Dreams

Chapter 17.

Obi-Wan's POV

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Regret coiled around me, and cracks raced across my heart, methodically splitting it into a million pieces. He was standing before me, his blue eyes filled with darkness and bitterness, his lightsaber clutched in his grasp. Fire and heat splashed around us, enveloping us like a blanket of sweltering warmth.

He was glaring at me, readjusting his grip on his weapon, waiting for the moment to strike. But how could I fight him? How could I do it? He was my best friend, my brother. I had trained him, cared for him ... loved him.

Our situation was perilous. A lake of lava spewed and bubbled barely a metre beneath our feet, and the only separation between us and the fiery pool below were tiny worker droids, tasked with supporting us above the lava.

I was saying something to him, trying to express the heart-breaking grief that wanted to choke me. "I have —"

"Obi-Wan?"

I snapped out of my daydream, automatically straightening up. "Yes?" Then I realized Satine was standing in front of me, her blue eyes searching mine worriedly.

"This is the second time this morning you haven't been concentrating," she said in concern. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm sorry," I apologized quietly, unable to meet her eye. "I am trying, mi'lady. Please forgive me."

She remained in front of me for a moment longer, then returned to her throne, continuing with her duties.

I breathed out a slow sigh. My night had been interrupted by a clearer, more vivid version of the same dream. This time there were people and places, things and ... faces. But I stubbornly fought myself from getting carried away again by the memory. It had dragged me under twice; I wasn't intending to give it the satisfaction of a third.

The morning had passed slowly, and Satine was still hoping, more than expecting, that Pre Vizsla would come today. When the afternoon dragged itself around, something finally happened. Satine was standing in front of her throne, signing something on a datapad, and I stood close by in case I was needed. A couple of guards burst through the doors, and even through their helmets, we could see the excitement that bordered on panic on their faces.

"He's here!" they blurted simultaneously, their words cut short by the doors flinging open again, and Pre Vizsla entered. He strode in, looking smug and confident, flicking his cape over his shoulder with more than just a little flare. He was flanked by half a dozen of his men, all armed to the teeth and clad in Mandalorian armour. I instinctively stepped closer to Satine.

She stood stiffly, her hands clasped in front of her, every muscle tense. This was the moment she had been waiting for. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she greeted them politely. "How do you do?"

Vizsla stopped in front of her and bowed low, sweeping the floor with his tattered cape. "Mi'lady," he started pleasantly, taking her hand and kissing it briefly, "my men and I are well, thank you for asking. I hope you are in good health?"

"I am well, thank you," she responded, her voice tight. "Have you come to discuss the future of Mandalore?"

Almost imperceptibly, the faintest smirk pulled at his lips, and my senses were going crazy, screaming danger in my ears. I remained still, my eyes fixed to Vizsla, tracking his every move. His men had fanned out slightly, and Satine's guards were also tense, fidgeting and watching.

"I would love to discuss it, my lady," he gushed, "especially if it involves me sitting on that pretty little throne behind you." He indicated casually over Satine's shoulder with his hand, and I flinched at his movement, resisting the urge to jerk forwards. I had a bad feeling about this.