The First Lesson In Sorrow

by Gloriana

TITLE: The First Lesson In Sorrow
AUTHOR: Gloriana
ARCHIVE: M_A
PAIRING: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan
CATEGORIES: Chan
RATING: PG-13 max
NOTES: This was first published in the zine 'Songs of Innocence, Songs of Experience'. It's almost too tiny to deserve notes. However, it had two sources: a discussion onlist with Grace over the importance of character costumes as spoilers for SWIII; and the memory of a picture of Obi-Wan, nude, looking at himself in the mirror, touching the collar around his neck. That was, of course, by Black Rose for 'L'Histoire d'Obi' (alas, her website is down for repairs). Dr Squidlove tried but failed to beat it into shape, for it still lacks originality. My bad.
DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owns these lads, and would disapprove greatly of the uses I put them to, I'm sure. But they're just so tempting...
SPOILERS: None.
FEEDBACK: All welcomed. Positive to me, please; negative or just discursive to list or me as you see fit: gloriana@virginqueen.com
SUMMARY: Obi-Wan sends a message to the Council; but it's not they who learn the lesson from it.
WARNINGS: Young!Obi-Wan - I was thinking of him as about 16 in this. I would not class this as anywhere near non-con, but if you're real sensitive on the issue, you might want someone else to vet it first.

Obi-Wan pulled up the last zip, and looked at his reflection in the mirror with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It was even tighter on him than he'd supposed, the rich purple pseudo-suede moulding itself to the contours of his chest and thighs. The silver chevrons that had looked so flatly neutral in the store now curved up over his ribs and arrowed their way back down from nipples to groin in a blatant signpost. As for the rear...

He twisted his body round to see the shining stripes that followed his spine relentlessly down until they hit the (genuine) suede swatch over his arse. That swatch might have been a dully inconspicuous grey compared to the brilliant purple, but, filled with the swell of his buttocks, it described a perfect heart shape, leading the eye inexorably to the cleft between his cheeks, and the dark junction of his thighs.

And if that weren't daring enough, there were the two silver straps, each positioned in the centre of a buttock cheek, to accent the whole.

Obi-Wan ran a finger nervously along the edge of the swatch. It seemed secure...but the wickedest thing about this garment, if also the least obvious, was that the entire swatch was only held on with velcro. The stitching at the edges was mere decoration: all anyone had to do was tuck their fingers into the silver straps, and they could pull the whole thing away...

And there was no room whatsoever beneath this costume, even for the flimsiest of underwear.

Obi-Wan shifted uneasily. He hadn't considered this in detail - he'd just let his anger coast him into the store and back out with the jumpsuit flung in a bag over his arm - but he supposed that in the right circumstances, wearing such a suit could be a highly erotic experience. If one were approaching a lover, say, with one's genitals pressed up against the soft caress of the fabric, and one's arse so easily bared -

No, this was not the time to get an erection. Besides which, he thought, tugging the high collar into place, he had no lover, and lust played no part in this. It was, instead, a statement.

His eyes flicked from his image in the mirror to the chrono by his bed. With any luck, Qui-Gon wouldn't call him until they were just about to leave - and then there wouldn't be any time to argue over his clothing. One did not keep the Council waiting.

Of course, he couldn't be sure that Qui-Gon would argue. There was nothing about his master that was predictable, even though Obi-Wan had spent every night and day of the last forty months with the man. There was only one thing he could be sure of: if Qui-Gon did take exception, it would do Obi-Wan not the least bit of good to quote the rules to him. Qui-Gon had no compunction about rewriting whatever rules did not suit him, a habit that had appalled his young, strait-laced padawan at first. Well, Obi-Wan was older now, and the only laces he intended wearing were the ones threaded through the slit sleeves of this suit. And, while he would not have broken an actual, written-down rule, there was in fact nothing to enforce the traditional padawan dress of cream tunics and simple leggings. If a padawan chose to wear figure-hugging purple jumpsuits -

"Obi-Wan, are you ready?" Qui-Gon's voice came from the common room.

