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Fandom: Crossover: SW: The Phantom Menace/Highlander

Paring: Qui-Gon/Methos

Rating: NC-17

Category: Slash, First Time, AU, Angst

Warnings: M/M sex, AU, Crossover

Status: New; Complete

Date: July 7, 2003

Summary: Qui-Gon seeks peace at the bottom of a cliff. Luckily, someone is watching.

Disclaimers: Not mine, no money. please don't hurt us. Notes:

Terri swears she didn't write any of this, but Fox backed me up in saying that she MUST have. This has been sitting on my hard drive since 1999. I guess it's time it saw the light of day. This is a prequel to a story Terri and I wrote years ago called "Snow and Cinder." There was an implication at the end of that story that Qui-Gon had met Methos at some point, and I was encouraged to explore that idea. Four years later, here's the product of that explanation.

Thanks: To Fox, who is the all-powerful beta-goddess.

The cliffs of San Michele are lovely this time of year, as are the woods in their verdant spring attire and rich browns. You would have loved it here, my Padawan. Oh, how I wish we had come here, instead of journeying to your home planet all those months and years ago. Wishes will do no good for either of us now, and yet I wish.

The shadows of nighttime have embraced the tiny village. The glittering lights down below me are as a pool of stars cupped in the hand of this quiet place. Nightfisher birds are leaping out from their nests below, plunging down into the black darkness and rising with the food so hungrily called for by their nestlings. I step closer to the cliff's edge, the round stones beneath my boots giving me a firm place to stand. I've never seen an ocean so beautiful, my Xanatos. The inky blackness of the midnight waters breaks with alarming pale crests against the rocks below.

You would have swum there, I'm sure. Risking life and limb for the exhilarating rush of danger. Why did I never see that in you, until it was too late? How is it possible that you could hide such hatred for me in that heart of yours? That heart I thought I knew so well, for so long. You were a stranger to me, in my own home. The enemy ever at my side. I am lost because of you, o my broken one.

A light is bobbing its way up the hill, from the direction of the village. A single lantern in the darkness, guiding the bearer towards me. I draw my cloak about me, disguising the pale color beneath, and crouch low, so as to avoid observation. It is a man, tall and willow lean, dark haired and sharp-beaked. In his hand he holds a sword, glittering with the lantern light. His voice is elegant when he calls out. "Warrior? Show yourself!"

And I do not move. I am no warrior, no teacher, nothing I have ever worked to be. All of that was destroyed, by your hand, my lost Padawan. Did you ever listen when I explained to you what that word means? Two roots it springs from, `student' and `trusted'. Trusted student. Did that mean anything to you? I meant it every time I spoke it to you. What did my title mean, on your lips? Teacher? Captor? At the last, it meant `enemy,' and for the life of me, I don't know why.

"Jedi! Come now, you're best not left alone," the lone figure on the hillside calls again. And how would he know what is best and what is worst for me? How can he possibly conceive of the loss I have undergone? His face is young, his hands are elegant, he has the look of a man with no past. His eyes… I can not see them from here. They doubtless hold fancy of heroism and great deeds. Useless, the lot of it.

"I'll leave you, then. If you've a need, seek me in the village…" he turns to go.

And I am glad. I stand to better observe his retreat and am interested to note he does not take the path back to the village. He did that last night, while I stood here. Came and called to me, stood and waited while I hid. I did not answer him then either, though his boot was less than a handspan from my face. Darkness was my champion, then, as it is now, as it shall ever follow me, because I could not rescue you from its grip.

As I can not rescue myself, even now.

The lantern bobs its way down to the bottom of the cliff face. I can see him doing something there, the lantern on one of the large rocks near the shore. Perhaps I am intruding on some ritual of his. I find I can not care. I have come here to see that justice is done, to prevent the future evils my existence would surely lead to. I arrange my cloak, see that my saber is secured and all is ready. This time, when I step to the cliff edge, I do not hesitate. With the silence of the falling stars, I take the path that was best suggested for me.

Lips cover mine, pushing breath down into me, forcing my body to respire and live. They leave, and the wind rushes out of me. My chest hitches to draw in, and my stomach suddenly punishes me for what I have done to myself, my body. Saltwater and bile burn my tongue as I retch and cough, strong hands turn me to my side so that it does not undo the salvation that has been effected. Sand fills my ear, clings to my face and hair as I gasp, breathe, then vomit once more.

"Fucking Jedi. Fucking idiot Jedi," someone is cursing rhythmically, and I have to agree, insane giggles trying to escape my abused lungs. Fuck the whole lot of us.

When I have thrown up everything within me, I lie panting for a long moment. I still have an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh, but in the face of what I am, what I have done, the mirth dies. This person who has shared his breath with me sits down on the wet sand and waits while I push myself up onto my knees. His eyes are cold and hard.

"Can you walk?" he demands.

I center myself and decide I probably can. I nod.

"Good, because my clothes are soaking wet now, thanks to you," he growls, standing once more. He holds out a hand to help me up. Reflexively, I accept, surprised by the strength of his grip. He gathers up some odds and ends from the nearby rock and begins to walk away. "Well? Come on!"

And his ire is so obvious, and the pains he has gone to so clearly resented, I feel obliged to comply. He slows his pace so that I might keep up with him, pausing and waiting when another coughing fit takes my breath away, then continuing when I am able to walk once more. It is a short journey to a low, stone house on the outskirts of the village. He shoulders the door open and looks me up and down. "Get out of those clothes before you catch your death."

I try to obey, but my hands are shaking, my legs weak from the trauma and the pain within me. I blink twice, trying to clear my eyes, but it doesn't help. The light is receding and I can not call it back.

"Oh shit," I hear, just as my shoulder hits the floor.

Again, I have to agree.

I wake in a warm bed, blankets tucked around me. I feel clean, know that I am nude beneath the sheets and am slightly embarrassed to know this resentful man has continued to look after me. I open my eyes and see that the light is streaming in the window. My unwilling rescuer is sitting at a table, fiddling with what looks like small white pebbles. "Hello?" I offer.

"Welcome back," he grunts.

"I… I should probably thank you, but I'm not all that grateful. You must understand…"

He shrugs. "Gratitude isn't exactly my stock in trade."

I close my eyes again and run a quick reconnaissance over my body. My lungs feel weak, I can't draw a deep breath, but there doesn't seem to be anything in the way of infection. I sigh. Damn my own good health, anyway. Opening my eyes once more, I scan the room for my clothing and find it on a chair beside the bed. I throw the sheets aside and rise to dress. My host does not look around while I do so.

