JAOA: Structured Forms
by Gail Riordan (wander@dnai.com)
Characters-Rating: Q/O - PG-13
Category: AU, Drama
Summary: A moment of illumination is only useful if you do
something with it.
Warnings: No sex. References to an ongoing m/m relationship.
Lots of introspection, internal analysis.
Archive: m_a, SWAL, WWOMB and JAOA - anybody else just ask.
Feedback: YES please! It keeps my plot bunnies fed and healthy.
Notes: Many thanks to Black Rose for letting me play, and to
both her and Divinia for comments, inspiration & help. This
story follows 'Coming Home'. There are more notes at the end.
[This is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/.
/Memory or lines that persist in the head, thought in
italics/
Ambiance: Anton Bruckner - Symphony 3; Amberwolf; Shostakovich
- Symphony 5; Prokofiev - Romeo & Juliet, (SFS & MTT
recording on RCA)
Disclaimer: George Lucas is god and owns everything... except
this weird permutation which is just for fun and I doubt he'd
want it. All JAOA-specific things belong to Black Rose. The
poem & Talanth belong to me.
JAOA Page:
http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/garden/jaoa.html
JAOA: Structured Forms
Year of the Republic 24,985
Gail Riordan, 1999
wander@dnai.com
This was the door; not his usual practice room (though it bid
fair to become so), deep in the Temple, quiet and private.
Qui-Gon put a hand to the panel, lips pressed straight at the
faint tremble in his fingers - nerves? tiredness? - as he
tested the Force. The room was empty, unused. Had quite
possibly not been used since he and Obi-Wan had left it
previously. With a little sigh and a gathering of resolution he
tapped the touchplate and the door hissed open. The room was
dim, the light strengthening as he entered. Carefully, he
locked the door and set the shielding as high as it would go.
/Do what you can, not what you think you ought to be
able to do./
It had only been a week, but Obi-Wan and a freshly outfitted
Anakin were off again, a fact-finding mission of the tedious
kind. Obi-Wan's organization and comfortable understanding of
structure would be a better match for both Anakin's current
spate of 'what' and 'how' questions (not to mention his
restless, adolescent energy), and the detailed,
precedent-dependent, politically charged minutia of the task
than his own intuitive, broad and immediate awareness of life
and the Living Force would be. It was one of the few types of
mission he did not mind not having to do. Qui-Gon sighed. He
might not miss the mission, but the absence of Obi-Wan and
Anakin never failed to be less than a physical ache, outwardly
denied, inwardly suffered.
/Enough. They are beyond your present reach, if not your care.
Let it go. They will return. Believe it./ A measured,
perpetually shortened breath. /Keep your attention in the here
and now, where it belongs. Master Jinn./ This place,
this task, this moment.
It was the same space as before, but his intention was
different, the task the one his Padawan-turned-Master had set:
the first two Forms. Begin again, because you can, because
you need it. Unbidden, a line of poetry presented
itself. /'The corner of the circle do I stand'./
The practice floor was indeed circular, with a little raised
triangular afterthought at the door and three more arranged
around the circle, almost but not quite squaring it. Places to
put one's gear, or sparring weapons not currently in hand, to
sit and observe off of the floor proper.
With deliberation he stripped down to loose practice trousers,
folding each discarded garment neatly, ritually. The memory of
Obi-Wan doing likewise with quick elegance warmed him briefly,
but he put the thought aside. /Here and now./ /Perceiving
both the shadow and the light/
Here and now appeared to contain a great deal he had not
allowed himself to examine too closely. Living in the absolute
instant was no problem (unless clinging too closely to the most
narrow definition of 'now' was the problem). Why was a
broader, more inclusive 'here and now' so difficult? As easy a
breathing, usually, before. /Ah, but breath, breathing is no
longer so simple, is it?/
He had endured, but not really accepted the endless hours
struggling with his body's conviction that it was suffocating.
When, outwardly silenced, breathed-for, helpless on total
life-support, the here and now had been nigh unendurable; held
on to, moment by tiny moment, by the promise that it would not
always be so, by the voices of Obi-Wan and - soon enough -
Anakin speaking through the Force, encouraging him to speak
back. Someone had brought him a pot-plant, (Anakin, aided and
abetted by Yoda, though he hadn't known it at the time) a thing
of gnarled trunk and graceful, feathery leaves. It sat in the
midst of all the medical detritus of the early days of his
recovery and convalescence and just breathed in its own
plant-like way - reaching out to the light, resting in the
shadow - a simple living thing. That plant was still in their
quarters. Anakin had named it, unaccountably, 'Threep'.
He had known then, in that pain, that breathing could
still be simple, would be again. When had he forgotten that? A
snort, half amusement, half derision. /Probably under the eyes
and hands of the physical therapists./ The oh so cautious
healers and medical technicians whose well-meaning voices and
helpful techniques and so carefully demanding exercises and
cautions and worries had drowned - he had allowed to drown -
the quiet, Forceful voice of the plant.
A sigh, drawn brows and a wry grimace aimed at himself. /So. I
have allowed mere discomfort to rule me more than I ever did
distress./ Air did move, was moving, simply, easily, in and out
of his chest, steady, even, meditative breaths. /In what else
have I allowed fear, discomfort - or more insidious, the
expectation of discomfort or fear to rule me?/ And make that a
question merely, only a question, a means to seek and gather
data, not an accusation twinned with fear, or anger, or even
expectation. Just a question.
