Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

Author's Note: This story came to me after watching Stephen King's marvelous, angst-filled saga - Storm of the Century - on television. It prompted me to think about loss, and how we all deal with it and whether or not we ever learn how to bear it, and, most of all, how it comes back to haunt us in the end.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Chapter Two

 

 

"This is a cash-and-carry world, pay as you go. Sometimes you only have to pay a little, but mostly it's a lot. And once in a while it's all you have.

That's a lesson I thought I learned nine years ago, on Little Tall, during the Storm of the Century . . .

. . . but I was wrong. I only started learning during the big blow. I finished just last week."

 

--- Storm of the Century - Stephen King

 

* * * * * * *

Qui-Gon's perspective:

 

We were fortunate on this mission, my padawan and I. The border dispute between the islanders of Bilbringi's southern hemisphere and the residents of the northwestern territories proved to be easily resolved, through a series of cordial negotiations. It is a truism that I have seen proven many times; a planet which enjoys an abundance of natural resources and a gentle climate does not provide fertile ground for seeds of rebellion or malcontent.

 

I believe the Bilbringians request Jedi participation at their occasional summits simply to claim some sort of validation, to demonstrate that they are as worthy as anyone else of being monitored by the knighthood. It's a 'pecking order' thing.

 

The term sat oddly in my mind, as I relaxed on the terrace of the suite provided for Anakin and me, a lovely accommodation in which the constant murmur of the ocean was counterpoint to scents of the kratuelle spice that saturated the very soil of this beautiful, unspoiled world. The Bilbringians were artists and artisans, pursuers of beauty and harmony, with little interest in industrial or commercial endeavors. All of which was made possible, of course, by the abundance of the spice, existing only on this tiny little world and more precious than rare gems.

 

Kratuelle, the primary ingredient in caroba confections and sweets, prized beyond measure by the great chefs of the galaxy, and their wealthy, semi-addicted patrons, who would pay - and pay - and then pay more to assure a plentiful supply.

 

The Bilbringians allowed off-world brokers to handle the ugly details of sale and packaging and harvesting and finance, and continued to enjoy the bounty of their lovely world, unburdened by the specters of poverty or hunger or disease which traumatized so many other planets.

 

They were very fortunate, but, unlike many who were similarly blessed, they knew it, and were always careful to express their gratitude to their gods and to avoid any appearance of gloating at the expense of others.

 

Bilbringi, therefore, was a feast for the senses and a balm for wounded souls.

 

Wounded souls, like mine.

 

I sighed when I recognized why the term 'pecking order' had seemed odd and awkward to me.

 

It was not a term I was accustomed to using; nor one that my apprentice would even understand.

 

Not my current apprentice, anyway.

 

It was an Obi-Wan term, a prod to the memory of that acerbic sense of humor that he only displayed when no one else was listening. Ever mindful of the moment, he had been, and aware of the possibility, no matter how remote, of giving offense.

 

I sat in silence for a time, observing that it had been a peaceful, enjoyable mission, for which I was grateful, for, if it had been otherwise, I wasn't sure I would have been up to answering the challenge.

 

Distraction, under certain conditions, could be fatal for a Jedi.

 

I gazed out toward the breakers, frothed with silver in the waning light, smashing themselves on a reef of crystalline boulders that flashed amethyst and tourmaline, in a semi-circle across the entrance of the bay, reflecting the lowering rays of the sun, and I knew that I needed to meditate. I needed to find my center, the self-same center that I had not been able to access fully since our arrival on this lovely world.

 

I smiled, knowing it wasn't the arrival or the world that had caused my difficulty.

 

For four days, I had been enclosed in a vessel barely twenty meters in length with an individual who had once been a constant presence in my mind and in my heart, and I had not known.

 

The Force, which I had spent my life trusting for guidance and intimations of the flow of time and tide, had remained absolutely silent, as if it had surrendered to his will, accepting his right to demand its obedience.

 

I saw the first stars spark into existence out over the tranquil sea and acknowledged that, if I were brutally honest, I would also grant him that right.

 

Eight years! How could it possibly have been eight years?

 

And how could he have known and waited, biding his time, and only opened his mind and his heart when it was too late; when I couldn't even ask that he remove that confounded ugly helmet, and let me look, once more, into those eyes, those incredible eyes which had once reflected everything good and treasured and beloved in my life?

