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Stoicheia 1 - Copper

by Tem-ve H'syan (tem-ve@gmx.de)

"He gave you _money_?"

The reddish-blond head bobbed, slightly awkwardly under Garen's round-eyed gaze.

"Let me get this straight. You got actual Republic credits..."

"Yes."

"From your Master..."

"Yes."

"Qui-Gon Jinn..."

"Yes, silly. You know who my Master is -- you've had almost a year to get used to the idea, no?"

Garen's grin continued to spread unabated until Obi-Wan was sure it would split his face in half. "Your Master gave you... how much?"

"Twenty."

Bushy brown eyebrows jumped in pleased surprise. "Master Jinn gave you twenty credits... for _that_?" Garen's hand, awkwardly large compared to the rest of his adolescent body, fisted in his friend's thick hair, irreverently tugging on a reddish strand that reached almost to the boy's chin.

Obi-Wan shrugged, failing to see what was so special about it. "Maybe he doesn't like doing it himself."

"More like he doesn't know how to," Garen grinned, reluctantly letting go of Obi-Wan's luxuriant mop and running an awkward hand over his own Padawan buzz, so short that his scalp peeked through. "Given his own mane that sounds pretty right, doesn't it? Mind, there's droids for this kind of stuff nowadays -- maybe Master Jinn just hasn't been told about that yet?"

Obi-Wan gave his friend a good-natured stub on the nose. "Or maybe he doesn't want me ending up looking like you, Muln? You look like a droid's been at your hair all right. How'd you keep it from chopping your braid off?"

Garen smiled a tight little smile. "Guess you can count yourself lucky for having such an impractical Master, Obi. So he's sending you out of Temple to get your hair cut by a _hairdresser_?"

Obi-Wan nodded, and automatically swiped the stray dark-blond strand out of his eyes. "So what's the deal -- coming along?"

Garen remained silent for a moment, and Obi-Wan was just about to nudge his friend out of what must have been a spontaneous Force trance when Garen's hand caught his wrist. "I've got a better idea, Kenobi. Far better. How would you like spending the 20 credits at the Er'tin Darium?"

"And come back long-haired? Forget it, Muln. He may be a mop-head himself, but Qui... Master Jinn would notice the difference. Hairdresser it is, Garen... but we can always go to the Er'tin just to look..."

"Kenobi?"

"Yeah?"

"I think your brain needs ventilating." The hand was in his hair again, ruffling the thick long strands Obi-Wan admitted he was going to miss. "I promise I'll take care of that, right? My word. Trust me, Obi. Let's have a good time, eh?"

"The Er'tin?"

"Sure."

The twenty credits had gone in an instant, an instant of childish bliss, Obi-Wan had to admit. The Er'tin Darium was paradise in the shape of a store -- at least for Force-sensitives. Not content with simply offering a selection of goods or services, the Er'tin Darium was a sensation emporium, holding within its disorganised ceiling-high shelves every conceivable diversion a Jedi could crave.

There were stories of any kind -- some written in ink characters on various formats of paper, some stored in ordinary portable datacubes, some revered and near-mythical, others light and amusing, others still interactive, allowing the reader's mind to weave into the novel and re-write it. There were plants and assorted vegetative life forms from all over the galaxy that could loosely be classified as plants, or at least had been classified so by Customs, otherwise how would they have ended up on Coruscant? Trailing vines, feather-like brown growths exuding a palpable serenity, or large greedy-looking red flowers that oozed a glistening slime on to their decorative pots and filled the air with a heady scent.

There were clothes, catering not so much to an individual's vanity as to their desire to be someone else -- costumes, outlandish clothing of rare and exotic beauty, and occasionally rare, but still exotic, ugliness. Obi-Wan had heard that Knight Vaurt made occasional well-concealed forays into the Er'tin Darium when unusual ambassadorial garb was called for and even she could not get hold of some material through the usual temple channels. The vibrant silks were mesmerising, the deep blues and greens burning into Obi-Wan's eyes and tingling on his fingertips.

There were crystals, rocks, metals of every conceivable shape, colour and texture, treasures from the mines far offworld or simple samples of basic planetography. What looked like a gem here on Coruscant, glittering in pale bluish grey, was an ordinary piece of rock to the inhabitants of Eterau m Hekle, or so he'd overheard the shopkeeper say in a quiet moment. The entire planet was made up of this glorious semi-translucent rock, and he caught himself wondering what Coruscant itself was composed of, beneath all the layers of city. Maybe there's no planet left underneath, he thought, or maybe the core is all hollowed out because they've used up all the metal to build the surface from. Maybe it used to be full of rocks like the one he had picked up off one of the lower shelves and was weighing curiously in his hand, surprised at its heaviness.

