unnatural.
His Master, still holding him, prompts him gently. “What have you found?”
“They have been poisoned over a long period of time,” he says, shaking his head, but his eyes still riveted to the crimson. “Years, Master. The Unifying Force whispers of their intended future; these are to be sabre crystals, correct? That is the point of these nurseries?”
Qui-Gon nods, and waits.
“Should this become a Jedi's blade,” Obi-Wan reaches a hand to the crystal but doesn't touch, “Such a Jedi would become Dark within months, Master.”
His Master lets out a breath, but he doesn't look entirely surprised.
Obi-Wan continues. “These crystals are too obviously Dark to be allowed to grow by any true Jedi tending the nursery. That the cystals have grown this large and this poisoned attests to their age; I suspect the Jedi here have been controlled for years. I expect the crystals in the outer chambers, those farthest from the main nursery, are only slightly Dark, and more likely to pass by the notice of any not attuned to the Living Force. Even you, Master, only felt a vague unease until we investigated further, and your touch with the Living Force is fantastic.”
The compliment comes out naturally; it's only true after all. Yet Qui-Gon looks humbly pleased all the same, and says a quiet, “Thank you, Padawan. I wish that you could open yourself to the Living Force as I do.”
Unsure of what to say to that, Obi-Wan simply continues, “It would be easy to pass off the outer crystals as suitable lightsabre foci, at which point their continued influence over many years would turn the Jedi in question. Such may be the Sith's plan; to turn Jedi to the Dark Side through their own lightsabres, the one thing no Jedi is ever without.”
His Master lets out a quiet breath. “No doubt you are right, Padawan.” He goes silent a moment, looking at the blood-red crystals.
Then he turns back to Obi-Wan, asking, “Does the Unifying Force tell you how many years this has gone on?” His forehead creases in remembered pain, and Obi-Wan knows he thinks back to his previous Padawan and his former Master, both of whom had turned to the Dark Side and been subsequently killed by the Jedi.
For his Master's sake, Obi-Wan feels pain as well. The Jedi Master Dooku was long dead, but finding the long-lost, Turned Xanatos had happened during his Padawanship. Never will Obi-Wan forget the chilling sight of a Jedi Master forced to cut down his own Padawan.
Those were dark days, for them both.
“At this nursery, only several years, Master.” Obi-Wan doesn't like to see Qui-Gon hurting, but his Master deserves an answer, no matter how painful. “But this may not be the only contaminated crystal nursery. There could be others, and until we know how many, there is no way of knowing if this particular planet's nursery was chosen or if all nurseries were contaminated indiscriminately.”
Eyes on the crystals, his Master says, “All that would have to be done at each nursery is to take over the minds of the Jedi who tend them, as was done here. Then the crystals could be poisoned, and no one would be the wiser.”
“Except, perhaps, someone highly attuned in the Living Force,” Obi-Wan reminds. “I suspect neither you nor Master Yoda could be duped by such a crystal.”
“No,” his Master responds quietly, “But we are singularly talented, he and I.” There is no boastful quality to his words, only the truth.
Obi-Wan closes his eyes and looks away, pained. The thought of Jedi slowly being poisoned to the Dark Side by their own sabres sickens him in a nearly physical way.
Then his Master speaks, and Obi-Wan opens his eyes. “We'll notify Coruscant at once. Our purpose here is finished, and our place is with the Herd once more. I begin to worry for their continued health.” He looks at Obi-Wan and smiles. “Before we depart, I would like you to look over a few untainted crystals I've chosen as foci from the outer chambers. Between the two of us, I believe we can detect any traces of the Dark, should they exist. It's time I had a lightsabre again.”
Obi-Wan bows halfway. “Yes, Master. I'll collect the supplies for sabre construction from the nursery before we leave.”
His Master only smiles, turning until Obi-Wan says, “There is something else, Master.”
Qui-Gon pauses and looks to his Padawan, a question in his expression.
Obi-Wan's face is solemn as he gestures to the bulbous, blood-red crystals. “These crystals have known the direct touch of a Sith.”
~*~
She left work tired, back chronically aching and feet sore, and thinking of nothing more than relaxing into sleep. The night was dark and snowy, sometimes misty and sometimes more. Red and yellow lights lit the road as cars came and went. She waited on the bench (covered, luckily) for her bus, nestled into the hood of her coat with hands tucked into her pockets. The air smelled moist and earthy, and when everything was quiet and still, she could hear the wet snow tap on the roof with a sound like sifting grains of rice.
