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Prodigal - continued

by Cynical21 ( bonniej@cox-internet.com )

Continued from Part 5

Chapter 6

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

- Vitae Summa Brevis, Ernest Dowson

Nine years later . . . .

They had taken extraordinary measures to dampen his ability to sense his surroundings. The hood that covered his head was tight-woven, close-fitting and secured snugly around his throat, effectively cutting off all light and all but the sharpest of sounds and odors. His hands had been secured in soft bulky mitts that were attached to the cuffs of his tunic, and his rough cloak had been draped to cover him head to toe, completing his isolation from the environment into which he had been led. He had been guided -- firmly but without unnecessary roughness -- down the ramp of the starship and into the waiting vehicle, a hovercraft by the feel of it, which seemed to be completely enclosed, further cutting off any physical sensation.

And yet, in the final analysis, their time and efforts were wasted. Despite all that had happened over the past months, despite the physical and spiritual trauma he had endured -- he remained a Jedi Master, and nothing -- short of the diabolical Force-suppressing devices so beloved of the enemy -- would have been enough to block him completely from the sweet, intoxicating nectar that the Force poured into his consciousness.

Weeks and months -- sweet goddess, could it now be years? - of running, of hiding in the most desolate, barren, Force-forsaken backwaters -- of existing within double and triple shielding so powerful it was impervious to even the most elementary nuances of the great energy field that surrounded all living things, of threading filaments of hyper-awareness through miniscule barrier seams, to become vigilance personified -- of enduring the darkness, of living with gnawing hunger and raw thirst, of seeking shelter from the harshness of the elements and, too often, finding none -- of adopting furtiveness and stealth as a way of life and giving up every shred of memory of hope or comfort, of enduring a caustic existence that sandblasted away all meaning and purpose save one: the pitiless, unrelenting demands of duty. Having existed through all of that and emerged scarred and bruised and battered, but still, somehow, unbroken, he was amazed at how easily his Force presence wormed its way through the physical barriers that separated him from the bright energy currents eddying and swirling within the essence of this vibrant environment -- and submerged him into its fullness. It was incredibly painful -- and it was paradise regained.

Life. Here was life -- as he had not felt it, tasted it, touched it, since the first step of the incredible journey on which he had been dispatched, a journey which had led him from one pestilential hellhole to another -- and another - across the farthest reaches of the galaxy, striving constantly for that which was most alien -- and most remote -- from all he had known. He inhaled deeply and ignored the faint scent of sweat that permeated the hood that covered his face, as he was almost overwhelmed with the fragrances of verdant growth erupting under the caress of sunlight, of youth nurtured and protected and cherished, of laughter unrestrained and unapologetic, and sweet sadness, soft as spring rain and natural as the rhythm of the heart. There was still . . . something -- something he could not quite define -- a layer of distortion that prevented him from reaping the full effect of Force awareness, but it was delicate and ephemeral, like a veil of mist, and he was able, for the most part, to ignore its subtle influence.

He considered asking his escort to stop for a moment and allow him to exit the vehicle -- just to stand and absorb the sensations of being connected once more to that which he had been forced to deny himself for so long. But Captain Remmisch, for all his immaculate courtesy, had exhibited not a single spark of personal warmth, either during their initial meeting, pre-arranged through a series of heavily encrypted holo-com messages, nor during the ten days of their space journey, and it was obvious that his demeanor was a product of his professionalism; nothing more. Any request to deviate from the necessity of the mission would almost certainly be met with an icily polite demurral.

And, ultimately, it wouldn't matter anyway. The end of the journey was at hand, for good or naught, and there was nothing further to do but confront the consequences of that long string of yesterdays. He might die today; he had accepted that possibility, finding the prospect much less frightening than he might have expected -- but, if this were to be the final destination of his last journey, he was determined that he would relish that one ultimate moment, even to the point of demanding the right to die with his senses fully extended, unencumbered by the dark cloak of obscurity he had donned all those long months ago.

He was not particularly sanguine about his chances for survival, for he knew who ultimately held the key to his fate.

Qui-Gon Jinn took a deep breath, as the transport slowed to make the final turn into the compound where his host awaited -- and no power in the universe could have dimmed that remarkable Force presence, still unmistakable, even after all these years -- blindingly bright, but rimmed still in darkness.

And then, of course, there was that other presence -- pure and golden and untarnished by time or circumstance -- but that was a product of pure light that the Jedi knew he had no right to approach or contemplate.

It would be Xanatos, prince of Telos and still -- through some inexplicable twist of fate -- sovereign of the Thanis Confederacy -- who would decide the destiny of one who might well be the last of the Jedi - and the precious cargo he had dragged with him in a meandering, exhausting relay race across the galaxy. Qui-Gon had composed himself sufficiently to come to terms with that prospect, while refusing to allow himself to hope that Obi-Wan, fundamental nobility of spirit notwithstanding, would feel compelled to intervene on his behalf. In point of fact, the reverse was certainly more likely. Obi-Wan Kenobi had absolutely no motivation to look upon his former Master -- or the entire Jedi Order - with anything but disdain and contempt.

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh -- as he was wont to do whenever thoughts of his lost padawan surfaced -- which happened often. More and more often, of late, when he could hardly bear to dwell on reflections of what his last apprentice had become -- the one for whom he had given up everything. The one for whom he had torn the heart from the padawan that he should have cherished above all others. Obi-Wan would forever live in his heart as the padawan he had lost -- unlike the other, who was the padawan who never should have been.

Anakin, who lived no more. Anakin, who existed now only in the black and twisted soul of Vader -- the Sith lord. Anakin -- the destroyer.

As had become his habit, he reached deep within himself to retrieve the image of Obi-Wan -- luminous with hope and beauty, even as he staggered under the horrible burdens inflicted on him by those to whom he had pledged his heart -- to dispel the horrible sickening visions of Anakin's traitorous actions -- the annihilation of the Temple, the slaughter of the Jedi, the destruction of the Republic -- and the murder of the lovely little queen who had surrendered her life in silence, her secret unspoken - the very same secret she had entrusted to a Jedi Master, who had pledged his life and his honor to its preservation.

And Xanatos -- himself a lord of darkness -- would now gather all the reins of time and probability into hands that had little cause to deal gently with Jedi concerns -- or, even worse, Jedi prophecies.

A prophecy, after all, had been used -- and it still pained the Master to be forced to accept that phrasing -- to excuse the near lethal damage done to the man that Xanatos had come to adore and treasure above all things, to such a degree that their love for each other had become the stuff of galactic legend.

Qui-Gon felt the weight of his years -- and the scars of his history -- settle over him, as hope faltered. His death, he reflected, held little meaning for him now; his dreams had all turned to ashes too long ago for him to even remember them clearly. Still, he had one thing left to do -- one thing at which he could not fail, even if success required that he humble himself -- abase himself and beg the indulgence of the young man who awaited his arrival with scantly concealed hostility.

The vehicle settled to a stop, and Captain Remmisch urged the Jedi Master to his feet with a perfunctory nudge. "It's time, Jedi," he announced coldly. "Lord Xanatos is waiting."

Despite the constraints of the heavy hood, Qui-Gon could still speak clearly enough to make himself understood. "I thank you for your civility, Captain."

Remmisch replied with a faint snort. "You needn't thank me for anything. You're here -- safe and sound -- because Lord Xanatos wants you here. Had it been up to me, you'd be drifting in deep space with my blade buried in your belly. What you did -- to him and his -- deserves nothing better."

"And yet," replied Qui-Gon calmly, "I'm here at his invitation. Do you know why?"

One needed no Force senses to identify the annoyance radiating from the ship commander. "He's not in the habit of explaining himself to me, Jedi -- but I will tell you this much. You have hurt him -- and the one he holds above all others -- for the last time. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do," answered the Jedi, with a sigh. "And rest assured, Captain. I have no such intentions."

Remmisch cleared his throat as he stepped down out of the vehicle. "Nevertheless," he said quietly, as he steadied Qui-Gon by grasping the Master's arm with a firm hand, "you've been warned. It's remarkable how often the Jedi seem to act with only the noblest of motives -- and still manage to destroy everyone foolish enough to step into their path."

The Corellian captain pushed the Jedi in the right direction before falling into step behind him, and allowing himself to relax his guard for just a moment, to enjoy the beauty and vibrancy of the Arboryan morning. Thus he did not hear the Master's whispered response.

"Yes. Remarkable, indeed."

Time had been kind to Xanatos Aji, thought the Jedi Master. The Telosian prince had aged very little in the years since he had escorted a battered and grieving young knight out of the Jedi Temple. He still sported the same impressive physique -- broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, finely muscled, with slender hips and long, shapely legs emphasized by the black leather he had always favored; the same face, saved from prettiness by the squareness of the jaw and the strong bone structure and the thick arch of dark brows; the same eyes, thickly fringed and as blue -- and cold -- as a polar sea; the same silken fall of hair, except for a thick streak of bright platinum that flared from his left temple; and, most of all, the same air of command -- of one accustomed to being obeyed and NOT accustomed to being questioned.

Yet, thought Qui-Gon as he stood tall and serene under Xan's scrutiny, grateful to have been allowed to strip away the hood and cape, something was different. Something . . . but he couldn't quite define it.

For a time, the two old adversaries simply observed each other in silence, both enjoying the ambiance of the elegant office in which they stood, with its shelves of leather-bound books and warm patinas of hand-rubbed woodwork, until Qui-Gon decided that it was time to put an end to any silly status games. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the protocols of your court, Lord Xanatos," he said with a slight bow. "Is it required that I kneel before you?"