While he had not been paying attention, his body had worked out
a balance between the presences and absences, the vital and
inert spaces within. No longer an unconsidered richness, a
volume and capacity thoughtlessly available, trained and
matched to his height and strength, breath was now a more
slender resource, to be husbanded, encouraged, spent with care
and not wasted. No longer, ever, unconsidered. But not so
slender that it could not meet his need, his will, stretch to
meet his desire; nor yet so well considered and mapped in truth
that greater capacity or strength might not be found and
encouraged. A balance of asymmetries. New dynamics to explore,
rather than rage against.
Another question - what could he do, not 'what could he
not'? Recognize, consider, acknowledge and let go. Let go.
/Let go./
Anyone watching would have seen little of the internal
struggle, noted perhaps the quickened, harshened breath, the
folded mouth and the tight line of jaw and spine before fisted
hands opened, releasing, the dark eyes that closed briefly
before opening also on a little sigh. A tiny, conscious ritual.
/Let it go./
For there was, now, here, only himself, the place, the task and
the Force.
Qui-Gon found himself in preparation stance, still standing in
the little carpeted angle by the door with the controls for the
training droid. Taking a fresh deep breath, he stepped down to
the practice floor, the smooth, cool texture of the padding
over the blade-resistant stone greeting his bare feet
familiarly.
There were three ways to approach the First Form: the flow of
defense, as Obi-Wan had demanded of him; the force of attack,
which Obi-Wan had met him with; and the dance of balance, the
solo mode, longer and containing both. The Jedi Master held all
three possibilities in mind, breathing.
/Choice, chance and change contained within my hand/
First Form, third mode. Yes. He reached down, hesitating before
picking up his lightsabre from where it lay beside his neatly
coiled belt and folded sash. Elegant and slim, it rested in his
hand, unignited, potential. He could still feel the touch of
Obi-Wan's hand on his own, the smaller fingers forcefully
curling his larger ones around the cool metal and holding them
there. /"Then use it however you can."/ A tool, a symbol, a
connection between himself and the Force, himself and his
beloved. The blade that had met and matched the Sith on
Tatooine, at the melting pit on Naboo. The third modes were
often done weaponless, but this, this was not practice, nor
demonstration or dance or even mere exercise. This was a
journey, a ritual, and deserved - required - not just his full
& not inconsiderable attention and focus, but the proper
tools as well. Thoughtfully, nodding to himself, he turned the
power up to full before taking it in both hands, right over
left, center salute, and with a gather and release of breath,
of hope, of fear, Qui-Gon Jinn thumbed his sabre on.
/No comfort here, no surety but sand/
Bright, baleful green the blade lept forth. The vibration
kissed his palms, sang in wrist and ear and lung. The weapon of
a Jedi, demanding and unforgiving. And was he still Jedi? His
heart contracted. /Oh, that was the question, wasn't it./ The
last time this weapon had been wielded in earnest life had been
lost: his own as well as that of the Dark warrior who had
killed him. That he had it back was Obi-Wan's gift, his
Padawan-beloved's determination and fierce, Forceful love,
bringing, this time, the present and the past together to
create a future. /"I will do this."/ Obi-Wan's, not his
own. With his not unwilling acquiescence, but not his will.
Unseeing, Qui-Gon stared through the aching brightness of the
sabre's destruction-in-potential, seeing that distant, deadly
place. Life was all around him, in him. Accept that life. Live
it. "I will do this," he whispered aloud in the humming
silence, past the sudden, hot tightness in his chest. "I
will do this." His hands were gripping the hilt so hard
they were shaking, and the cords stood out in his wrists and
burned across his shoulders. Even after all this time the sheer
strength of Obi-Wan's love continued to surprise him, as did
the depth of his own response. Suddenly, irrelevantly, he was
glad that this room was not in an often-frequented corridor,
that he had locked the door and set the shielding high, that
there were no witnesses to this other than the Force itself.
His eyes stung and he realized he knew, he knew that
Obi-Wan's love had nothing to do with his, Qui-Gon's, skill or
swordsmanship or health or place in the Order (or indeed
anything having to do with his own self-definitions), and would
not falter no matter the state of any of those things. His
beloved did not need for him to be swordsman, or Master or
anything else other than himself, (however much he might like
or enjoy the advantages and expressions of the bright aspects
of those things.) He did need Qui-Gon Jinn to be Qui-Gon
Jinn, no more, no less. (It was himself who had acquired issues
with those outer things.) "I will do this," he breathed.
His cheeks were were wet and the blade-light dazzled his eyes.
"Because I need to. Because I need." No longer Master to
Obi-Wan's Apprentice, Obi-Wan had given him permission - more
than permission, support - to have that need. Need to fight for
his own self-definitions, need to do and be doing and work out
his own salvation in space and time and action, not merely
contemplation.
[Oh love, you are a much wiser man than I am.]
The relief from a fear he had not recognized nor known
possessed him shook him, unknotting the constriction around his
heart, disordering his breathing. He hoped, intensely, that
Obi-Wan knew that he was in turn loved as unreservedly and
absolutely.
And still the lightsabre sang in his hands, insistent,
demanding. Not yet even properly begun and already he felt as
though he had been running, or fighting, or making love.
/The fond familiar offers no respite/
Even as he blinked the last tears from his eyes and ordered his
breath, centering and relaxing muscles unconsciously wound
tight, he wondered where the poem had come from, was coming
from. It was certainly no conscious recollection. /No respite,
indeed./ Loving fond or foolish fond, the familiar was entirely
Jedi, and all pointed back to his purpose: his Jedi beloved,
his almost-Padawan Anakin, the woven texture of the flooring
cool and firm beneath his feet, the businesslike touch of linen
wrapping groin and hip and knee, the even fall of light and the
ozone-iron-salt scent of the room, the subtle, forceful weight
of the sabre pulsing against his fingers.