When the bus came, it was empty save for a pair of men, one young and one older, seated in the middle section. Not particularly inclined to be conversational with strangers, she chose a seat on the opposite side of the bus, a few seats closer to the back. The bus started on its lumbering way, burbling and sputtering along. Taking out a crossword book from her purse, she flipped to a partially done puzzle, bit the cap off a pen and held it between her teeth, absently fiddling with it while she tried to think of a three-letter word ending in 'y' and meaning 'enchanted.'
When she couldn't come up with anything, she moved on to an easier one: a cry to bullfighters.
“Olé,” she muttered, pen scrawling.
A few minutes into the crossword and only that three-letter word was left, and she couldn't figure out the surrounding words (with equally consternating clues) until she got it. And she wouldn't go on to another crossword. No, she had the type of personality where she had to finish one puzzle completely before she started another.
...Nothing. So she sighed, looked up and settled her gaze, eventually, on the only other point of interest (the bus driver, being the same quaint old lady for months, no longer counted as fascinating), the two other passengers. The older one had long brown hair, of a length that truly she'd never before seen on a man. Part of it was pulled back into a small ponytail, resting lankly against his head. He looked out the window, and every so often he would turn and look to the younger one, and she'd catch a flash of white teeth and the corner of a blue eye as he spoke to his companion. Said companion would cant his head towards the older man, listening and responding in a much more subdued fashion – less teeth when he talked, suggesting fewer smiles.
...Really, what could possibly be a three-letter word for 'enchanted?'
The bus moved on and she soon lost interest as the pair failed to cause any sort of entertaining spectacle. Growing frustrated with the crossword, she set it aside and instead concentrated on grinding her knuckles into the muscle on either side of her spine, trying to massage away the terrible ache. As she did, she saw the younger man initiate conversation with the older man, receive a nod, then, surprisingly, stand.
And come back to her. Blinking a bit stupidly, she looked up at the young man, balanced and steady despite the incline of the hill they traversed and the bumpiness of the road. And asked with a bit of attitude, “Can I help you?”
“Thank you, but perhaps I can help you,” the man responded without apparent vexation. Up close, he was actually younger than she'd first imagined, and the long, thin braid trailing over his shoulder only added to the impression of youthfulness. Or hippie-ness.
She raised an eyebrow. “How so?” She tried to sound skeptical, but there was a calming presence about the young man that made it hard to be mistrustful, much as she knew she should. She knew it, intellectually, and yet, in her gut, she felt like she could bring him home to her mother and he'd be a perfect gentleman.
“Will you let me help you?” was all he asked instead of answering.
Another reason to be careful. He didn't answer her directly...but that good, quiet, calm feeling still crept over her like moss on a stone.
So she felt her mouth open and heard her voice answer a hesitant, “I suppose....”
The young man nodded. His plain brown jacket crinkled as he reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder.
Wary at physical contact being initiated by a stranger, she was about to protest the touch, no matter how kind-mannered and respectable the young man seemed, when he said, “It's okay,” and then, suddenly, it was.
So she didn't mind while her skin by his hand seemed to warm very faintly. In fact, she couldn't be sure she wasn't romanticizing it and coming up with the feeling herself, but there was just something about the pair that had her in that mood. The kind of mood where she felt like humming and sighing and smiling all at once.
The longer she sat there, the man's hand on her shoulder and his gaze intent, the more relaxed she felt. The pain in her back and feet seemed to diminish, gradually, until she wasn't sure whether or not she'd been hurting in the first place. But that didn't make sense, it was a chronic pain, it always came back, and she felt her doubt start to grow....
“It won't come back,” the young man said quietly. Her doubt drifted away.
Then the man was walking back to his seat, being greeted with a murmur from the older man, and she was left blinking and so, so calm, so wonderfully relaxed and pain-free.
“Fey.”
She looked down at her hands, at the crossword with the cover curled back, then picked up her pen and filled in the word. But as she completed the puzzle, every so often she glanced at the back of the young man's head, drawn to him now with a curiosity that felt unfamiliar but safe. She had just started on a new crossword when her stop came, and she had to shake herself into wakefulness, putting back on her wool mittens and tucking her hood around her neck and close to her ears.