To his surprise, the prince's response was a hoot of laughter. "My 'court', as you call it," replied the Telosian, "has become something of a movable feast -- of necessity. I continue to exist -- and maintain my titles -- by carefully avoiding attracting the interest of the empire. But, at any rate, this is not my court." He leaned back in the massive chair that was in perfect scale to the desk that stretched out before him -- and smiled -- and Qui-Gon felt something strange and wonderful -- a remnant of an almost forgotten yesterday - flare within him. "This," continued the Prince, with a gesture which encompassed the setting around them, "is Obi-Wan's domain. If there is kneeling to be done -- you will do it to him."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Fair enough. Now, may I know . . . where we are? I haven't . . ."

"Not so fast," replied Xan. "For the time being, you know all you need to know."

"You don't trust me," said the Jedi Master, with a small smile.

Xan's reply was swift and frigid. "If it were only my life at risk, Qui-Gon, I wouldn't bother to keep the knowledge from you. But then again, if it were only my life -- you probably wouldn't be here, for I wouldn't have extended the invitation in the first place."

Something warm and comforting touched the Master's heart. "So he is the one who sent for me."

But Xan was shaking his head. "He doesn't even know you're here. I decided to spare him the pain of having to make the decision."

"I don't understand," replied Qui-Gon, obviously puzzled. "Why would it hurt him?

"Because he would believe it would hurt me, to bring you here." He leaned back and propped booted feet on a tooled leather blotter, as he clasped his hands under his chin. "He is always very careful not to hurt me. But I'm sure you already know that; he offered up his life often enough -- to keep from hurting you -- didn't he?"

The Jedi nodded. "Yes. He did."

"A generosity that you repaid -- with treachery. Is that a fair assessment, Master Jinn?" There was no smile to accompany those words -- and no forgiveness either.

"It is," agreed Qui-Gon easily -- and allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction when he noted the prince's reaction. "It surprises you that I don't dispute your contention?"

Xanatos turned to gaze out through the tall windows that flanked his desk, and the early morning light bathed his face with a faint luminescence. "What surprises me," he answered, "is that you're willing to concede that you -- and the Jedi -- were wrong. That you made a huge, monumentally stupid decision -- and that Obi-Wan was right." He swung back to stare up into Qui-Gon's face. "Have you admitted that -- to yourself?"

The Master sighed, and gestured toward one of the two leather armchairs that faced the desk. "May I?"

"Answer my question," came the testy response, followed by a gentler tone. "And yes -- you may. Forgive my boorish manners. It isn't every day that a man confronts the individual who destroyed his life -- and that of so many others."

Qui-Gon sat gratefully, wondering for a moment if he would ever manage to dispel the weariness that clung to him so constantly now. Then he took a moment to compose his reply. "There is little to dispute, Xan. We made a horrible error in judgment, and we have all suffered for it. The Jedi . . . are virtually extinct now -- and there are those who would claim that we brought it upon ourselves." He sighed, before looking up to meet the cold gaze of the Telosian. "And I'm willing to accept the weight of that responsibility. But there were many innocents who suffered as well - initiates, padawans, young knights, healers -- none of whom had any share in the decision to . . ." He paused then, unable to say more.

"To train the fabled Chosen One," said Xan, leaning forward, "and, in the process, to stain the Jedi Order with dishonor and shame. You were arrogant, Qui-Gon -- you and the Council. Seeing only what you wanted to see -- and sacrificing everything to promote your own beliefs."

"Yes." It was barely audible, and the Jedi found that he could no longer meet the eyes of his inquisitor.

"Tell me, Master Jinn," drawled the prince, in a tone that made it clear that he was not yet quite done with inserting the needles of vengeance, "when did you realize . . . that Vader was Anakin?"

Qui-Gon stiffened, his eyes wide and bruised with shadows. "How did you know?" he whispered. "No one knows . . ."

"Obi-Wan does," replied the prince quietly. "He knew -- from the beginning. And what he intuited, my sources confirmed." His smile was slightly venal. "I may have gone underground -- so to speak -- but I am not without resources, and my intelligence network is as good as any in the galaxy. I could even provide you with all the gory details -- medical and technological -- of the transformation, if you like."

"No," the Jedi said quickly. "That won't be necessary."

Xan grinned. "Can't say I blame you. It's not a pretty story."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the upsurge of sorrow that swelled within him -- the sorrow that would forever taint all memories of the young boy he had found on Tatooine all those years ago. With an effort that was almost visible, he shook off that debilitating sense of ennui, and asked the question that he had wanted to ask from the beginning. "How is he?"

And there was absolutely no way of mistaking the bright glow of love and pride that flared in the eyes of the prince of Telos. "He's perfect -- and brilliant -- and . . ."

"And?" prompted Qui-Gon, suddenly breathless.

"And . . . .everything." And there was no further need to elaborate, as the Jedi understood the multitudes of meaning behind that one word.

"And happy?" The Master needed to hear it -- to know it -- to have it confirmed.

Xan's eyes were awash with a tangible tenderness. "I'll let you decide that for yourself. But first, we have business to attend. I assume your . . . cargo is still aboard ship."

"Yes, my lord," said Captain Remmisch, speaking up for the first time, from his position near the doorway. "Under the supervision of two droids that he brought with him. And the crew, of course."

Xanatos smiled. "You're remarkably trusting, Master Jinn -- considering the . . . potential value of your goods."

The Jedi nodded. "I had little choice in the matter." He hesitated then, as if considering how much truth he should reveal, before concluding that there was no more time for subterfuge. "I've run out of options, Xan -- and I must believe, no matter what your feelings for me might be, that you wouldn't sacrifice innocence to even an old score -- and that Obi-Wan wouldn't permit it -- no matter how much he might hate me."

Xan's smile faltered slightly. "After all this time," he mused, "you still don't know him. He doesn't hate you, Qui-Gon. I don't think he ever did -- or ever could."

The Jedi drew a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders to face his old adversary directly. "Very well then. I've come here -- to make a formal request for sanctuary, Lord Xanatos. For myself -- if possible -- but, if not, for those entrusted to my care. My fate is no longer important -- but theirs . . . there is no way to estimate their potential to effect the course of the future."

Xanatos rose then, and walked to the window, to stare out at the beauty of the landscape laid out before him. It had changed little in the years since he had come here, at the behest of a tiny, tyrannical Jedi healer, to claim the young man who would become the other half of his soul -- except that it had grown more lovely with each passing season. It had been a gift to them, on the occasion of their bonding, from Finis Valorum, and it had quickly become home to them, as no other place had ever been.

"You've still got bantha balls, Jinn. I'll give you that. You tossed my Obi-Wan away like yesterday's garbage, not unlike the way you discarded me -- and now -- you come here to present the children of Anakin Skywalker, and ask us to take on the task of keeping them safe. I hardly know what to say."

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath. "Whether or not I deserve your contempt, I find I'm just not up for debate with you, Xan. I'm tired -- and I admit to having no place else to go. I've exhausted my resources, and find that my abilities are no longer sufficient to assure their safety. So stop playing your stupid little game and say what you have to say. Yes, they are the children of Anakin Skywalker. Yes, the Force is incredibly strong in them -- but they are also the children of Padmé Naberrie; she of the great heart and noble spirit. She who died rather than reveal the secret of their existence. So we have come to the moment of truth; will you turn them away -- and abandon them to the inevitable fall into their father's hands -- or will you not?"

After a beat of silence, thick with angry words unspoken and resentment that would never be totally resolved, Xanatos returned to his chair and relaxed into it, as his lips curled with amusement. "By the gods, Jinn -- you've still got it. I never met anybody with a greater command of the language -- or a more persuasive tongue. So let me be honest with you. Whether you realize it or not -- I'm not the same man I once was. I've changed -- and since it wasn't particularly voluntary, I deserve very little credit for it. The simple truth is that Obi-Wan lives in the Light -- almost exclusively, and, if I wanted to be with him -- and I did want to be with him, more than anything I ever wanted in my life -- I had to step out of the darkness. Or, to be completely honest about it, I had to allow him to drag me out of it." The prince of Telos, notorious galaxy-wide for his glib tongue, paused to consider how to best express his thoughts. "Until he transformed my life, I was like a riptide in a river -- plunging blindly forward -- caring for nothing but the end of the ride -- the final goal, which was, of course, simply more -- of everything. He . . . pulled me out of that turmoil -- and forced me to be still -- to feel the sunlight and taste the sweetness and listen to the music along the way. It was . . . a revelation. But don't misunderstand me; I'm still Xanatos Aji -- and I still cling to my favorite shadows; they . . . suit me -- and Obi-Wan accepts me as I am. But he's the voice of my conscience -- my guide through the night, and I know that he wouldn't turn you away, regardless of his personal feelings. The children of Skywalker are welcome here; as to whether or not you are welcome, that will be Obi-Wan's decision -- but we won't betray you to the Empire. If he decides that you may not stay here, we'll send you on your way -- with our best wishes and sufficient resources to find some other refuge."

"And who will care for them," Qui-Gon asked, regaining some measure of his Masterful demeanor, "if I'm sent away? They are only five years old, and . . ."

