Master Apprentice
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Continued from Part 1
Chapter 2
Luxuriating in a sense of security and the comfort of somnolent warmth, the kind of comfort that was enjoyed far too rarely by Jedi field operatives, Master Adi Gallia stretched in a decidedly feline manner and registered the whisper of silky bedding as it caressed her skin. She had slept, as always when it was feasible, unencumbered by clothing and roused to wakefulness slowly, noting the downy stroke of synth-silk sheeting against the swell of her breasts, a sensation which led her mind to thoughts of a more prurient nature as she opened her eyes and looked out upon the small, morning-lit garden that served as a private meditation sanctuary for the base commander, along with any high-ranking guests. The lovely little space, artificially constructed but designed to mimic a perfectly natural environment, was accessible only from Commander Kenobi's private quarters and three other VIP suites which were arranged in a quadrangle around the lushly landscaped courtyard.
A flicker of movement drew her attention, a shift of shadows beyond the semi-sheer draperies that softened the radiance of artificial morning, and she wondered briefly if it was that which had nudged her out of her slumber. The sheet of paristeel that stretched floor to ceiling, across the exterior wall of her bedchamber faced directly across the garden into the quarters of Commander Kenobi, and her eyes moved instinctively to follow the soft flutter of gossamer fabric that emphasized the shift of air currents within the enclosure. Smiling over remembered remarks about the young man in his padawan years -- an oft repeated grumble that Obi-Wan would, if possible, avoid even a nodding acquaintance with any hour that preceded mid-morning -- she reached for a short wrap-around toga, which she clasped above her bust before venturing out to the small balcony that gave access to the simulated garden.
The enclosed space, centered around a tiny stone-lined pool, gurgling softly under the fall of a small series of stair-step cascades and generating a droplet-laden mist that dappled the foliage of a colorful variety of low-growing, lacy evergreens, measured only four meters square, encouraging a sense of seclusion. The spectrum of the light which slanted into the courtyard, pouring from invisible lightsources concealed within the transparent framework of the domed ceiling, was a perfect duplication of the natural radiance of the Alderaani homeworld -- generally acknowledged as the loveliest in the galaxy, and Adi inhaled deeply in the golden warmth, marveling at the blend of rich fragrances that should not have been possible on an artificial construct floating in the middle of the great void. It was immediately obvious that no expense had been spared in an effort to provide a natural, rustic setting to soothe the mental and physical tensions of a constantly stressed base commander -- and those who sought him out and with whom he might socialize.
On the opposite side of the great installation, a similar enclosure, under an identical force-field shielded dome, fronted the private quarters of the Station Governor and the upper echelon of his civilian staff -- but since all the adjacent apartments were permanently occupied, it was more heavily used and therefore, less pristine, than the one reserved for Commander Kenobi.
Master Gallia suppressed an impulse to dispense with her clothing and revel in the feel of sunlight -- no matter how artificially generated -- on the fullest barren expanse of her skin, and, instead, allowed herself to acknowledge a swift twinge of arousal as she gazed across into Obi-Wan's quarters, thoroughly enjoying the vision that tantalized her senses. The base commander had obviously been engaging in a morning workout, as he wore only brief, clinging athletic shorts, sweat-dampened, with a towel draped over one shoulder. He was standing just within the doorway to his quarters, facing away from her, and part of his body was obscured by the texture of semi-sheer draperies that swathed the full-length window framing the entrance -- but the part that was visible -- one long, well-muscled leg, one tight, trim buttock, one side of the narrow waist flaring up into the broad, sculpted shoulder, and the toned arm that reached up to release the clip that held a tumble of coppery tresses up off his neck, where perspiration dripped down the channel of his spine -- was more than enough to spur warm bursts of memory.
Still eminently fuckable, she thought, indulging in a bit of fantasy -- until she noted the quiet, warm rumble of his laughter, as he leaned forward and said something that she couldn't quite hear to someone she couldn't quite see -- prompting her to sigh with gentle regret. Eminently fuckable indeed -- but not, apparently, for her.
She was not comfortable with staring openly into the dim interior of his quarters -- or with extending tendrils of Force to learn the identity of his guest -- but she found that she could barely contain her curiosity when Obi-Wan leaned around the doorframe, almost purring under the caress of a long-fingered, masculine hand that locked itself abruptly into the bright tumult of his hair. Other than vague outlines which seemed to indicate a tall, slender figure -- slightly taller than Obi-Wan, but with greater bulk - and a sweep of dark, silky hair, Adi could make out no details of the visitor in the Commander's quarters, but certain things she did not need to see to perceive.
The kiss between the two was deep and compelling and painfully tender.
This was no one-night stand -- no casual affair. This was deeper -- surer -- more intimate.
The hand flexed in the bright drift of hair and then dropped lower -- stroking the muscles of the upper back, tracing the curve of the spine, falling finally to rest on the perfect swell of the hip. It was a touch that would not have been out of place in public, even in the most rigid, hardline conservative society of the Republic; it was also the most sensual gesture Adi had ever seen.
Instinctively, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and tried to regulate her breathing.
Too late -- and she allowed herself a rueful smile. She certainly should have known that he would notice.
"Good morning, Adi," he called, making no effort to disguise his amusement, but still not turning to look at her.
"That it is, Commander," she replied, "And I could eat a raw bantha. Care to join me for breakfast?"
Another kiss, following by a soft, sardonic murmur, disjointed phrases that included words like "nosy as the troll" and "show her the love bite".
Obi-Wan laughed -- and Adi loved the sound of it. He sounded young and full of life -- and she knew he hadn't sounded that way for a very long time. She had no idea of the identity of his shadowy companion, but she decided, sight unseen, that she approved.