At the door, she turned back, once, and looked at the pair. She saw them with heads bent towards one another, leaning close as a pair of cranes painted on a Japanese folding screen. Wedding screens, she realized; those were wedding screens, and the cranes were always a mated pair....
The bus driver cleared her throat. She started, smiled at the bus driver, and stepped down the stairs and out into the snow. She stood there as the bus pulled away, watching it leave and feeling the cool air chill in her throat as she breathed. Still feeling a bit under a spell, she started to walk home, and thought, perhaps not so irrelevantly, of her crossword puzzle.
Fey, indeed.
~*~
The Valentine's Day dance loomed on the horizon like a dark omen.
Ron walked beside Harry, clutching his hair. “What if she says no?”
“She won't say no, Ron.”
“Yes, but what if she does?”
Harry dodged the Bloody Baron's abrupt materialization through the sixth-story chandelier. “She won't.”
They traipsed down the stairs during a break between afternoon classes. Students filled the hallways, chattering companionably or shouting over the heads of their peers to catch another's attention, and every so often a ghost or, scarier, a teacher would briefly grace the corridor, standing out like the first fall leaves among the masses of green. The light from the many windows shone inside the castle brightly, casting beams of light onto dust motes and into Harry's eyes. He squinted and tried not to run into anybody.
“She won't what?” Sounding a bit breathless, as if she'd hurried a great deal to catch up, Hermione appeared at Harry's side, looking from one to the other for explanation.
“Er,” Ron stuttered. “Hermione. Hi.” His face gradually turned a bright red.
Harry grinned and gave Ron a pat on the shoulder. “Go get her, mate,” he whispered, then walked away jauntily, hearing Ron begin to speak, hesitantly, before he was out of earshot.
Thinking of his own Valentine's prospects left him as anxious as Ron – Ginny was Ron's sister, after all, and there was a certain man's code to follow – so Harry turned his mind to other things.
Namely, Jedi. They'd been gone over two weeks now, with no word either from the Jedi themselves or from the Order on the Jedi's whereabouts. Harry wasn't sure if the Order was even actively pursuing them, or simply waiting in good faith for their return. Either way, the lack of information irked him, as it usually did when he suspected things were being kept from him, though his annoyance was tempered somewhat, this time, by the fact that he had no solid way of proving anything was being withheld. He suspected the Order simply didn't have news, so there was nothing to tell.
Having a good hour before his afternoon Herbology class with the Ravenclaws, Harry decided to pay Hagrid a visit, both for the benign reason of seeing how his friend was doing, and for the less innocent motive of hunting for clues. Maybe get some flying in, too, after Herbology. Those goals in mind, he made his way to the Gryffindor common room, grabbed his broom, went down five flights of stairs, then up one (the last staircase had decided to dump him down an extra level, into the dungeon hallways) and out the large, stately front doors of the castle. The sun was even brighter reflecting off the snow; wincing, Harry cast an obscuring spell, a little cloud of fog appearing to hover in front of his eyes and act as sunglasses of a sort, filtering in the sunshine at more tolerable levels. The air was cool but not unbearable, and smelled fresh and clean.
He was halfway through the grounds when he saw them. They stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, talking with a pair of centaurs Harry didn't recognize. The unintentional camouflage of leafless trees that served as a background made it hard to discern exactly what was going on or who the two robed figures were. But Harry was willing to bet it was 'their' Jedi, back from wherever they'd gone, just as they said they'd be.
He slung his broomstick case around his shoulders, strolling much more casually in the direction of Hagrid's hut. The closer he got, the more sure Harry was that it was Obi-Wan and Jinn; he recognized the height and long hair of the latter, and the general stance of the former. He wished Hermione had taught him that magnification spell so he could see even more....
Then he was at Hagrid's hut, and he didn't have an excuse to go any farther. Sighing, he walked up the rough stepping stones set in front of Hagrid's house, knocking on the door while keeping an eye and ear on the Jedi as best as he could. Did Dumbledore know they were back?
Saying hi to Hagrid as his friend opened the door with a large grin on his face, Harry wasted no time squeezing the topic of the Jedi into the conversation. When Hagrid answered in the negative as to whether the Jedi had greeted him or the castle yet, it was no great task to convince his friend to pick up his frilly pink umbrella and cast a Patronus spell, giving the large, friendly looking St. Bernard their message and sending it galumphing out through the hut's stone walls.