Xanatos reached forward and touched a pad on a control panel set into the hand-polished querral wood of his desk -- and smiled as the Jedi trembled and gasped for breath as a raging flood of sensations closed on him, following the dissolution of the virtually undetectable shield which had enclosed him since the moment the Jeweled Sea had first breached the atmosphere of the planet. So subtle and refined was the field -- and so insidious at its inception - that he had been uncertain that it actually existed at all, suspecting that its effects might well have been nothing more than consequences of his exhaustion -- and he shuddered to realize what a potent weapon it would be in the hands of the Empire.

That was his first reaction, sending a shockwave through his system, as he understood that the feelings he had been savoring since his arrival on this planet were only the palest reflection of the actual sensual ambiance of a world teeming with life and vibrancy. His second reaction was much more profound, sending him crashing to his knees. The sensations came pouring in -- an overwhelming awareness of minds and spirits, akin but different -- reticent, but reaching out -- or, in some cases, not. There was no individual recognition, no resurgence of previously existing bonds -- but there was the unmistakable sense of Force connections, dimmed and constricted, but real, nonetheless.

"What . . . who . . ."

The prince of Telos grinned, and took a moment to retrieve a tabaccré cylinder from a humidor and light it with a jeweled lighter. He inhaled deeply, savoring the bitter taste, before blowing out a stream of thick, fragrant smoke. "It's good to know you can still be stricken speechless, Master."

"How . . . how many -- and who . . ."

Xan sobered quickly. "You'll find out -- in time . . . if you stay here. For now, suffice to say that . . . they found us. Not the other way around. They all found their way . . . to him. A few at a time."

Qui-Gon's face reflected stunned disbelief -- and a glimmer of hope. "You've provided a new home for . . ."

"No." The denial was swift and sharp. "We've offered shelter to those who needed it -- but understand one thing for certain, Jinn. This is no new Temple -- no Jedi refuge -- no training center to promote a rebirth of the Order. The Jedi . . . no longer exist. Except, of course, for you" - he smiled then, with smug certainty - "and one other. But he, at least, has no need for our assistance. This place is simply a settlement for immigrants -- who happen to share certain . . . skills -- the exercise of which is greatly discouraged. That's all."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, to savor the sweetness of the familiar emotions that surrounded him -- and opened them to find himself the object of severe scrutiny from a pair of huge, beautiful, liquid eyes -- the color of molten turquoise -- set in an elfin face of exquisite loveliness and delicacy.

The face-off was brief, as Xanatos laughed, tossed his tabaccré stick into a disposal unit, and moved forward to scoop up the tiny child who wore that incredible face. "It's rude to stare, my poppet."

The little girl -- probably no older than four, but possessing an astonishing degree of assurance and an innate elegance at odds with the scruffy playsuit she wore -- tossed her head to clear her face of a mane of ebony curls and favored the prince with a smile that the Jedi was sure would break many hearts in her lifetime. "But, Papa -- he's so . . . . big . . . and . . . and he . . . glows."

Xanatos sighed softly. 'That he does, Love -- but it's still rude to stare -- and princesses are never rude . . . are they?"

"No, Papa."

The Telosian set her down then, and turned her to face the object of her interest. "Master Qui-Gon Jinn, may I present our daughter - Her Highness, Ciara Marique Crystella Kenobi-Aji, crown princess and heir apparent to the throne of Telos."

Without hesitation, Qui-Gon bowed deeply, before straightening up to study a face so exquisite it was almost luminous. "I am deeply honored, Milady."

The child giggled, bringing smiles to the faces of all the men in the room, before turning back to face her father. "I'm supposed to tell you that the flipcakes are almost ready."

"Aha!" replied Xanatos. "And that is a treat not to be missed. Right?"

"Right -- and Dad says they're only good when they're hot -- so hurry."

Xanatos dropped a kiss on her forehead, and turned her toward the door, giving her a little push. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."

"Better hurry," she replied, walking away, before turning once more to stare at the Jedi Master. "Something happened," she said softly, "just now. Something that . . . Dad stopped breathing. He just . . . stopped."

"Go on, Poppet," said Xan softly. "All is well -- and you may tell your Dad I'm on my way."

Qui-Gon came to his feet quickly. "Does he know -- does he sense that I'm here?"

Xan thought for a moment before answering. "He knows someone is here -- but I doubt he's yet realized that it's you. He's been shielded against you -- specifically -- for a long time. But I'm sure you knew that already."

"I suspected," admitted the Jedi. "I could never find him -- in the Force."

"Surely you weren't surprised," retorted the Telosian. "You must have known he'd want no contact with you -- after learning of your betrayal."

"Yes, I did know." The Master's eyes were distant and shadowed. "But I hoped I was wrong."

"You weren't." The prince made no attempt to soften the sting of the rejoinder, as he rose to leave the room. "I'll have some food sent in for you, and we'll resume our discussion later. I . . ."

"Wait -- please!" Qui-Gon hated the pleading tone that turned his voice into a whine, but couldn't find the self-control to postpone the question. "The child. She is your daughter?"

"She is our daughter, Qui-Gon. Mine and Obi-Wan's."

"Incredible," sighed the Master. "She even has his eyes -- and his chin. I suppose you used a family surrogate; it's the only way it makes sense. And he named her -- for . . ."

Xan's face was very still, void of emotion. "She was named for my mother and my grandmother -- and of course, you know the origin of her first name."

The Master nodded, and closed his eyes as a painful memory flared in his mind. "Does he know," he asked softly, "that she's . . . ."

"Dead?" Once more, the prince's tone was hard and unforgiving. "Of course he knows. He would have sensed it, no matter where she was, but, as it happens, he didn't have to sense it. She found her way here before she died. With only the link they forged as crèche mates to guide her. They called it a miracle -- but I've seen such things happen before. He is the miracle, Master Jinn -- the power behind such incredible things. She found her way here -- and died in his arms. He was four months pregnant at the time."

The Jedi stiffened, as all the blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen and stunned. "What did you say?"

Xanatos smiled. "Are you going deaf, Old Man? I told you that Ciara is our daughter -- Obi-Wan's and mine. Have you forgotten your basic xeno-physiology?"

"But Obi-Wan is male. All male." The Jedi drew a deep breath. "Whether or not you like it, I have good cause to know that."

"Oh, I'm sure you do." Xan's voice was suddenly cold -- almost lethal. "But you've forgotten one salient fact. Obi-Wan is K'Hira Melatian. Do you remember what that means -- biologically speaking?"

Qui-Gon's eyes widened, as he sorted through the knowledge he had acquired so long ago concerning the physiological attributes of his padawan's species. "You can't possibly mean . . ."

The prince nodded. "Oh, but I can. All K'hira Melatians -- of both genders -- are born with two sets of reproductive organs - one active, one dormant. Supposedly, it's a genetic remnant of a period in the prehistory of their planet during which the race was almost wiped out due to some kind of biological catastrophe. At any rate, it turns out that those dormant organs . . . can be activated -- given sufficient motivation, determination, deft manipulation of hormone levels -- and the efforts of the best geneticists money can buy. Plus the oversight of the galaxy's best Jedi healer."

"Mira Soljan," breathed Qui-Gon.

"The very same. She stayed at his side for the entire duration of the pregnancy. Played hell with our sex life, I promise you that. Obi-Wan was brave enough to complain -- but I confess that the woman scared the shit out of me, and I just did what I was told. Especially after she threatened to castrate me and feed my balls to the fishes if I so much as laid a finger on him."

Qui-Gon groped for the chair behind him, obviously stunned, his knees suddenly incapable of supporting him, as he struggled to find breath to speak. "Obi-Wan . . . gave birth to a child."

"Well," replied Xan, "in the strictest sense of the word, the baby was delivered surgically. The treatments were successful in creating a viable uterus and ovaries and other necessary parts -- but, in Mira's inelegant, but undeniable words, you can't grow a vagina where a penis already exists. But, in every other way, yes, he did. He carried her, nurtured her." His voice grew soft. "They even managed, with continued hormone therapy, to enable him to nurse her for a few weeks after her birth. It was . . . if I live forever, I know I will never see anything more beautiful, Qui-Gon. It . . . took my breath away."

"A child," whispered Qui-Gon. "A daughter."

And the room was suddenly heavy with the Jedi's regret -- heavy with his understanding that such a thing would have been possible for him as well. If only . . .

Sudden anger flared through the wistfulness. "And you allowed him to risk himself that way? Surely there was great danger to him; he might have died, to provide you with an heir."

But Xan was unperturbed. "Surely, Old Master of mine, you're not still laboring under the misconception that anyone has ever actually been required to allow Obi-Wan to do anything. Throughout his life, he's thought about what needed doing -- and he's done it -- and worried about the consequences later. He may have been slightly more discreet in his methods during his years as a padawan -- but if you'll think about it, I'm sure you'll see that I'm right. He neither asked nor needed my permission." He grinned then. "Only my money -- and my . . . um . . . contribution to the conception, which did, by the way, happen in the conventional manner, if anything about the birth of our daughter could be considered conventional."

"She is . . . a miracle," said the Master.

"Yes. She is," agreed Xan. "She's also enough of a mini-tyrant to dislike being kept waiting. So, if you'll excuse me . .

"Xan, let me see him. Please. If you prefer, I won't even speak to him. Just . . . let me see him."

The prince of Telos regarded the Jedi with a speculative gaze. "Have you considered," he said softly -- not unkindly, "that seeing him may be incredibly painful for you? I've told you that he'll be the one to decide if you're to be accepted in our community -- but you need not confront him, should you choose not to. You have no reason to believe that I've truly changed -- but I'm no longer obsessed with vengeance, and I have no desire to inflict unnecessary pain -- not even for you."