I take a seat at the table with him. "I'm Qui-Gon," I introduce myself.

"Methos," he replies.

I sigh. "Well, I suppose I should be going…"

"Go where? Do what? Back up on the cliffs to try again? Sorry, Jedi. You already cost me one pair of pants this week. You don't rate another."

I draw back at the harshness of his words. "I meant I should be leaving this place."

"And go where? Back to your Temple? Back to saving the world? Are you sure you're up to it, because you don't look like you're in any condition to do anything of the sort, to me." He glances up and I catch something in the glint of his eyes.

He's baiting me.

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" I demand.

"Help me sort these. Give back for what I did for you, then you can go," he gestures at the pile of white pebbles on the table. Except they're not pebbles, they're beans.

"Dinner?" I inquire.

"For the next year or so, maybe," he replies, returning to his work.

"What?" I am totally confused by this assertion. There aren't nearly enough beans for that long, even for just one man.

"Seeds, Jedi. Some of us have to work for our supper. Have you ever seen seed beans before?"

I shake my head no.

"Figures. Only failed Jedi work with plants, right? Only those not good enough to save the galaxy get their hands dirty in the soil, right?" He pushes a pile of the beans towards me. "But you all seem to forget something. The seeds, you know, are life."

And now his motions make sense. He's pulling out the seeds that will not sprout, cutting the chances that the planting will fail. I look down at the pile he has given me and begin culling the seeds.

"Thought you've never done this before," he accuses mildly.

I scowl at him. "It doesn't take much to figure out which seeds are good and which are bad."

"Really?" he demands. He picks up two or three from the pile I have reserved and breaks them open. They are discolored inside, dead. He drops them in front of me, then picks up a pair from my culls, breaking them open to display the clean innards. "How easy, would you say?"

I look away, abashed. "Show me."

"Why should I? You're a Jedi. You should be able to… use the Force, figure it out, right? Perfect, powerful Jedi…"

"It doesn't work like that," I reply evenly, piqued at his assumption. "The Force doesn't make us omniscient. We don't know how everything's going to turn out. We rarely know how any given moment will turn out, much less what life… where life…" I falter, then halt my rambling and look at the man who has saved my life. Saved me for nothing and no one, but he doesn't know that. Only you can possibly understand, my Xanatos. You saw my eyes, and how I wanted to join you in the cold dark, just to freeze up my heart and stop the hurting. "The force is like the waters of the river. It tells us but rarely where it has been or where it is going," I finally say.

He snorts at that. "I suppose that might explain what you were doing up on those cliffs, then."

I push back from the table. "Much you would know of it."

"Then teach me, O Master Jedi. For surely you could make me understand. What's your big sin, that I had to go pull you out of the breakers in the dead of night? Because you don't look all that dangerous, to me." He turns back to his work.

"You wouldn't understand," I sigh, crossing to the window.

"Try me."

I shake my head. "Forget it. Look, is there anything to drink?"

He points to a small keg next to a workbench and I go to help myself. The brew is surprisingly good and I draw a second to place at Methos' elbow as I join him at the table.

He looks up at me, surprised. I sit down and try to make my too-large body small enough to be unobtrusive as I observe his work. His fingers fly over the seeds, pausing only to bring his glass to his lips. I have to admit, I don't see how he knows a good one from a bad one. Finally I ask. "How do you know?"

"Long practice," he replies.

I nod. Of course. He's probably been doing work like this since he was a child. Since the age where I was first learning to pick my own lightsaber out of a pile by sense of touch alone. That thought reminds me that I should check my weapon. It takes more than a ducking in the ocean to do in a `saber, but better safe than sorry.

I spy my saber upon the cold hearth and summon it to my hand. He snorts at that, I think, but his eyes are not upon me. I put the saber on the table before me and lay my hands upon it, checking for damage. There's a crack on one of the grips, but it hasn't allowed for leakage. It'll do.

"Is it okay?" he inquires, his tone implying that he is intimately familiar with the need for a reliable weapon.

I nod.

"How can you tell?" he asks, and I'm quite sure he's aware of his near-parroting of my question to him.

I resist the urge to repeat his own answer back at him. Instead I reach over and take his hand in mine. I feel a jolt, recognize that, while he is not a Force-sensitive, there is definitely something odd about his life energy. I push that thought aside and place my lightsaber in his hand. "Here, see?" I say, amplifying the `sense' of it into his palm. "Feels right, for what it is."

He jerks his hand back, surprised. "What the hell?"

I blink, realizing what I have done. "I'm sorry… that was rude of me. I'm… used to teaching students like that."

"Like what, shocking them?" He rubs his hand carefully.

"No, it's a guiding, a… I'm sorry." I put my lightsaber back on my belt.

"Wait, no. I'm sorry. It's a Jedi thing, right?" he inquires, taking up his beer again.

I nod, sorrow welling up in me again. "It's something teachers do for their students…" I try to explain again.

"Something special between Jedi, then?" he presses.

I nod once more and look away.

He sighs. "Thank you, then. Here, I'll show you about the seeds…"

I smile, recognizing that he is trying to make amends for his reaction. He gathers up a handful of seeds and sorts them quickly into three piles. Two of them I understand. Good seeds and bad. The third I point to. "What's this?"

"These are the `maybes'. They might sprout, or not. They get planted separately, where I can keep a close eye on them," he explains.

"Why not just throw them out?" I ask, suddenly curious about the fate of all these seeds. Particularly the ones that are `maybes'.

He picks up his empty glass and mine and goes to refill them. As he does so, he explains. "Well, the good ones, you plant and you tend but you pretty much know what will happen to them. They'll sprout and grow and bear you fruit. The bad ones go on the compost heap. They'll soften and be fertilizer later on for another planting.

"The maybes, though… you can't just throw them out because you're not sure. So you plant them, and watch them, and maybe give them some extra care. The ones that don't pull through… well, that's a loss of your hard work, to be sure. But the ones that survive will grow and fruit and give you what you had no reason to expect of them. And that's a profit. A gamble, but hey, it makes life interesting."

I nod, finally seeing his point. I begin sorting once more, with care, into three piles. His words chase through my head, colliding with thoughts of you, Xani. He could be speaking about so many things. About life. I think, perhaps, he knows this, too. It is a lesson I wish I'd had before I knew you. You were a definite `maybe', I think. I told everyone I was sure, but the truth is, I wasn't. I had my doubts, and perhaps if I'd been honest about that, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. But say a thing often enough and you start to believe it. Even if that thing is a lie. Perhaps especially if it is a lie.

"So who was the maybe in your life, Qui-Gon?" His voice surprises me out of a reverie and I realize I've been studying one particular bean for a while.