It wasn't a rock, it was a piece of metal, crude but beautiful, a reddish twisted lump littered with what looked like the imprints of bubbles, small perfectly rounded pits on the surface. It gave the impression of having been melted once, and never quite having lost its heat. Carefully, Obi-Wan scanned his credit chip over the tiny price tag, and sighed. Forty-five credits was well beyond his reach, even with the twenty credits Qui-Gon had given him...

"Obi! You've got to see this! Come here!"

Obi-Wan dropped the rock back on to the shelf and jogged towards where Garen's voice was coming from, high with either exhilaration or laughter. Behind a large stack of crates, the other Padawan was standing half-undressed, clutching something undefinable and green to his chest. No, undefinable and brown. Or was it? Before he'd even looked Garen in the eye, his hand had darted out to touch the sensuous fabric, soft and velvety and warm, slightly elastic and a deep seaweed green one moment, then a warm brown the colour of his Master's robe the next, depending on the light.

"What is that, Garen?"

"Your new shirt, if you ask me. Try it!"

Hardly able to take his hands off the soft material, Obi-Wan cast a hasty glance around himself before shrugging out of his tunics and pulling the thing over his head. It clung to his skin tightly, sensuously, and when his head emerged from the low elastic stand-up collar, he found Garen gone. Adjusting the long sleeves and smoothing the glorious velvet over his chest, he looked around.

"Garen?"

"Over here, Kenobi. There's a mirror here."

Curious, Obi-Wan wandered over to the mirror. Yes. Oh yes. The moment he'd set eyes on himself in the tight green/brown top he knew he could not possibly take it off again. He felt... he felt gloriously roguish in it, the long hair and the revealing tight shirt such a contrast to the good little Padawan he was used to seeing. He could almost imagine himself impressing girls looking like that. If only he knew any girls that wanted to be impressed... they weren't all too hot on fourteen-year-old Padawans for all he knew... which wasn't much.

Garen's amused chuckle woke him out of his reverie. "It's on sale, Obi. Seventeen. I vote for buying it, hm?"

Obi-Wan's grin told him there as no convincing that needed to be done.

He'd given the remaining three credits to Garen who had been all secretive about buying something 'nice' for Obi-Wan with the money... he'd let it lie, still elated about his new purchase, though a slight coil of worry was beginning to move in his stomach about the still-uncut state of his hair. "So what's the rest of your great plan, Garen... about my hair?"

"Easy, Kenobi. I'll take care of that."

"You? You can cut hair?" Obi-Wan had stopped short at the bottom of the wide stairs leading up to the Temple side entrance. "You don't look much like it..."

"Well, d'oh! Nobody can cut their _own_ hair, Kenobi. Or have you ever seen a hairdresser do it to himself? Just relax, right... I'll have you looking the proper Padawan in no time. In fact... sit down, will you?"

Puzzled, Obi-Wan sat down on the stairs, narrowly avoiding a grimy patch of moss on what was obviously a little-used side of the stairway. Only when Garen fumbled a short knife from his utility belt did Obi-Wan realise that the cutting was going to happen here, and now. "Um... you sure about this, Garen?"

"'Course. Outdoors is the best place to do it -- no mess, you see?"

Praying that the 'mess' referred purely to his cut-off hair, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and acquiesced while Garen briskly set to work with his knife. It didn't hurt, that much could be said. Must be a sharp knife, Obi-Wan thought as he felt the soft slide of cut hair down his neck and shoulders.

"He doesn't ask for a Knight's tail yet, does he?"

"Master? No, no he doesn't..."

"Good. Because it would be to short for that now... smile."

"Smile?"

"Yeah. So I can see which side your smile lies. Ah, right."

"What _are_ you doing, Muln?"

"Just a touch of asymmetry. You'll love it, Obi. Your hair's made for it, and you'll be the coolest-looking Padawan around. Besides, you'll look like you've actually _been_ to a twenty-credit hairdresser and not some silly droid!"

When Garen sheathed his little knife and brushed the small pile of dark-blonde locks off the stairs, Obi-Wan was half-terrified and half grateful at the complete absence of mirrors. Running a careful hand through his hair, he felt no obvious irregularities though. The left side was noticeably longer than the right, a thick strand sweeping across the middle parting he'd always had by default, tickling his forehead.

"You look terminally cool, Kenobi. Why the hell did I do this for you again?" Garen grinned, then pulled Obi-Wan along behind him by one wrist. "Come on, you're not done yet. To the Garden of Fountains with you!"

Obi-Wan watched in puzzled amazement as Garen tapped some water out of one of the warm springs into what used to be a bird-bath, then added a little pile of greenish powder which, Obi-Wan realised, came out of an Er'tin Darium bag. So that was his little surprise...?

"You'll look like you've been to see a real professional, Obi. This will just bring out your natural red highlights a bit..."

"Um, Garen?"

"Yes?"

"You act like a real hairdresser."

"So?"

"You know what they say about hairdressers, right?"

"What?"

