by Karen Miller
Obi-Wan shot him an impatient glance. Then he nodded. “Very well.”
The desiccated forest floor was crisscrossed with dead, fallen tree trunks. Swallowing a groan of relief, Bail dragged off his backpack and sat. He was a fit man, taking exercise daily, but walking for hour upon endless hour took its toll. His shoulders and neck ached, and his legs. His lower back felt unspeakably tight. His feet had blistered and were burning; his fashionable half boots hadn’t been designed for wilderness hiking. All the shallow cuts and burns he’d sustained in the firefight on the space station were stinging. And his lip, where Obi-Wan had struck him, had swollen again and throbbed meanly, like a toothache. He hadn’t taken a painkiller, wanting to save their first-aid kit’s drugs for more serious mishaps.
Bending to the backpack, determined to discover the exact distribution of contents that would save him from a crippled spine, he looked again at Obi-Wan. The Jedi was still standing, still wearing his own backpack. As though the simple act of stopping had drained him of all momentum.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Obi-Wan nodded.
“Then sit. Get that pack off for a while. You need to rest worse than I do.”
Again, Obi-Wan nodded… but didn’t move.
Uneasy now, Bail straightened. “Obi-Wan? What’s wrong?”
Obi-Wan’s answer was to shrug out of his backpack and let it fall roughly to the ground. He was frowning, his eyes not quite focused. Then he unclipped his lightsaber and ignited the blade.
“Hey!” Bail jumped back, heedless of his aches and pains. “What’s going on? Do you sense someone? Are we alone or aren’t we? Obi-Wan!”
The lightsaber’s hum was loud in the tangled forest’s eerie silence, its blue blade so vivid it looked alive in this dead, silent place. Obi-Wan raked his keen yet still oddly unfocused gaze around him, his body humming with tension like a Voolk-hound scenting prey. Then his eyes narrowed, his head lifted, and his lightsaber snapped up to guard position.
“Ventress.”
Alarmed, Bail swung around, trying to follow where Obi-Wan was looking. His heart pounded, adrenaline drowning all pain. Asajj Ventress? Here? Where? The woman was lethal. Kriff, he’d been such a fool, leaving his blaster to be destroyed with Alinta’s space station.
“Obi-Wan, I can’t see her,” he whispered, stepping sideways to take scant cover behind a stunted, twisted tree. “Where is she? What do I—”
Obi-Wan danced forward, his eyes alight with the same fierce fervor that had lit him in the battle on the space station. Lightsaber flashing, its buzz cleaving the silence, he launched a blistering attack—on nobody. Asajj Ventress wasn’t there.
Realization punched Bail hard in the chest.
Oh mercy. He’s hallucinating.
And suddenly he didn’t feel safe at all.
Flattened against the tree trunk, heart pounding so hard he thought it might smash through his chest, he watched as Obi-Wan battled his phantom adversary… and though what was happening filled him with a kind of horrified pity, he couldn’t help but feel with it an astonished admiration. What he’d witnessed in the fight on the space station had been nothing, nothing, compared with this.
Obi-Wan Kenobi wielded his lightsaber like some elemental force of nature. As though the blade were a living extension of himself, indivisible from his own flesh and blood. All trace of exhaustion was wiped clean from him; his energy seemed limitless as he leapt and twisted and somersaulted and spun, his lightsaber humming, flashing blue through the shadows. It was almost possible to believe he was fighting an actual, physical foe: every cut, every parry, every bind and counterbind with the blade seemed to encounter another slashing lightsaber. His body reacted as though to a series of jarring blows, every muscle in him tensed against the impact, his face set hard with a formidable determination to prevail… but still, with the wicked light in his eyes that said though in his tormented mind this was life and death, there was yet a kind of glory.
But how long can this last? Bail wondered, admiration giving way to a rising concern as Obi-Wan showed no sign of ending his battle. He can’t keep it up forever. He’s already tired, and this is grueling. He’s going to drop in his tracks, surely. And then what? I’ve got no hope of carrying him to the Sith temple.
Should he ignore Obi-Wan’s instruction and try to stop the fight? Try to break through the Sith-sent hallucination and bring the Jedi back to himself?