Gods, why was the man so contrary?! He would have to choose this evening for a display of punctuality.

"Coming, Master," Obi-Wan called back. He pulled cupboard doors noisily closed in a semblance of activity. "Do we have to go yet? We're not due for -"

"Padawan. Here, now, please." The request was quiet, almost inaudible over the racket Obi-Wan was making. But Obi-Wan knew that tone: Qui-Gon suspected something. He stopped his flurry of camouflage immediately. "Shit!" he whispered, and headed out the door, not daring to take a last glance in the mirror.

Qui-Gon was standing by the windows of the common room, his cloak already over his shoulders. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and stepped forward, waiting for the change in Qui-Gon's expression at the sight of him.

Whatever Obi-Wan had expected, it did not include amusement. But that lift to one eyebrow, and the sudden, surprised quirk at the edge of Qui-Gon's mouth, were hard to interpret as anything else. "Is that what you intend to wear to visit with the Council, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asked. He sounded neither aghast nor angry, which Obi-Wan thought to be a good sign.

Lifting his chin, he took a few steps more into the room. "Yes, Master," he replied, attempting to infuse both determination and deference into his voice.

Now both eyebrows went up, even though Qui-Gon's tone was still light. "The reason for this change is...?"

As with most of Qui-Gon's innocuous questions, Obi-Wan could see the gaping chasms opening up across the path of a simple answer. Still, he had to try.

"I wish the Council to be aware that I am an adult, and have the right to be treated with respect and care." He said the whole of the prepared sentence looking straight ahead at the window rather than at his master - and he nearly got it right, except for the note of indignation that had crept in there towards the end. He'd have to watch for that in front of the Council themselves: nothing but the blandest face and tone would do.

"Hmm." Obi-Wan risked a glance at his master, but Qui-Gon's face was as blank as any that Obi-Wan could aspire to. "How will dressing up as a Hibarian whore convince the Council of that, Padawan? Your reasoning, please."

The slur on his costume had been made without heat, but it still cut. Obi-Wan swallowed, then went on with his speech. "I wish to point out that I am capable of independent thought and action, as befits any member of the Jedi, no matter how young," he said.

His voice got stronger as Qui-Gon did not interrupt. "We are trained to take the initiative, and to act on our decisions. Should the Council wish to override us - which, of course, is their prerogative -" he added, just to be extra-careful about not overstepping the mark, "that does not mean our views should be cavalierly dismissed. Jedi should not be bound slavishly to follow tradition, especially at the risk of their lives." There he could not stop the bitterness creeping in.

Somewhat surprisingly, Qui-Gon did not take Obi-Wan up on his analysis of what had gone wrong on Lorra IV. "You may argue your case in front of them if you please," he said instead; which was tantamount to a confession that he agreed with his padawan, but had no intention of bringing up the issue himself - despite the fact that Obi-Wan had nearly died for the sake of a outdated Jedi custom. "But you still have not made the connection to...that." One wave of Qui-Gon's hand towards the crotch of the jumpsuit had the colour rising in Obi-Wan's cheeks already. Surreptitiously he squinted to make sure he was still contained within the thing. Perhaps this really had been a bad idea.

But he wasn't about to back down now. "I do not presume to think the Council have the time to listen to my arguments, Master," he said stiffly. "However, my abandonment of traditional padawan dress is surely a signal that they can interpret at their leisure; and then choose to act upon, if they so please. There aren't any rules against it," he added, then winced. He'd really not meant to have that one slip out in front of Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon's hands went to his hips. He seemed much bigger that way: broad as well as tall. "I'm sure, if you tell me there are no rules against it, that that's the case, Obi-Wan," he said mildly. "I have never known you to be less than thorough when it comes to checking such things."