"That they... like boys... and stuff?" Obi-Wan squirmed in embarrassment, not entirely sure himself why he'd brought up the subject.

"But I like boys. Well, I like you and Reeft and Chennai, even though he acts a bit of a girl sometimes... what's wrong with that?"

Flushed, Obi-Wan murmured something noncommittal, now totally embarrassed. It wasn't like he knew anything about liking boys or girls anyway really, beyond the theory. He'd had these dreams, but... he gave a little squeak as something thick and warm slapped on to the crown of his skull, oozing down slowly while Garen's hands worked the stuff into his hair and all the way down his braid, curled on top of his head for the purpose.

It looked like mud, slightly greenish mud, the colour of his new shirt if that thing were to decide to be one colour only. It was fragrant -- not exactly a pleasant smell, but not a hardship either. A thick, murky earthy smell of plant life and swamps.

Garen washed his hands clean under the spray of the hot fountain. "Right. That's got to stay in for... oh, half an hour I would say. It'll be near dry anyway then, and we can wash it out. Care for a game of sabacc?"

Miraculously, nobody had disturbed the two Padawans in their garden retreat while they were engaged in a fierce battle of wills and cards. Well, they had downtime this afternoon, but still -- the quiet was almost disquieting.

"Suits me -- we can wash it right out here in the garden. Saves me having to clean up Master's 'fresher afterwards... I'm sure the Fountains Garden doesn't mind an additional bit of brown goo!"

With that, Garen unceremoniously dunked Obi-Wan's head under the warm spray, briskly rubbing the spluttering Padawan's head until the water ran clear. Swearing good-naturedly, Obi-Wan groped for his robe and rubbed his short crop dry, then gazed expectantly at Garen.

Garen was smiling. But his eyes were very round. Very.

Obi-Wan stared at the damp spot on his robe. What was wrong? He ran a hand through his hair -- it felt right, smooth and damp, a slight trickle of water down his braid... his braid.

He held the tip between two fingers and stared.

"Garen!!"

The other Padawan looked sheepish. "I guess it was a little too strong for you... you see, on my hair it just about... brings.. out the ... highlights..."

Obi-Wan threw his head back, not sure whether to laugh or to assault Garen bodily.

"You mean I'm supposed to go back to my Master looking to all the world like... like a Jedi _carrot_?"

Garen fidgeted a little, professional pride ostensibly hurt. "It's copper, a shade of copper, Obi-Wan... and _I_ think it really suits you..."

But Obi-Wan had already left the garden at a run, desperately in search of the nearest mirror.

"And you really thought I'd punish you for that, Padawan?" Qui-Gon's voice sounded amused, and, to Obi-Wan's great relief, not the slightest bit upset over the creative misuse of twenty credits. "I'd like to think your current hair colour is punishment enough -- even your blush pales by comparison, Obi-Wan, and that's saying quite a lot right now," the amused chuckle again. "Besides," the Master grinned widely, "why do you think I give any sort of hairdresser such a wide berth myself?"

"Umm... I don't know, Master," Obi-Wan muttered, bright crimson, his Padawan braid an orange... no, copper flame down his pristine cream tunics.

"I was a Padawan too once, you know... it was my own money at the time, and the salon claimed to be working to the highest standards, but... well, their staff weren't as good at reading as they were at sweet-talking innocent young Jedi into trying out novel hair-care products..."

Obi-Wan's bright red face lit up in a slow grin. "You were..."

Qui-Gon sighed theatrically. "I came home properly shorn and Knight-tailed, sporting an accurate crop and a neatly redone braid... all of it in livid algae green."

Obi-Wan hit the floor laughing, which wasn't hard seeing as he'd been sitting at his Master' feet anyway, prepared for ritual punishment.

"Oh, my Master wasn't pleased to see it at all -- though Grandmaster kept telling me he found it extremely appealing, and that I should stick to it..."

"Mas... hahaha... Master Yoda?"

"Him and Yaddle both. For a while, Master referred to us as the Green Monster Alliance, the nemesis of his poor life, and all that... and I was eighteen at the time so you can imagine how much green braid there was to grow out. I still had a green tip at my Knighting..."

"And you... you haven't cut your hair ever since, right?"

"Wrong -- but I cut it myself these days. Not much to get wrong when it's all one length. Though, looking at you, my dear Padawan, to save us both some embarrassment and cash... I might just try my hand at carrot-cutting next time."

"Copper!" Obi-Wan howled in relieved laughter. "It's copper. Garen says so!"

"Of course it is, Padawan. Wish there had been a flattering metal to go with the colour that graced my head for longer than I care to remember..."

"What did they call yours, then?"

"Not so much the colour as the bearer, Padawan." A slight crinkle of amusement framed those impossibly blue eyes. A blue that would totally clash with any shade of green, Obi-Wan thought absent-mindedly.

"And you were...?"

"Padawan Qui-Gon 'Weedbraid' Jinn."