Ah… no. I don’t think so. Not when he’s got that lightsaber in his hand.
Breathing harshly now, no light in his eyes but a deadly, killing flame, Obi-Wan increased the ferocity of his attack. And now—what was happening? Something was—was different. Was Kenobi even fighting Asajj Ventress anymore? Staring, fresh dismay rising, Bail thought he could see a shift in Obi-Wan’s focus. An odd, unpleasant twist in his face.
Something’s wrong… well, more wrong. Somehow, something’s changed.
And then the Jedi plunged his lightsaber through the heart of a tree.
Startled, Bail swallowed a shout as the cool dead air filled with the noxious stench of burned and burning sap. Stepped hurriedly away from his own sheltering tree trunk, because now Obi-Wan was slashing and stabbing the woodland’s trees indiscriminately. Severed branches plummeted to the ground, twigs and leaves flying, a haze of stinking smoke rising.
Then it wasn’t just branches falling victim to Obi-Wan’s frenzy—entire trees were dying, cut in half with dreadful ease, with a single stroke of that vivid blue blade. Faster and faster and faster the Jedi whirled, slicing down trees as though they were his mortal enemy. As though each branch held a weapon that was trying to kill him. The frantic hum of his lightsaber was almost lost in the crashing of timber as it struck the ground, the old dead fallen tree trunks sagging into their neighbors like the staggering drunks in Coruscant’s seedier districts. Leaves whirled and swirled in a blizzard and fresh sunlight poured through the widening gaps in the woodland’s interlaced foliage.
Bail stared, transfixed, as Obi-Wan slaughtered a forest.
Oh no, oh no. This is out of control.
He couldn’t stand still for long, though, because there was neither rhyme nor reason to Obi-Wan’s pattern of attack. Like a man tap-dancing on the rim of a volcano he kept moving, kept moving, didn’t dare stand still, as all around him Obi-Wan laid the Zigoolan woodland to waste. Twice a severed tree nearly crushed him, falling. Once he went sprawling across an old dead tree trunk as he leapt clear of a living tree’s gnarly crown plunging to the ground. He escaped with bruises and scratches, dry-mouthed and starting to panic.
How do I stop this? I have to stop this. It’s insane. Obi-Wan’s gone mad.
And then he had to hurl himself sideways as the Jedi spun around from slashing three saplings with one blow, ready for a fresh attack. Spun toward him, his face almost unrecognizable. Twisted now with fury and a kind of blank and mindless hate. Soundlessly snarling, Obi-Wan raised his lightsaber again… and advanced.
Sick to his stomach with fear, Bail threw up his hands. Backed up one step then stopped as he struck a felled tree trunk and nearly tumbled again.
“Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, it’s me. It’s Bail Organa. Obi-Wan. Master Kenobi. Stop.”
Unhearing, uncaring, Obi-Wan brought his lightsaber around and down.
Bail closed his eyes. Breha.
And then he didn’t die.
“Bail?” said a small, uncertain voice. “Bail? What am I doing?”
Dizzy, he blinked… and Obi-Wan’s stunned face swam into focus. He flicked his gaze sideways and down, to the thin humming bar of pulsing blue light that had stopped so close to his neck he could feel its searing heat.
“Right now, Obi-Wan?” he murmured. “Right now you’re putting down your lightsaber.”
With a soft hum the weapon’s blade disengaged, and the black-and-silver lightsaber hilt slid from the Jedi’s loosened fingers. Thudded to the ground.
“Ventress,” said Obi-Wan, his vo
ice still hushed with shock. “I saw Asajj Ventress. I fought her—on Teth. And the Separatist droid forces. I fought them on Christophsis. And I thought—I thought—” Slowly he looked around, at the felled trees and the freshly littered foliage, stark evidence of madness. Of a mind lost in a world of illusion. Without warning his knees buckled and he dropped. Collapsed onto his hands and vomited up the miserly half mealpack he’d consumed hours earlier.
Bail turned away, grimly, and removed his backpack from a tangle of severed branches. Retrieved one precious bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and held it out to the Jedi.
“To the Hells with rationing it,” he said. “Just drink.”