"Ten minutes," he said, after a significant pause. "I need a shower."
He stepped into his quarters, closing the door behind him -- and two silhouettes became one.
It was, of course, considerably more than ten minutes, but she found that she didn't mind.
After directing the serving droids to arrange breakfast for two on the tiny mosaic-topped table that was incorporated into the retaining wall overlooking the tiny pool in the garden, she exchanged her short cover-up for a more discreet dressing gown -- a lovely voluminous sweep of the incredibly delicate luminescent natural silk handspun by the ancient tribal craftsmen of Corellia 5, transformed by nimble fingers into a simply-cut garment that fell away from a stand-up collar that framed her face amid a tracery of pearlescent beads . As she settled into the comfort of a biri-ratan woven chair, the pale luster of the garment reacted with the swim of light to wrap her in soft arcs of rainbow radiance, trailing gentle fingers of light across her face and serving to set off the rich caramel hue of her skin and the sheer beauty of huge, liquid eyes.
It was the kind of garment one wore for very special occasions: to tempt a new lover -- or inspire pangs of regret in an old one.
Adi sipped her perfectly steeped tea as she studied the minutiae of the garden -- and allowed herself a very small sigh. She was already sure that the effort -- and the gown -- would prove to be a total waste of time and effort -- and she was more than a bit annoyed with herself. She didn't often succumb to impulse -- and it was surely impulse that had driven her to wrap herself up like a Winter Festival gift, awaiting the touch of eager hands to tear open the package.
She did not, after all, lack for willing companions -- but there was -- always had been -- just something special about Obi-Wan Kenobi.
She leaned back in her chair, and observed a small flight of Ch'handré Fuis butterflies swarming amid the coral and cream blossoms of a dwarf aiemella tree, and smiled when a brightly-colored Garqian finch -- a male in all his jade and garnet splendor -- alit on a charick branch and launched himself into a bright glissando of mating calls. The female, resting on another branch of the same tree, ignored him -- and would continue to do so until the moment of HER choosing.
Adi laughed -- and wondered when SHE had lost control of THIS moment.
And also wondered -- for just a fraction of a moment -- exactly how much it had cost to create this little pocket of paradise.
But that thought she released immediately, remembering the purpose -- and the person -- for whom it had been created, and realizing that the funds -- however staggering the amount -- had been well spent. It was not something that was acknowledged among the Jedi; not something that was even discussed in official channels, lest it breed unseemly pride and encourage arrogance and excessive egotism among the subjects -- but there was an elite level of Jedi knighthood, no matter how strongly the Council and the hierarchy tried to deny it.
The Best of the Best -- that was the term used by the rank and file -- and admittance into that exclusive club was granted only to the most extraordinary individuals, by virtue of performance. No other criteria applied.
There were no membership formalities; no rules, no bylaws, no uniforms or badges or secret handshakes; there was only an informal roster of names -- spoken by few but known to all -- names including legendary Jedi of the past and a small handful of contemporaries, who had earned their inclusion through incredible achievements.
Mace Windu's name was on the list. As was Plo Koon's and Eeth Koth's and Saesee Tinn's. As was Qui-Gon Jinn's.
And, at the bottom of the list, as the latest addition, was the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi.
His Master had once predicted that he would become a great Jedi Knight -- but no one -- not even the mighty Jinn -- could have foreseen just what that greatness would entail.
In his own fashion, he had become so valuable to the Order that she could not imagine how the knighthood might function without him -- and, despite the warmth of the light that bathed her so lavishly, she could not suppress the shiver that touched her spine.
No one, she thought, could claim to know the extent of what the young knight had suffered; soul bonds -- even successful ones -- were exceedingly rare, occurring only once or twice in entire generations of Jedi. She, personally, had only known one bonded pair, and they had been very old and nearing the end of their lives when she had been a young apprentice. But she remembered them well -- remembered particularly the aura of contentment that had clung to them, and the sense of rightness that had permeated the Force in their presence. She remembered the beauty -- the perfect harmony of it -- and found that she had to suppress an urge to weep for the young man who had been denied the joy that the Force had sought to grant him.
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
She closed her eyes -- and remembered.
She had found it difficult to recover her serenity after the confrontation in the Council Chamber; she didn't think she would ever forget the look in the young padawan's lovely eyes -- the hurt and the sense of betrayal that he had quickly suppressed, in stepping forward to support what his Master had done. She had wondered then -- as she continued to wonder now -- if Qui-Gon had understood the depth of his treasonous impulse, or if he had simply assumed, as was his wont, that what he wanted, Obi-Wan would provide, if it were within his power.
She almost laughed then at her own inanity. The answer, of course, was . . . both.
She had dined in her quarters, having had little appetite and, in the end, wound up indulging her fondness for Alderaanian meade -- which had done nothing to aid her in regaining her equilibrium but had enabled her to relax sufficiently to disperse the tense stiffness which had caused knots of muscle to form in her back and shoulders.
It was at that point that she had found her quarters too confining, too remote -- too barren -- and realized that she needed to reconnect to the Living Force. She had come then to the tiny Chaos Garden -- the only one among all the various cultivated areas of the Temple that grew with natural, untamed abundance, controlled only by the space allotted for it and the random generation of water and light and climate; it had long been her favorite, though she had never quite figured out why. Adi, with her pre-occupation with the meaning and detection and interpretation of patterns, would have seemed to be the very last person to revel in the eruption of disorder and a total dearth of patterns -- but the attraction was undeniable, almost an obsession, and she had long ago given up any attempt to analyze it.
She had settled herself into a foliage-draped bower, breathing deeply of the rich, earthy night fragrance, and tried to release the uneasiness that had lingered within her mind since that moment in the Council Chamber when Qui-Gon had pressed his hands against the shoulders of a small, defiant child with huge, crystalline eyes.