Oh, worse and worse. Qui-Gon could make an art form out of such backhanded compliments. "Reeft wears black all the time," Obi-Wan said defensively. "His master hasn't said anything to him about that."

"Reeft? Yes, I remember him. Always eating, but tall and thin; I wonder that his master can find him in the dark. Yet you are not dressed in black."

Obi-Wan squirmed under Qui-Gon's gaze. "I don't like black," he mumbled. "And this was what they had in the shop. But it's not the dress of a Hibarian whore," he added defiantly. "It's just fashionable, that's all!"

Qui-Gon walked slowly round him, arms now crossed and blue gaze evaluating. Obi-Wan stood stock still for the inspection.

When Qui-Gon had done the full circle, he came back to stand in front of Obi-Wan again, this time much closer. Obi-Wan had to bend his neck to look up at him.

"So the swatch doesn't come off?" Qui-Gon asked, disinterestedly.

Obi-Wan went bright red.

Gods! Qui-Gon knew about the swatch!! He felt as naked in front of his master as if his arse was already hanging out the back. And Qui-Gon had deliberately gone round him to look -

"I take it from your expression that it does," Qui-Gon said.

Not a single reply came to Obi-Wan's desperately racing mind.

Qui-Gon gave him a considering look. "Hmm." Now that one Obi-Wan really had no hope of translating. Qui-Gon could have been livid with disapproval, or killing himself with laughter at Obi-Wan's expense. But either way, judgment was at hand. Obi-Wan braced himself, shoulders going unconsciously back.

"The problem with being taken as an adult," Qui-Gon began mildly, "is that you cannot pick and choose, Padawan. Either you are an adult in all things, or you are in none. And clothing like that," another one of those dismissive waves, which was enough to make Obi-Wan realise that having his shoulders back meant his hips were canted forward, "gives out more signals than you seem to have taken into account."

"Master?"

Qui-Gon gave a deep sigh. "I mean this," he said, and in one swift motion he had swept Obi-Wan up into his arms, and his mouth was on Obi-Wan's, brusque and hard.

Obi-Wan froze. There was the shock of strong arms around him, pulling him against the length of Qui-Gon's body, and the rough bristle of beard on the tender skin around his lips. His head was forced back by the pressure of Qui-Gon's against him, his neck straining and his throat arched in a tight bow. Then Qui-Gon's tongue pushed into his mouth, large and tasteless, repulsively warm as it stroked and covered his own.

"Ummph," he protested, and tried instinctively to pull away. But Qui-Gon moved quickly to stop him, fingers of one hand digging into his jaw to hold his head still, the other hand shifting down to cup him under the buttocks, pulling him off the ground entirely so that Qui-Gon was his only support.

He made another muffled sound of alarm, but if anything Qui-Gon pressed in further, invading his mouth with that probing tongue which squirmed against his almost like a separate, living creature. Obi-Wan bunched his fists in Qui-Gon's cloak, trying to pull him away, but his strength was puny against his master's, and all he could do was struggle ineffectively against the suffocating mouth and rigid fingers.

Qui-Gon's tongue licked the soft inside of his cheek, an action shockingly intimate.

His stomach suddenly turned inside him, and a wash of passion flooded up from his groin to tingle across his entire body, bringing goosebumps in its wake. He gave a small groan, and spontaneously melted against Qui-Gon, no longer fighting, but seeking...

Qui-Gon's response was immediate. He released Obi-Wan's jaw and moved his hand to cradle Obi-Wan's skull instead, crushing their mouths together as he forced Obi-Wan's lips even further apart. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, incapable of handling any more sensation than the puff of Qui-Gon's breath against his cheek, the heavy spicy scent of Qui-Gon's beard against his nostrils, the stab of Qui-Gon's tongue against the soft tissues of his mouth. He welcomed it now, that seeking, thrusting thing.