"I am grateful," said the Master, "but I need this, Xan. I need to see for myself. I need to know . . ."

"That you didn't succeed in destroying him," said Xanatos, suddenly understanding.

"Yes."

Unexpectedly, the prince grinned. "Then come along, Master Jinn. The sight of my husband making flipcakes is truly one of the greatest wonders of the galaxy."

The early morning sun reflected off the argent waters of the river, swollen at this season with the run-off of melting snows at higher elevations, and cast gleaming riffs of radiance through the huge windows that fronted the kitchen of the Kenobi/Aji dwelling, bathing everything and everyone in light as thick and golden as processed honey -- but the warmth that permeated the house had nothing to do with the richness of the sunlight -- and everything to do with the natural interaction of the individuals gathered therein. Xanatos, after dispatching a very disgruntled Captain Remmisch to return to the ship and fetch the children and the droids waiting there, led the way toward the rear of the cottage, toward a murmur of conversation, punctuated by frequent laughter and voices raised in friendly banter, which announced that more than just a father and his daughter were engaged in the preparation of first meal. There was a cheerful quality to the verbal exchanges, providing a perfect counterpoint for the giggles and bright chatter of a little girl who was obviously growing up in a home filled with light and love and peace, where she was encouraged to be heard as well as seen.

The air was rich with the fragrance of freshly-brewed jafka, mingled with some form of local fruit, tart and slightly spicy, and what might have been a smoky variety of herbal tea, and two young men, of similar height and build but otherwise as different as day from night -- one with wheat blonde hair, milky skin, and pale eyes, the other dark of hair and eye and golden of skin, and immediately familiar to the Jedi - straddled stools at a chest-high bar and inhaled deeply of the steam rising from heavy, butter-colored ceramic mugs, both faces reflecting a depth of enjoyment that seemed almost religious in its intensity. In a pool of morning radiance, the crown princess of Telos -- looking more ruffian than royal -- writhed and shrieked under the playful assault of a parti-colored, mop-like creature, with shaggy fur, a black, shiny nose, stubby legs, and huge, floppy, translucent ears, as her father maneuvered around her with unstudied grace. Off to the left of the sun-filled room a small alcove contained a gleaming wooden table, with seating built in under a semi-circular sweep of mullioned glass, with a riotous tangle of bright foliage erupting from a dozen containers affixed to the woodwork. A slender woman with long, dark hair was tucked into the corner of the booth, her face turned toward the loveliness of the garden, which provided a surrealistic patchwork of vivid pastels, just visible through the window.

Xanatos seemed completely at ease as he entered the kitchen and moved to greet his husband -- but Qui-Gon noticed that the Telosian had been careful to place himself between the Jedi Master and the object of his intense interest for as long as possible. He then proceeded to distract Obi-Wan in a manner that was disconcertingly direct, by moving up behind his husband, draping his arms around a slender waist, and nuzzling soft, gentle kisses into the sweet, tasty flesh at the base of the skull, using his chin to brush aside long silken tresses of golden auburn.

It was only then, when Obi-Wan laughed and made a playful attempt to free himself from his mate's grasp, that the Jedi Master had his first unimpeded view of the young man he had not seen -- in the flesh -- for nine long years -- and, had he been anything less than a powerful Master, he would have betrayed his presence immediately, his shielding blasted into non-existence by the swift upsurge of a tornadic twist of emotions so closely entwined that he could not separate one from another -- need, frustration, regret, hunger, pride, loneliness -- and love. Above all else, love. How, he asked himself - as he had every hour of every day of the past nine years - had he hidden so much desire, so much longing, so much passion, from the surface of his conscious mind? How . . . could he have simply opened his hand, and let this treasure trickle away?

He elected to pause just outside the brightness of the kitchen, allowing the shadows of the hallway to obscure his presence -- to give him time to regain his composure and to revel in the rich textures of the scene before him. If time had been kind to Xanatos, it had worshipped at the feet of his bondmate. Obi-Wan was radiant, surrounded by an aura that was almost physical, almost luminous, glimmering with energy and purity -- and a sense of unalloyed joy. Qui-Gon felt his breath catch in his throat, realizing that he had been indulging himself in comforting delusions for as long as he could remember, having convinced himself, somehow, that the young man he had so cavalierly driven away could not possibly have been as beautiful -- as exquisitely lovely -- as he had remembered. Now, there was no more evading the truth, as reality gripped his heart with fingers of flame; his former padawan had only grown more beautiful with the passing years.

Still unaware of being observed, and managing -- barely -- to ignore the distraction of his spouse's amorous efforts, Obi-Wan deftly lifted a large, flat-bottomed skillet and twisted to deposit its contents, with a flick of his wrist, into a waiting platter, before turning back to the cooking unit, to replace the pan atop a blue-hot flame and quickly ladle in a generous portion of creamy batter. A fine sheen of perspiration touched his skin with a healthy glow and dampened the sweep of red-gold hair that flowed like molten copper halfway down his back, as he monitored the progress of his culinary efforts with determined concentration, the tip of a pink tongue caught between perfect white teeth. He wore only a pair of disreputable leggings -- tight enough to reveal the sweet curve of butt and thighs -- and a faded blue tunic, unbuttoned to reveal the sculptured chest with its light dusting of ginger hair -- and a platinum hoop, adorned with faceted stones of deep emerald and amethyst, dangling from his left nipple.

"Ah, if they could see you now," said the dark-haired young man, one-time Jedi knight and perpetual free spirit Garen Muln, apparently having ingested enough jafka to render him capable of communication. "Perennial padawan-of-the-year Kenobi -- a short-order cook."

The dark-haired woman turned and grinned -- and Qui-Gon Jinn was stunned to recognize Jedi Master Luminara Unduli. "Not to mention," she laughed, "concubine of the Dark Prince of Telos."

Obi-Wan lifted a single finger, circled by a broad, gem-encrusted band. "Hey," he protested easily. "I'm legal, thank you very much."

"Also," said the blonde young man, face still buried in his mug, "mother of the year."

Quickly twisting out of his mate's arms, Obi-Wan leaned over and dropped a kiss on the crown of his daughter's head. "Can't dispute that one," he said softly, jewel-toned eyes awash with love.

"And," said Xan softly, with a glance over his shoulder as he replaced his arms around Obi-Wan's waist as the younger man straightened to return to his task, "love of my life."

"Oh, blech!" Luminara's smile belied the sharpness of her comment. "If you two are going to go all mushy on us, I'm going to take over the cooking."

"Wait!" snapped Garen. "Let me get the fire extinguisher . . . and the bicarb."

"Very funny!" replied the slender female, her facial tattoos bright and obviously newly refreshed against pale amber skin as she addressed a particularly obscene gesture toward the ex-knight.

Obi-Wan favored her with a brilliant smile. "You have many talents, dear Lumi -- but cooking is not among them -- and kindly do not teach my daughter your particular brand of sign language."

She laughed -- and winked at him, deliberately pitching her voice at a deep, provocative level. "Why don't you ditch the majestic munchkin there -- and come on over here so I can demonstrate some of my -- um -- talents."

Everyone laughed, enjoying the good-natured ribbing, and Obi-Wan lifted the heavy skillet, preparing to upend the flipcake, to cook the bubbled topside. "Speaking of talents," he said with a smug grin, "it's all in the wrist."

And he quickly thrust the pan upward, jerking his hand at the exact, correct moment to send the flipcake soaring into the air, so that it would turn over and flop back into the pan to finish cooking.

Only -- it didn't. It soared rightly enough -- and kept soaring, to impact, with a decided splat, against the planked ceiling -- and cling there.

For a moment, the entire room was plunged into total silence, until Garen -- predictably -- spoke up to fracture the moment. "Obi, m'love," he drawled, "I don't know how to tell you this, but -- this time - it's not in the wrist. It's on the ceiling."

Obi-Wan sighed, and lifted laughing eyes to meet those of his husband, who was still seeking out accessible bare skin for nibbling. "I was never able to convince him that nobody likes a smart-ass."

"If you like," said the prince, between nibbles, "I could have him drawn and quartered for you."

Then Obi-Wan was driven to roll those expressive eyes - becoming a vision of long-suffering patience - as a little voice rose in a nursery rhyme cadence. "Smart-ass, smart-ass, Uncle Garen's a smart-ass." The child then erupted in a bright riff of laughter, hiccupped suddenly as her papa put a quick stop to her chant with one admonitory finger, just as Garen pounced, and proceeded to roll her, himself, and the family pet around the kitchen floor, forcing both her parents to dodge flailing feet and legs and various other appendages.

Luminara hooted with laughter. "Way to go, Kenobi. At this rate, she'll be swearing like a Corellian spacer by the time she's six."

From his vantage point in the shadowed doorway, Qui-Gon Jinn spent a moment basking in the sensations swirling around him, experiencing the warmth and loveliness of the domestic setting like gentle sunlight on a spring day, and realizing that, while the entire group gathered before him contributed to the sweet ambiance of hearth and home, it was Obi-Wan who was the primary source -- who exuded a glow that one could almost taste and touch -- a glow that was almost incandescent, that bathed everyone around him in the brightness of his spirit -- a glow that was almost . . . almost . . .

The Jedi Master frowned. Almost . . . what?