And she had allowed herself a frown of annoyance as she recognized that she had no idea why she should describe the boy as 'defiant'. She had reached into his consciousness, as had all the Masters present in the Chamber, and found . . . that was just the problem, she realized. She could not -- quite -- identify what she'd found. Traces of anger, of fear, of anxiety and anticipation, a solid sense of self-confidence -- but those things were surely only normal under the circumstances. But there had been something else -- something vague and shifting, almost primal -- something that danced away from mental probing. Something that exulted in its formlessness; something in the process of becoming -- but uncertain of what it would become.
Something that . . . laughed at the Masters -- and she had been almost certain that the boy, himself, was unaware of the existence of -- whatever it was.
Impatient with her own musings, she had finally managed to push them away, having given up on trying to dispel them, and submerged herself within the Force, relishing the feel of it and allowing herself a very small nuance of satisfaction in the realization that her ability to achieve almost total fusion with the power that surrounded her was shared with only a very few of her brethren. So attuned was she -- so immersed -- that her physical presence within her natural surroundings had become dim and imprecise, and thus, perceptible only to someone who might have known she was there.
Which was NOT the case of the slender young man who strode into the garden, his Jedi cloak swinging side-to-side with the strength of his gait, as he moved toward the balustrade which overlooked the vista of the great city. It did not require Jedi senses to conclude that he was annoyed as he deliberately stepped out of his way in order to kick a small, lop-sided child's ball which, judging by its faded color and distorted shape, had probably lain undisturbed in this quiet bower for many years. It would do so no longer, as it went sailing out into the semi-darkness, and quickly disappeared.
Adi Gallia watched as Obi-Wan Kenobi reached the broad railing, and she debated making her presence known. He was obviously distraught and . . .
When he banged his fist against the plascrete that stood between him and the open air, she readjusted her thinking. Okay -- he wasn't distraught. He was totally and completely pissed off, and maybe she should . . .
Then she saw him lay his head down on his hands, and watched as he fought to control the sobs that wrenched at him.
Maybe she should just remain still -- and allow him his grief. He was, after all, entitled to it. And it wouldn't -- couldn't last long. The shuttle which would take him and his Master -- and Qui-Gon's new ward -- to the landing platform to rejoin Queen Amidala's party would be arriving in the docking bay within the hour, and it was certain that, no matter the circumstances, neither rage nor pain - nor injuries sufficient to cause him to bleed out through his eyes -- would prevent him from following his Master's orders and being at the right place at the right time. So -- she had come here for peace and quiet and contemplation -- and Obi-Wan, having managed to purge his anger, would probably not intrude on her focus as he seemed to be settling into a meditative posture of his own, so . . .
She managed -- barely -- to control the urge to exhale sharply in exasperation.
Obi-Wan had moved into the garden with all the deliberation of a guided missile, looking neither right nor left, and totally fixated on his own thoughts.
The presence that entered now was not so much guided as prowling -- like some great beast scenting the wind.
Nevertheless, despite the palpable physical power that swept through the garden as he entered, he failed to note the slight distortion in the Force that would have indicated Master Gallia's presence, had he been looking for it. Instead, he saw only his padawan, slumped against the restraining balustrade, peering down into the darkness, so focused on his thoughts that he remained unaware of the approach of his Master.
Master Gallia actually opened her mouth to intervene -- thinking to protect the boy from the flicker of fury she read in the depths of Qui-Gon's sapphire eyes -- but she paused when she saw the Master falter and hesitate, apparently stricken by the despair that was carved in every line of the young man's body.
It was immediately obvious that an emotional tug-of-war was being played out in Qui-Gon's mind -- and Adi held her breath, hoping against hope.
The struggle was brief.
"Your thoughts betray you, Obi-Wan. Jealousy does not become you."
Obi-Wan stiffened, and hastily drew his hand across his eyes, before rising, but he did not turn to face the man who had been his mentor, his most trusted companion, for so long.
"Yes, Master."
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"
Adi closed her eyes -- and suppressed the shiver generated by the ice in his voice.
"What more should I say, Master?" The boy's voice was dead-calm -- lifeless. "What would you have me say?"
Qui-Gon reached out, totally lacking in his customary gentle grace, and jerked at his padawan's shoulder, forcing the boy to turn and face him. "You might start with an apology," he snarled, "for your appalling behavior."
Obi-Wan just looked at him for a moment -- and Adi wondered how the Master who had raised this young man from childhood could stand to read the hurt in those eyes and not react, not reach out to soothe the pain. But there was nothing in Qui-Gon's face beyond impatience and . . . something more. Something . . . sinister.
Finally, Obi-Wan looked down, as he took a deep breath. "Of course, Master. I apologize for disappointing you. It isn't as if . . ."
He stopped then, apparently stricken with the realization that he had almost said too much.
"Isn't as if . . . what?" The frigid quality of the Master's voice had not abated. If anything, it had intensified.
Obi-Wan reached up -- and Adi thought it must be a completely unconscious gesture -- and grasped his padawan braid as he searched for the right words. "Isn't as if I didn't know it was coming," he said finally. "It's sooner than I expected, but I . . . should have been better prepared. I mean no harm -- to Anakin, Master, though I can't deny that I sense terrible risk in . . ."
"Stop!" The Master barked. "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. Anakin is . . . not your concern. But I want to know what you meant -- what, exactly, did you know 'was coming'?"
The padawan moved then, as if to turn away, but Qui-Gon was having none of that. His hands closed on the young man's biceps, and Adi winced, knowing there would be bruises there later -- and knowing that the Master would probably not be in the mood to heal them -- or to allow them to be healed by another.