The plunder of his mouth went on forever. He made helpless whimpers in the back of his throat, then felt his heart leap as Qui-Gon echoed them in a deep bass, his whole chest thrumming against Obi-Wan's with his groan. The sound alone was enough to have Obi-Wan's fingers curling convulsively into the cloth of Qui-Gon's cloak, desperately hanging on to his master.

Against the thin fabric of the jumpsuit, every crease of cotton and wool etched itself into his chest and thighs, and his cock, crushed against the hard leather of Qui-Gon's belt, began to swell. Qui-Gon's fingers were spread out over the curve of his arse, biting in to the tender flesh. The heft of his hand against the weight of Obi-Wan's body pulled the fabric there tight, making it dig into Obi-Wan's cleft and squeeze his balls between his legs.

That extra pressure was almost more than he could bear. Still clinging to Qui-Gon's cloak, his tongue now moving eagerly against Qui-Gon's own, he wriggled against his master's body, trying to move higher, to move in...

Qui-Gon's hand slipped, a finger catching in the strap on the swatch. There was the crackle of velcro starting to part, and then Qui-Gon grabbed Obi-Wan's wrists, and wrenched his hands out of their grasp on the cloak. Deprived of the support under his buttocks, Obi-Wan dropped unceremoniously to his feet, panting, his mouth open, staring up into Qui-Gon's face.

If he had seen the slightest hint there - the slightest hint! - he would have thrown himself on his master again, climbed his way up that tall body, grabbed the long hair swinging forward over those broad shoulders, and pulled Qui-Gon's reddened lips back down to his.

But Qui-Gon stepped back, his cloak flowing forward to envelop him, and put his hands behind him. Those bruised lips were tight and grim, and hard lines marked his brow. Qui-Gon had never presented this face to Obi-Wan before. It was powerful, and frightening, and he was more excited by it than he had ever been in his life.

Yet this was Qui-Gon. His master. The man he most respected, and most loved.

The man with the kindest hands he knew had just left bruises on his skin; the man with the warmest eyes had just forced an intimacy from Obi-Wan that left him gasping, and hungry for more. He was - He couldn't - This was the most wonderful -

"Change those clothes. Now."

Qui-Gon's voice was harsh, and Obi-Wan jerked out of his daze, suddenly horribly aware that his erection must be completely visible under the thin fabric of the jumpsuit. His face flamed again.

"Yes, Master," he got out, and fled the room as fast as he could, leaving Qui-Gon glowering behind him.

How he made it through the next two hours, he never knew. His only consolation was that, when he tore off the jumpsuit in his room, a quick glance showed the velcro had held, and Qui-Gon hadn't had a glimpse of his retreating backside wiggling through a gap in the swatch as he ran away.

But the rest of it was awful: walking three steps behind Qui-Gon's commanding figure as they swept down the corridors, him cowering beneath his robe, Qui-Gon taciturn and abrupt in the little he said to Obi-Wan before they entered the Council chambers. His master made their report to the few Council members present in the clipped, perfunctory manner that usually meant he was distracted by other things. Obi-Wan himself paid no attention at all to his master's words, instead held in thrall by a mixture of the sheer delight of watching the outline of Qui-Gon's erect body, all muscle and weight and utterly beautiful; and the horror of imagining what his master must be thinking of him. A Hiberian whore. A boy to be taught an adult's lesson.

Compared to that, it was a small matter to beg the Council's attention, and make a short, polite objection to the orders he had been given on Lorra IV. Given the strength of the other emotions he was trying to hide, from elation to despair, it was easy to present his case in the neutral but firm tone that Qui-Gon rarely bothered with in front of the Council. Rancicis made him a dry acknowledgement in return, and Yaddle said, "Your comments will be recorded, Padawan," and that was that. When Obi-Wan chanced a sideways glance at Qui-Gon, though, his master unbent enough to give a small nod. It was ample to make Obi-Wan want to dance around the Council room, waving his arms in joy.

