The Jedi And The Warrior

Destiny Determined

As the sun peeked above the highest buildings in the city and flooded the Temple with morning light, Flyra pressed her thumb into the button that would open Obi-Wan's door. She'd made him return to his rooms, and sent breakfast up to him while she refreshed herself.

She'd dressed in a simple black tunic, and washed her face and hands. They were raw and painful from last night, but she welcomed the pain, embraced it with a savage pleasure. She'd devoured her own breakfast, unaware of how hungry she was until food touched her lips.

The doors to Obi-Wan's quarters sighed open, and she took a deep breath as she stepped inside. She didn't know what she was going to find.

Obi-Wan was sat upon the plush couch that took pride of place inside his front room. A small table had been placed in front of it, and on it his breakfast still lay, untouched. His hands were placed upon his knees, his eyes closed, face serene in the way she'd come to associate with meditation.

But he still wore the torn, grimy tunic in which he had traveled to Dantooine and back. Dried blood had stiffened the material around his chest and shoulder, but she could see clean white binding peeking out from underneath it. At least he'd let the medics see to him.

He opened his brilliant blue eyes at the sound of the doors hissing shut behind her. He didn't smile, but it was not from any malice, and seemed to be simply because his muscles had forgotten how. He looked... so tired, so drained, his face bone-white and dark circles smudged under his eyes.

She had done this. Her best friend in all the world was hurting because of her.

And Ben was dead.

She stared at him, unable to tear her gaze from his steady eyes. "I'm so sorry," she breathed.

But she didn't know what she was apologising for; if it was her role in his brother's death, her selfishness and cowardice, or simply the fact that his brother was dead. From the flicker of doubt that entered Obi Wan's face, she knew he didn't know, either.

"I know," he said quietly, his voice still raspy and hoarse.

She stayed standing by the door. "You should eat," she said, noting the untouched bowl of porridge on the table. "And... rest."

He heaved a sigh, and buried his face in his hands. The simple, wordless gesture of vulnerability, of defencelessness, had her mouth tightening, her heart wrenching and twisting. Flyra crossed the room as the beams of sunlight caught in Obi-Wan's hair, dust particles dancing in the shafts. She sat beside him, the couch dipping beneath her weight, catching a glimpse of the flight lanes outside already swarming with activity.

"You need to change, Obi," she said, running a finger down the stiff edge of his tunic that bordered the cut on his arm.

She smoothed her fingers over it as gently as she could, hating the thought that the wound would scar, would become yet another reminder of the body and mind he had sacrificed for the Order. Even if she seemed to be the only person in the world who thought of it that way.

"You are right," Obi-Wan murmured, and she looked up to find him watching her, the usually bright blue of his eyes dull. "I mustn't let this get in the way of my training. I must... teach myself to let go of everything I fear to lose." But his words caught in his throat and he paused, his eyes now glistening with sorrow. "I didn't think it would be... so lonely."

Flyra knew her face betrayed a flash of rage, but when she spoke, her words were gentle. "You should be allowed to grieve," she whispered, "I promise I won't look."

A glimpse of a smile danced across his lips, a flash of humour. "I'm not sure that's how it works."

And she was tired of this. So tired of longing, of staying on her side of this invisible line between them, so tired of saying goodbye. She reached up to cup his cheek.

His eyes shot up to hers in surprise — but they were already brimming with tears, and when he blinked they spilled over.

His eyes were like blue fire in the sunlight. And his skin was so smooth; warm with his life and his goodness. And despite the grief that tore at her, Flyra's breath caught at the feeling, at him letting her touch him with such intimacy.

She brushed away the tears that now slid down his cheeks, one by one by one, but neither spoke a word, as though words would make whatever this was between them too real.

You should leave, he had told her. He had meant it, too, and so much of her wanted to, and yet...

And yet.

Obi-Wan drew in a gasping breath as though steadying himself, and reached up to wrap his fingers around her wrist. But though he tugged her hand gently from his face, he did not let go of it, instead lacing their fingers and bringing them to rest on his thigh. She stared at their linked hands, every inch of skin that touched his tingling, burning.

"He was trying to warn me about something," Obi-Wan said at last. "Before he..."

Flyra nodded, not needing him to finish the sentence. "The trade negotiations on Naboo," she confirmed, remembering Ben's frantic words. "Do you know anything regarding tensions on Naboo?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Nothing at all," he said. "Except... a new High Queen was recently elected — Padme Amidala, I believe. Though from what I've heard over half the votes were in her favour, and she is an extremely popular queen."

Flyra frowned, replaying Ben's exact words in her head. The trade negotiations on Naboo are a distraction. A distraction?

"Whatever it is," she said at last, "he obviously thought it was important enough to spend his last moments trying to tell you."

"Yes," Obi-Wan nodded, his voice coloured with pain, "he did."

She swallowed. "You owe it to him to find out, Obi-Wan."

He caught her use of you. Not we. But he only nodded.

"I do," he said.

Obi-Wan let his gaze fall to their linked hands, staring at them as though he did not really see them. Then he frowned. Gently, he turned her hand over so that he could see her palm.

"Flyra," he breathed, "what happened?"

New, red skin gleamed on her palm, broken and raw from where she had scrubbed it. She swallowed hard. "I..."

He lifted his eyes to settle upon hers, lifted his free hand — and placed his finger softly upon her forehead. The warmth of that finger bloomed through her, and it was such a tender touch that she had to fight the hitch in her breath. He gazed at her, gazed into her as though he could hear every thought and dream inside her, as though he could feel them all himself. And maybe he could. Maybe he could feel everything she felt, know everything she knew, hear everything she thought.

Maybe he could hear her secret wish that she had gone with the Warriors of Fate — that she had left like he told her to. Indeed, a shadow passed over his bright blue eyes, and he drew back his finger. He didn't let go of her hand, but he cast his gaze downwards.

Flyra swallowed hard. "I... I should go," she whispered.

He looked at her again, but the face was the face of a Jedi, unassuming and polite. "Of course," he said, and the voice was different, too, silky and entwined with poise, free of all emotion. "I won't keep you."

Her chest tightened to the point of pain, her heart caving in around itself. She pushed to her feet, needing to leave here, this serene cage of calm and detachment. She slid her hand from his, and walked across the room, wrapping her arms around herself.

She reached the door, but Obi-Wan's voice halted her.

"Flyra," he said quietly, though his voice carried across the room. She made herself turn. "Are you going to leave?" he asked.

She stared at him for a long time, a thousand doors standing open in front of her, waiting, each a different choice, each an undecided fate. Flyra took a step towards one of them, standing poised on the threshold.

"No," she said to Obi-Wan. "I'm going to stay."

And just like that, all the other doors slammed shut, as though a sudden breeze had caught them.