Adumbration
by AlexPart 7
He didn't want to watch at all.
But there it was, in front of him.
He couldn't help himself in the end.
He had surrendered to anger; he knew that. But the clone had been so thorough, so deliberate.
Obi-Wan knew that Belial was goading him. He'd displayed himself to Qui-Gon like a ten-credit whore; as if he knew that there was no need to entice, that the results of the encounter were inevitable.
That had hurt. How it had hurt.
But it was something that Obi-Wan could have accepted...eventually.
What had driven him to an almost mindless, searing rage was the knowledge that the clone had artfully fed Qui-Gon's guilt at the dissolution of the bond with his pretense at innocence, his whispered hesitant confidences, his tears.
My fault, Obi-Wan thought, still trying, fruitlessly, to undo the knots that held him to the chair. If only I'd told Qui-Gon, if I'd had the courage, that would be me and I wouldn't be here...the knots still held, as they had held the hundred times he'd fought them before.
As Qui-Gon's confession poured forth, he'd used every ounce of his strength and energy into a frantic mental cry.
Master, no, please, I'm here, I'm here, help me, please...
Useless, and he'd finally given up, no longer fighting the ropes, watching as the clone took his pleasure with Qui-Gon, hastily at first, then leisurely, doing everything that Obi-Wan had wanted to do, everything...had Belial stood watch as he slept, he wondered, weaving himself into the threads of Obi-Wan's dreams, taking what he would, anything that would please and arouse Qui-Gon and drive Obi-Wan into sheer misery? There wasn't a detail that Obi-Wan had not envisioned, down to the smallest gesture...a tender kiss to the back of Qui-Gon's hand, fingers carding slowly, softly through the heavy mass of Qui-Gon's hair, a smile...Obi-Wan had wanted to smile so at Qui-Gon. Belial's smile was a cruel mockery, and yet Qui-Gon returned the smile, unaware. Obi-Wan felt a momentary flash of anger towards Qui-Gon, but tamped it down hurriedly. Qui-Gon didn't know, couldn't know, and if they were both to blame for the fragility of the bond, then what right did Obi-Wan have to be angry? Qui-Gon was not to blame.
But though he directed his anger away from Qui-Gon, it remained, not flowing through him and out of him, but gnawing at his insides, growing and turning on itself, ravenous, feeding on the fear that also crept chillingly through him.
Anger at himself for allowing himself to be captured so easily. Anger at not being skillful enough to talk his way out of his situation...though, he reflected, he was given little opportunity to speak at all. Anger at his own weakness.
Anger at the clone.
Hatred of the clone.
Fear.
Obi-Wan had not stopped to contemplate his eventual fate. He was afraid to die, but he was determined that he would meet his death with dignity, when it came.
There is no death; there is the Force.
Once again he scanned the racks on either side of him.
The room was clearly designed to frighten whatever unfortunate victim happened to be occupying its single uncomfortable wooden chair. Obi-Wan willed himself to calm, focusing on the racks of equipment, shutting out the cries of ecstasy that filtered from the monitor above. In a way, his captor's reliance on psychological tricks was reassuring. Whatever Belial did to his body, Obi-Wan's mind was his own. A contest of minds was one that he had a chance of winning.
Winning, yes...but surviving?
That was something else entirely.
What were his choices?
Death or Darkness...
The first choice was terrifying.
There is no death; there is the Force...
What was the life of one Jedi, after all, in the greater scheme? Did he not exist to serve the greater good? Was it not better that he be sacrificed rather than become a servant of Darkness?
Wasn't it...?
He'd faced death before, and acquitted himself as bravely as he could. But not this, never like this...dying in agony, perhaps, with everyone he knew and loved thinking that he was still alive. How meaningless. How ignominious.
He didn't want to die.
He had another choice.
No.
Unacceptable.
How would he escape? How could he warn the Council of the threat to their lives?
And Qui-Gon...
His eyes drifted unwillingly back to the screen.
Belial would kill Qui-Gon. And Obi-Wan would watch. Powerless.
He wept silently, bitter tears trickling from his eyes.
Finally, hours later, he fell into an uneasy sleep, succumbing to exhaustion despite his extreme discomfort and overwrought emotions. He slept, and dreamt.
He was running through a vast dark forest, relentlessly pursued by armies of droids. As he outran each platoon, a new one would snap into formation, begin the chase. They moved with unhurried ease, thousands of them, as Obi-Wan stumbled through the gloom, brambles tearing at his clothing. He called out to Qui-Gon, who sat at the base of an enormous tree, but Qui-Gon could not or would not hear him, so he ran on, his breath coming in agonized gasps. Suddenly he fell, and to his horror saw that he was sinking in a deep pool of mud. Red-robed figures clustered around him as he foundered, whispering and sighing, their voices like the wind. He screamed as the mud rose about his waist, his chest, and he held out a hand to the figures, begging for help or mercy--and a hand did reach out to him, and as he clutched it convulsively, he looked up into the face of his rescuer, saw pale colorless eyes glittering from the recesses of an ebon hood.
Come to me, Jedi...
He awoke with a strangled cry, his eyes flaring open in terror.
Belial stood above him, his face distorted with rage.
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