The rough banter continued as Obi-Wan used a fine tendril of Force energy to retrieve the flipcake from its tenuous attachment to the ceiling, before he twisted to allow his mate greater access to the hollows of his throat -- and froze as his eyes were drawn to the figure standing motionless in the hallway.

And everything went silent and still, as all color drained from the young man's face, and he was seized by sudden tremors, held upright only by the strength of his bondmate's arms.

Realizing that he had no leverage here -- that his role was that of a supplicant begging favors he had done nothing to deserve -- Qui-Gon briefly entertained a notion of dropping to his knees and assuming the position favored by Jedi padawans to signify total penitence -- but he dismissed the impulse immediately, knowing that Obi-Wan -- despite the distance that now separated them, the gap having grown exponentially through nine long years -- would know intuitively that the gesture was basically meaningless. A cloak of humility -- despite all the sanctimonious verbiage of the Jedi Code -- was not a good fit for Jedi shoulders.

Instead, he opted for honesty, accepting the fact that there was no more room for subterfuge or posturing -- that only truth would serve at such a critical juncture; he stepped forward into the silence, and allowed the last remnants of his shielding to fall away from his consciousness, exposing the center of his being to eyes which had once known him better than any others ever would.

"Hello, Obi-Wan," he said softly, surprising himself by finding the capacity to speak calmly, when -- in his core -- everything he had ever known had shifted suddenly, as if his very existence had been torn from one dimension and thrown into another. Abruptly, he was submerged in the sensual awareness of Obi-Wan, drowning in resurrected memory and resurgent desire, and in imminent danger of sensory overload, as everything else paled and receded into insignificance.

On the other hand, the struggle for composure that raged behind the frozen features of his former padawan was fiercely fought -- but brief. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been confronting -- and overcoming -- mountainous obstacles throughout his life; this would be no exception, and none but his consort would ever have an inkling of what it cost him.

"Master Jinn," he replied, his voice totally without inflection, but the gaze he turned on his husband was sharp and demanding.

Xanatos stepped forward and slipped his arms around his lover's waist and lowered his face to touch his forehead to that of the man who was the keeper of his heart. "Qui-Gon is here," he said softly, "to ask for sanctuary."

There was a strangled sound from one of the three who had moved to stand behind the two bondmates, and Luminara Unduli -- sensing the bitter fumes of hostility rising within the Force -- was quick to grab little Princess Ciara and whisk her out of the room. And not a moment too soon, as it happened.

"You are joking!" said Garen Muln in a voice hard-edged with fury. "Tell me you are fucking kidding me, Xan. You want to offer sanctuary . . . to this . . . this black-hearted son of a bitch?"

"Not particularly," answered Xanatos, his eyes soft with devotion as he studied his consort's expression. "But it's not my call to make."

Obi-Wan's sigh was barely audible as he closed his eyes and lowered his face into the hollow of Xan's throat.

"I'm truly sorry, my love," whispered the Telosian, stroking gentle fingers through silky tresses. "But I can't make this decision for you; I don't have the right."

To the surprise of everyone, Obi-Wan allowed himself a very small laugh. "If you don't -- who does?"

"How about me?" snapped Garen, his anger growing brighter and hotter with each moment. "Will I do? I'll be happy to send Master Mind-fucker on his way." And he proceeded to stalk forward, resentment written in every line of his body as he gave no indication of a willingness to stand down.

"Garen," barked Obi-Wan quickly, but to no avail as his childhood friend ignored him -- and continued to move toward the Jedi Master with grim determination.

"You would do well, Knight Muln," said Qui-Gon sternly, emerging from his stunned state only enough to stand firm and refuse to be intimidated, "to remember your place."

"My place?" The former knight's smile was cold and menacing. "My place, oh, exalted Master, is where it's always been -- right here, between you and Obi. My place is making sure you never have the opportunity to destroy him again. Oh, and just in case it slipped your mind, I haven't been a knight -- we haven't been knights - for the last nine years, thanks to you and your precious holier-than-thou Jedi Order."

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches, as neither individual showed any indication of stepping back from the brink of violence -- but it was Obi-Wan who ultimately took control of the moment. "That's enough, Garen," he said firmly, stepping out of the circle of Xan's arms and into the path of his incensed companion. "This isn't the time or place; this is my home -- and that of my daughter and my husband. I'll have no blood spilled here."

For a fraction of a moment, it appeared that Garen might choose to ignore the admonition, so overwhelmed was he by the upsurge of righteous indignation that drove him. But, in the end, he stopped -- bare inches away from his intended target -- and contented himself with a frigid glare that dared the towering Master to dispute the territorial nature of his challenge.

Qui-Gon's eyes registered the menacing posture and the steely glint of rage in the younger man's dark eyes, but the impressions made little impact; he was far too consumed, too overwhelmed, with the euphoric sensations of his former padawan's physical presence. He tried to center himself in the Force, inhaling deeply, but he almost reeled before the continuing rush of familiarity. For the first time in many years, he could feel the old connection to his padawan, which still existed within him, always would exist within him; the younger man's aura was sweet on his tongue and in his breath, and sparking warmth in a heart too long gripped with the ice of hopelessness.

Moving very slowly, as if in a dream state, he extended one trembling hand, as he realized that his eyes were incapable of absorbing all the details of the visual feast that stood before him. Barely remembering to breathe, he was consumed by the need to touch -- to savor, and he leaned forward, reaching toward the jeweled ring that was just visible beneath Obi-Wan's gaping tunic. But the connection was never made, as an elegant hand closed over his wrist, and applied sufficient pressure to force him to shake off his distractions and regain some measure of self-control.

"I said I'd changed," said Xanatos in a surprisingly genial tone -- but there was no mistaking the glacial glint of ice in his eyes. "I didn't say I'd gone senile. You may look all you wish, Jinn . . ." and the absence of the honorific was deliberate and very pointed ". . . but you may not touch."

Qui-Gon's voice was harsh with suppressed emotion. "Shouldn't that be up to him?" he asked, obviously challenging Xan's authority -- but unable to tear his eyes away from Obi-Wan's face.

"It is up to him," replied the prince, with a bright grin. "It always was."

The Master tried to hear and comprehend the nuances of the Telosian's words -- but he could hear nothing, see nothing, understand nothing -- beyond the need pounding within him, driving him, compelling him.

"Obi-Wan." He knew he must say more -- must speak now -- must use all the powers of persuasion which had transformed him into a legend among the Jedi. Must . . .

"I expected you sooner," said Obi-Wan flatly, crossing his arms, and leaning back against the solidarity of his bondmate's body.

The fog that seemed to cloud the Master's thought processes shifted, and his eyes sharpened as he met his former padawan's gaze. "I . . . was expected?"

"Yes," replied Obi-Wan, still without emotion, "you were. You . . . and your companions."

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath, reaching once more for his center, realizing that he could not allow himself to yield to the dreadful hunger that threatened to devour him. "How . . . did you know? Does anyone else . . ."

"Relax, Jinn," said Xanatos, obviously amused by the Jedi's confusion. "Have you forgotten the power of his gifts? Does it really surprise you . . . that he would know?"

The uncertainty, which had come to be a constant companion to the Jedi since his world had ended in flame and blood,

flared to painful brightness. "Yes, but how. . ."

"I felt their birth," replied Obi-Wan, "and -- later - their mother's death." The inflectionless tone faltered then, as his eyes grew soft and unfocused. "She suffered terribly."

"Yes," agreed Qui-Gon, "and died in silence -- refusing to betray the knowledge of her children's existence. Surely, such courage earned . . ."

"The children of Skywalker are welcome here, Master Jinn," said Obi-Wan with a tiny smile that indicated that there had never been any question of answering differently. "But you must know that their safety can only be guaranteed to a certain point. Eventually, a new sanctuary will be needed -- a place where Vader will never think to look. Unfortunately, that place is not here. Sooner or later, once he has completed the annihilation of Palpatine's declared enemies, he will begin a systematic elimination of all who maintain their independence from the Empire. Sooner or later, he'll come here; it's unavoidable. In some ways, it's surprising that he hasn't done so already."

"Meaning?" The question was a breathless whisper -- and Obi-Wan's smile was slightly venal, as if he understood that the asking had been no more than a formality. The answer was obvious.

"He knows I'm here -- and he's never forgiven me for standing between him and the thing he desired above all others."

Qui-Gon nodded, still unable to look away from his former padawan's beautiful face. "I could never . . . give him what he wanted. I could never . . ." He paused then, to search Obi-Wan's eyes, seeking something that he knew he would not find. And yet, it was time for candor -- for honesty -- for discarding old barriers and half-truths, regardless of any response such an action might generate. He took a deep breath, and continued. "I spent years denying my love for you, Padawan -- but Ani knew. He always knew -- and, beneath all the Jedi posturing and stoicism, I knew too. As I still know today."

"Don't," said Obi-Wan quickly, raising one hand to stop the flow of words. "There's no reason to go into this, no need to . . ."

"The need," answered Qui-Gon firmly, "is mine. I've waited too long to speak the truth -- lived too long with it locked away inside me. Please -- hear me now. It changes nothing -- atones for nothing -- but I want you to understand that I don't come to you asking forgiveness, for I have finally realized that there can be no forgiveness for the great wrong that was done to you. I claimed to be unaware of your suffering; it took years for me to admit otherwise. I refused to acknowledge it, but I knew -- and I counted the depth of your pain as a measure of how much you loved me. It was . . . a source of comfort for me. Only later did I come to know how despicable -- how incredibly cruel and callous that smug complacency was."