I look up and meet his eyes for the first time. His is not a handsome face, not by any means, not like yours, my Xani. His eyes are too close together, his nose is too large, his ears stick out. But his eyes are deep and old, of an indeterminate color, and his nose fits his strong face, and I suspect his generous mouth can be kind. Force knows he's shown me enough kindness, undeserved though it may be.

But he's waiting for an answer, one that I don't intend to give him. It seems my subconscious has other ideas, though, for as I drop my eyes back to the bean in my hand I hear myself whisper, "I had a student… Xanatos." By the Force, your name burns my tongue as if it were pure acid.

He just nods, his hands still over the beans for a while. Then he takes a swig of his brew and goes back to sorting. Just like that. So I do too, for a while, trying to be careful and honest in my assessment, unlike before.

Finally, he stands and moves to his cold box. "I've not been a very good host, and for that I apologize. How about some bread and cheese to go with the beer?"

I snort at his words, not a very good host indeed. "It sounds like ambrosia. But you have been a good host, assuming, of course, that a good host would keep a guest from killing himself."

"Eh, my job. Jedi Jump Watch. That's me." He plops a good loaf of brown bread and two kinds of cheese, one yellow and the other orange, in front of me, along with a knife and a plate. It actually takes a second for his words to sink in, and when they do, I freeze in place.

"Jedi jump watch." I'm actually surprised that I can speak those words, my throat is so tight. Oh, my Xani, how did you push me to this point? How could you make me want to forget everything that is waiting for me, back at home? How could you make me wish never to return?

Sawing into the bread, he doesn't look at me but his mouth quirks in a sardonic smile. "Oh, you think I pulled you out of the drink just for fun? You think I enjoy getting soaked in the cold spring currents? Huh. Here you are. Try the yellow with the bread and the orange with a swig of beer. Wait, I think I have some mustard left. You might like it, burn the lining out of your stomach."

Numbly I contemplate the food and the jar of homemade mustard my host places before me. The smell is pungent and rich and I realize I'm hungry; then I further realize it's been days since I've actually eaten, felt hungry. Without thinking I slather on some of the mustard and take a bite. He's right, it's very strong and it makes my eyes tear up. You would like it, Xani, you always did enjoy spicy foods.

I note that Methos is not joining me; instead, he's putting the sorted beans into three different bags and collecting implements. My mind is still reeling from his words but I manage to ask him what he's doing.

"The easy part's done," he says, grinning fiercely at me. "The hard work is just beginning. I've got to prepare the soil and get these in the ground soon." He looks at me speculatively, then adds, "If you'd like to help, I won't say no."

A little manual labor. How you would have disdained this, my Xani, disdained it as beneath you. As I take a last bite and swallow of my sandwich, I think back to those times I laughed at your airs, your pride of place. Laughing was uncalled for, I now see; I should have recognized it for what it was, stopped it as soon as it reared its ugly head. But I didn't, and so I failed you, failed us.

I stand. "Certainly. Just show me what to do."

A little physical labor becomes quite a lot of physical labor, as Methos hands me two buckets, connected by a shoulder yoke, and leads me back towards the beach. There is a point where the earth begins to be more pale, to crumble under our steps, and here he sets me to work. Innumerable trips, Xani, buckets heavy with dry sand that he shovels into them and pours out into a pile near what is obviously his garden, only to go back for more. Once a large pile is accumulated, he grunts in seeming satisfaction, dropping his own yoke with a sigh. Only then do I ask him what it's for.

"Got to work the sand into the loam," he says, picking up a shovel. "These beans like a lighter soil than what I have here and won't grow unless sand is worked in. It's not fun, but the yield is worth it."

Without being asked, I pick up another shovel and begin to copy his movements, spreading the sand over the loam as evenly as possible. Once he sees that I understand what to do, he begins raking the sand into the already worked soil. It is backbreaking work, and under the warm sun I soon strip down to my leggings. But it is work that allows me to forget and remember simultaneously.

How long were we separated, my Padawan? Two years? Three, perhaps? How long did you wander the stars, seeking ways to exact your revenge against me, what I did to you? And why, oh stars and sky, why did you think you needed it? I'll never know these answers, will I? The time when we might have talked is over. The very idea of you replying…a myth.

Methos has been speaking to me, but I missed what he said. I stick my shovel in the dirt and turn to face my questioner. "What?"

"I asked why you were so uptight. You Jedi, always so serene, so calm, it's a wonder you don't fall into a coma between steps. But you're so nervy you're practically vibrating. So what's got your undies in a bundle?" Methos never paused his raking for a moment, giving me the space to either answer or not; and if I reply, to do so almost anonymously.

I snort at him, disgusted with his insight into me, disgusted by the fact that he's right. I am wound as tightly as a hypercoil. "As if you care. As if you'd understand even if you did." Well, that was a good answer; now I'm disgusted with myself as well.

"You'd be surprised what I'd understand, where I've been, the things I've seen and done," he replies mildly, continuing his raking. "Yet here I stand, still alive and doing pretty good for myself, and not an inch of me guilty for it. You show me another man my age who can say the same, and I'll show you either a liar or a saint," Methos points with his chin towards the shovel against which I lean. "You gonna use that, or what?"

I return to my work, trying not to think, fighting with the instincts which tell me to remain silent and take my punishment like the Jedi Master I'm supposed to be. But I simply cannot remain silent in the face of such an impersonal inquiry. "I had to kill a man."

"Just one?" Methos asks, incredulous. "And that's got you upset?"

The way he asked it gave me pause, and I put that aside for later consideration. "It wasn't just anyone... it was my student." How remarkable. I've manage to say it without screaming.

"Ah," he says, with a certain amount of understanding. Suddenly, he looks directly at me and his face takes on a patina of ancient sorrow. "Yes, that's always a real bitch."

I have reached the end of my bit of earth so once again I lean against my shovel and wait for him to join me. "You say that like it's learned wisdom."

He nods once and takes my shovel from me. "I think that's gonna be it for the day. Sunlight's going. Come on, we'll go get cleaned up and grab something at the field house."

I follow him back to his low stone cottage. As we walk along the footpath, I can't help but notice the sandy quality of the soil. It strikes me as odd, when compared to the rich soil we have been working. I ask him about it.

"Well, time was when there wasn't a scrap of arable land to be found, hereabouts. Too close to the sea, too low, topsoil too thin where the woods were cut back... any number of problems. So, some time back, the village got together and started hauling seaweed up here, packing the earth, fertilizing it. Had to, you understand. Man does not live by fish alone, at least not for long, and food's too expensive to ship in when you can grow it yourself. But the work's hard and there's never enough hands to do it." He shrugs. "Seeds must go in the soil, or we'll be in for it this winter."