Their silent walk back to their rooms sobered him again. What had he been thinking? Just because Qui-Gon had kissed him the once, as punishment for his presumption and stupidity, didn't mean he held any attraction for the older man. Even if there had been more to that kiss, even if Qui-Gon had been aroused by it himself (and he had groaned - the deep sound rang even now in Obi-Wan's ears, enough to make him erect again beneath his concealing robes), it did not mean his master shared any of the feelings that were now consuming Obi-Wan utterly.

All he wanted to do was to escape back to his bedroom and be alone. But when he made a feeble excuse to Qui-Gon as they entered their common room, and tried to slip away, his master stopped him. "Bring the suit here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan bowed his head. "Yes, Master."

At least the anger seemed to be gone, and when Obi-Wan laid the purple material across Qui-Gon's knees, his heart hammering, the master fingered the cloth thoughtfully. "Was it very expensive?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, his head still bent. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled.

Qui-Gon folded the thing in half, and tucked it in the bag Obi-Wan had brought through. "You might yet find it useful," he said, to Obi-Wan's astonishment. "When you have grown into it, that is. Put it in storage for now, Padawan. And when the bill comes, add it to my account."

"But you don't have to -"

"Obi-Wan." He immediately stilled. Qui-Gon lifted his chin with two fingers. "You did well in front of the Council."

The non-sequitur had Obi-Wan's brain, already befuddled from the touch of those warm fingers, totally confused. "Thank you," he finally got out.

Qui-Gon was looking straight into his eyes, and those eyes were so blue, and the tiny crinkles beside them that normally fanned out when Qui-Gon smiled were now just thin white lines, and Obi-Wan wanted to lean in and kiss him there, just on his temple where a tiny vein flickered beneath the skin...

He gave a little shudder as Qui-Gon stroked one finger lightly across the bruise he had left on Obi-Wan's jaw. The spot was tender, and the contact caused a tiny pain. "I think you learnt a lesson in considering all the implications of any action, hmm?" Qui-Gon's voice was gentle, but Obi-Wan still flushed in embarrassment.

"Yes, Master," he whispered.

Qui-Gon's mouth twisted ruefully. "It's a lesson I should already have learned myself. That kiss was not meant as a punishment, Obi-Wan. I don't want you thinking it was."

Obi-Wan stared, his eyes going round. "N-No, Master." But if it hadn't been meant as a punishment...

Qui-Gon smiled. "You've done well in many things today. I'm proud of you, Padawan."

A great surge of excitement filled Obi-Wan. Did Qui-Gon mean - Should he -?

He wanted to, oh how he wanted to. But he didn't dare. Slowly he bent his head again.

"Put it away for now," Qui-Gon repeated, and pushed the bag into his hands.

"I -"

"Go." Qui-Gon pushed gently at his shoulder.

He turned and walked back to his room, locking the door behind him. He placed the bag on the bed, then slowly he took off his padawan clothes, folding each item neatly as he went. Sash, tunic, belt and leggings: they all were added to the pile on the bed beside the bag, the boots stowed below. Last of all, he slipped off the standard issue Jedi underclothes, simple things of white cotton.

Naked, he took the jumpsuit out of the bag, and stood in front of the mirror again. Carefully he held it in front of himself, then swivelled it until he could see the heart-shaped swatch in the reflection. The brush of cloth against his penis was a far lighter touch than Qui-Gon's belt against him had been, but he started to firm again.

He sank to the floor, jumpsuit cradled against his chest. "Gods," he whispered, hiding his penis behind his hand. "He's my Master. What on earth am I going to do?"

Qui-Gon rose slowly out of a deep meditation, expanding his awareness of the environment around him in an ever-widening circle.

His knees hurt.

The moon was still shining through the windows behind him. It had been no more than an hour, then.