He paused again, and forced himself to continue to meet the gaze of the man he had betrayed so completely. "You have no reason to believe me -- no reason to trust me -- but I'm compelled to say this. To open my heart and allow you to see what's written there. Believe it -- or reject it; the choice is yours. But finally - after a lifetime of lying to myself - I finally know the truth of it; I have loved you through all the years of our shared lives -- and will continue to love you, through all eternity, if the Force wills it. Knowing that there is nothing I could do which would ever be enough, I still need to tell you that I would do anything -- anything -- to make it up to you, to make you understand how much I regret what I did to you. I ask nothing of you now -- require no response, no forgiveness, nothing beyond being allowed to speak, and to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to see you like this. There is joy in your eyes, Beloved, and I'm content to see it there, wishing only that I had been the one to cause it."

For a moment, there was only heavy silence, as former Master and padawan continued to stare at each other, neither sure of what to say. As Qui-Gon had observed, there was indeed joy in Obi-Wan's eyes -- but there was also the ghost of old pain, controlled and restricted, but still an integral part of the person he was. On the other hand, the Master's expression held only weariness and resignation; Qui-Gon no longer felt any connection to hope.

After several breathless moments, the sound of slow clapping shattered the frozen tableau; Garen Muln, obviously, was neither convinced - nor willing to be. "Bravo, Master Manipulator. Obviously, you haven't lost your touch."

"Garen," said Obi-Wan wearily, "just . . . let it go. It doesn't matter."

Moving with the Force-enhanced speed that was characteristic of the Jedi knight he had once been, the dark-haired young man leapt forward, and laid his hands atop Obi-Wan's shoulders. "You said the same thing nine years ago -- and you were wrong then too. It mattered; it still does. Maybe you can forgive him -- because you weren't forced to stand by, helpless to do anything to make it right, make it better -- but the rest of us saw what he did to you. What they did to you. And I'm telling you, Obi -- there'll be glaciers on Tatooine before any of us forget -- or forgive - a single detail."

Obi-Wan favored his old friend with a tender smile. "I know," he whispered, "but it changes nothing. You've trusted me through all these years. So trust me now."

"That's not the issue," Garen retorted.

"Yes -- it is," insisted Obi-Wan gently.

Garen closed his eyes, and whispered softly -- too softly to be heard -- but Obi-Wan heard it anyway. "I know," he replied, wrapping one arm around his old friend's neck. "I love you too."

At that moment, Luminara burst into the kitchen, being tugged forward by one very determined, grim-faced little girl, who was displaying a great deal more physical strength than any child her age should logically possess.

"Daddy," the child cried, reaching for her father with splayed fingers.

Obi-Wan went to his knees to embrace his daughter as she wriggled free of Luminara's grasp and threw herself into his arms.

"What, my poppet? What's wrong?" he asked, as Xan settled into a crouch behind him, encircling both his spouse and their child with strong, steady arms.

"You have to let him stay, Daddy. You have to."

Obi-Wan straightened and leaned back, in order to peer into the eyes of his daughter -- eyes identical to his own. He didn't question her certainty; he just smiled and touched his lips to her forehead.

"You are welcome to stay here, Master Jinn," he said softly, still lost in wonder at the delicate beauty of his daughter's face. "For as long as it is safe."

Qui-Gon was barely able to respond, so enchanted was he by the exquisite loveliness of the vignette at his feet. "Thank you, Obi-Wan."

But it was Xanatos who rose and turned to face the Jedi, to frame a reply. "Your gratitude is somewhat misguided, Jinn. It is, perhaps, our daughter to whom you owe thanks -- and her gifts."

"Gifts?" he echoed, still breathless.

"Gifts," confirmed the Telosian. "She is, after all, our daughter -- his and mine -- and she has inherited Force abilities from both of us."

The Jedi looked up then, intrigued by a strange note in Xan's voice. "You mean she . . ."

"She sees, Master Jinn -- though she doesn't always understand what she sees."

Qui-Gon nodded, and turned away to take his leave -- but the encounter was not quite ended yet. Both Garen and Xanatos followed the Jedi into the corridor, leaving Obi-Wan on his knees in the midst of a lovely father-daughter moment.

The three moved out onto the broad porch that stretched across the front of the cottage, and paused in an uneasy silence.

"I will allow this," said Xanatos finally, "because Obi-Wan has agreed to it, and because my daughter believes it must be so -- but it doesn't sit well in my heart. I'll maintain my silence, and let you build your own place in our little village -- but know this, Old Master. You will not be allowed to hurt him again. One single misstep -- and you are gone. Understood?"

Qui-Gon nodded, his eyes steady under the prince's frigid glare. Finally, Xan sighed, and walked back into the house, obviously still gripped by misgivings, but resigned to accepting that which he felt powerless to change.

Garen, however, lingered, his eyes still cold and unrelenting as he waited until they were alone.

Then he stepped forward, deliberately invading the Jedi Master's personal space, before beginning to speak. "He's right about one thing," he said grimly. "You won't hurt him again. One misstep -- just one -- and you won't be gone, Master Jinn. You'll be dead -- and damn the consequences. Are we clear?"

Anger flared in Qui-Gon's eyes, and, for a moment, he was a pale version of the Jedi he had once been. "You would risk everything -- the resurgence of the Light, the destruction of the Sith, the resurrection of the Jedi -- to protect one man?"

The Master was amazed when the young man smiled. "You still don't get it, Jinn. You still don't understand. That's how love happens - one person at a time. Learning that -- and accepting it - enabled us to go on, in facing the loss of everything we ever believed in -- and failing to learn it is what doomed your precious order. You rejected your passion; we embraced ours -- and, in the end, we may all die. But, at least, we die together. You die alone. Think about it."

He held the Jedi's gaze for a moment, before turning and walking away, leaving Qui-Gon to ponder his final words -- and decide that he really didn't want to follow the young man's suggestion. He didn't want to think about it.

The tiny house was tucked away in a copse of rilatha trees, currently gowned in drifts of waxy blossoms, creamy white with throats of molten ruby. It was situated at the rear of a terraced slope, with bright ripples of the river just visible beyond the new-growth forest that had sprung up on its flanks in recent years, in response to growth enhancements provided by those capable of utilizing and manipulating Force energy. It had all been done very subtly, thus avoiding any spikes of Force energy that might have drawn the notice of imperial monitors -- but the results were rather spectacular, resulting in a bucolic setting that was alternatively soothing and stimulating to those who had migrated to Arbory 3 in recent years.

Qui-Gon Jinn sat in the sheltered core of a towering shelmigalth tree -- definitely NOT a product of Force enhancement, as it had probably been old when Master Yoda was a child -- and the Jedi swiftly suppressed that thought; he did not want to follow that reference to its natural conclusion. What -- and where Yoda was -- or was not -- was a subject best left unexplored.

Among others.

A shout of bright laughter drew his attention to the meadow spread out below him, and he experienced a burst of contentment as he watched two tow-headed youngsters tumbling around a thick patch of bright scarlet wildflowers, along with a slender young woman with a mane of dark, silky hair. She had been introduced to him only as M'ritte -- and he had realized immediately that she had suffered some terrible physical/emotional trauma, probably at the hands of the Sith. She did not speak, and there was an emptiness in her dark eyes that was painful to behold. No one had volunteered an explanation of her injuries or her condition, and he had quickly come to realize that -- in this enchanted place -- the events of the past were meant to be left in the past, as much as possible.

The girl was mute -- whether because of physical injury or by choice made no difference. But she was able to express herself from the heart remarkably well. The Skywalker children -- Leia and Luke -- had gravitated to her immediately, and she had taken over their care as if created for the task. And maybe she had been. Qui-Gon knew instinctively that, while he had provided for their fundamental needs scrupulously during the term of their journey, he had never been able to provide the kind of warmth and affection that seemed to come so naturally to her -- and he was inordinately grateful for her skills. Once -- long ago -- he had been capable of establishing a loving rapport with children -- but that ability was no longer his to command.

He knew that the responsibility for the welfare of these children would always fall on his shoulders -- but he was grateful for the respite from duty that the girl granted him.

And now he was able to sit here in this tranquil place, and breathe deeply to refill himself with the bright presence of the Force -- and try to compose himself to think about the unthinkable. He was grateful for the serenity of this place, and for the wordless acceptance of the residents of the village. If questions had been posed, they had been posed elsewhere; no one had approached him with demands for explanations, or justifications -- and no one had required genealogical data about the children or their origin. He didn't know if they had been recognized as the offspring of the Dark Lord of the Sith -- but he didn't think it would matter much anyway. Whether or not these villagers acknowledged their one-time connection to the Jedi Order, they continued to practice the basic tenets of tolerance and racial equality that had been the hallmark of the Jedi philosophy.

There were no more Jedi, to all intents and purposes. But there were still decency and honor and noble purpose -- and the people who had gravitated to this place had unfailingly brought such principles with them, and built their new lives basking in the incredibly bright warmth of the young man who was the heart and soul of this sanctuary.

Too bright.

He had known it from the first moment -- but he had refused to consider its meaning.

He had spent ten glorious days settling in, growing accustomed to a pace that was determined by the natural rhythms of the planet and the seasons, rather than some arbitrary concept of time. Though basically a somewhat primitive place, limited in technological resources and conveniences, the settlement was rich in cultural diversity and sociological interaction. The residents were both amiable and opinionated, leading to lively discussions and debates and an easy willingness to offer assistance as needed. He had relished the atmosphere, and realized quickly that he could easily adopt such a place as a home -- one more precious and perfect than any he had ever known.