 

What, I wondered, would they have reflected this time? What did he see when he looked at me, and at my apprentice?

 

I sent a tendril of Force energy through my bond with Anakin, to determine where he was, and to be certain, I acknowledged wearily, that he was not involved in anything inappropriate.

 

I closed my eyes then, and laid my head back against the plush padding of the lounge chair, and heard it again. Just as I'd heard it a hundred times - or a thousand times - or ten times a thousand times before.

 

"The boy is dangerous. They all sense it; why can't you?"

 

It was years after that fateful last day on Theed before I could bring myself to consider that question. When he had asked it, I had responded with outrage; I had actually, for just a heartbeat, felt an urge to strike him, as the terrible black fury swelled within me. How dare he? That had been the only coherent thought I could find to cling to. How dare he question me so?

 

He had been at least four years in my past when I had finally been able to let the rage and fury go and consider the question as it was intended.

 

Obi-Wan had never closed himself off from me, during the course of our relationship, except for those frightful times when we were struggling to establish our link to each other. Once those raw, wounded days were behind us, he had ever been open and unshielded with me, offering his trust and his loyalty as easily as another might have proffered an opinion about the price of stem-tea in Rowaaka. And it was no different that day. Even though the hurt within him was like a huge, lurid bruise; even though he was struggling to understand what I had done and to support me, as he always had, even though, in my impulsive challenge to the Council, I had managed to ignore completely what I might have done to him, he still remained unshielded. To see the truth of what he said, I had only to bother to look.

 

I chose not to do so; I chose to turn him away, and, as he turned to do my bidding, obeying as he always had, I felt the heartbreak within him. He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, the pride of the Jedi, and as strong and pure in the Force as anyone I had ever known; he was also as precious to me as my own life, and I knew that he would survive whatever cruelty fate might devise for him, because he had such strength and such a firm grasp of the Force and his own abilities that no one would ever succeed in taking either away from him.

 

That was what consoled me; that was what I told myself, as I turned to provide warmth and affection for the boy who would become the reason for my entire existence.

 

Never once did I actually consider what he had said.

 

"The boy is dangerous. They all sense it; why can't you?"

 

Years later - too late - I chose to answer the question; I couldn't see it, because I did not wish to see it.

 

I leaned forward and watched the sun's last pulse of radiance as it settled into the sea, and wondered how grown men can allow themselves to be so foolish.

 

We were Jedi, a term that meant many things. Or rather, a term that was supposed to mean many things. Among those things was a complete absence of hubris, a dearth of ambition.

 

That was a basic tenet of the Jedi philosophy, but somehow, the true meaning of it got lost somewhere, in the Order's procession through time.

 

I didn't sense the danger in Anakin, because I wanted to train the Chosen One; I wanted to be vindicated; I wanted to be proven right.

 

I stared out into the new nightfall and knew that all I had dreamed, all I had wanted was now only ashes.

 

And Obi-Wan had sensed it. The glimpse he had allowed me, that cold, barren moment which did nothing more than acknowledge that he had understood my message, had carried one additional glimmer of thought.

 

I almost smiled in the growing darkness.

 

After all those years, after all the bitter loneliness, the puckish sense of humor seemed to exist still, in spite of everything.

 

He had been human enough - and hurt enough - to allow me to hear it.

 

I told you so.

 

A flicker of visceral warmth trailed through me, and I knew at once that Anakin was 'amusing himself' again. He had become quite adept at finding 'amusement', anywhere our missions took us. For a time, I had objected and attempted to convince him to control his raging hormones, but, in the end, I had simply accepted defeat. While attachment and possession were forbidden for members of our order, sexual liaison was not, and there was absolutely no danger that my apprentice would allow himself to become truly enamored of whatever young individual happened to strike his fancy. Anakin held himself above such attachments; his companions were merely conveniences.

 

To his credit, he never pretended otherwise; never made promises he could not keep or whispered endearments he did not mean.

 

I did not delve too deeply into his persuasive methods; that was something else that I decided I did not want to know.

 

He knew the rules that forbade Force compulsion; he maintained that he had never broken them.

 

Sometimes, when I couldn't avoid it, I remembered the faces of some of the lovely young men and women who had succumbed to his charms; he always had exquisite taste and preferred his partners to be delicate and virginal in appearance, and I tried not to recall the dazed expressions in their eyes as he walked away from them, with nothing more than a wave and a smile.