I nod, though he is walking in front of me and can not see it. What would you say to that, Padawan? Laugh, or sigh or call him common and beneath you? Any of these? None? I thought I knew you, having lived with you for so very long. But you changed so much, while we were apart. When my 'saber finally found you, it was a stranger I slew. But that didn't make it any easier; especially since the stranger wore your beloved face.

I hear myself ask "If the seeds are life, what is the soil?"

"Who says it has to be anything? What do you think it is, Jedi?" he looks over his shoulder, eyes flat and unreadable. We stare at each other for a moment, then he turns to enter his little stone house.

I cannot answer his question. Oh, my Xani, I cannot answer. For life has left me bereft without you, and I am no longer a Master with all the answers. I am simply a man left with too many questions, too much sorrow, too much to remember.

I take my turn in his shower and dress, then follow him down into the village proper. Once again I am glad for the simple clothes afforded me by the Order. It's easy to blend, in this little village. But my thoughts still dwell on you, how even in the drab brown and cream you would stand out here, like an exotic bird. Your beauty was my undoing, just as your pride was yours.

Methos speaks to someone at the door of a large house and she makes some note on her records. I follow him inside and he hands me an enamelware basin. Following his lead, I fill it with bread, boiled fish and orange potatoes, a bright red fruit of some sort, stewed peppers, then follow him outside. There is an artesian well nearby, and he fills a small tin bucket there. I take it to carry back to his house, where we settle down to our meal.

The food is good here, Xani. Simple, yet spicy and rich. The bread is sweet to me, and my labors make it all the better. I'm intent on putting it all where it will do the most good when Methos speaks again.

"Was your student a good man?"

And that's one hell of a question. Were you? No, of course not. You were a good boy, a good student for all that you were vain and a trifle on the short-tempered side. But a good man? No. I find myself trying to explain this to the stranger with the wise eyes who sits opposite me, listening quietly, nonjudgmental of my words.

"It didn't become an issue… I could have left him alone had he left me alone. Even when he began trying to kill me I let him alone… any number of times, over the years. But lately he'd started taking potshots at folk around me, as well. There was a boy… the Council wanted me to make him my new apprentice, but… one thing led to another. Xanatos tried to kill him, though I still don't understand why. Something... had to be done. He had been my student. So it was my duty to take care of it. We fought, he lost, but…"

"He killed the child in the process?" Methos' tone is gentle when he asks.

"Oh, Force, no!" The very idea startled a laugh out of me. "Obi-Wan was locked up tight in the Temple when I... went hunting," I explain. "I didn't want him to be harmed."

He nods slowly. "And this boy, this Obi-Wan... he's to be your new student then."

This caused me a pang which I didn't need, didn't want. "No." I hope this will be the end of it, but I am wrong.

Carefully not looking at me, Methos continues. The man is relentless and irritating in the extreme. "Why? Is he a burden to you? Undisciplined, untrustworthy, not worth training?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Of course not! Obi-Wan will make a fine Jedi Knight someday, I'm sure of it. I expect he's safely apprenticed to Master Yoda by now."

"Mmm. I see," my host replies. He fiddles with a bit of fish then says "I thought Yoda swore off training once he was done with you."

I narrow my eyes at that. "You know Master Yoda?" I have the sneaking suspicion I've been led into some kind of trap.

"After a fashion," Methos replies. "Enough to know he didn't have gray hair before he met you."

I let that pass. It is a claim often made about me, but one that has so far gone unproven. Methos still isn't done with me yet, though, despite the fact that I have made it clear I do not wish to speak more on the subject.

"I don't think he's going to take on another snot-nosed brat just now. Do you?"

I shake my head, uncertain but very unwilling to contemplate the matter. I am still too wrapped up in my own anguish to worry about destroying another Padawan. "I don't know. He seemed fairly insistent that young Kenobi be trained…" I trail off, reluctantly thinking. Yoda never said he would take Obi-Wan, but surely that's what he meant. Surely…

"Are there so many available to teach him if your master does not?"

Apparently, Methos is not going to let up on this subject, so I chew on my lip, thinking carefully. I hadn't really thought about what would happen to Obi-Wan. He'd made himself so useful, fading in at my side, fading into the background when things got hot, there on Bandomeer. Keeping up with me, after. Trailing behind me, obedient but as excited as a pup when I went back to the Temple to advise the Council of the situation, and get clearance to go correct the problem. I hadn't thought about him much at all, really. The Order would take care of him. He had a great destiny before him, anyone could see that. The last thing he needs is a broken Jedi trying to force-feed him heretical garbage that even he doesn't believe any more…

I suppose that's what I was thinking would happen, if I was thinking at all. I only wanted to leave, to never come back. I still want that, I think. Wouldn't you have been better off, Xani, if I had just left you... never returned... never tried to force our way of life on you…

I wasn't thinking of him, and that's the truth. You've got me so turned around, fucked up, you and your words, your insinuations and outright lies. Did you ever breathe an honest word in your life? How could I have trusted you with mine? How did I fail so miserably that you would turn so drastically… How can I even contemplate training Obi-Wan, one so pure, so full of light and hope and trust…

"Jedi?"

"I think... I need to go out." I grab my saber off the mantle and walk away from that place, leaving him there alone.

The sand behind the dunes is soft, too soft for proper saber practice, but one must be prepared to do battle on any terrain. I'm not pushing myself, just doing my Master's Form, letting the flow of my own art drive thought and too much emotion out of me. My shirts are in a pile somewhere behind me, my cloak is abandoned similarly, a dark patch in the white before me.

The zipping, hissing step of another person warns me that I am no longer alone, but I do not stop my movements. I simply let my blade fall into last position, then take three steps and begin again. You're no mystery to me, Xanatos. I've killed your kind before, and you did deserve to die. That isn't what made me take that flying leap last night. Nothing you could ever say or do would give you that power over me.

There's just nothing left for me to do. I see my life drag out before me, spread out around me and I'm cold. Alone. Lonely and hurting in a way I didn't know I knew how to hurt. At least, until now, there was you in this anguish with me. When the universe and the past converged around me and beat down upon me, there was you, the memory of what you might have been, what I tried to make you, the hope that one day we would meet. One day things would come clean and I could finally say "I'm sorry for not knowing you."

And you could do the same.

