GOOD LESSON. — PROLOGUE — ' AN UNFORESEEN RETURN. ' ( pamarthe,20 BBY. )
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IT FELT LIKE OBI-WAN WAS DROWNING. Grief washes over him in tremendous waves, each more powerful than the last. It was as if a thousand storms surged and battered his mind and body with electrifying sorrows filled with loss, heartache, and ruin. A lump forms in his throat, and he can feel his stomach twisting in every direction imaginable. Blood pounds into his head, like an endless drumming that sounded eerily similar to the heavy footsteps of a clone squadron ready for battle.
Every inch of his body trembles, until it finally gives up on him, and he collapses in a heap at the foot of his bed. The holopad he cradled clatters to the floor, continuing the blueish message even though he hadn't finished it.
His hands tremor, and calloused fingers try to dig themselves into the soft material of his mattress. Hot tears roll out of his steel-blue eyes and sting rosy cheeks as he tries to silently weep to himself; knowing full well these are tears he shouldn't — no, couldn't cry.
Obi-Wan had received the holo-transmission three days ago, but had fought himself on actually listening to its contents once he had discovered where it originated from . . . Pamarthe.
There was nothing in the world that could have prepared himself for anything of this sort, and he never expected to ever hear from Pamarthe again; not after what had happened all those years ago. He had been so young — so naïve, so immature in his ways and thinking. Everything had been so different, and yet, still felt right.
The Jedi lets out a sharp breath, running a hand through his auburn hair. Minutes seem to flicker by as he stares blankly at the bare walls in his chambers illuminated only by the light from the hologram. Sound continued to flow from its speakers, but Obi-Wan couldn't force himself to actually listen to it, but he couldn't ignore it either. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to deal with it in some way, shape, or form.