In any case, Dumbledore was going to know now.
~*~
Severus Snape was surprised when he received the summons. Not so surprised as all that – he was a Potions Master, after all, and had an extensive reservoir of healing potions and the knowledge and expertise to use them – but still, surprised. He'd never been particularly good or bad at interspecies relations, so it wasn't because of his diplomacy that he was being invited along.
He met Albus and Poppy at the front entrance; said his requisite hellos, disliked as the commonplace trivialities were, and started outside without pause for his companions, hearing Poppy tut and Albus chuckle. Let them tut and chuckle; he didn't particularly care what they did.
He heard them chattering as they traversed the grounds, making their way to the Forest, and only paid them heed when, as they neared the edge of the trees, Albus cleared his throat and said, “Occlumency shields at the ready, if you please.”
Snape stopped, irritated with himself when, despite his annoyance with the Headmaster, he nonetheless strengthened his shields. “What, pray tell, are we doing which requires the use of Occlumency?” he asked thinly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Albus turned to him with a merry smile. “You shall see, Severus,” the old wizard nearly sang, sounding altogether too happy, leaving Snape to wonder, of course, why.
Snape looked to the Forest. Had the centaurs discovered something about their disease?
“I suppose it's no coincidence those of us with better than miserable shielding, such as that which the rest of the staff has,” Snape concluded with a bit of snark in his tone, “were among the invited. Is it, Albus?”
“Astute as always.” Albus smiled.
“Now, Severus, some of the other staff have perfectly good Occlumency shields,” Poppy began.
Snape cut her off snidely. “Then why didn't the Headmaster include them in this little excursion?”
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” a new voice interjected. “Potions Master Snape. Nurse Pomfrey. Thank you for coming.”
At the edge of the Forest stood two centaurs, a man and a woman, both topless, as was the custom among the species. The mare had a striking piebald black and white coat and long, elegantly braided black hair. At her side the stallion, a dark bay with light mocha skin suggesting foreign descent, stepped forward, the woman keeping stride.
“It is our pleasure,” Albus answered for all three, with which Snape had no quarrel. He found it altogether easier to let the Headmaster do the talking on occasions like these.
The centaurs stopped near the trio of wizards. “I am Herdleader Callidora,” the woman began, giving a slight nod of introduction, “and this is my mate, Herdleader Tanos. We would like to thank you for offering your aid during our time of need. We hope, as ever, for continued harmonious relations between our two races.”
Albus bowed respectfully. “As do we, I assure you. May I inquire as to the whearabouts of Herdleader Magorian?”
“The Elder chooses not to be present,” she said in a slightly harder tone.
Albus was unruffled. He simply nodded and said, “I see. It must be hard for one such as he to accept outside aid, which makes the gesture that much more commendable. It is difficult to go against one's own instincts.”
The mare nodded. “Yes.”
The stallion added, “Shall we enter the Forest? If you are prepared?”
While Poppy and Albus wasted time no doubt fortifying their shielding, Snape did no such thing. With certainty, he knew he was prepared. Being at the Dark Lord's beck and call, he always was.
They entered the Forest, the centaurs leading the way through thin little trails and under boughs heavy with snow. The smell of pine was prominent, and, always having found mint tea a vile drink, Snape's mood began to sour.
As they walked, the centaurs explained the cause of the disease.
“...telepathic,” the mare finished her sentence with something like triumph, and it started to make sense to Snape.
“Hence the shielding,” he put in smoothly. She looked at him and nodded with what might almost be considered a smile, except that nobody ever smiled at Snape with goodwill – except the Headmaster, and his mannerisms and reasoning were always an enigma at best.
“And what is it you require from us?” Snape continued; though he certainly already knew, he preferred to be direct about these kinds of things, whereas Albus would dither around all day on pleasantries and waste valuable time.
“We have two wizards among us who are capable of destroying the virus at its roots,” the stallion explained, looking back over his shoulder, all the while nimbly picking over downed branches and avoiding the deepest snowdrifts, simultaneously piquing Snape's interest with his proclamation. “However, the virus's effects are still felt by the afflicted unless the physical, as well as mental, symptoms are cleared. Think of the virus as having a brain as its locus and arms and legs as the physical symptoms manifest. Our wizards cut off the head, preventing regeneration, but the limbs remain unless they, too, are removed. If we ask the wizards to eliminate the less pressing physical symptoms as well as cutting out the heart of the disease, they tell us they will quickly become overtaxed and be of no use to anyone. Our plan is thus: we centaurs are incapable of using shielding such as you wizards have. As the virus is culled in each of the infected, those centaurs shall be moved to a different area of the Forest, where telepathic transmission cannot occur, or at the least has less chance of occurring.”