Sitting back on his heels, Obi-Wan took the bottle, his hand shaking. But instead of drinking, he looked up. “Bail, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was,” Obi-Wan whispered. “I lost my focus. I let my guard down.”
Stang. Bail crouched before him. “Obi-Wan, you’re tired. You’ve been fighting the Sith for hours without respite. You may be a Jedi but you’re not indestructible. And anyway, you beat them. You didn’t kill me. Again. So they’re not winning. You are. Now stop talking and drink.”
Obi-Wan drained half the bottle, then handed it back. “We should keep going.”
Keep going? After this? He shook his head. “No. You need to rest.”
“Bail…” Obi-Wan’s eyes were hollow with fatigue, and something worse. “I will never get a moment’s rest while I am on this planet. If we are going to find a way off it, we must find it soon. Before…”
He didn’t have to say any more. Bail could finish the sentence himself. Before your mind is broken completely, and like Taanab’s firebeetles the Sith eat you alive.
He sighed. “All right. We’ll keep going.”
“My lightsaber,” said Obi-Wan. He picked it up, held it out, his face set into difficult lines. “Take it. Keep it safe for me.”
Bail stared at the elegant weapon in silence. Remembered the heat of it, its terrifying power. He knew enough about Jedi to know the lightsaber was their most personal, most important, most precious possession.
“Are you sure?”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I nearly killed you. I’m certain.”
“All right,” he said again, and took the proffered weapon. Closed his fingers around it, feeling its weight. Its significance. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
“Thank you,” said Obi-Wan. Then his gaze traveled around the ruin of the woodland, slowly absorbing the frenzied carnage. Shadows darkened in his eyes. “Now let’s go.”
As they trudged on, racing the setting sun, Obi-Wan took relieved refuge in silence. Struggled to rebuild his defenses against the dark, against the ceaseless, spiteful voice whispering in his ear.
Die Jedi, die Jedi, die Jedi, die.
Never in his life had he felt so unbalanced, so uncertain. He really had seen Ventress. And after her, the Separatist droids. Worse than that, when he’d fought them he’d used the dark side. Channeled it without thinking. That had been the most sickening realization of all. That thunderbolt of understanding was what had crashed him vomiting to his knees.
That, and the fact he had nearly decapitated Bail Organa.
It cannot happen again. I must not let that happen again. They can seal the light side away from me, but the Sith must never turn me to the dark. They must not make of me an instrument of murder.
Better that he did die than permit that to happen.
And so he and Alderaan’s Senator picked their slow way through the remainder of the forest, the part of it he hadn’t managed to fell, as daylight seeped from the sky and dusk lowered its mantle. Weighed down with their backpacks, and their memories, and their fears.
Painstakingly, laboriously, he rebuilt his shattered mental defenses. Shored up the bulwarks he’d hammered in place against the Sith, achingly aware that he was only half himself without the light side of the Force as his ally. Haunted by the fear that half a Jedi could not prevail.
The loss of his lightsaber was like an open wound in his side.
Night fell, and as though natural darkness were some kind of invitation the bludgeoning memories returned. He overrode Organa’s demands to stop until dawn. Somehow it was easier to resist the Sith while he was moving. Let him slow, and they pressed him harder. So hard he thought he’d break.
“We have night-sticks,” he told the Senator. “We’ll go on a little longer.”
Poor Bail. He’d been stubborn, and unreasonable, and ridiculously foolhardy, but he didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this.
Eventually they did stop. But only because his legs gave way and wouldn’t help him stand again. Since they were still in the straggled woodland, with plenty of easy fuel at hand, Bail started a careful, cautious fire. They shared another mealpack. Drank sparingly from their water supply. Wrapped their heat-seal blankets around them and sat before the flames in silence.
Sunrise was a long way away.
Eventually Bail slept, but he didn’t. Every time he sank beneath the surface of waking, a memory tore at him with sharp, cruel teeth. His only hope of keeping the Sith at bay was to stay awake, so he could concentrate on the mental disciplines he’d spent his whole life perfecting.
But he was tired. He was so tired. And soon enough the memories savaged him even when he was awake, just as they’d attacked after he crashed the starship on the plateau. Standing naked in the hurricane, he fought his endless battle with the Sith. Relived Geonosis. Relived Taanab. Relived losing Qui-Gon. Again, and again, and again.