To do, to act, to seek the Force and serve according to its
will.
Three years had seen the asymmetrical balance of breath in his
chest become familiar, as well as the sharp pull of scars and
the cramp of damaged and overextended muscle - a familiarity
that offered no respite from the necessary notification of pain
- all too familiar, and as unfriendly as the chill brush of air
on the nape of his neck.
(He had cut his hair because he could not take care of it
properly, as he could not take the care he was accustomed to of
his responsibilities, his apprentice, his beloved. He still
could not. And short it would stay, even though Obi-Wan didn't
like it, had never really understood why he had done it, and
would periodically try to persuade him to let it grow again. It
was, he supposed, pride of a sort, pride and stubborness. But
still, necessary.)
An equally familiar anger began to burn along his nerves, and
he went quite still, recognizing it. "No," he said, very
softly. "No. Anger has no place here." Broad forehead creased,
eyes tight shut, he sucked air in sharply as he fought another
battle with himself. Exhale deliberately, strongly, letting the
acid chill wash through and out, given to the Force, bending
thought away from those too-frequented paths. In and out again.
In and out. /Leave it go, Qui-Gon Jinn, leave it go./
And it was gone. It would be back. Anger was his most frequent
battle.
Raising his chin and opening his eyes he sighed, appreciating
the paradoxically broad yet narrow focus of the present. Still
again and center. Preparation stance.
/The corner of the circle do I stand/
He almost laughed. Without a doubt he was going in circles,
emotionally anyway. /So, if I am back at the beginning, then I
should begin, should I not?/
First Form, third mode.
Long ago, as an Initiate, as a Padawan, and even as a Knight,
Qui-Gon had always offered a formal unspoken salute at the
beginning of each bout of official competition matches, and
often enough in informal bouts that he had taken a certain
amount of teasing over it. As an Initiate, 'The Living and
Unifying Force' had been his comprehensive intention. As Yoda's
Padawan, his Master had gained place and honor in the short
litany of heart and mind. As he neared his knighthood he had
gained the confidence to add his opponent-partner to his
personal observance, above and beyond the ordinary
acknowledgement at the beginning of a competition match. With
increased duties as a journeying Knight and having gained a
Padawan of his own, competitions had largely fallen by the
wayside. Ylian had taken to the idea, and had matched him both
in intention and gesture on the few occasions they had done
demonstration bouts, but Xanatos had thought the whole thing
too funny and old-fashioned for words, and his laughter had
been cutting (more cutting, indeed, than all the childish
teasing had been). That pain subsumed into the greater pain of
Xanatos' fall and betrayal had seen the outward show of the
quaint habit disappear entirely, and it became another of those
things of which people tactfully did not speak. Though
occasionally the litany would play in his head when preparing
particularly intense teaching or display bouts (having long
since stopped competing, though he would encourage Obi-Wan to
enter). Those almost surreptitious salutes had increasingly
featured Obi-Wan himself. But the last formal, outward salute
he had done had been during the bleak years after Xanatos and
before Obi-Wan.
(A ritual duel to the death had been the seal on a particularly
fraught peace treaty: if the Jedi negotiator won, the Treaty
would be adopted; if the Trahiri champion won then it would all
be to do again in another cycle. He had been chosen by the
Senate and the Council for his weapons-mastery and unattached
state, because the Senate wanted Talanth at peace. That
terrible morning had demanded formality and solemnity, and
somehow he had found words for what had always been marked by
gesture and intent. He had been taken aback by the joy
with which his opponent had greeted his salute, his blade. And
taking that life - accepting that sacrifice - had been one of
the hardest and most terrible things he had ever had to do.)
He hadn't thought of that day in years, though the young man's
name remained in his Litany of Remembrance. This occasion
seemed to call for a salute as well, a formal invocation.
Bringing himself to his full height, he traced a graceful shape
in the air toward the center of the practice floor with the tip
of his lightsabre. "I salute the Force, Living and Unifying." A
flare of warmth prickled his scalp and tingled in his palms.
The Force appeared to be listening.
An almost too-deep breath and he dipped his head, holding the
hilt balanced before him and focusing inward on the place in
his mind where his own Padawan link with Yoda had been active
and now lay quiescent, still. Softly, "I honor my Master, and
all who went before." A curl, a ripple went out and returned,
as if Yoda had looked up and thought of him.
He touched the equally quiet place of his training link with
his first apprentice. "Ylian. The Force be with you." A
listening silence enfolded the words. She was out there,
somewhere, serving.
Head back, eyes closed, sending, casting forth - "I charge and
honor Anakin, and all who will come after." Quicksilver
brightness, a grin, a frown. Who knew what Anakin perceived, or
from how far away.
Then, late come but never least, he brought the sabre vertical,
blade up, hilt high in front of his face where the song of the
blade rang in his ears, down to pulse at his breastbone, and
out, away, toward that Other: head and heart and hand, all his.
"Obi-Wan." The bond between them sang with connection [...oh
love...] distant, present.
Finally, his opponent, his intention: himself. "Let me see what
you are made of, old man," he murmured. "Begin as you mean to
go on, Master Qui-Gon Jinn."
And graceful, forceful, he stepped forward into the first
attack.