 

When the warmth of the afternoon began to fade into the gentle chill of evening, I abandoned the terrace, and debated if I wished to make my way to the communal dining room, but I knew it would be pointless. I had no appetite; it had apparently deserted me as I watched a small, decrepit freighter spiral up into the birth of morning several days before.

 

Anakin had grown somewhat suspicious, after a time. He did not have the empathic skills to ferret out my deeper thoughts and emotions, but he could sense that something was different. For the first days of our mission, I would turn suddenly to find him studying me, speculation bright in his eyes. Once, when he returned to our quarters quite late, he found me sitting at the com-station, having just completed a conversation with my old friend, Mace Windu, and I realized that he had focused on the datachip I held in my hand - a datachip I had kept in my pocket since our arrival, and fingered almost constantly. Already, in just those few days, it had begun to warp and distort.

 

Soon, the signature would fade to nothingness.

 

I went to prepare a cup of tea and returned to my maunderings.

 

I had finally decided to tell Mace about my encounter, but it was a near thing. Somehow, I wanted to keep it to myself, as if by refusing to speak of it, I could keep it closer, keep him closer.

 

Naboo was surely a lifetime ago.

 

They had not allowed me to see him at all, or to witness the battle he fought against the Sith. For a time, they had even refused to tell me the outcome, in the certain knowledge that I would object to their plans to dismiss him from the Order.

 

They had most certainly been right on that score.

 

But, in the end, I had accepted it, as the will of the Force, and for the good of the Order; I had accepted it and put it away, willing myself not to think or consider or speculate on what it had done to Obi-Wan.

 

He would survive; I assured myself of that, and I was right, after a fashion.

 

He had survived, but he was no longer the Obi-Wan I knew. That child - that beacon of brilliance and purity - was dead. In its place was a young man in the grip of a tremendous cynicism, who had learned that trust was a weakness he could not afford.

 

He had learned that eight years earlier; he had learned it again just days ago.

 

I wondered if he had believed me; I rather thought not. If I had been in his shoes, I doubt I would have believed me either.

 

But the true irony of it all - the ultimate joke played by blind providence, the final proof that the Force possesses a wicked sense of humor - was that it was true. Every word.

 

I had loved him for all the years we spent together, and I had never once allowed myself to acknowledge it, or to speak it. He was the brightest, the most precious gift that Life ever entrusted to me, and I threw him away.

 

I wondered how long the brightness lasted; I wondered how long it had been before his belief in the beauty of the Force and the honor of the Jedi simply evaporated into the grip of grim realism.

 

I wondered and knew I would never know.

 

We would return to our home base on the following day, the little Temple on the sea world of Merissk where we had spent all these years, waiting to reveal the existence of the Chosen One. The time was still not right, although the Council had finally relaxed its restraints sufficiently to allow us to undertake diplomatic missions in the more remote sections of the galaxy. The time was still not right for the Big Day - Anakin's term for it - and I now questioned if the time would ever come.

 

Something within me suggested that the projected moment of truth had never been more than a foolish fantasy.

 

I sipped my tea, and allowed myself to be grateful that we would be returning to our peaceful little haven. I had grown weary of the political intrigues and posturings of the Senate and the Republic, subjects of discussion and debate that one could not avoid when out and about in the great galaxy, and longed only to sleep in my own bed and breathe the clean air of our sanctuary world.

 

The fact that Mace had informed me of an impending visit by Supreme Chancellor Palpatine and his customary retinue darkened my mood somewhat; I was not fond of the consummate politician, but I tolerated him for my padawan's sake. For some reason, Anakin and the Chancellor had developed a warm regard for each other, and, although I didn't completely understand or approve, I could hardly object.

 

And, if my apprentice wished to spend a day or two in the Chancellor's company, I would take advantage of the opportunity to try to regain my composure. The journey home would require only two days, and I found that I was eager to get underway.

 

Bilbringi would always be a world of splendor and great loveliness, but it was, for me, now forever rendered a bittersweet beauty, a reminder of what I had lost.

 

********** ************ *************

Anakin Skywalker strode through the public rooms of the Temple guest house, pausing only to acknowledge the questioning gaze of the security technician who sat at the reception desk. The guard, who was actually little more than a glorified bellboy, would hardly dare to block his path, as he made his way toward the private area reserved for VIP guests.

