Disclaimer: George is God. I am Scum. And suing scum gets you
nowhere. :-)
Summary: A short holiday tale for JediNic who asked for one.
Happy Holidays to everyone!
The flash of pain shot through Obi-Wan's mind, silver bright,
waking him from a deep slumber. It held the bittersweet tang of
remorse coupled with a deep, primal feeling of loss. It was
gone in an instant, replaced by soothing meditations and
reflections on ancient Jedi tomes.
To Obi-Wan's great surprise, he realized the pain was coming
from his master. He rose and quickly padded to the common area
he shared with Qui-Gon and found him standing at the viewglass,
looking out over the Temple gardens, a great courtyard filled
with dark green things smothered by bright winter snows.
"Master?"
Qui-Gon turned toward him and Obi-Wan blinked at the sight of
his master's eyes, sad and overbright in the dull artificial
light.
"Forgive me for waking you, padawan. I just opened a communique
that would have been better left until morning."
"What is it? Is everything all right?" Concern filled his
voice, and Obi-Wan made no effort to hide it.
Qui-Gon considered for a moment, then nodded. "Nothing is truly
amiss. I . . ." Hesitation. "I learned this evening that my
mother has passed into the Force."
Another sliver of pain, this one shared. Obi-Wan walked over
and stood silently beside his master, his head bowed.
Qui-Gon faced the garden, his expression unreadable. "What you
felt over our bond was surprise, I suppose. Intellectually, I
knew this day would come, but in truth, never was a child born
who truly believed their parents could one day die."
Obi-Wan nodded. "I believe you are right, Master, and I am
sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, Obi-Wan. But there is no cause for sorrow. My
mother lived a long life and was healthy until recently. I am
grateful for the years we've shared and look forward to the
eternity we have yet to share within the Force." Qui-Gon held
out a hand to his apprentice and Obi-Wan took it, shyly
entwining the large calloused fingers between his own, amazed
as always at their gentle strength.
Qui-Gon sighed. "It's hard not to have a few regrets though."
He turned, smiled softly at Obi-Wan. "I'm sorry she never met
you. She would have enjoyed spoiling you, especially this time
of year."
A curious glance. "This time of year, Master?"
"On my home planet, the first week of winter is called
Illuminocture -- The Feast of Light and Twelve Days." Qui-Gon's
voice faded, softened with hints of the past shading his tones
with sepia hues and touches of gray. "You would have liked it,
certainly."
He tucked his and Obi-Wan's entwined hands into his cloak
pocket and smiled wistfully. "Nothing but warm fires, hot cups
of tea and more food than any human could think of consuming.
Work is forbidden and sleep is inevitable, even when you are
blinded by the shine of hundreds of firelights reflecting from
the colored foils that hang throughout the house. And the snow
. . . it falls for days on end, and then . . . " Qui-Gon
stopped suddenly and Obi-Wan felt it again, a sharp pinprick of
regret.
His hand was released and Obi-Wan unobtrusively pulled it away.
"I am sorry, Master." He lowered his gaze, not wishing to
intrude on Qui-Gon's pain, on memories he couldn't share, on
sorrows he could never fully understand.
Qui-Gon's expression hardened. "No, it is I who am sorry.
Forgive me, padawan. I'm a poor example to you. This is the
precise moment I'm supposed to impress upon you how meaningless
such ties and celebrations are, how there is no death, no
sorrow, and how we as Jedi are to live without regrets." He
sighed, suddenly looking older than his years. "Well, even
masters receive, and fail, new tests I'd suppose."
Obi-Wan felt the thick, unwelcome weight of helplessness settle
in over his heart. "Can I get you anything? Some tea or . . ."
"No, padawan." Softly, and the same gentle hand brushed
Obi-Wan's cheek, effectively silencing him. "Go back to bed. It
is late and tomorrow is a busy day for us both."
A short bow, and Obi-Wan walked away, turning his body, but not
his mind away from his master. Uncomfortable it was, a child's
sorrow emanating from such a strong heart, he thought ruefully.
Comforting as well, to know his master was just as any other
human being, and that his fears and sorrows were as common as
Obi-Wan's.
Obi-Wan returned to bed, but didn't sleep. Instead, he stared
out over the snow-covered gardens, using touches of Force to
melt away the frost from dying leaves and watching as what was
now water dripped away, revealing green life beneath the ice.
He painted idly through the snows with his power until he felt
a gentle admonishment from Qui-Gon over their link.
//Leave the garden be and sleep, my Obi-Wan. All living things
need their rest, even the flowers.//
//Yes, Master.//
With a sigh, Obi-Wan turned away from the viewglass and closed
his eyes, waiting for sleep to find him and take him to a place
where flowers bloomed even when covered with snow.
The next day was very much the same as any other for Qui-Gon.
He rose, went to Obi-Wan's room and found his padawan already
gone to his classes. He gazed ruefully at the empty pallet,
wishing they'd had time to share breakfast, wishing he hadn't
ordered Obi-Wan back to bed so quickly the night before . . .
wishing he could stop grieving for moments lost.
He turned and left their quarters with a sigh. Walked the
hallways of the Jedi Temple, politely greeting various Masters,
laughing over small jokes with some, arguing finer points of
the Code with others. Spent a good hour or two extricating
himself from the grip of overzealous Senators and their
fast-talking aides with all the grace he could muster, annoyed
at their intrusions, but not willing to show it.
It was bad form, and besides, what difference would it have
made?
He ate a sensible midday meal, began to read an important work
by a great writer, abandoned it in the middle for a pleasant
work by someone unknown and drank more tea than was wise.