In the pantry, the small colony of burrowmice were trying to make their way into Obi-Wan's packet of breakfast nuts. Gently he chivvied them over to his own. He had hidden their presence from Obi-Wan for the last month, ever since they had invaded the pantry through a hole in the skirting board, and he hoped to keep them safe in their refuge until spring.

Beyond, in the bedrooms, Obi-Wan was finally in deep sleep. If Qui-Gon focussed with sufficient intent, he could enter into Obi-Wan's dreams; but he had invaded his padawan's privacy too much already that evening. He'd not been strong enough to resist the temptation, and when Obi-Wan, who had been wan and quiet all through their evening meal, had gone off to an early bed, he had gone into his own room and stood up against the wall that separated them, the better to absorb everything that Obi-Wan was feeling.

Obi-Wan's shielding had been poor anyway, so he need not have pressed himself so hard against the cold plaster in his secret surveillance of his padawan. But it seemed important to be as physically close as he could; and if he could have lain under Obi-Wan's bed, or hidden in his closets without fear of discovery, he would have. He'd been shameless, today.

He had felt the rush of hot semen over Obi-Wan's hand, and the prick of hot tears beneath his eyelids as the boy rolled over to sleep, as if they were his own. Qui-Gon smiled again at the memory.

Standing in one fluid motion, despite the ache in his knees from remaining still so long in meditation, he went over to the armoire in the corner of the common room and unlocked the bottom drawer. There was a candle there that he had purchased in the lovers' market on Talisine, over a year ago. It was as fat as his rounded fist, as long as the distance from his elbow to his wrist, and it was of a pure, translucent white, so clear that the wick was a creamy shadow visible in its depths. It had been ferociously expensive.

Qui-Gon unwrapped it from the purple cloth he had covered it in, and took both cloth and candle out with him onto the balcony, turning off the lights in the common room as he went. The wind outside was cold and brisk, tugging at his tunic, but in a little nook round the corner there was a niche specially built to shelter a flame; and Qui-Gon put the candle there, brushing aside old bits of wax and soot to lay the cloth under it.

Then he methodically stripped off his clothes, placing them in a pile on the ground where he would kneel. First, though, he stood naked by the railing for awhile, the wind scattering through his hair, and watched the airships dancing past against a background of stars. They were only moving stars themselves, until they passed over the face of the moon and their dark forms became visible against its pale surface. To them, he must have been a pallid white speck on the edge of a building far below.

When the chill began to work its way into his flesh, he turned from them and knelt in the nook, his mind cleared enough by the wind and the long meditation that he was ready to begin his devotions.

Concentrating, he let his consciousness caress the wick, flicking and licking it until he had teased a steady flame into being. It was a task that required considerable focus, creating fire out of raw wind, and he used that focus to place himself as fully in the moment as he could: here, now, his knees on rough cloth and his feet on hard stone, his skin pebbled with cold, his hair fluttering loose on his shoulders, the first whiff of burning tallow in his nose, his eyes filled with the light of the one flame.

"Hail to thee, oh Force Without. I come to give you thanks for the gift you have bestowed on me today." His throat caught, and he had to stop for a moment. "It is more valuable, and more beautiful, than anything you have shown me my life before." He bowed his head and knelt in silence, while an errant breeze toyed ineffectively with his solitary flame.

It was a long time before he could raise his head to continue, and when he did his voice was hoarse with the strain of suppressed emotions. "I have asked this question before, and never yet an answer have I been given."

The first time had been with Mace, when they were both nineteen. When did you fall in love with me? Mace had laughed, and passed it over, and said that he had no idea, it had just grown. For Qui-Gon, it had been the moment when Mace had reached over him, flush from a lightsabre victory, and pulled him back up onto his feet to fight again.

If Obi-Wan were to ask him, he too would have to say, I don't know. It has just grown. Grown from affection and pride, appreciation of a well-made body and an eager mind, respect and exasperation combined. One day he had liked his padawan well, and the next he had wandered past a market stall, and bought a candle that Talisian men gave to the boys they intended to wed.

