Tangle 71/77 (PG-13) Anakin, Obi-Wan, others. Gen.
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. This story is purely a work of fan fiction, and I am not making any profit from it.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Sarta cleared his throat. “Ryn, with Kit gone, Clan Orun’s leadership is in question. You can’t just -”
Ryn speared him with a glare. “Spare me,” she said. “With Kit gone, there is no question at all. I speak for Clan Orun.”
“But you’re a hostage -”
“If the athelani want to choose someone else later, they may do so,” Ryn said. Her voice cut across his words like a knife. “I won’t stand against them. But right here, right now, I am my brother’s heir.”
Sarta grimaced. “I know,” he admitted. “But ... Areth’ryn, I am your foster-brother. How can I not try to protect you?”
“I’ll be all right,” Ryn said. “I know you mean well, but you can’t protect me, Sarta. Not this time.”
Sarta stepped closer and took Ryn’s hands, pulling her away from Anakin. “I promised your brother I would take care of you,” he said, lowering his voice. “I haven’t kept that promise very well. But my offer of marriage is still open, Ryn. Come home. Marry me. Let me lead the army.” He brushed a strand of black hair away from Ryn’s pale cheek. “I know it’s not a love match, but we have a common goal. That has to count for something.”
“It does,” Ryn said, tugging her hands free. “But it’s not enough. And anyway, I have an obligation to the Jedi now.”
Sarta glanced past her to Anakin. “Do you refuse me for that ... Padawan?” he asked her, frowning. “Do not be hasty, Ryn. The devotion of a true heart is worth more than a lovely face.”
“Did you just call Anakin pretty?” Ryn demanded, aghast. “No. I am refusing you on my own account, for all the reasons I told you last year. They have not changed. I would say I’m sorry, but I don’t think you really care.”
Sarta frowned. “Of course I care,” he said, his diction slipping a little. “I gave your brother my word -”
“Another good reason for me not to marry you,” Ryn said.
Sarta cast another unhappy glance at Anakin. “I cannot help but feel that your lust for this young -”
“Finish that sentence at your own peril,” Ryn said. “Although, since you ask, he is a better kisser than you.”
“Though his lips be full and sweet -”
“If you don’t marry me, are you going to make out with Anakin?” Ryn asked. “Because I might like to watch.”
Sarta opened his mouth to speak again, but Gunryth intervened, stepping forward to lay her hand on her brother’s arm. “Sarta,” she remonstrated gently, “let it go. You have done your duty here. Areth’ryn has the right to refuse your offer.” A small frown dented her perfect forehead. “Particularly after you proposed by speaking of your deep love for her brother, and the sweetness of another man’s mouth. That was ... ill-advised.”
Anakin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Ryn sighed in relief and turned to her foster-sister. “Gunryth, my sword-brother and I need healing. Will you help us?”
Gunryth’s smile could have lit an entire space station. “I thought you’d never ask.”
[~]
Obi-Wan woke slowly and pushed himself to a sitting position. His left arm still throbbed from the dart he’d been hit with earlier; it must have been drugged, too, because he couldn’t begin to account for his soreness and grogginess any other way. The room in which he was trapped was more like a large metal box: plain and bare; a taller man wouldn’t have been able to stand up in it.
Obi-Wan frowned. He didn’t actually know that he was trapped. There could be a way out. Grimacing at himself for making assumptions, he got gingerly to his feet and began to search the smooth, bare walls, gleaming dully in the dim recessed lighting from a strip embedded in the upper walls, running a circuit of the room. In light that came from all sides at once, shadows were blurry and indistinct, shifting with his perspective as he moved. The effect was disconcerting.
He was searching the walls with his fingers, trying to find the joint that might suggest a door - they’d got him in here somehow, after all - when one of the four walls slide back to reveal a protocol droid not unlike the one that had met him and Qui-Gon on the Trade Federation ship standing off Naboo, and likewise bearing a tray.
Obi-Wan shoved away the memories and tried to pay attention through the pounding in his head.
“Master Kenobi,” the droid intoned, stepping inside so that the door slid shut behind him with a hiss. Recessed joins, Obi-Wan noted. That’s not good. “I hope you are enjoying your stay. I have been instructed to offer you some refreshments.” He - It, Obi-Wan reminded himself - lifted the tray as evidence. “We have hot hoi-broth, or -”
Obi-Wan’s stomach churned at the thought. He wondered whether Omega knew of his allergy. It was difficult to imagine how, and yet the coincidence seemed just a little too striking to ignore. “Tea would be fine, thank you,” he said composedly.
He took the tray the droid offered and tried out a smile. “May I ask where we are headed?” he inquired, as casually as he could manage.
“That information is outside my programming parameters,” the droid informed him. “I can relay your request, if you like.”
“Please do,” Obi-Wan murmured, but he doubted that it would accomplish anything. If Omega had wanted him to know where they were going, he would have made the information available already. And if he didn’t want Obi-Wan to know, he was unlikely to be persuaded by a mere request for information.
“Very well.” The droid held out the tray for him to replace the drink, even though Obi-Wan had taken hardly two sips from it. “Is there anything else you require for your comfort? A bed, perhaps?”
“A bed is unnecessary,” Obi-Wan replied. “What I would like is to speak with your master.”