/What is this flame, this fire none withstand?/
He had chosen to begin with slow work, quarter speed, a steady,
inexorable dance. Mindful of each motion, each breath, his
shape and place and the sabre as an extension of his hand, his
will, all contained within the Force, Living and Unifying.
Attack to center, block from center, step and turn, stone
secure, water flowing. Attack, block, parry, attack. Crisp and
fluid, feet sure, fire flickers, air moves. His body knew this
pattern, better than his mind did - along for the ride, keeping
time, making notes. Step, pivot, block, turn, attack, block,
attack, parry, step, cut, block out, turn, step, attack in,
block, pivot, step, still, acknowledge. The dance compelled -
steel and fire, force and Force.
He circled in again, still slow, half speed, intensely
concentrated. Within these few movements were the seeds of
every other, every Form and mode and kata.
/That binds and loosens, frees all, fastens tight/
Within the dance he was fire and air, stone and water, a shape
of will wholly present in his body and distanced from it,
weaving together skill and instinct and perception. Deeply and
precisely aware of the continuous Now. This detached yet
intimate awareness let him begin to see where what he 'knew'
was right, and where it was no longer what his damaged body
fit. Freed from expectation - merely doing - he could listen
and be mindful of those messages. The end of the form brought
again a moment of stillness.
/Choice, chance and change contained within my hand/
Full speed now, without reservation, more effort and less,
speed & precision, grace & power. Easy to get sloppy,
to lose focus in anticipation. Block, attack, pivot - flying
almost. Another circle, another pause. Twice through at full,
then, with a deep breath, almost a sob, reaching far down into
his laboring chest, Fighting speed. Blindingly fast, leaning
into the Force, every particle focused, green sigil-shapes
written in the air and instantly over-written. This was even
faster than he and Obi-Wan had taken the form the other day.
Three times around, the pattern complete. Release the Force to
spin continuously motionless in the still center and stop.
Stop. Mark the end. /All right, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, what have
you learned?/
/I own this. I can do this. I am this./
(He is the swordsman he is because he has found within
the forms and strictures of the nearly moribund Tradition a
true path, a real faith. He is Jedi (just as Yoda is,
and he taught Ylian to find, and taught Obi-Wan to be), and if
pushed, will always serve - serve the will of the Force, over
the will of the Council or the Senate.)
The healers would not like the quick, ragged gasp of breath,
the deep tickle that was not quite a cough, or the high, thin
ringing in his ears. Uncomfortable, yes, but not dangerous -
information to be mindful of. What it chiefly told him was that
he needed to do this more often, with the care and deliberate
focus he was giving it now. The physical therapy exercises had
not been designed to restore his fighting strength and
flexibility, and there was much that was stiff, soft or
weakened. The long convalescence had taken a toll that would
require some significant attention to address, to even find out
what he truly could do in this arena.
Qui-Gon stood balanced, resting with head tilted back, eyes
closed, while the sobbing gasps lessened, evened. The short
spikes of his hair were bronze-black with damp and the broad,
flat angles of chest and back were sheened with effort, bright
and dark by turns under the clear light. He waited, patient,
for the right moment to begin again.
He had shifted from center guard rest to his habitual high
right guard, feeling the pull of strain across the scars as he
did so. Thoughtfully, he went through the whole set of standard
guard positions, pausing briefly in each - center, high right,
high left, low reverse and hidden. High left eased the strain
considerably. He marked it with a nod, and wondered why such a
simple accommodation had not occurred to him before.
/And does the darkness beckon from that brand/
Second Form, third mode. The fierce brilliance out of the wrong
corner of his eye was briefly distracting. It had been much too
long since he had practiced variant stances. Once through full
slow, quarter speed. The Second Form was longer and more
demanding, introducing simple combinations and parry-attacks.
He did not have the wind to breathe in slow, deep rhythm with
the slow, deliberate motion, and it made keeping the pace in
strict time much harder.
High, low, block, parry, thrust out, circle parry, cut. His
shortened breath sucked and dragged, but Water flowed and Stone
upheld. The high overhand block and attack caused him to draw
in a sharp, arrhythmic breath as the motion pulled scarred
tissue further than it wanted to go. Low block to hidden
attack, turn block, thrust block, pivot, attack cut. He had
forgotten how much work properly done slow work could
be. Fire flickered along nerve and Air wheezed in his throat.
Attack, block, turn, acknowledge.
Barely pausing, reaching for the Force, Qui-Gon moved into the
circle again, half speed, once through, mindful of using the
alternate guard, remembering to use the pivots and change
points as rests, flowing with the Force. Breathe and
relax into the high overhands, letting the power flow
along the line from heel to knee to hip to spine, head up,
shoulders loose. Breathe into the follow-throughs. Using the
left guard put some of the cuts on the diagonal, but still
within the form. The half-speed pattern continued, and the Jedi
Master fought for the serenity and deep, effortless awareness
of the Moment that had been his so shortly before, the detached
and close awareness that had let him both study and know the
balance and flow and shape of body, movement and Force, even as
it changed and shifted in the doing. It was much harder to find
and maintain, but even more needful than in the First Form. As
the slow pattern came around to completion he knew he had a
great deal of work to do to find the true new shape the Second
Form now demanded, but also that the shape was there to be
found. Turn, acknowledge; stand sucking in labored breaths, let
the tympani of his heartbeat slow, release and gather again to
him the Force, his focus, his will.