 

Of course, this was Merissk, so VIP was a very questionable term.

 

On this backwater little world, with its sparse population and its land area which covered only a scant five percent of the globe, there was little in the way of luxury to be found.

 

The Jedi Temple - unlike its counterpart on Coruscant - was no exception.

 

It was simply a compound of cottages strewn over a few hundred acres, with a single large complex at its center, where training facilities, administrative offices, conference chambers, and medical suites were located.

 

The guest house was tucked within a walled area, thick with lush vegetation and fronted by a pristine sweep of pale gold beach.

 

It was quite lovely, but the beauty was lost on Anakin.

 

He had seen it every day of his life - almost - and he didn't care if he never saw it again.

 

He hated Merissk, hated its provincial ways and its slow pace; hated the fact that it was so remote and disconnected from the rest of the galaxy that it didn't even boast a real spaceport, that all transport in and out had to be arranged in advance.

 

He accessed the Security-seal entrance to the private quarters currently occupied by the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and didn't bother to conceal a proud smile.

 

The inspection of the Temple grounds and attendance at the small economic summit being held in one of the conference rooms were only a cover story, and a thin one, at that, but it didn't really matter, of course.

 

Who, after all, would have the impudence to question Chancellor Palpatine?

 

The true reason for the visit was to allow the Chancellor time to see Anakin, to keep up with everything that was going on in the young man's life, and to monitor his training.

 

Anakin had been delighted when he learned, from Palpatine himself, that the man was not completely without Force skills of his own; it was a secret that had brought them closer together for its sharing.

 

The young apprentice smiled, remembering their many intimate conversations, remembering promises made to him, remembering the future that awaited him.

 

And remembering too, the pledges he had made in return, harmless pledges, meant only to assuage the Chancellor's great hunger for knowledge and his need to know everything he could about the Jedi, so that he could co-ordinate their efforts with the needs of the Republic, and his own lofty goals.

 

The Chancellor shared many of Anakin's beliefs and concerns and had pledged himself to helping the young Jedi eradicate the evils that he found so intolerable. And all the man asked in return was to be informed, to be kept in the loop about Jedi policies and general decisions.

 

And one other thing - one detail that Anakin had never quite understood - but he had not bothered to question the somewhat odd request as he had never expected to be able to provide an answer.

 

Until today.

 

He grinned as he spotted the august figure of Chancellor Palpatine seated on a low bench beside the small reflecting pool that was the focal point of the small garden, just beyond a broad expanse of glass doors.

 

From his pocket, he extracted a worn, slightly limp datachip, somewhat the worse for wear from being handled so much, but legible still.

 

He paused briefly, remembering the sense of outrage - of betrayal - he had experienced when he had taken the chip from the low table beside Qui-Gon's bed and recognized the Force signature - faded but still distinctive - attached to it. He had noticed much more than his Master had realized during their stay on Bilbringi; he had noticed the tiny disk that was constantly in Qui-Gon's hand, and he had noticed the bleakness in the elder Jedi's eyes.

 

He had known immediately that he must learn what it was that had disturbed Qui-Gon so deeply, and he had bided his time.

 

His chance had come just the day before. Qui-Gon had gone to bathe in the communal mineral spa and left the tiny chip in his quarters for safekeeping.

 

On his return, Anakin had expected to be questioned about its whereabouts; had even hoped, in some way, to be questioned, so that he could vent his anger, but the Master had said nothing. Instead, he had closed himself up in his bedroom, and, once or twice, the apprentice had almost believed he could hear the sound of soft weeping, but that he would not accept.

 

It had been eight years, and he felt betrayed to learn that it had not been enough, to learn that it would never be enough.

 

Kenobi was gone, was nothing, was history; yet, he had managed, through nothing more than a random encounter, to take away what Anakin had spent years building.

 

He knew the truth now, knew that his gifts and his skills and his genius would never be enough to win Qui-Gon's heart away from that . . . that nothing.

 

He looked up then, realizing that his rage had swelled within him once more, and that the Chancellor had sensed it, and turned to greet him, eyes filled with sympathetic understanding.

 

He strode forward, eager for the warmth and acceptance awaiting him and held out the chip.

 

It was the answer to the question posed to him so long ago.

 

The fate of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

 

********** ************* ***************

 

Qui-Gon's perspective:

 

I was not amused, and that was an understatement.