"What was coming, Obi-Wan?" Hard, demanding, almost sneering.
The padawan sighed before beginning to speak. "The day when you would leave me, Master. The day when my life -- without you -- would begin. The day when . . . you would no longer see me -- when you would focus - on another. Today, it seems, is that day."
The Master was silent for a time, his face unreadable as he loosened his grip finally, and allowed his apprentice to turn away, to gaze out into the thick tapestry of night.
"It would seem," he said finally, calmly, coldly, "that I was mistaken. I have not raised a capable padawan who is ready to face his trials. Instead, I have raised a weakling -- a pouting child who thinks only of himself. Who weeps because he is losing his place at my side."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and ignored the tears that trailed down his cheeks. "Yes, Master. Shall I . . . do you wish for me to remain here while you escort the Queen back to Naboo? If so, I will, of course, remove my belongings from your quarters -- and make arrangements to relocate elsewhere. If . . ."
Adi Gallia was never certain thereafter who was more startled by what happened next -- herself, the boy -- or Qui-Gon himself. The towering Jedi Master, still obviously in the grip of rage, grabbed his apprentice and threw him against the stone façade that abutted the balustrade, and held him pinned beneath the mass and weight of his own body.
"I should let you go," he snarled, using tendrils of Force to immobilize the young man, as he wrapped the padawan braid around his fist, and Master Gallia was stunned by the degree of desperation in his voice. It was almost beyond comprehension that the mighty Qui-Gon Jinn could be reduced to such blatant raw need. "I should let the Force take you, send you away from me . . . but I can't. You WILL learn to bend to my will, Padawan -- to do what you're told, to accept what I tell you. But there is one thing that must be made clear between us -- one thing that you have failed to understood. No matter what happens -- no matter whether you are knight, or padawan, or expelled from the Jedi . . . you are MINE! And you will always be mine. You can agree -- or you can fight me -- but the result will be the same. By the gods, that any creature should be so beautiful -- and so enmeshed in my soul that I can't be free of you! Do you know how long I wanted you -- how long I denied myself? Since you were seventeen years old -- that's how long. I used to go into your room at night -- just to watch you sleep. Just to listen to you breathe and watch the rise and fall of your chest. I've wanted you -- it seems like forever. So listen to what I say to you; the boy must be trained -- WILL be trained -- and I MUST be the one to do it -- but you . . . you're a fever in my blood -- a torment that drives me, that leaves me eternally hungry, eternally thirsting for the taste of you. Whether you stay with me as my student, my knight -- my servant -- doesn't matter. There will be NO living -- without me. Do -- you -- understand?"
Master Adi saw the panic rise in the young man's eyes, saw him open his mouth to resist.
But Qui-Gon was too quick -- and too clever -- and silenced the voice of protest with his mouth.
Still, the padawan tried to fight him off, tried to squirm free of the heavy body that restrained him -- but the struggle was short-lived. Adi saw -- and recognized -- the moment when Obi-Wan was overwhelmed, betrayed by his own body, his own need, his own passion. When he reached up and wrapped his arms around Qui-Gon's neck, and opened his mouth to the invading tongue that had been demanding entrance, the battle was done.
It was at that point that Adi really wished she had made her presence known earlier -- or that she was confident enough in her abilities to be sure that she could make good her escape undetected.
Remaining undetected; that would be the problem, she realized quickly.
The light in the garden was soft and shadowed -- but not shadowed enough.
When Qui-Gon, never releasing the kiss that devoured Obi-Wan's mouth, tore off the young man's clothing, dropping it at his feet, soft bars of ambient light caressed pale gold skin, and painted the perfect body with bands of violet shadow. The Master finally moved away from lips now swollen and red with passion, huge hands sliding down to cup the sweet swell of buttocks, and lifting the padawan, who had gone almost boneless in his grasp, so that he could nuzzle against perfect, fat, rose brown nipples.
"Tell me," the Master said harshly, moving to the other nipple and biting down sharply, "what you want."
And even then, even almost seduced into submission, there was a stirring of rebellion -- a small, fleeting show of will -- and Adi Gallia, now hardly daring to breathe, wondered if Lunkhead Jinn had ever had a clue about the magnificent strength and power of his padawan.
But the Master's hands were as busy as his mouth, and one long, thick finger found the entrance to the young man's body just as the padawan would have found the will and strength to speak with his own voice -- and he was lost.
"Tell me," Qui-Gon repeated, twisting his finger to find that sweet, magic spot that was always guaranteed to short out his padawan's mental processes.
"You," sobbed the apprentice, finally, electrified by the bolts of pure, heart-stopping pleasure generated by that relentless, probing finger. "You -- always."
"And how do you want me, Padawan mine?" The ice in the voice had given way to raging heat.
"Inside me, Master. As you will."
Abruptly, Qui-Gon paused and shifted the young body in his arms so that they could look directly into each other's eyes. "Yes, my Little Love. As I will. That's what you must never forget. As I will -- and if I decide that I wish to take you -- rough and raw -- and bleeding?"
The young man managed to suppress the tremor -- and the stab of fear that rose within him. "As you will, Master."
Qui-Gon smiled, and inhaled deeply, enchanted with the fragrance that was so uniquely Obi-Wan.
"Have no fear, Little Love. I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you again.. But . . . you will be forever -- mine."
Without a single wasted motion, he discarded his own clothing then, arranging it into a nest on which they lay down together -- and prepared his lover with aching gentleness, before lifting Obi-Wan's legs and draping them over his shoulders and plunging into that lush, perfect body, insisting that they remain face to face, as he established a hard, driving rhythm, pounding into the sweet, tight heat that was unlike any other, matching their heartbeats, watching the beautiful features for the bloom of incipient orgasm -- and pausing at exactly the right moment.