/Conceived, destroyed in paradox of might/
Second Form, full speed: the defense of root and reed, the
attack of sap and edge, and the green flash-lightning binding
them together. His body exorcised effort in disregarded sound,
grunts and sobs, a sharp cry at the swift pair of high
overhands, but the Tree stood, the Grass wove. Around again,
fiercely, steely focused and dripping wet, dark prints marking
the still points of the dance.
Without pause he lept straight into Fighting speed, using the
hard-bought momentum of the previous circle to snap up to the
higher speed, the tighter focus. Absolutely in the instant,
thoughtless, doing. Dancing the steel and lightning dance.
Unconsciously, he had shifted back to high right guard with the
faster speed, and each cut and block came crisp and straight,
singing with agony that had ceased to register as pain, was
only a fiercer means of focus. Quick, desperate breaths
patterned to the need of the body compelled by the dance; will
and nerve sucking in the Force, pushing and pulling against it,
pushed and pulled by it, within it. Not the high, hard joy of
the First Form pinnacle, but the stubborn tenacity of will, the
red-edged endurance of too long, too close acquaintance with
the taste and color of the body's pain, a need to push that
limit, to know, to do.
The streaks and dots and sigils of green fire were growing
ragged, imperfect runes but still patterned, written across the
still light. Until the repetition of the high overhand undid
him and back muscles locked, overtaxed, his chest spasming and
squeezing the breath from him in a hoarse shout of agony and
surprise. Focus ripped away, snatched out of the air, he fell
heavily, gracelessly to the floor, sabre dropping with a
truncated hiss from hands suddenly strengthless and shaking
uncontrollably. He lay in a tumbled half-curl on the ground,
fighting desperately for air.
Oh, the healers wouldn't be happy with him, not at all.
The deep scars that pierced him were protesting, sending fiery
messages to spine and skull, and the deep, harsh tickle at the
bottom of his lung was turning into a wrenching cough. (What
had he been thinking, to try this without a spotter? he
swore at himself.)
He hadn't been thinking. He'd been doing.
/The corner of the circle do I stand/
/Circles again!/ He was curled around his center but the cough
had him, was tearing through him, fragmenting his sight,
shattering thought. He could not get enough air.
Helplessly he reached out for the Force - to draw it to him to
ease the conflict in his chest, soothe abused tissues, stop the
convulsive retching for breath and allow him to just breathe.
For a moment he could not catch it, could not find or hold the
pulse of the Force, and fear spiked through him, assailing him
with cold, blind agony. To fall, again, powerless, helpless in
an instant. The cramps and spasms crawled and twitched along
nerve and muscle. /No!/ Fear could not, would not be
allowed a hold over him. He shivered violently, involuntarily,
pushing the paralyzing emotion away, out, into the Force, which
was, as always, right there where it ought to be. /This too
needs thought, meditation. And soon. Fear will cripple
you./
But the moment of utter, frozen stillness had stopped the
cough, broken the wracking chain and allowed him to draw in air
again, to feel the Life in and around him. /Let's not do
that again, Qui-Gon, all right?/ Oh he hurt, and he knew he
couldn't move yet, couldn't uncurl or turn or shift or do
anything but breathe shallowly and quietly and swallow and
breathe again in little, measured mouthfuls of air. In through
the nose, out through the mouth. Let the sinuses do their job,
warm and soften the harsh air. Relax the raw throat, the tight
diaphragm, the already over-stressed muscles holding his ribs
together. The constricting tickle was subsiding, but still
there. To disturb the balance, to breathe too deep or too fast
would set it off again.
He lay there, crumpled, letting the air fall in and out of his
lung. /And this is only Second Form.../ (Never mind that he had
been at the work for over an hour, that he never slept well
with Obi-Wan away, was not rested, that he would, always, push
himself.) And where had his so-celebrated skill vanished to,
that he could fail and fall so hard in such a simple form; that
his body would not conform to his will, his need? He did
not even have enough strength to be angry.
(But he was angry: a deep, silent, simmering refusal to
be helpless, useless, broken and unserviceable. It stalked him,
pushed him, woke him with nightmares and colored his dreams.
More unexamined emotion. /"Meditate, you must. Discover the
heart, the why. Then address the how of controlling your
temper. For temper you have, Qui-Gon, and control it you must.
Or control you, it will."/)
Anger would have energized him, fired thought and muscle into
action, into doing. The hard, harsh cough had left him
momentarily strengthless & weak. And he hated
feeling weak, fragile, helpless. (And it wasn't getting any
better. It wasn't going to get any better. It would
never get any better....)
This was a softer, quieter, colder sea than the distress he
still struggled with in Obi-Wan's absence, oily and seductive,
creeping behind and under and around his defenses rather than
battering at them. These formless waves sucked at him, coaxing
dark flotsam from old, hidden places in his mind, tasting of
failure, of loneliness, of Xanatos and wounds that had scarred
but never quite healed. Weighted his heart with the sick, heavy
scent of seeping decay, of falling forever into cold, gelid
darkness, of the sick-sweet ease of giving in.
/No. You don't win either, Dark take you. No./ Grimly he
pressed his eyes closed, his cheek to the cool resilience of
the floor and fought with himself. Struggled against the
insidious, bitter coils of defeat and hopelessness. This,
this was despair, the chill, hopeless obverse of anger.
A sibling emotion, even more dangerous and almost as frequent
an opponent.