“The disease is based on proximity as well as telepathic transmission?” Poppy clarified.
The man nodded. “This second location is where we lead you three. With your Occlumency shields, your minds will be protected from transmission. With your knowledge of healing spells and potions, if you would aid us in easing the physical symptoms of those who have had the virus's locus destroyed, we would be very grateful-”
“Your wizards will kill the head, and we'll remove the appendages,” Snape added with a hint of dark thrill. Here, finally a place where his expertise could be put to use – no squalling children, no overdemanding Dark Lords, no unctuous Death Eaters. Albus gave him an amused look, which Snape pointedly ignored; finally being appreciated for his skills was no laughing matter, and he didn't care how transparent his readiness to aid was.
“Exactly,” Herdleader Callidora agreed, again doing that peculiar moving of her lips at him that couldn't possibly be a friendly smile. Her husband, too.
Odd people, these centaurs. Couldn't they see what a loathsome, despicable creature he was?
They continued the rest of the walk in quiet conversation, of which Snape took no part, though the Headmaster practically spewed goodwill, and Poppy wasted no time following suit. As they walked, the sound of voices grew steadily louder, until they reached what had to be the main clearing for the Herd.
Centaurs were scattered among the trees like bits of confetti in the bleak winter landscape, roans and palominos and chestnuts and grays, and the occasional pinto or appaloosa. Most were in various states of pain; abruptly, one ranted out loud, his mind clearly sick with disease. But even as he watched, a somewhat familiar young man stepped from the side of a quiet old stallion and in three strides was at the male centaur's side, weaving between the man's flailing arms to stand on his toes, reach up to the man's head, and touch, gently, his forehead. Slowly, the man's thrashing calmed. The young man was murmuring things just outside Snape's hearing range, and the stallion's knees gradually folded beneath him until he sat, mumbling quietly, on the snowy ground. Kenobi, if Snape recalled the name correctly, followed him down, simple brown robes billowing around him, hand never leaving the stallion's forehead.
Poppy looked first at Kenobi, then at Albus. “I assume we're turning a blind eye towards his lack of compliance with Ministry probation?”
Albus smiled, eyes twinkling. “I think that would be for the best, don't you?”
As they passed, Kenobi did not look up and gave no indication he noticed anything beyond the ailing stallion before him.
“The Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi,” a male voice said nearby, and Snape turned back to see Tanos watching him watch the wizard.
Snape sniffed. “We've briefly met. I suppose his Master is nearby?”
“The Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn?” Tanos didn't seem surprised or troubled. “I am unsure of his exact whereabouts, but doubtless he is near.” He looked at Kenobi, something unreadable in his eyes. “Where there is one, you shall always find the other.”
~*~
The corridor was dark and lit only by magically induced torches, and, as always, Eldie didn't like it and crept along the edges of the hallways with her ears down and shoulders hunched. She carried a bottle of dragon's blood in one hand and a Muggle newspaper in the other. Dragon's blood was terribly illegal, yes. But the snake-man wanted it, so she got it, even though she had to go along murky alleyways where eyes watched her and her spine shivered in constant fear. Why her Master wanted her to work with that awful man, she didn't know-
“No,” she whispered, and paused for a moment to hit her head with a fist, jostling around the contents of the bottle as she did. “Not awful. A good man. Master would only have me serve good men-”
But in her heart, she knew that wasn't true.
“No!” More fiercely now, she banged her head against the wall. Feeling dizzy, she was nonetheless satisfied that she'd punished herself appropriately for her offense. Swerving a bit from side to side, she continued down the hall. She mustn't speak poorly of her Master's master.
Until, with a tiny shriek, she collided with someone's foot, of which she was shaken off, roughly, when she tottered and grasped the appendage in order to steady herself. Picking herself up off the floor, she shrank into herself upon seeing the face of her Master, sneering down at her with thin eyes, clearly irritated.