That was what kept me warm at night, the hope that something, somewhere out there, would touch you as I could not. The hope that it was indeed myself who had failed, and not you. Not you. That would have been so much simpler to take, my Padawan. I can accept my own failure, my own ineptitude… but to know you, my student, needed my help and understanding and I, your master, was unable to provide it because you would neither ask nor accept… it is too much.

I bring the blade into last position, take three steps backwards and begin again.

Now there is nothing. No hope, no reason to go on, nothing to search for, nothing to give. I'm empty. I'm sore and I'm tired, with only shadows to offer, only memories to speak with. How am I supposed to live like that? I can not. Even the Living Force does not keep me company anymore. You are dead and with the Force. You are no longer even a faint and distant presence in this web of life I have served for longer than I can remember. You are lost to me. Lost. And with your passing, I am lost as well.

A flash of silver catches my eye, and I turn. Methos is standing in Eighth Position, his sword high above his head, well wide of the mark. I tsk at him, reach out and pull his elbows down and together. "Bend that knee," I mutter. He obeys. I turn from him and continue from Eighth.

My Master's Form. I taught it to your predecessor, but she is… well, tell her I said hello, if you meet up with her where you are. I taught it to you. You did well, for all that you had none of my height or reach to play it out. Your surety of the Force, your delicate and judicious use of it brought you through more often than not. No matter, you knew my Master's Form and that made you mine. Who will remember me when I am gone? What hand will pass my one creation on? It will die with me, and soon. I blame you, Xanatos, for in the end, you were the one who was unworthy of me. Completely, totally, and with no redemption for either of us.

And I knew this far too late.

A flick of cloth and I turn towards Methos again. "I said bend your knee, not fall over. Oh, for Force's sake."

I deactivate my lightsaber and step in behind him, bringing his hands up into Median. I bend, taking his knee in my hand, showing him the angle he will need, then slide his off-foot back to redistribute the weight. "Good, now forward, and side, and block…"

He's been watching, that much is obvious. He moves the blade like he was born with it in his hands and has worked it every day of his life. He's put together all wrong for this form, as you were, but something of his grace makes it his own. The Third Variation I mentally mark this alteration. He's no Jedi, not even with all the natural ability in the universe. But I will teach him this, that it might go on after me. Then, Xanatos, then there will be nothing you can take from me. Then I will be free to part myself from this flesh.

We are both of us trembling with exhaustion before I let us stop. He doesn't much seem to mind, just leads me back to the house and shoves me in the direction of the shower when we get there. There's a thick rug before the cold hearth, and I make myself comfortable there when he goes to wash himself. I think I fall asleep before he returns.

I wake up and am momentarily disoriented by my unfamiliar surroundings. I'm covered in my own cloak, so that's almost normal. There is something missing, though, and for a long moment I'm at a loss to identify it.

After a moment, I realize I am alone.

It has been years, long and life-filled years since I have woken up and found myself truly alone. Even after you left, I had your presence in the Force, so tightly bound to mine, taunting me and egging me on to strive harder, risk more, push further to escape you. Finally, your actions moved me to sever myself of even that comfort. You are gone, my Padawan. You are long gone and dissipated. You didn't even leave me a body to burn or bury. How vindictive is that?

With a shake and a grunt, I sit up and look around. Methos is gone, and it takes an effort to seek out his…peculiar presence in the luminous beings that are the villagers. He's there, among them, doing some kind of work. I can't begin to imagine what, so I get dressed and go to seek him out.

I find him sitting at a long table in the village square. There are dozens of people there, working and milling about, talking, laughing. I take a seat beside him and watch what he is doing. For the life of me, I can't figure out why he's here, why they're sitting in the sunlight and apparently playing with flowers.

A large pile of red blossoms is at his left elbow, between us. He picks one up and strips the leaves upwards. Then he takes up a needle and thread. With this he stitches the leaves together to make a green background for the bright red blossom. His quick, even stitches secure them in a firm bundle and he ties the thread off. Lastly, he snips the long stem away, leaving this simple arrangement in his hand. He looks up at me and smiles, brushing the petals along my cheek. The flower goes into a basket at his right elbow and he takes up another flower.

I watch him make two more, then gather my own needle and join him in their fashioning.

The sunlight is good on my face and hands while we work. I concentrate on what my hands are doing, not letting any thought disrupt my work. I've made a dozen or so when I realize his mind is not totally on the work at hand. His leg is pressed against mine under the table, and he is slowly stretching and drawing back, stroking his thigh and calf against mine. At first I think this must be some nervous tic of his, then he looks over at me and his eyes tell me differently. He opens his mouth to speak, and I brace myself for something invasive. He says "This basket's full. Take it to those girls over there."

I start to rise, but his hand falls on my arm and I freeze. His long, elegant fingers skate up my arm to cup the back of my neck, and he leans forward, brushing his lips against mine. "Go on, now."

I obey, a little stunned but not shaken. As I walk across the square, I realize everyone is in pairs, holding hands, sharing kisses and occasionally more. None of the pairs seem bound to one another. They splinter, regroup with others and break up again as individuals go about their work. I deliver my basket and am only mildly surprised to receive a half-dozen touches and kisses from the girls who receive them. I return to his side, confused and curious.

"Spring is here," he says, seeing the question in my eyes. "This is part of its welcoming."

I nod, accepting that and return to my work. As we sit together, his leg wraps around mine and he comes as close as he can without cramping our labors. To my surprise, I have no urge to stop him. Something in me says a rejection of that kind would be noticed here, and looked on unkindly by the populace.

When we have finished another basketful of flowers he gets up and stretches. "Come on, then. We've got to get those seeds in before nightfall."

I follow mutely behind him, away from watching eyes. It is a relief to finally be away from them, in the garden and working. Together, but no longer touching. I observe his planting procedure and copy his motions. He takes one step forward and mellows the ground with his hoe. A flip and the hoe-handle makes a divot in the earth. Three beans fall and the hoe scoops earth to cover them.

There's a rhythm to the work, a system that lets my mind go away and my body run on autopilot. I'm mesmerized by the hollows in the earth, those little receptacles of seeds. There used to be a place like that inside me, Xanatos. A place where I put my hope and my love, a fertile bed where patience and peace grew. It was from this place where I drew my strength and harvested the desire to go on teaching, go on fighting, go on working day after day, though the work of a Jedi is never done, and there are never enough hands to do it. That place is barren to in me now, because you called me enemy and sowed my soul with salt.

I glance up at Methos. He's humming some tune in his throat, a low and keening song. It calls to me images of green fields, wild cliffsides, crashing surf and the strength of men to live in a universe so seemingly devoid of reason and light. After a while, I find myself humming with him. Between us the planting is quickly done. As the sun begins to set, we return to his house.