He knew he had a temper, and he had been told, over and over,
to release those feelings into the Force, to let go of them. He
had learned to control his passion, to use the energy it could
give, the speed and fire and occasional insight, the power of
contained, deceptively quiet force - all tools to use in
serving the will of the Force. In the main he did rule his
passionate temper, rather than it ruling him. It rarely took
him unawares anymore, but time and experience had only
strengthened his feelings, increasing rather than decreasing
the struggle, the need for control. Despair wasn't amenable to
control, though; wasn't defeated by pushing it away, letting it
go. It was too formless to push. Too deep-set to drop. No,
despair, like grief, required to be worked through,
overwritten, filled up, plucked out strand by invisible strand,
reasoned with and burnt out with fire and light and love.
(And where had his so-vaunted control vanished to, that fear
and anger and despair could so assail him, hold him, roil forth
and disturb Obi-Wan, frighten Anakin?) Put that thought away
too, with the others for further meditation.
He could breathe more easily now, the cough gone, the quivering
paralysis of cramped and overextended muscles slowly
retreating. With a little sound between a groan and a sigh he
uncurled and turned from his side to lie flat on his back,
letting his body recover, ordering his feelings, his thoughts.
Attending to these meditations, addressing the anger and
despair that required to be dealt with now, in the
present.
Because those dark voices were lying to him. There was
improvement, had been and would continue to be - real and
measurable - however small and slow and less than he wanted it
to be. The kinetic truth of the completed First Form, the
Second Form slow work, the fact that Obi-Wan had gone on into
Third Form without pause (proof enough in itself!) clearly
showed him, gave him evidence in flesh and force and motion,
that there was nothing in these most basic and most important
of the Forms that was beyond him, however much work he might
have to do to reach again a standard he could be satisfied
with.
And how could he allow despair to take him when he had Obi-Wan
to love and be loved by in return? His fierce, tenacious
beloved who loved him enough to let - insist! - he be Jedi
first, even though his own first instincts were to hold, to
ward and protect his Master and beloved. (That had been an
unexpectedly hard lesson to learn for both of them.)
How could he despair with such a force as Anakin in his life?
Sun-bright, curious, active, always coming up with new angles
on old things, questioning assumptions and never taking "it's
Tradition" as sufficient answer, wanting - needing - to know
why. The least interaction with the boy fired his own
curiosity, frequently to Obi-Wan's exasperation, since his
Knight liked traditions and rules and found comfort in
stability, in the straightforward answers of the Code, rather
than the deeper, more ambiguous questions and meanings
underlying it. (Which was not to say he had not studied and
absorbed those deeper, more complex structures and concepts -
he could hardly do otherwise as Qui-Gon's apprentice - but
dwelling there and working out of that chancy place was not his
preferred mode of operation, as it was his Master's. Qui-Gon
liked symbolism, metaphor, ambiguity and intricacy,
shades of meaning and intent.)
But he had now strayed very far from his present purpose.
/This place./ He brought his attention back to the present: the
hard stone under the resilient padding pressing into the points
of his shoulderblades, his elbows and heels and the back of his
skull, the prickle of his hair against the floor as he moved
his head, the shadows and spaces of the groined ceiling, the
still fall of light and the echo-y sense of the high-set
shielding, the chill of sweat drying on his body and the little
trembles in his muscles. /This purpose./ To work out on the
paper of his flesh & in the ink of his effort who and what
he was.
With a careful deep breath, Qui-Gon rolled over, pushed himself
up and knelt back on his heels, standard meditation posture. He
was not yet finished, his purpose in the Second Form required
he complete one more circle of the Form, and his body could not
do that yet, after such a violent interruption. In a moment he
would proceed again.
/Desire is simplicity - demand/
/Desire./
The poem had not deserted him. What did he desire? What did he
want? A crystalline image flashed in his mind, flared
along his nerves.
Obi-Wan had a still-holo, an image from a training droid, taken
in a room much like this one, of him in the midst of a
particularly difficult kata - the Strait Path, Spiraling, the
Twenty-ninth Form, sixty-third position, the Kol'hlin
variation. So thoroughly was he attuned, focused within and
willing out the Force, that the image shows that while his
sabre is lit, poised and balanced in his right hand, the Force
itself is manifested green and glowing in his left. He is
wearing only practice leggings, torso bare, chest unmarked,
unmarred, his long hair half-caught back and flowing. It is a
picture of Jedi Swordmaster Qui-Gon Jinn at the height of his
mastery, accounted by some the best of the age, of the last
several ages. "The inspiration of the Force," Obi-Wan had
answered when asked why that image.
That was what he wanted, to have that back, to be again that
free and strong and capable. He found himself kneeling up,
calling his sabre to him, arms opening to that position in the
form. The jerk and pull of scar tissue was a cruel contrast to
the picture, the kinesthetic memory, drawing from him another
wordless sound, half pain, half ... everything else. He bowed
his head, folding his arms back in, returning to rest on his
ankles, placing the sabre hilt across his knees, long fingers
light upon it. /You know better than that, old man,/ he chided
himself. /Even if you can still make the air glow green when
you set your mind to it./
(The holo had been used to sit on a shelf in their common room,
but Qui-Gon could not remember when he had last seen it. With a
pang, he supposed Obi-Wan had put it away somewhere, too harsh
a reminder.)
Desire. He could have that image back, or very nearly. The
image of that image. As Obi-Wan had said, "even now the healers
could do it," could repair the damage, replace it all with
synthetics, bio-mechanics that would work nearly as well (some
claimed as well if not better) than the uninjured original
flesh. (But a machine cannot be taught, cannot learn, cannot
grow.) It would certainly be an improvement over what he was
currently struggling with. They could even re-grow the skin,
take the surface scars away. Erase it from view.
But.