 

Yet, when the eldest and greatest of the Jedi commands one's presence, and he is, himself, accompanied by one of the most powerful Council members, one can hardly refuse to attend.

 

But I resented the arbitrary summons, and the fact that I had been instructed - no, not instructed - commanded to wait at dawn at the tiny landing field behind the Temple complex, and to speak of the appointment to no one. Not even my padawan, who would shortly be prowling through our cottage, undoubtedly in a foul humor, wondering where I had gone.

 

I wrapped my cloak close around me, against the chill of pre-sunrise, and took a moment to enjoy the sound of the surf and the song of the nightbirds who were so plentiful on our little island.

 

Despite resenting the peremptory summons, I was beginning to enjoy the ambience of the morning when a brilliant flash of crimson announced the arrival of one of the newer models of Jedi transports. A small courier ship, large enough to accommodate four comfortably, or six, if they were inclined to be friendly.

 

It settled on the plascrete with only a whisper of sound, and the boarding ramp extended toward me. The engine was still issuing its soft, sibilant whine as I marched up the ramp, ready and eager to voice my displeasure.

 

I even opened my mouth to do so, but closed it abruptly as I came face to face with Master Yoda, and noted, with a sense of dread, how fragile and delicate he seemed.

 

"Master?" I said finally. "What's wrong?"

 

His ears were almost flat against his shoulders, never a good sign. "Accompany us, you will, Master Qui-Gon. Our presence is required."

 

"But . . . what is it? What's . . ."

 

His sigh was heavy and deep. "Tell you, I cannot. See for yourself, you will."

 

With that, he turned and moved into a small private cabin and started to close the door. But he stopped, and looked up at me, and I trembled to see the anguish in his eyes. "Too long, I have lived," he whispered. "Too much, have I seen. Too great, the price."

 

He closed the door then, and I turned and sprinted for the cockpit, where Mace was feeding co-ordinates into the navigation console.

 

"What is this?" I demanded and felt my heart thud in my chest, when he refused to meet my eyes.

 

He simply shook his head. "It won't take long," he said, serving up a non-answer. "Two hours or so, and you'll have your answer. And so will we. So far, we only have speculation, and I won't indulge in that."

 

"But . . ."

 

"No, Qui-Gon," he said in a small desolate voice. "We won't speak of this, until we know the truth."

 

It was obvious that he would not be swayed, so I did the only thing I could do. I sat in the co-pilot's seat and waited and tried to ignore the growing weight of dread that sat on my chest.

 

He was right; it was just slightly more than two hours.

 

And when I saw it, I knew.

 

I knew.

 

The tiny ship was adrift - charred, gutted, and open to space, twisted around its longitudinal axis, with hull breaches gaping in the darkness.

 

But the name was still visible beneath the cockpit port viewscreen.

 

"Is it?" asked Mace, without inflection.

 

I could only nod, as I noted that Master Yoda had come to join us.

 

I rose abruptly, and raced toward the airlock.

 

Everything within me told me that there was no point, but I couldn't just sit there and look at it. I had to see.

 

"Qui-Gon," said Master Yoda, "there's no point. A team has already inspected the wreckage."

 

I turned to stare out into the twisted reality of nightmare.

 

The Elfing spun slowly, enveloped in a cloud of ice crystals, probably formed when its air supply had boiled away.

 

"Was there . . ."

 

"No," replied Mace. "It was empty."

 

I turned again, reaching for an environmental suit.

 

"No need, is there, for you to do this," said Master Yoda, and I heard the weariness in his voice.

 

"Yes, there is," I answered, beginning to work my way into the suit. "I need to do this; I need to see for myself."

 

Neither one of them understood why I felt as I did; I'm not sure I even understood it myself, but I knew I had to go.

 

I had never cared much for the grim silence of space, but somehow, this time, it didn't bother me. This time, it seemed appropriate.

 

Gaining entry to the little ship was simply a matter of choosing which opening would give me access to what I sought, and I knew what I wanted. The salvage crew would almost certainly have checked computer files and recorders, probably to no avail. The ship had been stripped, methodically and thoroughly.

 

This was no random slice and run attack by pirates eager for any prey that happened along; this was deliberate and vicious.

 

In the end, I found what I sought easily. I fought down the gorge that rose within me, blackness closing around my vision, and had turned to depart when something occurred to me.