"Say it," he growled, barely able to control his own need to strive for completion. "Say it -- now."
"Yours, Master," groaned the young man -- and neither of them chose to acknowledge the tears that continued to well in his eyes. "Forever yours."
With that admission, Qui-Gon re-established the rhythm of their lovemaking, and drove himself with even greater force into the lithe, willing body of his padawan, reaching between them to grasp Obi-Wan's throbbing shaft and work it in time with their frenzied thrusting, timing their mutual annihilation so that they tumbled into oblivion together.
"Mine - forever," murmured the Master -- and only Master Gallia, in her role as reluctant voyeur, was there to notice that Obi-Wan continued to shed silent tears, and that his eyes were dark and shadowed with regret as he recognized the true meaning of the words Qui-Gon had spoken so intensely -- and the glaring omission of the ones he had never spoken at all.
She would come to know, sooner than anybody could have predicted, just what 'forever' meant to the Jedi Master.
She had never told anyone what she had witnessed that night -- and she still didn't know why, even after all these years; she had found Obi-Wan's admission about his Master's possessiveness curiously endearing, as it had served to demonstrate that even Jedi were capable of a 'creative interpretation' of events, and it had somehow reinforced her determination to maintain her silence. In one sense, she had believed that Qui-Gon's actions in that tiny garden -- actions that verged on violence, on coercion - were a violation of the regulations that governed the relationship between Masters and Padawans. But in another sense, she understood that the feeling that had existed between the two of them -- even though it had not been the perfect, fairy-tale, happily-ever-after romance that the younger Jedi had wanted, in that it had consisted as much of lust as affection -- HAD been a form of love, and thus remained sacrosanct within the confines of Obi-Wan's memories.
And, of course, within a matter of days, the entire subject had become moot anyway. Naboo had happened. The Sith had happened -- and Fate . . .
She decided that there were yet some paths she chose not to explore.
Qui-Gon had NOT loved his padawan with his whole heart, or over and above all things. But he HAD loved him -- in his own fashion -- and Obi-Wan, over the years, seemed to have made his peace with that. She saw no sense in dredging up old wounds -- unless . . .
But no. It was best to leave sleeping gundarks undisturbed -- but it was also wise to be prepared -- in case they wakened on their own.
She sipped her tea -- and dozed lightly, wrapped in the sweet, warm ambiance of Obi-Wan's garden.
"That's supposed to be a symptom of old age," said the young Jedi, as he dropped into the chair across the table, tossing his uniform jacket toward a convenient shrub.
She opened one eye, electing to ignore his smart-ass comment, and observed, with a small measure of disgust, that sunlight loved Obi-Wan Kenobi -- almost as much as moonlight, or starlight, or room light, or . . . whatever, and she wondered idly if there was any color that wouldn't become him, as the creamy silk of his uniform shirt was a perfect foil for pale gold skin and the long braid glinting with sparks of flame.
She sat up, reaching for the teapot, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that someone had gone to the trouble of digging up a genuine porcelain tea service, probably older than dirt, for her personal use, undoubtedly knowing of her dislike for the plastique abominations used almost everywhere else. "Careful, Whelp. Them's fightin' words, you know -- and I can still kick your scrawny little ass, twice a day, every day. You smell freshly . . . scrubbed," she said with a grin.
He poured himself a cup of jafka, dark and fragrant and steaming -- and returned her grin. "As it happens, I AM freshly . . . scrubbed."
Impulsively, she reached out and cupped his chin with a fleeting caress. "You do know -- don't you," she said very softly, "that I would like, very much, to see you happy? It's incredible that the years -- and everything else -- haven't really touched you at all. You're still so beautiful -- it almost hurts to look at you."
His smile was gentle -- before turning just slightly lascivious. "Is that why you're wearing that gown?"
"This old thing?" she drawled. "I can't imagine what you mean."
He chuckled softly. "Who'd you have to kill -- to pay for it?"
She smiled. "Nothing like that. I just promised them your firstborn -- chameleon eyes and cleft chin guaranteed."
"Ahh," he replied, reaching for a slab of thick, toasted prouschnut-bread, dripping with butter, "my fame precedes me, no doubt."
She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes shadowed and soft. "Yes."
He looked up at her then -- and, once more, she saw something in his face that defied definition -- something that looked like a pensive regret.
"Planning to stay a while?" he asked finally, spearing a wedge of hersk-melon from a colorful fruit platter.
"No," she answered, pouring more tea. "My task here is done. Isn't it?"
He shrugged. "If you came all the way out here to slap me down -- mission accomplished."
She reached out and took his hand, and seemed to use it to focus her thoughts, noting idly the way the sunlight (articifial source notwithstanding) sparked copper highlights in the fine hairs that lay soft against skin lightly tanned from exposure to the suns of a dozen different worlds. "Tell me what's bothering you, Obi-Wan. And please don't insult me by telling me that there's nothing. We've been friends for too long - and I deserve better."
"Have we?" he replied softly. "Have we really?"
"You doubt me?" She found herself barely able to give breath to the question.
He refused to meet her gaze, peering instead into the depths of his jaffa mug. "Of late," he answered, "I find myself doubting almost everything." He paused for a moment, and appeared to consider his next words carefully. "There is a great disturbance -- not just in the Force, but in the galaxy. I won't insult you by assuming you hadn't noticed -- although I am slightly puzzled by the Order's continued silence. Something . . . looms over us. Do we . . . do YOU know what it is?"
"You've seen all the data, Obi-Wan. Just as I have. What do you think?"
"Lately, I've seen . . . things I never expected to see. Things that seem . . . improbable. Even impossible -- but my sources are impeccable. So perhaps I must -- rethink my old assumptions. What do you think?"