"There's a party tonight. I'd like for you to come, if you will. I think you'll find it… quite interesting. Pleasurable, even, if you've a mind to let your current burdens go."

I nod and go to wash up. I make an effort to be presentable when I leave the bathroom. He points to the table and takes my place within. I go there and find a pair of garlands, one large one, clearly a necklace. The other is much smaller and it takes me a moment to realize it is a crown. I undo my hairband and place it upon my brow. Then I settle onto the thick hearthrug to meditate while Methos makes his own preparations.

When he returns he takes up his own garlands of waxy white flowers from where they lay upon the bed. He offers me his arm, which I accept with a tiny smile.

"Qui-Gon, I know you came here seeking death, and perhaps you've found that. In fact, I know you have. But let me show you something better…"

He leads me back to the village square to a scene of joyous mayhem.

Music fills the air and the square is filled with dancing people. Pairs and long chains, circles and groups, all dancing and singing together. "Come!" Methos cries. "Welcome to the Feast of Spring!"

We wade in, hand-in-hand and join one of the long lines of dancers. I follow him, at first out of resignation but that soon wears off. The music is lively and the night one of smiles and stolen kisses, not the place for my melancholy. I soon find myself laughing with them, dancing and singing, stopping to rest only when my host makes me. We spend some time eating from the buffet and drinking of some heady local brew. He feeds me some particularly choice tidbits with his fingers and that amuses me to no end. I follow his example, then drag him out for more dancing.

This interaction does not go unnoticed.

As we stomp and spin our way through one of the circle-groups, I hear someone call "Methos! You'd better rest him off a bit! You'll not want him too tired for the fields!"

He laughs at the catcall and spins me all the faster, showing off, I suppose. I let go my curiosity and focus on his presence. Warm, alive, strong and friendly. More than friendly if I can give those glances any weight, and not just the looks he's sending my way. Once or twice I see those sharp eyes warn others away from my side. It occurs to me that he's keeping me quite to himself, that he seems to want something from me. That thought is, somehow, a comfort. I've spent so long being needed, being part of something greater than myself, that his seeming interest is more than welcome.

You see, there has been no one and nothing to fill the space you left at my side, Xanatos. I wouldn't even know how to start looking, to be honest. It isn't something I've put a lot of thought into. Methos' hand slips down my back and rests comfortably on my right buttock. I can't imagine why I haven't thought of this before now.

I don't know how long we dance and laugh together, but as the evening wears on I notice couples and groups quietly slipping away from the warm company of the square. I don't pause to wonder where they're going, but eventually I find out. Or at least, I get enough information so as to make an informed guess.

At the end of a song, Methos simply puts an arm around my waist and leads me away, tugging in the direction of his garden.

The dark is still and silent once we get away from the village proper. The full moons wash the night in silvery splendor, and the soft illumination lends my companion a timeless air. He steps over the low stone wall that surrounds the larger section of the garden and steps carefully between the low mounds and rows of planting. "We'll go to the bean patch. I've something there for you," he whispers.

Bemused, I follow the tugging of his hand. By now, I'm almost ready for what we find there. By now, I'm almost eager.

He stops at the edge of the area we have worked and planted together and picks something up off the ground. He turns to me, holding it out. I take it and smile at him. My host is nothing if not prepared. I return the bottle of wine, asking "Will you?"

He nods and takes it from me. We settle down on the ground, back to back, and begin passing the bottle between us. We say nothing, just rest and drink and let the moment still into our bones. After a time he says "You don't have to, you know. Tradition says we sleep here tonight. Nothing dictates what we do to pass the time."

"Would you rather I left you alone?" I ask. "I don't want to interrupt anything…"

His fingers catch my wrist as I pass the bottle back to him. "I want you here. You're welcome, more than welcome. Something tells me you've gone some time without being welcome and wanted by anyone."

I sigh. "It is the life I chose."

"Really? This life you have, it's what you wanted?"

I laugh once. "Why is it you make me want to talk? Why is it so hard for me to keep my secrets to myself around you?"

"Because I want to listen."

I shiver. "Of course." The bottle comes back to me and I partake. After a moment I put the wine aside and take a deep breath. "Not now."

I reach out to the Force to enhance my speed, then spin around and straddle Methos' hips. The surprise is plain on his eyes; clearly he didn't even feel me move, much less see how I was able to pin him so neatly to the soft ground. His dark hair is almost indiscernible against the earth beneath him, his skin is all shadow. When he speaks, it is as quiet as the passing breeze. "The seeds are life, Qui-Gon."

I lean forward, my hair just brushing his face. The flowers scent the air between us, thickly, fragrant newness of the spring. "The soil is renewal," I whisper.

"All you ever had to do was ask…"

My mouth seals over his, hard and demanding. His hands are working between us, opening my tunics and pushing them away. Loose petals fall on his face as I sit back to free my arms. He laughs, batting them away and reaching for his own clothes. I slip off him and it becomes a race as to who can get naked the fastest. He's quick, but I'm quicker. When he tackles me I am in nothing but flowers and moonlight, bare to the sky and earth around me. We tumble over and over, and I don't know if I'm trying to lose or win this struggle. Our laughter twines, then our mouths and his cock is a hot stone between us, as is mine.

When we come to a halt he is above me and I wrap my legs around him, laughing still. My hands are greedy, devouring his strong biceps and the velvety skin of his throat, the rough pebbles of his nipples, making him growl a little, between laughs. He recovers quickly, a slow smile creeps across his face. Slow as the sunset his fingers wander across my flesh, dipping into my navel, tracing the scars and muscles along my torso as if curious, or blind. He tugs at the hair upon my chest, then twines his fingers into the garland of roses still hanging around my neck. I'm startled to realize my crown has stayed on my hair, as his flowers have stayed on his. Then he grips the necklace and pulls, snapping the threads that hold them together. They come apart and fall around me, their heady perfume thickening on my senses.

He raises his double handful of blossoms to himself and crushes them in his fingers. A thin trickle of fluid seeps down, baptizing his tumescent penis. His hands open slowly and the mangled petals fall upon me. His hands follow, spreading the fragrant pulp across my abdomen and chest. His lips brush my eyelids and cheeks as he whispers "Let us bring new life into the earth. Let the spring be in us, and make us new again."

