Undone

Once Spoken

Day 114

As a Jedi, a negotiator, a mediator, and a diplomat, Qui-Gon Jinn understood the power of words. He understood their ability to stir the imagination, awaken the heart, and engage the mind. Still the master was quite unprepared for the molten fury, the indelible rage the boy's narration incited within him.

Starved. Habitually abused. Sadistically disfigured. Tortured.

Manipulated.

The boy had been manipulated quite masterfully by his abductor. No... not just his abductor. As much as Qui-Gon sought to distance himself from that fact, that... pain, he could not, he would not let himself forget... This was done by Xanatos. This was done by his former apprentice. This was done by a boy, now a man, he had once loved, still loved, still mourned somewhere deep in the recesses of his battered heart. And it was because of this withered and diseased love he once had for that boy, now a cancerous rot that festered inside him, that his former apprentice sought to destroy his present one.

His present apprentice. His padawan. His Obi-Wan.

From the very beginning, Qui-Gon Jinn knew that Obi-Wan was everything, everything that Xanatos was not. He had known it, but chose to deny it out of fear. His fear had created a deep wound in his charge, a wide crack at the very bedrock of the boy's self-worth and it was that wound, that crack that Xanatos had exploited with stunning alacrity.

The master had remained quiet during Obi-Wan's recitation of his first few weeks of captivity; the food, the talks, the oh-so-subtle yet oh-so-devastating insinuations. He had struggled against the vicious bile that rose in his throat as Obi-Wan described how Xanatos had scarred him with the whip and with the blade, but the master had ultimately maintained his unreadable expression and composure. However, the old master was forced to his feet when his padawan detailed the conclusion of their first duel. Qui-Gon had masked the sudden movement with the act of getting them both more tea, but it wasn't a need for refills that had compelled his hasty motion. What had forced him from his seat was the unmistakable knowledge that if he didn't move right that second he would not have been able to conceal from his padawan the rage bubbling up in his chest threatening to overwhelm all his years of training and discipline. So, the master had retreated into the small kitchenette to set about the lesser task of pouring tea and the much greater task of regaining his center and releasing his anger into the Force. At best he was only partially successful, but he was at least able to calm himself enough to return to the common room. He handed the fresh mug to his apprentice who took it dutifully, but held it absently in his hands. It was only then that Qui-Gon noted his padawan's trance like state; glazed blue-gray eyes gazing far off into nowhere, features slack and empty. The master realized, with a shudder, that the stare was eerily similar to the boy's earlier catatonia in the medical ward. As Qui-Gon regarded him further he also noted that none of Obi-Wan's previous narration had included any reference to his own emotions or feelings at the time. The recitation was flat, intonated, clinical. The old master had taken his seat quietly wondering if, perhaps, for the first recounting, such emotional disassociation was useful maybe even necessary. He decided to let the boy continue his tale in this manner, but even the delicately woven fabric of that forced emotional distance began to fray as Obi-Wan spoke of his second duel with Xanatos.

"Four weeks," Obi-Wan said as he put down his now cold mug of tea. Qui-Gon's already sat on the low table having been emptied of its contents long ago. At first the master waited patiently for his apprentice to elaborate, but when it became clear that nothing more was forthcoming, Qui-Gon decided a gentle prompt was needed.