Bail slept through all of it. The sun returned, eventually. As soon as the sky lightened, he woke the man and bullied him onto his feet.
“You look like death,” Bail told him bluntly. “You won’t last until noon.”
He shrugged into his backpack. “I’ll last for as long as I need to, Senator. No more arguing. Let’s go.”
When Obi-Wan was felled by his third vision—memory—waking nightmare—whatever the kriff was happening to him—in less than two hours, Bail retreated to a safe distance, dropped to the rocky plain they struggled to cross, and despaired.
Never again. Never, never, never again will I say I wish I could be a Jedi. Not even for a week. Not even for a day.
Which vision was it this time? By all that was merciful, not Tayvor’s death. If he had to relive by proxy his uncle’s torture and burning yet again he thought he’d go mad. Or maybe just go mad faster. Because if this was tough on Obi-Wan—and of course it was, it was brutal—it was almost as difficult for him, having to sit on the outside looking in, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the Sith’s relentless assault. Having to relive that particular memory along with the Jedi.
But no, it wasn’t Tayvor’s death this time. He suspected—though he wasn’t certain, because Obi-Wan steadfastly refused to discuss it—that the Jedi was dreaming of Geonosis. The memory always started off in silence and ended with him calling for his Padawan—sorry, his former Padawan—and mourning the loss of the young man’s arm.
The look of horror on his face then was harrowing to see. But of course, it could always be worse. It could be another crazy hallucination. Mercifully, there’d been no repeat of that so far. Somehow the Jedi was managing to keep them at bay, at least.
This was their second day on the barren plain beyond the woodland that Obi-Wan had mistaken for a dark side assassin and a Separatist droid army. At his dogged insistence they kept up their punishing pace, walking steadily from first light and well into darkness, until even with their night-sticks it was too dangerous to continue. Then they made camp as best they could. Ate sparingly, drank less, and snatched what rest they could beneath Zigoola’s nebula-stained dark sky and unfamiliar constellations. It wasn’t much. Bare rock and hard-packed dirt made a miserably uncomfortable mattress. And Obi-Wan’s capricious nightmares weren’t conducive to sleep for either of them.
Bail rubbed his hands
over his face, feeling how inelastic his skin had become, how his stubbled cheeks had fallen into hollows. If he looked in a mirror he knew he’d see a gaunt face looking back at him. His immaculately tailored clothes were baggy. He was losing muscle. Losing strength. His body was consuming itself, like a snake swallowing its tail.
They were still another day—maybe two—away from their intended destination. Not because of the terrain but because, just as Obi-Wan had predicted, the closer they got to the Sith temple the more vicious and more frequent his visions became. And no matter how many times he rebuilt his defenses, the Sith never gave up… and they were wearing him down.
Looking at him now, watching him shiver and sweat, Bail had to fight back a wave of crushing futility.
Jedi stamina is legendary, but even they have their limits. How soon before Obi-Wan reaches his? How much longer can he withstand these attacks? Can he hold out until we reach that temple? He says he can… but I’m not sure anymore.
Obi-Wan had said last night, in a rare exchange of words, that these assaults weren’t personal. That he thought the Sith had set up safeguards, mental booby traps, this holocron, to protect Zigoola and its Sith treasures from any Jedi who might stumble across the planet. The compulsion to crash the ship hadn’t been aimed at him specifically. And the Sith voice in his head, the voice imploring him to die, that wasn’t personal, either. The Sith hated all Jedi equally. They wanted every Jedi to perish and would stop at nothing to achieve that goal. And this place was ancient; the trap ensnaring Obi-Wan had been set perhaps centuries ago.
Which I suppose is why it’s not trying to kill me. Since I’m not a Jedi, I’m not a threat.
Well. At least not to Zigoola’s Sith Holocron. But he was a threat to someone. It was a sobering thought. Somewhere in the galaxy, a Sith knew his name and wanted him, Bail Organa, to die. When they got back to Coruscant he’d have to take some precautions. Assuming there were precautions he could take. The Jedi would have to help him with that.
Yeah. Right. When we get back.