The words have a ritual tone to them, falling like stones into the still pool of this evening. I open myself to the Living Force once more, that web of energy that has given my existence such rich and beautiful meaning, for longer than I can honestly recall. His hands turn me under his spread legs and I go willingly, resting my cheek against the soft soil. The Force is burning in me, flowing up from the planet I'm lying on, from the seeds under the surface of it, from the man holding me to it, flowing into my being and making this place a haven. I dig my fingers and toes into the soft soil, literally grounding myself to this place and the moment we are sharing. Moist pulp is being spread across my back and I breath in the scent of the garden, the flowers, Methos, his musk, the tension of my body and the fragrance of my desire. I exhale, releasing regret, pain, suffering, anger, fear and the aching bitterness that has filled me for so very, very long. It is as if a festering wound within my being has been lanced and the illness runs out from me.

I let it go, giving it up to the Force, purging myself, letting my soul be cleansed and emptied, a hollow place in the universe, ready for the planting. Life and living comes into me again, as a soothing balm to heal the pain away. A new scent catches my attention and I turn my head to see what it is. Methos is drawing a bundle of his waxy, white blossoms across my shoulders. He's smiling at me, asking me, wanting me and this and us together. He leans closer, that smile still tugging his lips upwards. It is the most enticing thing I've seen in a long time and I decide it needs to be kissed. I think he would have said something then, but my lips and tongue prevent him.

Within moments there are no more words. He presses a red flower into my right hand and a white one into my left. The white one smells… clean, pure, calming. The red is erotic and free. "The jshardan has an oil to it…that is the traditional…" Methos is trying to explain something but I'm not listening. My eyes are locked onto the pale glow of the moonlight on the flowers. His fingers and lips smooth along my spine and I let myself settle in on the ground, shifting until I'm cradled there, like a living thing once more. His fingers part my buttocks, gently and with great reverence to my being. I sigh, let my legs slip apart and allow myself to give in, to not resist, to be this person in this place with no regrets or any thought, just the serene beauty of this touch, this place, this moment.

His finger slides in, perfectly gentle and perfectly welcome. I sigh, letting my hips roll back towards him. He is kissing my shoulders, stretched out against me while his fingers work me open. I'm pierced, transfixed by the sensation, transformed by the act, and I'm murmuring blessings in every language I know. There have been few times in my life when pleasure held meaning. This is the first time for me that meaning has caused pleasure. Oh, and such pleasure, this opening, the nudge of his fingertips within me as I yield further to his preparations. He strokes lightly against my prostate and, although I am fully aware of the physiological reasons behind the sensations, the experience of them is nonetheless a rather powerful surprise. I cry out, fists closing over flowers and dirt, hips lifting and dropping, twice, quickly, and he's whispering, making soothing sounds just beside my ear. I turn towards that sound and groan "More. Again…"

And he's covering me with his body, kneeling between my thighs and guiding his cock to my open, willing flesh. The initial entry is shocking and hot, then soothing as he lies still against me. A breath, a handful of heartbeats and he moves again, smoothly forward and into me. His hands grip my hips firmly, pulling me up and back. I go, digging my toes into the loam and resting my forehead on the ground. My hands are still gripping where they have sunk, and there is nothing but life and light around me, even here in this dark garden.

When he begins to thrust in earnest, the pleasure is a near-palpable thing. The slide and push of his hips against my backside are a vibrant echo of the shaft that drives within me. His hands leave my hips and slide down around me, taking my shaft into his hands. His palm is hot, spurring me to higher plains of fulfillment as he strokes my cock in rhythm with his thrusting. I don't even try to move, content to simply be and breathe, gasping out my approval with every sensation he creates in me. He kisses my back, lapping at me and I push up onto my knees, leaning back to sit firmly upon his cock. My head falls back upon his shoulders and I let my eyes drift open to gaze up at the moons and stars. They seem to move as I rock upon his body, taking and being taken, giving and being given unto in a symbiotic exchange of energy and desire. His hand never pauses its generous ministrations, his other arm wraps around my chest to steady me. I let my arms fall to my sides, vaguely registering the flowers I still grip. I turn my eyes to look upon him and realize our crowns of flowers are still with us. Laughter bubbles up within me at the image we create, a pair of satyrs marking the return of whatever god we worship.

At the sound of my laughter he redoubles his efforts, laughing with joy and pleasure as his hips tremble under me. Like a wave of purest water my orgasm spills out of me and I laugh fuller, deeper, louder to the stars, blinded and seeing all, as if for the first time.

After a moment he lays me down upon the ground once more. A fleeting moment of cool air around me, then he's curling up at my back, pulling a cloth over us. Perspiration is cooling on me and the breeze makes me shiver. He pulls me closer to him and I turn, resting my head against his chest. We're both streaked with dirt which has quickly turned to mud on our slick, flower-scented bodies. I close my eyes, trying to focus on what it is I'm feeling. With a sigh and a smile I give it a name, then sleep easy in my contentment.

I awoke muddy, sore, and very, very amused at myself. It had been a long time since I had allowed myself to become involved, truly involved with a ritual of this type. It would seem I was long overdue, if the peace, joy and contentment in which I wake is any indication. It actually takes me a few minutes to remember that my heart is broken; that because of my actions you have joined to the Force.

Methos is still spooned behind me, his presence a warm delight at my back. My head faces the sunrise, and I watch as slowly the sun rises over the edge of the cliffs I tried to fly off of the other day. My grief is now an echoing emptiness in my soul which allows me to relax and contemplate nothing but the warmth at my face and the warmth at my back. The absence of active anguish is actually quite pleasant. Perhaps I can live with numbness after all.

As the sun rises, so does my companion, stirring and muttering. His arms, still wrapped tightly around me, tense momentarily then loosen. He sits up scrubbing his face with his hand and unconsciously rubbing the mud deeper into his cheekbones. Watching him, I have to chuckle, and he raises an eyebrow at me.

"What?"

"Nothing. You are enchanting covered with mud," I say, rolling onto my back with a slight groan.

He chuckles. "I'm sure I'm no better than you. We should bathe… there's a bathhouse in the village that will be waiting specifically for the aftereffects of the rite, if you'd like to accompany me."

Hot water in large tubs? "I think you would have to fight to keep me away," I say, smiling. "Thank you for last night."

Standing, he holds out his hand to me and helps me to my feet. "The pleasure was mine, Jedi. Trust me." As I stand he brushes a kiss on my lips, then hands me my robe while wrapping the well worn quilt that covered us last night about himself. The day is already warm, and will probably become quite hot, but a hot bath to wash away the mud…

Not to mention that the word `bathhouse' means I'll not be bathing alone, probably.

I follow him to the village, noting that although we are not the first up, we are among the first. Apparently the festival kept going after we left, and there are little piles of revelers sleeping it off in various corners. As these are in various states of undress, I do not feel at all uncomfortable in my own lack of clothes.