He had seen little of Obi-Wan during those days, mostly confined to catching glimpses of the younger man as he rode about the village or the countryside on a magnificent pegyro stallion -- the incredibly graceful four-legged beast that seemed to be his primary means of transportation, and which seemed to be a biological relation of the famous winged pegeijin of Alderaan. Though the local version of the creature was wingless, Qui-Gon could attest to the fact that the beast could, nevertheless, fly, as he had been reduced to heart-stopping terror by the vision of his former padawan and his mount, moving as one, taking flight over a deep-cut ravine that marked the border between forest and meadow, beside the path that led down to the village proper. Both rider and beast had greeted the challenge with a keen sense of exhilaration that the Master could actually taste through the Force. When the leap had been completed successfully, it had been some time before his heartbeat had returned to its normal cadence.

The gentle march of days had continued unabated, and the Master had not spoken to his former padawan at all during that period -- had not even been close enough to shout a greeting -- though he had once or twice recognized an outburst of melodic laughter floating down from the hills behind his cottage, and once, as the sun sank in the west, he had watched as a silhouette of quadruped and rider paused against that radiant backdrop, only to be joined shortly by a second rider, and he was immediately aware of a gentle ache in his heart as the two silhouettes merged to become one. No details were visible, but there was no doubt that he was seeing the joining of bondmates, proclaiming their bond for all to see, against the most spectacular of nature's creations. Qui-Gon, over all, was surprised to find himself experiencing a contentment he had not known for many long years, discovering that the occasional fleeting sight of his former apprentice astride the great chestnut colored stallion, sitting tall and straight in the saddle with sunlight glinting in his hair, was enough to cause his breath to catch in his throat and inspire him to realize that, if this was as much as he would ever be allowed to have of Obi-Wan's life, it would be enough, for the young man's aura fairly pulsed with happiness. He found a certain satisfaction in resolving that he could live the rest of his life this way, just to be allowed to catch glimpses of such pure joy.

Ten days -- of sweet, unhurried meditation, of peaceful slumber and simple, satisfying meals, of watching the beautiful children of Padmé Naberrie adapt to a life free of fear and menace and the need for concealment, of accepting the fact that, albeit reluctantly, he seemed to be the legal owner of the two droids -- R2D2 and C3PO -- that had been bequeathed to him by the children's mother, and who had turned out to be instrumental in helping him conceal the existence of the Skywalker children throughout the rigors of their wanderings, and who had, simultaneously, driven him to the brink of insanity on numerous occasions. Ten days of making new acquaintances and renewing a few old ones. Ten lovely, stress-free days.

He realized now that he should have been grateful for the period of adjustment and for the privilege of being allowed to wrap himself in the bliss of ignorance.

On the morning of the eleventh day, he had opened his door, intending to carry his freshly brewed tea to a seating area on his flagstone porch -- and found a visitor awaiting him.

And he had known immediately. Had known -- and would have given anything not to know.

Mirilent Soljan, at one time the premier healer of the Jedi Temple, was not given to mincing words -- especially when dealing with a man who had given her no reason, over the years, to be concerned with sparing his feelings -- and every reason not to.

Still, she had been unusually terse, not even bothering to spear him with the barbed commentary that customarily opened their conversational engagements. He had waited in silence, prepared to accept any scathing remarks she might care to make, knowing that, ultimately, he deserved her scorn. But when she had finally spoken, there had been nothing in her tone -- no resentment, no anger -- nothing beyond a terrible, heartrending weariness. She had simply extended one hand, and dropped a datachip into his palm, offering little in the way of explanation.

"No one else has seen this," she said very softly. "And you see it only because he decided that you should. I don't know why he wants this -- but he does, and that's enough for me. Just be mindful that the information here is not to be shared with others -- not unless he decides to share it. Understand?"

The Master nodded, noting that the tiny healer, who had never, within his memory, flinched away from meeting the gaze of anyone she might face, had not bothered to look into his eyes -- not even once.

She turned to go, not quite managing to suppress a soft sigh that escaped her lips as she looked out into the lavender mists of early morning. "Have you forgiven me, Mira?" he said as she moved away from him. "Have you finally found it in your heart . . ."

She did not turn back to face him, but she did pause, fingers clinched tight around the carved finial of the wooden porch railing. "Forgiven you?" she echoed, barely audible. "No, Qui-Gon. I haven't forgiven you. I'm not Obi-Wan; I don't have that kind of forgiveness within me. But . . ."

"But?" he prompted when she fell silent, and seemed undecided about how to proceed.

She turned then, and lifted her eyes to study his expression -- and he almost recoiled from the terrible anguish he read in her face. "But how can I condemn you for failing him -- when I've failed him more? You took his dreams, Jinn. I took his life."

"Mira, no," he said quickly, firmly. "I don't yet understand what's happened -- but I know you. I know how you love him. You wouldn't hurt him. You wouldn't . . ."

"Did you love him?" she demanded, showing at last some spark of her old, familiar spirit.

"You know I did -- and do."

She nodded -- and looked away. "Strangely enough, you're right. I do know -- but loving him . . . didn't stop you from tearing him apart. Did it? In the name of the 'Will of the Force' -- you ripped his heart out, while telling yourself you had no choice."

He wanted to argue -- to defend himself -- to offer all those old, tired, shopworn excuses. But he didn't. He found that he had no more desire to run away from the truth -- even the ugliest truth. "Yes," he agreed. "I did -- but you . . ."

"Did you know," she asked in a strange, remote voice, "that there are only a few dozen members of his race still alive today? Just a handful -- scattered to all the corners of the known galaxy." She turned once more to face him. "He was so excited, Qui-Gon. I've never seen him like that; he was . . . radiant -- jubilant - drunk on hope and . . . possibilities. It was one of Xan's cultural research teams that found a stash of old archives tucked away in a deep cavern on a Melatian moon. They brought it here, knowing Obi-Wan's racial heritage. They brought it as a gift -- to the consort of their king, and the scholars spent months decrypting and translating the text. And when they were done and had presented it to Obi-Wan . . . it was all there. The case histories of those who had undergone the procedure -- and the documented medical data, detailing the methods and course of treatment to use."

Once more, her eyes seemed to lose their focus, as she looked back into memory. "He brought it to me -- and told me what he wanted to do. But . . . I had grave misgivings. How could I trust information garnered from ancient manuscripts? How could I trust his life -- to that?"

"But he convinced you," said Qui-Gon, remembering all too well his padawan's penchant for persuasion.

"In a very direct way," she answered. "He fell on his knees -- and begged. Swore that he would never ask me for anything else -- that nothing else had ever mattered so much to him. That it was the one thing -- that would give his life meaning, to make up for all that had been lost."

The Master sighed. "You can't blame yourself for being unable to resist that, Mira. You didn't know . . ."

"But I should have," she snapped. "I should have known. I'm a healer, Qui-Gon. It's not just what I do. It's what I am -- and I knew we were dealing with something that was a whole new frontier in medicine, based on archival data that was fragmentary and incomplete, at best -- something that had only happened in legend, and myth. But I . . . let myself be persuaded. I let myself . . . give in to the desire to do this for him -- to give him something no one else could." She drew a deep breath. "Less than a year later, the scribes translated another text from the archives; that's when we learned about the risk -- but it was already too late. The baby was near term -- and Obi-Wan wouldn't hear of any effort to terminate the pregnancy. And besides -- he was right. There was no point. Only time would disclose if his gamble had been won -- or lost."

"I've seen how he looks at his daughter," said Qui-Gon gently. "I don't think he has any doubts on that score."

She nodded. "You're right, he doesn't. From the moment of her conception, she became -- along with Xan - the focus of his life, his reason for living -- and no cost was too great. But -- much as I love the child - I couldn't accept that. I lived in dread every day, waiting, cringing every time he coughed or caught a sniffle, or fell victim to a virus. I pumped him full of vitamins and herbs and vaccines for every illness that ever existed in the history of the galaxy, watched his weight and monitored his diet -- did everything I could think to do. And, in the end, it was all useless. Ciara was just under two years old, when the symptoms began. All the details are in that datachip, which you can study as you like."

"And Xanatos?" he said quickly. "How has he handled this?"

She looked down quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent the Master from seeing the rise of tears in her eyes. "He doesn't know," she whispered, and the desolation in her voice rasped like a blade against sandpaper. "I don't think . . . Obi knows how to tell him."

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply, feeling a cold silence enclose his heart, and he turned away sharply, unwilling to hear whatever else she might have to say.

The shelmigalth, with its incredible knot of intertwined trunks creating a nest-like formation at its base, stood sentinel above all the other trees of the young forest. Most of them were little more than saplings -- mere adolescents to the gray bearded monolith that counted its lifespan in millennia rather than decades or even centuries. It provided both a physical and a philosophical perspective from which a seeker of wisdom might observe the ephemeral cadence of life and, with luck, discover vestiges of its deeper meaning -- or so Qui-Gon had told himself when he first sought the seclusion of its sheltered bower after managing to live through the confrontation with blinding, stunning, mind-bending truth that he could no longer avoid. He had stopped there, within its shadowed core, with some vague notion of finding solace -- or wisdom -- or some fragment of tranquility, but, in the end, he found only the echoes of memory.