"You're being very cryptic," she retorted, determined to suppress any nuance of uncertainty. "Perhaps if you told me . . ."
"Garen was here last month," he said quickly, apropos of . . . nothing, as far as she could understand.
"Was he? That must have been a treat for you. He's been working on the other side of the galaxy -- for years. Why would he . . ."
"He had some information for me. For my eyes only, you might say. From a rather . . . unusual source. Are you familiar with a woman named Aurra Sing?"
She set her teacup down abruptly -- so abruptly that it tipped and splashed deep auburn liquid across the bodice of her gown. She barely noticed, as she was preoccupied with trying to keep her voice steady. "Bounty hunter -- based on Tatooine, I think. Rumor has it that she made the mistake of double-crossing one of the more powerful Hutt overlords -- and wound up in a shallow grave out in the desert."
He smiled. "Rumor -- as usual -- was wrong. Garen had been undercover for several months -- working on busting a gun-running operation on the Rimma Trade Route."
"The Rimma Route?" she echoed faintly.
He nodded. "In the vicinity of Dagobah -- the galactic hospitality suite of swampy charm, you know. He ran into Mdm. Sing on Sluis Van -- actually caught her red-handed, in possession of extremely illegal contraband. In return for her release, she gave him some . . . intriguing information."
She suddenly realized that she was still holding his hand, and released it abruptly. "What is it -- that you think you know?" she asked. "Obviously, something has upset you, so . . ."
He shook his head. "Everything is unconfirmed. Just speculation, so far. But it's all interconnected, I think. All symptomatic. The galaxy, my dear Adi, is teetering on the brink of disaster -- and the Jedi . . . the Jedi seem always to be looking in the wrong direction. Everything has become a game of misdirection -- of smoke and mirrors."
Up to this point, Adi's primary concern had been for the welfare of an old friend -- and, beyond that, for the preservation of the brotherhood of the Jedi -- but she realized immediately that Obi-Wan was talking about something much more dire, more elemental than any internal turmoil, which might rock the Order to its foundations, but could not, ultimately, destroy it. But this -- what he was talking about -- was ruin -- total, complete annihilation.
"Tell me what you've seen," she demanded.
"Whatever I've seen," he answered, "has been . . . ephemeral. Just fragments of dark dreams. When - and if - I have more, I'll tell you. In the meantime, the intelligence data we've gathered over the last few months should be enough to ruin your sleep for the next year or two. The Separatists gain power every day -- and someone manipulates the media so that the Jedi are made to seem negligent and ineffectual, at best. Lately, my dear Adi -- we look more like bumbling fools than skilled warriors and diplomats. And we do ourselves no favors by remaining aloof and silent, locked away in our pristine towers."
"What are you saying, Obi-Wan?" she demanded. "We can't walk away from the traditions that have guided us for millennia. If we allow ourselves to get involved in the day-to-day lives of those we serve, we lose our objectivity -- our ability to be impartial. You know that."
He poured another cup of jafka. "Do I? I know it's what we've always been taught -- that we must serve humbly and hold ourselves apart. But when, I wonder, does a determination to preserve solitude become a tendency to set one's self above those one serves? When does compassion -- become contempt?"
Her tone was suddenly thick with irony. "Philosophically speaking, you inherited more from your Master than any of us ever expected. But you and I are NOT going to resolve these fundamental questions -- no matter how much we debate it. There are more practical issues at hand."
He smiled. "I'm not so sure, old flame o'mine. I think it may all come back to haunt us, in the end. But -- concerning practical issues -- there are growing indications that the Hutts and the Trade Federation are working together to create a network of unaligned planets, to provide available ports for Separatists' shipping -- and possibly more."
"More?" The word was sharp.
"If they're preparing for war -- they'll need a full complement of military bases."
"And you think this network . . ."
"I think it's possible -- but we need more evidence before we can make an informed judgment. I had planned to take a team to Sernpidal next month, to test the waters, so to speak. There've been rumors about a new syndicate operating there -- very well financed and very interested in developing alliances with the older, more established organizations. For opening up 'new territories'. That's the official word."
She rose then, and moved to stand directly behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders and refusing to be distracted by how well his silk shirt molded itself against his torso or the lines of the long muscles of his thighs, encased in exquisitely tailored trousers, or the fiery red blotch of a passion mark just visible on the side of his throat. "YOU are going nowhere," she said firmly. "You said Garen was here. I'll initiate the paperwork to have him transferred to your command, so you can send him . . ."
"He's already out on assignment," he replied. "On a . . . rather delicate matter -- from the Jedi perspective. But I'll find someone. As you've been so quick to point out, operatives like me are as common as slugs on Nal Hutta."
She smiled gently, once more bracing his face with her hands. "Operatives like YOU . . . are irreplaceable -- as I think you know very well. Which is why you will confine your charming little behind to this base."
He grimaced. "Damn! Can't I even come to Coruscant?"
She was startled into a bright outburst of laughter. "You haven't been to Coruscant in nine years. Why would you want to come now? It's the same overcrowded, noisy, smelly hive of scum and villainy it always was."
"Still -- I might drop in sometime soon. Just to -- renew old acquaintances."
Adi turned to stare up into the foliage above them, noting that the swarm of azure and amethyst butterflies were fanning out beneath the leafy canopy, seeking a more restful sanctuary after being disturbed by the Garqian finches. She refused to allow herself to be alarmed by the faint note of irony she had detected in his voice.
Time for more tea -- or for anything that would break the strange tension that permeated the moment and wrapped so firmly around her heart.
"What's happened to you, Obi-Wan?" she asked after resuming her seat. "There's a . . . remoteness around you, that I've never sensed before."