But it would only look like that moment from the
undamaged past. It would not, could not, be that
image, the reality that underlay the memory. That reality was
gone, burnt out, seared away. He knew that, with every
breath he took, with every pulse of the Force. For him, for who
he was and how he lived within the Force, such extensive,
invasive mechanical replacement would only be a mockery, a true
crippling.
He sighed, deeply, heavily. "No." The whisper echoed softly in
the small room, in the listening Force. "No. That is not the
way. Image without substance is not my desire." He shivered.
Serious consideration of that possibility (and he had given it
serious thought, forcing himself to cold, rational assessment
as well as listening to the frantic, instinctual, utter
rejection of the idea by his heart, his feelings; in the long,
timeless endurance of the early days of his recovery, the
enforced stillness of full life-support, there had been little
to do but think,) still set his teeth on edge, tightened
his stomach, clenched around his heart (physical reactions he
had not been able to invoke or control at the time, that he
could not stop now.) The keening edge of the Dark sang along
that road. Too disruptive of his perceptions, his
self-definitions. No easy answers; certainly not that one.
What then was his desire, simply, within the present, within
the will of the Force, that could usefully be demanded,
pursued? And he realized beyond the bone-deep 'to serve, to do,
to love' that was as much a part of him as blood or breath or
his sense of the Living Force, that in truth he did not know.
/So why not ask, Master Jinn? Why not ask the body, the heart
and mind and spirit, and listen to the answers, as you
are always telling Anakin to do? Anakin, who is still asking
questions. Ask the flesh what it is the spirit needs, the heart
desires./
Qui-Gon smiled, almost laughed. /So simple./ His eyes lightened
at the thought of presenting that answer to one of Anakin's
questions, the boy's quizzical expression at the puzzle and
Obi-Wan's grin of appreciation at working out yet another way
of expressing 'the mind writes deeply in the body, and the
body, in turn, writes deeply in the mind'. /Not easy, but
simple./ And he nodded and spoke gravely to himself in the
silence. "I shall so ask."
He began to climb back up to his feet. He had stiffened
markedly as he lay and knelt in the aftermath of the fall, and
joints and muscles protested as he stood. He breathed,
stretched gently, listened.
/Accept - soul, flesh and heart unite/ /Accepting limits
is not crippling - refusing to recognize them is. Drawing them
too narrow is as damaging as pushing them too hard./
He found his center, lit again the blade. The pattern was
unfinished, the match not yet complete. The Jedi swordmaster
stepped into the circle for the final repetition of the Second
Form, seeking a pace his body could support. Not quite full
speed, not now; walking rhythm, deliberate, a steady going
forth. But beneath his feet the stone upheld the pillars of the
universe, water flowed forever as blood within his veins. Sap
and root, tree and reed, all edged green and brilliant in the
lightening Force. Slow fire was still fire, sparks from the
sun, warming his heart in the dance, and the wind that blew
between the worlds breathed in his chest, ruffled his hair.
Parry, attack, pivot, parry sweep, high block, high attack. His
arms trembled hard and his left shoulder tried again to cramp.
Breathe, listen, map the strain. /It is only over-exertion, not
inability./ Accept the pain as pain, a message, not fuel for
focus, but don't lose focus either. The body is speaking.
Listen, accept. Low block thrust, center parry, attack, attack,
turn block, side cut. The short, harsh breath, the quivering
muscles, complaining tendons are just physical things, not
commentary on his worth, his worthiness, his identity as
Qui-Gon Jinn, as Jedi. Just his body, telling him things. His
body, that he loves Obi-Wan with, touching and touched, held
and holding, wholly expressing those things that words can only
ever merely symbolize. Parry, attack, block, turn, cut. His
body, the housing for his spirit, his heart, deserving of care.
Low attack, back parry, thrust. His body, the flesh he had not
listened to in far too long. When had he stopped listening to
it? Why?
(Because not listening, like not thinking, had been a coping
mechanism, a way of dealing with overwhelming physical pain,
with the disconnection forced between mind and body by the
exigencies of the technologies keeping him alive, allowing the
spirit and flesh to function separately and come to separate
agreements with what was being done to him. Not listening had
been a way of using the old picture, the old reality, as a
template to encourage healing. But that time was now past. Now
'not listening' would get in the way of what was possible. /It
was a crutch. It did what was needed, and now must be put away.
Not in anger at weakness, nor fear of falling, but in the
serenity that comes with healing. Now is the time to reconnect,
to listen./)
And he finished out the form. Attack, block, turn, acknowledge.
He had done what he had set out to do. He breathed in deep and
sobbing gasps, shaken with effort. The pattern was complete:
action and consequence, ardent and demanding art.
/Choice, chance and change contained within my hand/
The blade of his sabre hummed in his hands, fierce, sated, as
he brought the hilt up in weary salute, releasing the Force to
spin again motionless in the center. He was very tired, but
also light, at peace. With a deep and bittersweet satisfaction
he powered down the emerald brilliance of his lightsabre. The
silence rang and echoed.
/So, Master Jinn, what have you learned?/ (Though much is
taken, much abides.) He was still Jedi, worthy of the blade. A
Master, with mastery of himself still within his reach (and
with the urgent necessity of re-applying that mastery bourne in
strait upon him.) A person, injured but not crippled, changed
but not broken, with skills and commitments, a need to own a
measure of control over his life, loves and fears, desires and
hopes.