He had been successful in finding enough busy work to avoid activating the datachip provided by the healer for most of the day following her visit. The village of Haijall, on the sparsely populated world of Arbory, was a functioning commune, and all who dwelled within it were expected to contribute to the tasks necessary to feed and care for all its residents. So, for the better part of that day, he had assisted in the clearing of fields on the eastern ridge in preparation for spring planting, pausing occasionally to stare down into the valley where other workmen, under the leadership of a slender figure with hair like molten copper, dug and burrowed in the soil to harvest the last of the winter root vegetables that provided one of the staples of the village diet. The Master had wiped sweat from his brow and paused often to drink from the communal water keg, and enjoyed a keen sense of accomplishment in such simple toil, while smiling to note that none among the throngs of laborers seemed to find anything strange in the fact that the young man working among them, sharing equally in the dirt and sweat and effort, was the consort of their king.

At the end of the day, when the light had failed and he could no longer postpone the long quiet of evening, the Master had returned to his cottage, relaxed for a time in a hot bath, and dined with the children while listening to their chatter about their adventures in the fields and meadows. He had even allowed them to stay up past their bedtime, ignoring the constant remonstrances of the prissy protocol droid who had become such a major nuisance to him since their clandestine departure from Naboo, fleeing before the advancing imperial forces.

But finally -- there had been no more excuses, no more acceptable reasons to procrastinate.

He had not bothered to consult a medical dictionary for translation of the inscrutable jargon in which the report had been prepared. He had listened to clinical notes about 'nucleic acid studies' and 'fluctuating endocrine levels', 'gradual degradation of synaptic functions' and 'acceleration of immune deficiency', 'dystrophic neuropathy' and 'systemic hormonal failure'. And, of course, the stark, unembellished words that composed the ultimate prognosis: 'Irreversible' and 'Terminal'. So that, in the end, the terminology was unimportant, as the final paragraph of the file said everything that needed to be said.

Master Healer Soljan had managed to record the entire report in a voice that was toneless and impersonal -- in the typical speech patterns of a professional clinician.

Until the final entry:

"Someday, someone may document and publish this research -- perhaps in the interest of completing the history of the K'Hira Melatian culture and the tragedies that caused its demise. It is even possible that, due to the rareness of this condition, it may be named for the only documented victim. Logically, it would be dubbed 'Kenobi's Syndrome'. I will preserve my research and notes for posterity, so that the data will be available, in the event anyone should ever be sufficiently interested to look for it. But such publication will not come from me, as I have finally come to a point in my life that I thought never to reach. I have realized that there are some truths I simply would rather not know. I have lived too long, I think -- and now can only pray that I do not live long enough to witness the final chapter of what should have been one of the galaxy's greatest love stories. I wonder now if such a love is somehow offensive to whatever gods there may be. I wonder . . . if his life is the price they demand for compensation."

The datapad had shut itself off then, leaving the cottage in heavy, smothering silence, and the Master had remained frozen and numb and reeling for several minutes, before surging to his feet and racing out into the night, thinking to outrun the demons of darkness that had risen, shrieking and clawing, to shred his mind. He had reached for the Force, and found it sluggish and remote, but it had responded well enough to his summons to allow him to set a punishing pace as he streaked over hills and ridges and through forest and valley and meadow, finally putting several miles between him and the village before running out of strength and breath and dropping to his knees to howl his grief and anger to the hovering spirits of the night. During his run, he had steadfastly refused to hear the diabolical laughter that trailed him, preferring to drown it out with a mantra that matched the cadence of his heartbeat.

"It cannot be. It cannot be. It cannot be -- it cannot be -- it cannot be -- itcannotbeitcannotbeitcannot . . ."

At the last, the syllables had ceased to have any meaning, becoming nothing more than random sounds serving only to drown out the babble of hysteria that rose higher and higher in his consciousness.

Later he would wonder how long he had knelt there on the cusp of a rocky overlook that was tucked into the side of a steep ridge, with the valley that cradled the village and the flood plain beyond it, spread out beneath the magnificence of the Arboryan night sky. When he came to himself -- stepping out of a yawning chasm of thick, corrosive darkness -- his throat was raw from screams he could not remember voicing and his eyes were crusted and gummy from too many tears shed and wiped away with calloused fingers. He had looked up then -- and allowed himself to be absorbed momentarily in the abstract work of art above him, as the great crescent nebula sprawled across the eastern horizon, forming a shallow bowl of opalescence to contain a thick concentration of stars.

And he had been seized by tremors, and whispered his despair to the wind. "How can such beauty continue -- when the best, the purest, the brightest of us all is poised on the brink of destruction?"

A strange, icy stillness had wrapped itself around him as he had sought -- but failed to find - the tranquility at the core of his being. When had this happened? And how? When had the memory of his beloved padawan become the centerpiece of his existence -- the solace he reached for when all else failed -- and how had he failed to notice the change?

It had been a monumental struggle then to contain the upsurge of rage that swirled bloody scarlet and obsidian through the pearly mists of his anguish, but, in the end, he had found neither the will nor the strength to resist the tide that consumed him; he had dedicated his life to the conquest of anger and ignorance and passion, only to find the bitter taste of defeat at the end of his quest.

He had forced himself to rise finally, instantly reminded of the relentless passage of years by the stiffness of his joints, not to mention the lateness of the hour as the stars turned steadily toward dawn. It seemed to be a universal truth, he had acknowledged wearily, that the small hours of the night always coincided -- no matter where in the galaxy one might be found - with the ebb tide of the spirit, when hope and confidence and the ability to believe in tomorrow reached the nadir of existence and the darkness achieved dominance over all things. He had begun his somber journey back to his cottage, unable to summon the energy to resist the despair that threatened to drown him within its dark, oily waters; he had moved toward his destination automatically, without conscious thought or attention to his surroundings, as his mind had slipped more and more into the past, seeking the balm of memory to soothe the deep core of his pain.

Hundreds -- thousands of images had flooded his consciousness as he walked, battering at the last frail remnants of his inner shields -- the visual history of the life he had led with Obi-Wan at his side; images that he had held and cherished in the deepest, best protected chambers of his heart -- images that had served as his touchstone, his safe house, his portable sanctuary, available to shelter and welcome his weary spirit when all hope seemed lost. As he trudged along, the realization had struck him, with the cataclysmic power of an epiphany, that Obi-Wan, without ever knowing it, had provided the means for his survival through all these lost, lonely years, even after the trauma of the schism which had torn his ex-padawan away and set them on diverging paths. In the midst of the genocide that marked Palpatine's final surge to power, when Jedi were being slaughtered like cattle by endless wave after wave of clone troops, Qui-Gon had learned to retreat, at those moments when his ability to endure was exhausted, into a refuge crafted within his own awareness, a bolt hole which allowed him to cringe away from the carnage and the horror by wrapping himself in the cloak of recollection -- by overwriting visions of incredible cruelty and vicious bloodlust with images gleaned from the archives of his mind. He had been forced to witness the destruction of the Temple -- and found courage and consolation by closing his eyes and calling forth remembrance of a mischievous smile and infectious laughter. He had endured -- barely able to draw breath - through the soul-rending agony of Anakin's fall to darkness, watching as the last remnants of the little boy rescued from slavery on Tatooine were consumed by the fires of ambition and greed, while the mocking gaze of the Sith apprentice fell like acid on the Jedi Master, electing to spare his life so that he might be compelled to live with the corrosive guilt that consumed him, devouring mind and soul and spirit in a pattern that renewed itself with each new day and would continue for as long as he drew breath. Yet even then -- at the worst moment of his life -- his salvation had been in retreating to other places, other times, when the sweet thrill of victory had been reflected in sea-change eyes, and by reliving treasured moments, untainted by the bitter taste of ashes and failure and blood.

Even as he had fled his past and the terrible burden of guilt and remorse, and taken on new burdens in a vain attempt to atone for old mistakes, he had dropped into exhausted slumber each night with only one image held close to his heart -- the face of his beloved student, flushed and damp and exquisitely beautiful in the throes of orgasm.

Obi-Wan had been his light against the darkness -- his comfort in the night -- the bedrock of his faith.

Completing his meandering path just as the first faint pulse of morning touched the eastern horizon, he had made his way across the moonlit meadow where his young wards were wont to play, and looked up to find the massive shelmigalth tree tracing its filigree against the splendor of the heavens. The nest of shadow at its base had beckoned to him, offering solitude and refuge -- and a place for mourning.

He had slipped into the coolness of its embrace, settling into a fork of twisted trunks, and allowed himself to be cradled by the spongy patches of lichen that clung to its tawny bark, as he was immersed in heavy weariness. He couldn't begin to judge how far he had fled, seeking a surcease of the pain that drove him -- or how long it had been since he had rested. Or how long it would be before he could relax into the gentle grasp of sleep and not flinch away from dark dreams.

But in that final observation, he proved to be mistaken, as he felt the faintest brush of awareness trail its gentle touch across the surface of his troubled thoughts -- and nudge him toward the solace of dreamless sleep. It had occurred to him then that he had realized, throughout his rambling journey, that he had not walked completely alone -- that someone had watched, allowing him to work his way through his anguish, seeking a path to resolution. With that realization, he had experienced a swift surge of anger, an impulse to lash out, to scream his defiance against the tranquil acceptance of all he had learned in the course of this endless night -- but the tender spirit that hovered nearby had refused to be goaded.

Reluctantly, wearily, still weighted down with grief, he had surrendered to his own exhaustion -- and slept.

Continued in Part 7