"Time," he said quickly, changeable eyes gone storm gray and heavy with foreboding. "Just . . . time. It catches up to all of us, sooner or later."
She regarded him in silence for a while, and smiled finally when he withstood her scrutiny without a single indication of discomfort, as he reached for another piece of melon. "Mira and I had quite a long discussion about you," she said softly, suddenly fascinated by the flash of white teeth biting into the melon's bright coral flesh, and how the juice burst from the wedge and trailed down across his chin. He laughed gently and she was forced to suppress a viciously intense urge to lean forward and remove the trace of nectar -- and explore that adorable cleft - with her tongue.
A small portion of her brain -- the portion dedicated to handling irrelevancies and inescapable observations -- noted that he would probably still be eminently fuckable when he was geriatric, bald, palsied, and senile.
"Surely the two of you have better things to do than talk about me," he responded, dabbing at his face with a white linen napkin.
And who in the galaxy, she spared a moment to wonder, still uses REAL linen napkins?
She sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Actually, we don't. Surely, even you realize that your . . . situation is unique -- to say the least."
His sigh contained small nuances of impatience. "Unusual," he agreed, "but hardly unique. Others have survived the disruption of a soul bond."
Her tone became desert dry. "That rather depends on your definition of the word, 'survived', doesn't it?"
"You've been reading too many tabloids," he replied.
"Mira said . . . the two of you came up with a couple of theories -- about how you survived. But when I asked her to explain, she said I should ask you. That it was your story to tell. Or not -- as you chose."
He looked up then, and turned the full power of his gaze on her, while lifting one faintly sardonic eyebrow. "You could make it official," he observed. "As my superior in Intelligence, you certainly have the right. And as a member of the Council . . ."
"If I make it official," she replied, "then I'm compelled to report it -- officially. I don't think I want to do that -- though I won't promise that I won't change my mind, someday. If it ever came to affect your ability to function -- or the integrity of a mission -- I might have no choice. But -- for now -- I'm simply asking, as a very old friend, who happens to love you a lot, you insufferable little pest."
He smiled then, and she saw an aching tenderness swell in eyes that had somehow grown old before their time. "You have to understand that it's all just . . . conjecture. There's no way to quantify it -- or measure it."
"I know. I gathered -- from what she said -- that the two of you . . . disagreed in your conclusions."
He chuckled. "So what else is new?"
She smiled. "The ways of love are strange indeed."
That brought him up short for a moment, before he nodded slightly. "Mira believes that the bond was too new, too tentative, to survive the trauma of Qui-Gon's death -- that the connection, while complete, was still vulnerable -- kind of like new skin growing over a wound. And while it was firmly attached within me -- because I'm the one that generated it, in my attempt to save his life -- it only touched him enough to hold him for a short while. It never grew strong enough to pull him back completely. She believes that, if it had, there would have been only two possible outcomes. Either he'd have survived within the bond -- or I'd have died with him. Also within the bond. The fact that the connection was never firm left me . . . reeling away from it, when it broke completely, rather than being pulled into the Force with him."
She was quiet for a while, thinking about what he'd said. "Logical," she said finally, raising her eyes to meet his gaze, "but you think otherwise."
He was suddenly focused on the dregs within his jaffa mug. "I think . . . my Master made a choice."
"A choice?" she echoed. "What kind of choice?"
His voice had grown very soft -- barely audible. "I think that he stood on the brink of death -- and considered his options. He could choose to live -- locked into a bond he didn't want but could never hope to escape -- or he could go into the Force, free and unfettered. Unbonded. I think he chose his freedom. I think that anyone who knew him . . . would have known what he would do. And -- since he never accepted the bond, a bond which could NOT form without his consent -- it was never really torn loose, so much as it was just . . . released."
"But it did keep him alive," she argued. "For a while."
He shrugged. "Think of it as a water hose. If I'm the source of the healing energy, and I pour everything I can into the mouth of the hose, it isn't necessary for the other end of the hose to actually be attached to a receptacle in order to transfer that energy. The end can just be pointed in the right direction -- to fill as many buckets as necessary -- before it's just . . . discarded. The energy worked on him -- for a while -- but the connection never happened."
For a time, Adi could only stare at him, as she felt the cold grip of his old, silent pain close around her heart. "You think he . . . rejected the bond, because . . ."
He looked up then to meet her eyes, and she was forced to struggle to refrain from wincing away from the depth of raw aching need that she read in his face. "I should have been the one to die on Naboo, Adi. I always knew it, I think -- though I've become more convinced over the years. I should have died -- so he could live."
"Don't!" she snapped, holding up her hands, palm out, to reinforce the strength of her command. "You will NOT . . ."
"Adi," he said softly, leaning forward and wrapping his fingers around her wrists, "I know what I know. Qui-Gon died -- because I made a mistake. A stupid, bonehead mistake that a second-year padawan could have avoided. I let myself get ejected from the battle -- and I wasn't fast enough to get back in time to save him. He died -- because of my mistake. And I spent the next four years trying to make it right. Trying to give back to the Force what my error took away. All with the consent of the Council, by the way."
"What do you mean?" If he noted the tremor in her voice, he was kind enough to ignore it.
"In the four years following his death, I was assigned fifty-nine missions," he replied, settling back into his chair, and steepling his fingers before his face. "Of the fifty-nine, forty-six were pentrical class. Forty-six, Adi -- rated highest risk, with a less than ten percent possibility of successful resolution. Of the remainder, only three were classified as low-to-moderate risk, and all three were the result of specific requests for my services by someone I'd worked with before. Namely Bail Organa. The other ten were quadrical-class."
She was careful not to meet his eyes. "You were a new knight, Obi-Wan -- and a damned good one. It's normal for . . ."
