The Jedi And The Warrior

Whispers Of Fate

The whir of ships in the lanes above his head drowned out the whisper of his footsteps as Obi-Wan swept out onto the landing platform. Beside him, Qui-Gon strode with the quiet purpose Obi-Wan had grown to cherish over the five years they had been master and Padawan.

Their own ship waited in the bay, like a silver lion crouched before a spring. Strange, that image that leaped to his mind, like an omen of waiting doom. Obi-Wan cast his master a swift glance.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said quietly, colouring his voice with calm concern.

Qui-Gon folded his hands in front of his robes, slowing his steps as they neared the ship. "I don't feel anything," he said, equally softly. "It is natural to feel nervous before one's first mission. Have you been mindful of the difference between your own feelings and those of the Force?"

Obi-Wan allowed himself an inner smile — his master's coaxing questions had become a familiar, almost comforting part of his days in the Jedi temple. Almost as comforting as the evening hours lit by Coruscanti lamps in his rooms, studying Jedi texts while Flyra read on the couch, the occasional word passing easily between them. For a while, Ben had joined them, playing games on the holovision in the corner, until he stopped coming.

Sometimes they would talk long into the evenings, discussing her work, his training, the debates in the Senate and what small wars were breaking out in the galaxy. She had slipped into life on Coruscant with quiet determination, though he had sensed at first that most of her compliance had to do with a duty she felt she had to him. Now... now, he could not read her, could not understand her the way he used to. Where before there had been harmony between them, he felt now only confusion.

Ben, however, had not even tried to take to this new life. He had become sullen, mutinous, and lazy. His quarters had become his only dwelling, and when Obi-Wan entered them he found them full of used drink bottles and pieces of smashed china. Ben lived off the generosity of the Jedi, and yet despised them with everything in him.

But Obi-Wan pushed aside those thoughts, tucking them into a corner of his mind for later scrutiny. Instead he looked inside himself, into that gnawing feeling of unease — and felt something flicker briefly into his consciousness. A scent like pine and snow, overlaid with the tang of cleaning agents. Flyra.

He frowned. "I sense... a disturbance, Master," he said at last, as they drew to a halt beside their ship.

A protocol droid went to open the door, but Qui-Gon held up his hand, an expression of concern colouring his features as he faced Obi-Wan. "Around Dantooine?" he asked.

They were headed for a meeting upon Dantooine to discuss the recent raids that had been terrorising the villagers — Obi-Wan's first mission outside of Coruscant, after five years of careful training.

"No," he replied, shifting his body so that he could not be heard by anyone else. "Here, around... Flyra. Something is coming."

A strange expression crossed Qui-Gon's face, somewhere between sorrow and dread. A deep sigh heaved from him. "That may be so," he said, and his mouth tightened. "But our mission lies on Dantooine, not here. There are other Jedi to defend Coruscant."

Obi-Wan dipped his head. Qui-Gon was right, of course. He must not lose sight of his task. "Yes, Master," he said, and stepped around the side of the ship to the passenger seat.

***

Flyra Botkin's back twinged as she scrubbed the cracked plate. Her hands were pruny and shrivelled, and the cloth she used seemed to serve only to make the utensils progressively dirtier, but outside the sun was beginning its slow descent towards the ridge of the horizon, and the city glowed with golden light. It was at these times that Coruscant made her forget that it was a warren of misery and sin, and offered her a glimpse of its charm.