Obi-Wan is aging surprisingly well (obi1) wrote in valarlogs,
Loras departed, and Obi-Wan carried the slow, even breathing he had left in his care back to the locker room bench. He sat down and closed his eyes. He breathed. There is no emotion, there is peace. Saying it backwards seemed to make much more sense, but Obi-Wan held firm. There is no chaos, there is harmony. Just breathe.
Oh, for the love of God! Something had to click. And fast!
And then he was back in the ring. The Celt, with his corny trademark shock of red hair, stomped and bellowed in his corner. His tactics of intimidation failed before they even started. Obi-Wan shrugged and turned around, scanning the crowd once more for Kitty and failing. Loras, however, was easy to spot.
The bell rang. The Celt was known for being a little more than the average sort of unhinged, and his swings were wild, almost inhuman, but Obi-Wan was a master of evasion if nothing else. (The black eye from before didn't count. He was pretty sure he'd given that to himself.) Soon, the Celt had a matching one of his own. And when the fight was over, Obi-Wan was standing over a babbling man with broken ribs and a bloody jaw. For himself, the wound he'd earned at Scotty's place had reopened, and a thick line of blood was racing down his cheek.
Nothing had clicked, per say. But he certainly didn't feel like he was about to throw up.