Chapter Text
The first time it happens, it is down to simple curiosity.
It's innocuous really, just the honest desire to have a question answered, though even at fifteen years old Obi-wan knows others won't see it that way.
Like most of his thoughts, it's born from something his master says. Like most things his master says to him, it's criticism.
Fingers cold and frozen from the relentless barrage of rain and frigid mountain wind, Obi-wan had managed to drop his lightsaber at one point during their latest trip off world, the hilt slipping wetly from his grasp, bouncing against the rock at their feet and skittering away only to come to a stop at the bottom of a small ravine. It had only been a training mission and no danger had been imminent, but still, Qui-gon's look of disappointment when Obi-wan had returned from retrieving the errant tool had been enough to sour his mood for the remainder of the trip.
He could never do anything right, so the least he would do is heed the words the man had given him in response to his latest flounder.
“This weapon is your life, Obi-wan,” his master had told him, his voice slow and sage and Obi-wan wanted very much to fool himself into believing that they were well-meaning instead of admonishing. “Know it like you know yourself.”
But Obi-wan knows himself. He knows his weaknesses (there are many) and his strengths (there are few).
He also knows his saber. He knows the inner workings of the mechanism, how the diatium cells powers the crystal, how the ensuing beam is held in place by magnetic fields. He knows the cyan blue appearance of the blade, the feel of the hilt beneath his fingers, the weight of the weapon in the palm of his hand. He knows the sound of plasma ringing through the air and the faint scent of ionized gas it leaves in its wake.
But there is one aspect of his lightsaber he doesn't know, one aspect which eludes him, and in which he remains woefully ignorant. For he has never been on the receiving end of its bite.
Though his master allows him the use of his energy weapon for his katas, their mock duels are still fought with the same wooden sticks the younglings use in their training. Obi-wan has railed against it more than once, but his master keeps insisting. It's the man's prerogative, of course, but it feels like a failure nonetheless.
What would it feel like? he wonders as he sits in his room back at the Temple, weeks after they had returned. Obi-wan is meant to be meditating and his master is not here. The thought has been an itch at the back of his mind, growing stronger with each passing day since their return.
He is sitting on his bed, his saber sits across him. It takes little deliberation to lean forward and take it in hand.
He needs to be careful. He knows of the blade's destructive power. There are few things strong enough to defy its ferocity.
It can hurt. It can kill.
It is a wicked weapon, he thinks not for the first time since the idea has started proliferating in his mind, so at odds with the peacekeeping image of the Jedi when he really considers it.
A weapon forged with peace in mind. A rather disconcerting contradiction.
Obi-wan pushes the thought away in the same breath that he shrugs off his outer tunic.
He has to focus, keep his thoughts centred on the present. A saber's blade can burn through durasteel, it can certainly cut through flesh. He's not planning on losing an arm today.
He ignites the weapon, its thrum a familiar comfort, the kyber singing out in the Force with the same song that ensnared him on Ilum years ago.
He draws the blade closer, the staccato beating of his heart grows in volume until he can feel it behind his eyes. He recognizes the thrill of adrenalin running through his veins.
He is apprehensive about what he is about to do, but the decision to do it has long since been felled, even if he has only just become aware of it.
The blade burns blue in the dim illumination of his room, casting a dizzying array of light and shadow across the walls.
The shadows move. Only it is not the shadows that are moving, he realizes, but himself. He is shaking.
He cannot turn back now. He needs this. He needs to know.
He pushes the blade down unto his flesh before he can reconsider. The effect is instantaneous.
Incandescent fire.
It burns.
It hurts.
More than anything he has ever experienced. More than he had ever thought possible.
His saber falls, his wilful fingers once again refusing to obey him. The blade disengages upon impact and the room falls back into gloomy near-darkness.
Wretched wailing noises resound against the walls and it takes Obi-wan a moment to understand that they are coming from him. He tries to quell the sounds, but achieves only to morph them into pitiful cries.
The pain is... extraordinary. All-encompassing.
He tries to breathe through it, but a sickening smell hits his nostrils as he does. It's the acrid scent of charred flesh and on some level Obi-wan knows it's him and the thought would be overwhelming if his mind wasn't rooted in place by the pain.
Bile climbs up his throat and he gags once, but he's already having trouble breathing through his tears so he pushes his nausea down lest he choke.
He closes his eyes takes a number of steadying breaths. The darkness behind his eyelids is somehow more comforting than that of the room. When he feels less liable to lose the meagre contents of his midday meal over himself, he opens his eyes and casts his gaze down to the wounded appendage.
It takes a considerable amount of willpower not to close them again immediately afterwards.