“I will relay your request,” the droid intoned gravely. “Good day.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Sarta cleared his throat. “Ryn, with Kit gone, Clan Orun’s leadership is in question. You can’t just -”
Ryn speared him with a glare. “Spare me,” she said. “With Kit gone, there is no question at all. I speak for Clan Orun.”
“But you’re a hostage -”
“If the athelani want to choose someone else later, they may do so,” Ryn said. Her voice cut across his words like a knife. “I won’t stand against them. But right here, right now, I am my brother’s heir.”
Sarta grimaced. “I know,” he admitted. “But ... Areth’ryn, I am your foster-brother. How can I not try to protect you?”
“I’ll be all right,” Ryn said. “I know you mean well, but you can’t protect me, Sarta. Not this time.”
Sarta stepped closer and took Ryn’s hands, pulling her away from Anakin. “I promised your brother I would take care of you,” he said, lowering his voice. “I haven’t kept that promise very well. But my offer of marriage is still open, Ryn. Come home. Marry me. Let me lead the army.” He brushed a strand of black hair away from Ryn’s pale cheek. “I know it’s not a love match, but we have a common goal. That has to count for something.”
“It does,” Ryn said, tugging her hands free. “But it’s not enough. And anyway, I have an obligation to the Jedi now.”
Sarta glanced past her to Anakin. “Do you refuse me for that ... Padawan?” he asked her, frowning. “Do not be hasty, Ryn. The devotion of a true heart is worth more than a lovely face.”
“Did you just call Anakin pretty?” Ryn demanded, aghast. “No. I am refusing you on my own account, for all the reasons I told you last year. They have not changed. I would say I’m sorry, but I don’t think you really care.”
Sarta frowned. “Of course I care,” he said, his diction slipping a little. “I gave your brother my word -”
“Another good reason for me not to marry you,” Ryn said.
Sarta cast another unhappy glance at Anakin. “I cannot help but feel that your lust for this young -”
“Finish that sentence at your own peril,” Ryn said. “Although, since you ask, he is a better kisser than you.”
“Though his lips be full and sweet -”
“If you don’t marry me, are you going to make out with Anakin?” Ryn asked. “Because I might like to watch.”
Sarta opened his mouth to speak again, but Gunryth intervened, stepping forward to lay her hand on her brother’s arm. “Sarta,” she remonstrated gently, “let it go. You have done your duty here. Areth’ryn has the right to refuse your offer.” A small frown dented her perfect forehead. “Particularly after you proposed by speaking of your deep love for her brother, and the sweetness of another man’s mouth. That was ... ill-advised.”
Anakin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Ryn sighed in relief and turned to her foster-sister. “Gunryth, my sword-brother and I need healing. Will you help us?”
Gunryth’s smile could have lit an entire space station. “I thought you’d never ask.”
[~]
Obi-Wan woke slowly and pushed himself to a sitting position. His left arm still throbbed from the dart he’d been hit with earlier; it must have been drugged, too, because he couldn’t begin to account for his soreness and grogginess any other way. The room in which he was trapped was more like a large metal box: plain and bare; a taller man wouldn’t have been able to stand up in it.
Obi-Wan frowned. He didn’t actually know that he was trapped. There could be a way out. Grimacing at himself for making assumptions, he got gingerly to his feet and began to search the smooth, bare walls, gleaming dully in the dim recessed lighting from a strip embedded in the upper walls, running a circuit of the room. In light that came from all sides at once, shadows were blurry and indistinct, shifting with his perspective as he moved. The effect was disconcerting.
He was searching the walls with his fingers, trying to find the joint that might suggest a door - they’d got him in here somehow, after all - when one of the four walls slide back to reveal a protocol droid not unlike the one that had met him and Qui-Gon on the Trade Federation ship standing off Naboo, and likewise bearing a tray.
Obi-Wan shoved away the memories and tried to pay attention through the pounding in his head.
“Master Kenobi,” the droid intoned, stepping inside so that the door slid shut behind him with a hiss. Recessed joins, Obi-Wan noted. That’s not good. “I hope you are enjoying your stay. I have been instructed to offer you some refreshments.” He - It, Obi-Wan reminded himself - lifted the tray as evidence. “We have hot hoi-broth, or -”
Obi-Wan’s stomach churned at the thought. He wondered whether Omega knew of his allergy. It was difficult to imagine how, and yet the coincidence seemed just a little too striking to ignore. “Tea would be fine, thank you,” he said composedly.
He took the tray the droid offered and tried out a smile. “May I ask where we are headed?” he inquired, as casually as he could manage.
“That information is outside my programming parameters,” the droid informed him. “I can relay your request, if you like.”
“Please do,” Obi-Wan murmured, but he doubted that it would accomplish anything. If Omega had wanted him to know where they were going, he would have made the information available already. And if he didn’t want Obi-Wan to know, he was unlikely to be persuaded by a mere request for information.
“Very well.” The droid held out the tray for him to replace the drink, even though Obi-Wan had taken hardly two sips from it. “Is there anything else you require for your comfort? A bed, perhaps?”
“A bed is unnecessary,” Obi-Wan replied. “What I would like is to speak with your master.”
“I will relay your request,” the droid intoned gravely. “Good day.”