"It's not normal, Adi," he interrupted, showing just a tiny vein of annoyance. "I checked. Such missions are ordinarily shared among the more experienced field operatives, with younger, greener knights assigned to assist, to allow them a chance to flex their muscles and learn to function outside the Master/padawan relationship."
"If you believed that, why did you . . ."
"I accepted the missions," he said sharply, "because they allowed me a means to do what I wanted to do. It was only later -- when I had time to put everything together -- that I realized that the Council -- and maybe the Force -- wanted the same thing."
"And what was it that you wanted to do?"
He closed his eyes. "I wanted it to be over, Adi. I wanted to not wake up every morning and look in a mirror and see the face of the man who failed his Master. I wanted . . . to die."
She forced herself to pause -- to draw a deep breath and consider her words carefully.
"Look at me, Obi-Wan," she said finally -- and waited until he turned his head to comply.
"Do you really think that I would be a part of such a thing? Do you really think I would allow anyone to . . ."
"I think, my darling Adi," he said firmly, reaching out once more to take her hand, "that you DO care about me. That you always have. But, above everything else, you are Jedi -- and if you could be convinced that my death was necessary for the good of the Order . . . then yes. I do believe that you would do whatever you felt you must, though I don't necessarily believe that you played an active role in this -- but someone did. Someone knew -- and approved."
She paused again, deciding on taking a different tack. "All right, then. Let's look at this from a different perspective. A pragmatic perspective, if you will. Forty-six pentrical missions. I'm sure you must know that I, of all people, would know how many such missions you undertook. But I know something else, Sweetness. I know that forty-one of those missions were completed successfully. And three others were adjudged marginal successes. Only two were ultimately given up as failures -- and since the parties involved in those two situations had been at war for almost two centuries in one case, and had engaged in repeated, ritual genocide in the other, I think we can safely say they were hopeless from the beginning. Of the quadricals, only one escalated to pentrical status -- and that was when the hierarchy of the royal family absconded with the entire planetary treasury and covered their escape by contaminating the capitol's water supply. And that one, if I recall correctly, you eventually resolved by tracking down and returning most of the money."
He shook his head. "I don't see how that changes anything. I was lucky."
"No. You were good. You were better than good. By all the little gods, Obi-Wan, can't you see the truth? You have become a great Jedi knight -- as good as anyone in the Order."
She paused, and drew a deep breath before adding one more comment. "As good -- as Qui-Gon Jinn."
For a moment, she thought she had gone too far -- that he might actually give free rein to the rage that flared in his eyes.
But he didn't. He held on -- but she knew it wasn't easy.
"Don't say that," he whispered. "Don't ever say that."
"I saw the tapes," she retorted, allowing a bit of her own anger to bleed into her tone. "Of the fight with the Sith. I saw what happened."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm sure everyone has seen them by now. They're undoubtedly part of the Temple training course: How NOT to Protect Your Master."
"You think?" she said sharply. "How about a different perspective? How about: How NOT to Run Ahead and Leave Your Padawan Behind -- like a big, arrogant jerk. Or wait; I know. How about: How to Cover Your Master's Behind -- after he's gotten himself turned into shish-kebob."
The young knight had gone bone white, and Adi could see the tremor in his body as he rose to his feet. "Stop, Adi. Please, just . . ."
But this was no timid maiden, no initiate to be intimidated by the Force that bled into his voice. "You will listen to me," she said firmly. "If you've ever believed a single word I've said to you. If you've ever trusted me -- you will believe this. It was NOT your fault, Obi-Wan. You were NOT responsible for his death."
For a moment, she was uncertain of whether or not she had reached him, had managed to stem the tide of outrage that rose within him and demanded an outlet. For a moment, it was problematic.
Then there was the barest flicker of realization -- a flicker that might even have been a trace of laughter.
"An interesting turn of phrase, Adi," he said softly, after a while.
"Obi-Wan, please! She implored. "I do love you -- and I want to help you."
"I know," he said at last, reaching for his uniform jacket. "I know that you've only done -- what you were compelled to do. I wish . . ."
"What? What do you wish?"
He donned his jacket, and adjusted the lightsaber hanging at his waist before stepping forward and pulling her up into his arms. "I wish I could go back -- and make everything right. I wish I could unlearn the things I've learned. I wish I didn't know the things I know."
She wrapped her arms around his throat and basked for a moment in the warmth of his embrace. "What is it," she asked, barely breathing, "that you think you know?"
But he offered no answer. He simply pulled back and looked at her, before turning to walk away -- to immerse himself in the duties of the day.
As he moved toward the exit, a stray beam of light struck sparks of fire from the braid that curled over one shoulder, and sculpted shadows beneath symmetrical cheekbones and jawlines, and she remembered the word that Luminaria Unduli had always used to describe Obi-Wan's face: luminous.
Adi felt tears well in her eyes as she watched the brilliance play against his profile. He would be forever beautiful -- but the light, which had always dwelled within him and wrapped itself around him, was now only a pallid shadow, a shapeless drift of mist. Where it had once filled him, ignited him, propelled him, now there was only emptiness. He was luminous no more.
"Wait!" she called impulsively. Wanting to know -- and not wanting to know at the same time. "Mira said she might have found a way -- to release you from the bond - but you refused. Why would you do that?"
She didn't have to see his face to recognize the sardonic quality in his voice. "Aside from the fact that she couldn't be sure it wouldn't turn me into a mental vegetable?"
"Yes - aside from that."
He paused, and she suddenly did not WANT to see his face, as he responded with a whisper. "Because it's all I have left of him."
She let him go then, understanding that, at certain moments, the only suitable reply was silence.
Continued in Part 3