The streak along his arm where the blade touched his skin is obvious, the mar made visible by the cacophony of red and whites that cover the area in various shades of malignancy. Blisters have begun to bubble up around its edges, the damaged surface tissue giving rise to a number of sickly pale, fluid-filled sacks. Along of the midline of the lesion, patches of his seared skin have turned a dark necrotic black.
There is blood as well, he realizes, dripping down the length of his arm in unhurried rivulets. The sight of it surprises him. He did not think it would bleed.
He follows the flow upwards, to crescent-shaped wounds left by blood-coated fingernails. He's clutching his arm hard enough to draw blood. He hadn't even noticed. The pain is dull in comparison, muted to the point of non-existence.
His master finds him like this. Maybe minutes, maybe hours later, Obi-wan will never know. He is cast adrift in an ocean of pain. Time has no meaning.
The man's familiar face hovers before him, his voice rings in his ears. He can tell his master is speaking, his lips forming words, but Obi-wan can't concentrate enough to discern what he's saying. Agony distracts him.
A pair of hands descend upon his shoulders, gripping him in a strong embrace. The touch is both jarring and grounding, and it is enough to temporarily force the shock to fade from his psyche.
“-wan? Obi-wan, are you with me?”
Concern filters through the weak tether of their training bond. Obi-wan doesn't get injured as often any more out in the field – Qui-gon says he's improving, Obi-wan knows they are simply being assigned easier missions – but he still knows the feel of it well enough, is well-acquainted with the sensation of his master's worry, recognizes the man's Force signature slipping past the meagre shields Obi-wan had erected around himself, searching his person for damages and inadequacies. There are enough of both to be found.
“Obi-wan?” the man repeats and Obi-wan forces himself to give a short nod in response.
“What happened?” the man implores, but the question is pointless, because Obi-wan can already see him drawing the connection – his gaze first settling on the injured appendage, then on the saber laying not a yard away on the floor, before Qui-gon's expression falters and falls.
Fresh tears join the streaks of crusted salt tingeing Obi-wan's cheeks at the realization that he has managed to disappoint the man yet again.
“Padawan?”
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Master,” Obi-wan gasps between sobs, grasping his arm with renewed fervour. The pain it brings feels deserved.
“Why, Obi-wan?” Qui-gon asks after a few moments and when Obi-wan risks a glance upwards, he winces at the open dismay on the man's face.
“I needed to know what it feels like,” he says and by way the man closes himself off through the Force, a wall snapping shut over their bond, Obi-wan immediately knows it was not the response his master wanted to hear.
“I'm sorry,” he offers once again, secure in the knowledge that no amount of apologies will ever be enough to cover his failures.
They sit like that for an indeterminate amount of time, his master's hands a heavy weight on his shoulders.
“Can you walk?” the man asks eventually. Obi-wan has regained his breath by now, but his tears have given way to exhaustion and a short jerk of his head is all he can manage in response. He hopes it will suffice.
The weight suddenly lifts off his shoulders, replaced by the embrace of a skin-warm robe. His master's scent clings to the fabric.
“Come along,” the man says and Obi-wan is too tired to do anything else than fall into mechanical steps behind him.
The man takes him to the Halls of Healing and the only thought Obi-wan allows himself to have is how he is grateful that he chose to try his experiment on his arm instead of his leg. He does not think he would have survived the shame of his master carrying him across the Temple grounds.
His master is silent for the most part, exchanging only a few short words with the healer, leaving it up to Obi-wan to explain what happened and what he did. The humiliation is almost worse than the pain.
(Only it's not. The pain is relentless, seared into his very soul.)
Master Vellehn is solemn as he listens and Obi-wan is precociously aware of how self-destructive this all must look. How precipitous. How profoundly flawed this makes him out to be.
When he is finished, he curls in on himself and awaits judgement. He has no desire to look on the pity shining in the Nautolan's obsidian black eyes. The healer tends to his wound with gentle hands and cautiously brings up the possibility of seeing a mind healer, which Obi-wan immediately shoots down.
“I was only curious.”
The defence rings hollow even to his own ears.
The masters share a long look and then Master Vellehn nods and excuses himself. Qui-gon walks over and and drops down next to Obi-wan where he is sat on the cot. The man's expression is hard, but the sorrow in his eyes is undeniable.
“Promise me, Obi-wan,” he says. “Promise me you will never hurt yourself like this again.”
Once more, his master grips him by the shoulders, his hold tighter than Obi-wan can remember it ever being before and it soothes some unnameable ache inside of him.
“Yes, Master,” he says, the promise falling from his lips with practiced ease.
He does not yet know that it is a lie.