 

I didn't understand why I was compelled to enter the tiny cabin tucked in behind the cockpit; there was little there to see. Any personal effects had either been taken by the attackers or had drifted out into the vacuum of space.

 

But something called me; something held me and refused to be denied.

 

Something led me to the exact spot.

 

A tiny drawer, jammed shut under the edge of a small, badly scarred desk. I prodded at it with gloved fingers, but it was stubborn, refusing to open. I tried again - and again - without success.

 

Finally, I simply ignited my lightsaber, and sliced into the tiny aperture.

 

And the only item inside floated up into my grasp.

 

Small, polished, reflecting the meager light from my helmet lamp, black as ebony.

 

His river stone, given on the occasion of his thirteenth birthday.

 

He should have thrown it away, all those years ago, for it could only have served to remind him of me. But he had not.

 

He had kept it close, and I felt a cold hand close around my heart.

 

He would not have left without it.

 

I tucked it into a pocket, and found my way back to the jagged opening through which I'd entered. As I propelled myself back to the Jedi courier, I found myself consumed with bitterness and an emptiness such as I had never known.

 

My friends - companions of old - were waiting, and pulled me into the warmth of the ship with gentle hands, but I knew then, as I know now, that I would never truly be warm again.

 

Wordlessly, Mace pried the crumpled piece of flimplast from my fingers, and the two of them read the words printed across the page, eyes filled with horror.

 

* * * * *

 

WANTED: ALIVE IF POSSIBLE - DEAD IF NECESSARY.

BEN KENBY

AKA: BEN KENOBI

POSSIBLY AKA: OBI-WAN KENOBI

REPUTED TO BE PILOT/OPERATOR OF INDEPENDENT FREIGHTER, ELFING.

CORRELLIAN REGISTRY # JRY0996-33

REWARD: 500,000 DAKTARIS

NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

 

The poster was torn and stained, and the middle was obscured by a bloody handprint.

 

They would want to test the DNA, I was sure, but it was unnecessary. Alive, he had managed to shield himself from me, but there was no way I could fail to detect his Force signature, in that bloody handprint, and in the crimson globules and droplets that floated throughout the wreckage, and splattered almost every surface inside.

 

"Qui-Gon," said Mace, obviously struggling for words.

 

I looked up at him and saw that we had arrived together at the same precipice.

 

"What have we done?" I asked finally. "And how do we live with it?"

 

There was no answer; there never would be.

 

********* **************** *************

 

Naboo was still a planet of great beauty. It would take more than wars and occupations by droid armies to destroy it, but it was still only thinly populated, with great sweeps of forest yet to be explored, and mountain ranges of spectacular beauty, protected from the depredations of civilization by the remoteness of their location.

 

In one of those mountain peaks - thousands of kilometers from any habitation - a vast complex had been built, concealed beneath the mass of the mountain itself, a series of chambers that contained incredible technology, and enough resources to power a small city for all eternity.

 

It was home to an elite group, who lacked for nothing, who could direct the comings and goings and functions of the entire galaxy and most of the people in it from this remote, heavily shielded site.

 

It was the secure command center of Darth Sidious, the one place in the galaxy in which he was free to set aside his public persona, and expose his true identity.

 

It lacked for nothing.

 

The Sith Lord stood before an expanse of bright crystal and allowed himself a small smile.

 

He should correct that phrase. It lacked for nothing, now.

 

All those years, he thought, bracing his fingers against the viewing glass. All those years, and he had almost given up. Almost accepted the inevitability of his failure.

 

Fate, it seemed, was not above playing a few tricks of its own.

 

Beyond the window lay a small, comfortable room, crowded now because of a large array of medical equipment, but soon, the equipment would no longer be needed, and he would finally - after what seemed an eternity - have his prize.

 

Eight years, and he still looked just as he had the last time; the features still noble and youthful, a bit paler perhaps, due to the facial hair that had only just been shaved off; the body still strong and slender and beautifully muscled; the hair still the color of polished copper; the face still lovely in its symmetry.

 

Sidious sighed. Obi-Wan Kenobi; he had been near death when they brought him in, his body almost drained of blood, and the fools who had risked his prize so recklessly had been surprised by the nature of their 'reward'.

 

But he was young and strong, and he would mend.

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi, finally in the hands of the Dark Lord, to whom he would pledge his allegiance, or he would die.

 

There would be no other alternative.

*********** ************** *************

 

TBC

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