A day just as any other he thought, even as the memory of his
mother's soft smile haunted the deep corners of his soul.
Later that evening Qui-Gon walked back to his quarters while
outside the snow still fell. He'd accomplished what he'd set
out to do, but took no pleasure in his work.
Not that day. For that day, Qui-Gon discovered it was hard to
take pleasure in life when the one who bestowed it on him could
never be embraced again.
Foolish old man, he berated himself. There is no death, there
is only the Force, he silently chanted, but the creed rang
hollow. There was death, it was inevitable and one was
never prepared for it, no matter how many sayings one repeated
to themselves day after cursed day, Qui-Gon thought bitterly.
These were dangerous thoughts he knew, but he'd already failed
his test of serenity the night before, so what was one more
small failure added to it? He would correct himself in the
morning and become the Jedi Master he ought to be, but for one
day, he would allow himself his mortal, and supposedly menial,
sorrow.
Besides, what choice did he have?
With a sigh, Qui-Gon passed his hand over the lock to his and
Obi- Wan's quarters. The door slid open and he blinked at the
sight that greeted him.
Firelights. Dozens of them, carefully placed throughout the
room, saturating it with a warm, hazy glow as the scent of
fresh breads and sweet tea filled his nostrils, bringing back
memories he'd thought long forgotten. In the center of the
dining area stood a large queltnr plant, decorated with strips
of brightly colored, feather-light foil, reflecting the
firelights in shades of silver, blue and gold.
The entire room glowed with unaccustomed warmth and Qui-Gon
peered around, confused. He looked questioningly at his
padawan, who sat kneeling before the low dining table, his eyes
bright in the golden light.
"Good evening, Master." A tea tray sat on the table, containing
two bowls and streaming pot of something that smelled
wonderful. With a smile, Obi-Wan motioned for his master to
join him.
"Good evening, Padawan. What have we here?" He nodded toward
the firelights and the queltnr plant with a curious expression.
Obi-Wan didn't immediately reply, but instead, carefully lifted
a delicate teabowl from the tray and placed it with studied
formality onto his master's place setting. "I went to the
library today and read about the feast you described to me last
night. I found it very interesting . . . and very educational."
Qui-Gon knelt at the table, tucking his legs beneath him. "I
see." He slowly turned his bowl three times, the traditional
signal to pour. "What exactly did you learn?"
Obi-Wan gingerly lifted the teapot and obliged his master.
"That the ritual you spoke of is more than just a winter's
feast. Its meaning is profound, and I think, appropriate to
contemplate." He looked up shyly at Qui-Gon. "Especially on
this night."
Qui-Gon lifted his bowl and took a small sip. It was hot, sweet
and very welcome. "Really? And what parts of the ritual did you
find appropriate for our contemplation?"
"Well, let's take this flower for example." Obi-Wan lightly
brushed the queltnr plant and the foils adorning it shimmered
beneath his touch. "During Illuminocture it's brought inside
and adorned with decorations thereby honoring its life, even in
death. Upon reflection, I believe it represents our prayer for
rebirth even when the days are at their darkest . . . and their
coldest." He smiled at Qui-Gon. "It reminds us that there is no
death, only the Force, and throughout the galaxy, we
understand, and celebrate, the circle of life which naturally
ends in death."
"I see." Qui-Gon took another sip, this one to hide the tiny
smile that was curling at the edges of his lips.
Obi-Wan motioned toward the flickering firelights. "Next, with
these small flames we extend the light of day, which grows
shorter in the winter months. We recreate the warmth of the
stars which sustains us and that teaches us not to fear
darkness, for there is always a light available, a light that
can never be extinguished, which is the Force."
He glanced diffidently at Qui-Gon who said nothing, but nodded
for him to continue.
Obi-Wan picked up a small sweetbread and broke it in half,
placing the larger portion before his master. "Then, when we
feast for the twelve darkest and coldest of days of the year,
we show our faith in the cycle of life and disavow the fear of
want. We will wait patiently and fearlessly for the spring to
come, having no doubts as to its eventual arrival. We believe
in the promise of the Force, which is the promise of life."
Qui-Gon swallowed hard, and blinked back the tears that were
threatening. He remained silent, and encouraged his padawan to
continue with a small wave of his hand.
Obi-Wan bit his lip thoughtfully. "Then I thought about the
ritual itself and realized it is repeated, year after year."
Obi-Wan bowed his head slightly. "And that repetition teaches
us remembrance. Through the ceremony we learn that all living
things need their eternal rest, but that doesn't mean we should
forget them and the gifts they've bestowed upon when they were
alive, does it, Master?"
"No, padawan." Hoarsely and Qui-Gon held his hand out to his
student, feeling the warmth between them filling the haunted
parts of his soul with peace.
Obi-Wan smiled and took the hand that was offered. Squeezed it
tightly. "So, I thought perhaps we could spend this night
remembering your mother while celebrating this feast she loved
so much. I'd be honored if you'd share your memories of her
with me, Master."
Qui-Gon nodded. "Yes, I think that might be a very good idea."
He lightly touched his student's cheek and marveled at the
light that shone from within his padawan . . . marveled at the
illumination that could enlighten and warm a heart that he
thought had grown as cold and weary of life as a frost shrouded
meadow.
A heart like his own.
The next few hours were spent in remembrance, and when Qui-Gon
was finished, he and Obi-Wan sat together in companionable
silence, both of them looking out over the gardens. Together,
they used the Force to trace their names in the snow, watching
as the water dripped away showing the green of life beneath.
Waiting together for the firelights to fade, and the promise of
the day's renewal to begin.
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