“Eldie is sorry, Master Malfoy, sir, Eldie should be watching where she is going-”
“I don't have time for this,” her Master sighed, looking off into the distance, clearly ignoring her presence as much as he could. He pinched the bridge of his nose with aristocratic disdain.
She swallowed nervously, seeing her chance to make amends. “Eldie can be bringing Master something for his headache, sir-”
“No.” Clipped and short, the single word made her wilt. “Punish yourself, then see if the Dark Lord requires any assistance with his current project. Do not leave until he commands it.”
Even more anxiously, Eldie began pulling her ears in punishment even as she answered, “Y-Yes, Master....”
Without another word, her Master shoved her to the side with his foot, then walked away silently, leaving her alone in the corridor.
At the bad wizard's door, she found herself hesitating. It could be very bad in there....
But she served her Master's will, and she would not shrink from her duty. She performed the necessary spells to open the heavily guarded room, being ignored by the guards, which suited her fine. A good house-elf wasn't seen or heard any more than she had to be.
The bad wizard was talking to a few of her Master's friends. When she came in, his blood-red eyes snapped to her with snake-like alertness.
“House-elf.” His tone held distaste. “Remain silent.” He went back to talking with the others.
Stay silent. Eldie could do that, yes. With a heavy exhalation, she went to a corner of the room, snapped her fingers, and began dusting with the duster that materialized at her call. She heard her Master's master speak about that one boy they always spoke about. This 'Potter' must be a very bad wizard indeed to make her Master's master concerned. It seemed they had another plot in mind to kill him. There was always a plot to kill somebody.
Letting the conversation fade from her mind, she started to hum to herself, very faintly, in order to distract from the distressing talk. Vaguely she registered conversation about the coming summer, and Muggles, and a newspaper; none of it stuck in her mind for more than a moment, except when they started talking about her.
“...send the house-elf to collect a Muggle newspaper. We'll need it here as soon as possible if we are to modify it into a Portkey strong enough to exist at the boundary of the Potter brat's mother's protection, my Lord.”
“And we will wait until the summer.” It was impossible for her to tell the bad wizard's inflection.
But it made her Master's friends nervous. “...Yes, my Lord. The boy will be free from the protection of the school, which is most important. Without Dumbledore, he is nothing-”
“Of course he is nothing,” the bad wizard spat. “The old fool is nothing as well. By sheer luck they have eluded me; no longer.” He looked at the gathered wizards with something Eldie couldn't see from her vantage point, but whatever it was, it made the wizards shrink into themselves, though they obviously tried not to show it. The bad wizard's snake hissed at them, too.
“Y-Yes, my Lord. And as soon as he steps beyond the boundary of his summer home,” one wizard hastened nervously, “he'll be beyond his birth protections. Then he'll be yours, and the Headmaster is sure to attempt a rescue. We'll be waiting and ready, my Lord, and there will be more than one death by your hand that night, my Lord.”
The bad wizard was quiet, a deadly kind of quiet that made the three wizards shift and swallow, though they did not flee. Then, abruptly, the focus of that dark intent came to rest on her.
“House-elf.” She jumped and tried not to shake while those murderous red eyes bore into her own. “You will collect a filthy Muggle newspaper and enchant it to show the seventh of August. I expect it delivered to Rodolphus within the hour.”
“Y-yes, Master's master,” she stuttered, and with a snap, she was gone.
~*~
He was angry...thick and black with impatience, his anger seeped through his bones like they were hollow, cloying and dark, overpowering even the satisfaction at a well-thought out plan, until he could barely think past the anger....
With a snarl, he flung his arm out, knocking aside a row of priceless Malfoy statuettes-
-knocking aside his glasses from his bedside table, Harry woke with a snarl.
Breathing fast, he felt the pain in his scar strike like a viper, and this time his cry was of pain. Quickly stifling the noise, Harry picked up his pillow and bit into a corner of it while his scar throbbed, and his blood boiled with anger not his own. Oh, Voldemort did not like to wait....
Not that the wizard was ever truly calm. The peripheral sense of Voldemort never felt anything but methodically calculating at best, and hellishly wrathful at worst. Most of the time Harry wasn't aware of Voldemort's connection to him, and it was only at times like these, where his mind was unprotected in sleep (or so he'd been told by Snape, not that he could trust the git) that he found himself drifting into the mind of his enemy.
His scar gave another throb, and he resigned himself to a sleepless night.