He would have left it, locked away in that drawer, for the rest of his life, if Obi-Wan had not come and stood in front of him in purple suede, with silver laces in his sleeves, and a grey swatch the only covering on his plump behind.

Yes, lust was part of this, too. Qui-Gon let the warmth build up inside of him, from the centre of his groin, where his balls and the soft skin behind them were pressed tight against the curve of his calf and thigh; along his penis now firming and rising; up his belly; to his rapidly-beating heart.

But lust was not all - was not even the half measure. It had been that look on Obi-Wan's face, when he had finally put the boy away from him, lips blushing from their kiss.

Obi-Wan had looked up at him as if he were a god on earth.

At first there had been shock in Obi-Wan's eyes, and terror, and a desire that had had Qui-Gon's hands scrabbling in the sleeves of his robe, as he put them behind him to stop himself reaching out. And if Obi-Wan had known how vulnerable he was, how close Qui-Gon had come to throwing him over the arm of the couch and ripping that damned swatch off his bottom, and spreading those soft rounded cheeks apart beneath his hands and plunging in... Then perhaps Obi-Wan would have run away, instead of quaking before him like a scared, eager rabbit.

But that desire in Obi-Wan's eyes had been followed by something far more powerful, and Qui-Gon had watched in wonder as his padawan fell in love.

He gave a trembling sigh, that moved the candle flame where the breeze had not. "I thank thee for showing me the answer, before the question was mine to ask.

"I beg thee to keep him," he went on, his voice suddenly fierce, while the flame reared high. "I do not seek to claim him yet, for he is not ready. Until he can stand before me, and with courage and confidence ask me for what he desires, I shall stay my hand. Let him find his own way to me. The hurt he feels tonight is but a bruise, compared to the wounds love can bring: he must brave those without my help. In thy wisdom, he might yet turn away from my face, and find another worthier. I shall not presume to know his heart before he lays it in front of me."

Qui-Gon bowed his head again. "But keep him safe," he whispered. "Thou hast ever favoured me, oh Force Without. I am your beloved son. This one boon I do beg: that you let him live into old age, sound of limb and mind, though all else around him fails. Take your grace from me, and give it to him, that he might prosper. I would have any injury fall to myself, rather than to him."

With that, he raised his left hand and held the palm over the candle flame, held it steady until the skin began to blister from the fierce point of heat, and even the intensity of his focus was no longer enough to dampen the burning pain. Then he drew his hand away and rested it, cradled, in his right.

"Now let me give unto you this joy," he intoned, eyes drifting closed as he uttered the last words of the devotion, the searing hurt of his palm ignored. "As you have given me the splendour of his love, I give you all the joy it brings me."

And finally, finally, after the enormous effort of keeping his own heart hidden from his padawan that day, Qui-Gon let his joy spiral up within him. It was a sun-burst: a hallelujah of praise and wonder as if the stars and the wind were singing with him, in him. Against his closed lids he saw a flare of orange and felt a flood of heat, but it was as nothing to the light that rose up in him, the hot fire of passion and the bright, white light of spirit coursing through him. The jolt of his seed spilling forth on his thigh was lost in the ecstacy of his heart opening to the infinity of the Force.

Luminescent beings are we.

When the Moment was over, he sighed and let his body settle back onto his aching legs, let his shoulders slump down. He opened his eyes, to see that the candle had vaporised in front of him, the wax evaporated and the wick reduced to ashes. There was only a charred hole left in the heavy purple cloth where the candle had stood.

Reverently, he smoothed away the crumbled edges of ash around the hole with his hand, ignoring the vicious sting of his burnt flesh. He folded the cloth, then brought it to his lips. He kissed it, the ashes dry against his lips, and murmured, "Obi-Wan."

In his bed, in the depths of their rooms, Obi-Wan muttered and rolled over in his sleep. "Qui-Gon."

~ Finis ~