The bathhouse is a large, low slung building. It is divided into rooms, and each room holds a large wooden tub filled with steaming water, plus a primitive shower to divest oneself of the worst of the dirt before soaking. Since it's apparent these tubs will be shared, the shower is a good idea, even if the water is icy cold.

But the hot water more than makes up for it. The tub is even deep enough for me and it feels wonderful. I feel the last of my despair fade as I sink, allowing myself to submerge completely for a time. Laughing at me, Methos copies my movement, then we both sit back and allow our feet to twine companionably under the water.

How you would have appreciated this, my Xani. You were ever the fastidious one, always complaining when we were stuck on missions where the bathing was less than frequent. Isn't it odd now; I can think of you without that stabbing agony in my heart. Perhaps this strange man, this Methos of the ancient eyes, perhaps he has helped me in spite of myself. Despite all I have done to prevent it.

I am so relaxed I don't even resent his eventual questioning. Force but the man is persistent. I wonder, is that the way I am? Could it be that I am drawn to him because his personality is so like mine? I thought that opposites attracted…certainly we were opposites, Xani. You were all cool elegance and I was, I was… not. Not at the end of things, especially.

"I suppose this is hardly luxury for you, Qui-Gon," he is sighing as he slips deeper into the fragrant bubbling water. "You are probably used to marble tubs with electrum handles."

My eyes are closed but I smile at his picture. "No, this beats any marble tub I've ever soaked in. The situation determines the reality, Methos. I was dirty, cold, and a bit sore… now I am clean, warm and intensely relaxed. This is luxury."

"So, then, is this the way you imagined your life to be? In a wooden tub on a backwater planet?"

"No, my life isn't what I thought it would be. It is what it is. That is the way of things."

"Really? Then what were you doing out at the cliffs? What really happened to you? It's not this thing with your ex-student. That, you have a grip on. You're grieving, and that's good… but the rest of it…"

I sigh and let my head fall back on the edge of the tub. "I have nothing to return to, except the endless years of a Jedi Master who must dance to the tune of the Council. It is not enough. It can't possibly be enough to make my life as full and complete as I want it to be. I am done, Methos. I am empty of all that made my calling rich and beautiful. That, really, is what brought me here. I slew my last student and felt absolutely nothing at all."

There is long silence between us before he answers. When he does speak, his words surprise me. "If I'd known you'd gotten that far down into yourself… I might not have pulled you out, Jedi. I suppose that's why our little green friend didn't mention it. Or perhaps he honestly didn't know. Sometimes it's hard to tell, with him. In any event… I see your point."

This was absolutely the last thing I expected to hear out of him. "But why? I thought this was what you did…"

He held up a hand, forestalling me. "I do this because it needs to be done, now and then. But in your case… I would not condemn even a Jedi Master to living a life with no purpose and no beauty. That is a sorrow I can not heal for you, and I would not have tried to, had I understood the case."

The tiny shoots of hope that had sprouted overnight within me began to wither. "Then what can I do? Go back to the cliffs and have another go?"

"Of course not. I have learned other things, since we met, that may be of use to you. I understand the barrenness of what you feel, truly I do. I've seen it before, in many places. You are here now, and empty. That is my fault. I have some suggestions, but the choice, of course, must be your own."

I nod, willing to listen. But his words seem to veer sharply off subject when he speaks again.

"Behind my house is where I place the refuse of living. Dead and dying plants, that kind of thing. Organic stuff, you see. It sits there, decaying and aging until, after a period of time, I can take it to the garden and lay it over barren soil. In this way I add to the earth that which is needed for the seeds to grow."

It is so very like the kinds of puzzles I've been handed by the Order over the years that my mind automatically begins pulling it apart and working on it. Metaphor and simile were always wonderful teachers, and it's so simple, so very plain, like so much that has guided me throughout my life. But it is also a lesson the Jedi would never have handed me. The philosophy of the Order is so much about emptying and surrendering. This is about beginning again, and creating newness out of destruction. My heart is ready for the lesson.

Methos has gotten out of the tub while I was thinking, and I follow his example. We do not speak until we are both dried and dressed in simple clothes that we find on shelves in the bath house. As we walk back to his house I ask, "If I am the barren earth and Xanatos the compost, is my duty to the Order my seed? Because I can not think it will grow well in me, now."

Methos smiles a little, but shakes his head no. "I think you have grown that as much as is right. There are other things that need tending, now, Master Jinn."

The door to his house opens and a familiar green figure stands there, calmly waiting. I can hardly claim to be surprised. But then the door is pulled more widely open and another diminutive figure joins him. Obi-Wan Kenobi. "What is he doing here?" I ask out of the corner of my mouth.

"Haven't the faintest," Methos replies, but I'm not so old that I buy that one.

I approach the door with my spine as straight as I can make it, my hands folded correctly in front of my body even if I haven't the sleeves to hide them at the moment. I bow to both Master Yoda and the boy. "Good day to you both," I say.

They bow in return, and Obi-Wan makes a little hop, as if he has been ungently nudged forward. I am familiar with the motion and make no comment. The boy throws one slightly panicked glance in Yoda's direction, then says "I've come to thank you, Master Jinn, for what you did. And to tell you that I've been made to understand that my return to the Temple was a temporary, emergency measure. I wasn't chosen this time, either. The Council thought you might not have known, and I wanted to tell you myself." He shrugs one shoulder, clearly not understanding why this is so important. Clearly not understanding why he is important right now.

I direct my gaze at Yoda, trying to stare him down, trying to will him to see that he is making a mistake by sending this boy away. But Yoda's eyes are just as steady as mine, and clearly say You are the one making the mistake, Master Jinn.

I look at Methos then. His face is the passive, eyes-down picture of a hundred civilians I have seen over the years. Silently he stands by as Jedi make decisions that might affect the lives of millions. Or perhaps just the lives of two.

"You have every right in the world to return to the Temple, Padawan Kenobi," I reply. "Now, gather my things and we'll go back together."

His face betrays nothing, and he is perfectly calm as he turns to get my possessions from Methos' home. But through the Force I feel all the joy and laughter of a child spring up in him, and I want him beside me. Want to feel that warmth and love again. When he returns, I bow again to Yoda, and then to Methos, saying I will return my borrowed clothes soon. Neither replies, and we set off, my student and I. I turn back once, but the two of them have disappeared, probably into the house. I raise my hand in salute to the pair, glad in my own small, still-hurting way that I have that much kindness in my life. Goodbye, Methos. May we never meet again, if your life is this.

May the Force be with you.