Master Qui-Gon held his faintly trembling hands out, feeling
again the touch of Obi-Wan's hands on his own, curling his
fingers around his sabre. /"Then use it however you can."/
Pressed against his palms, resting under his fingers it felt
right, fitting, serene and powerful in potential,
weightlessly freighted with meaning. [Oh love, thank you for
the gift of your wisdom.]
He can fight, can re-learn, re-tool enough of his reflexes and
responses to defend himself, keep fit, dance with Obi-Wan, even
teach certain things. And in the event that disaster should
befall the Jedi and the Temple be attacked, he would not be a
burden to be protected, weaponless & defenseless, but on
the other hand, he will never again have the stamina, the
flexibility, the sheer physical resources needed to actively
pursue the Jedi Outward Path of intergalactic service. No more
missions as Knight. (Oh, that hurt. That did hurt, but it
had to be accepted.) He bowed his head, let his heart
and spirit feel the pain of that loss, acknowledge it, and put
it away. This too will be to do again, but done once means it
can be done again, as many times as needed until
acceptance and understanding are truly reached.
What he wanted was no more (and no less) than what he had
always wanted - to do, to serve, to love and be loved. And in
acting out of that desire he would have what he needed of
control.
With reverence he bowed again to the still center of the
practice floor. He would be here again, though not tomorrow,
working to find and hold the dance, relearning its lessons,
knowing again its hard joys and unforgiving beauties. He would
both act and meditate on what this day had given him, what he
has learned, will continue to learn.
Qui-Gon stepped over to the neat pile of clothes, putting down
his sabre, picking up a towel. He smiled slightly in memory and
anticipation. Obi-Wan would undoubtably find him here again
some return, some evening, or they would come here to spar and
dance together (and love, perhaps).
/Bright and black this torch at my command/
/light and dark, loss and gain, acceptance and refusal. All
right decision, all right action is two edged. Many faceted./
He was still Jedi, still a Master, and with that affirmation
came all the correlaries: Jedi have responsibilities, duties.
He has responsibilities, duties. A responsibility to
serve, to do (to love), and not the desire only.
He dried himself briefly with the towel in his hand and began
to dress. Greeny-cream linen undertunic, fitting smooth and
snug, close-fastened at the wrist. He cannot go back to being
what he was, a serving Knight and Master on the Outward Path.
(Accept the pain, release it.) And while his presence alone
serves to support Obi-Wan and Anakin in their service, and as
useful and needful as that is, has been and will continue to
be, it is not now nearly enough.
Raw cream silk overtunic, pleasantly textured under the
fingers, sleeves falling in soft, wide folds. /"A Jedi does so
much more than fight"/ his wise beloved had pointed out. And he
was, or had occasionally been, when circumstances allowed, a
scholar, a poet; rather more often mentor, teacher, gadfly to
the Council and collector and succorer of 'pathetic lifeforms.'
/I have fourty-plus years of active knowledge and experience,
three apprentices, countless worlds. I have held the light and
touched the dark, and worked to find a path between the two./
He settled the stola over his shoulders, the same thick silk as
the overtunic, smoothing the panels straight. Over and under,
over and under, the edges lay neat and layered, elegant in the
graduation of shade and texture. Knowledge was of the Light, of
Life; ignorance neither light nor dark but in potential,
intent. False knowledge, knowledge deliberately destroyed or
withheld or mis-given was of the Dark. He had experience of all
that, could convey that experience. A smile quirked the corner
of his mouth. And Obi-Wan honored his teaching over his
swordsmanship anyway.
His hands were deftly tucking and winding the broad silk
Knight's sash around his waist, holding all the layers together
neatly and in place. The layering of cloth was not unlike the
layering of experience in the life of a Jedi - Initiate to
Padawan to Knight to Master and around again, training up the
next cycle.
He not only could teach, he would, regardless of time, place or
being told not to. His smile widened in rememberance of
answering Anakin's questions without a second thought after
that more than uncomfortable meeting with the Council ("I'm not
allowed to train you Ani, but ....") He couldn't not
teach, any more than he could stop mapping symbolic resonances,
remembering interesting words, loving Obi-Wan, Anakin, Ylian,
or feeling the Living Force.
The belt snugged secure, he sat on the raised and carpeted
corner to pull on and fasten his boots. It was an obligation, a
duty, and in that clarity, also a joy. As he had the sight, the
knowledge, the perspective and the skill, therefore he had also
the responsibility to apply those things in the service
of the Force. As the Force willed. The clear duty to teach, to
apply his knowledge to increasing the greater store of
knowledge, to support his beloved and his almost-Padawan, and
yes, even the responsibility to continue to be a gadfly,
defiant as the situation, his perceptions and the Force
required.
He stood, clipping his sabre to his belt and draping the soft
dark wool of his cloak over his shoulders, pulling it on.
Easier to wear than carry, though a little over-warm at the
moment.
He was Jedi. He would serve.
/And I must balance will with sense and sight/
Balance. Will. The heart of his understanding and expression of
the Jedi Code. Sense contained intuition and every other
perception; sight, knowledge and responsibility. Both
structured thought, action, as had the Forms, the salutes, the
Work he had set himself (that Obi-Wan had set him), the
persistent poem. And within that interwoven metaphysical
structure he found himself paradoxically free, light, serene.
He was himself, Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi, and beloved. He breathed
deeply, embracing the balance.
Turning to the control panel, he lowered the shielding, feeling
the quality of the silence change, taking in the expanded sense
of corridor and hallway, out to the courtyard and the whole
Temple beyond the door. The lock released and the panel hissed
open. Master Jinn stepped out into the hallway, leaving the
practice space behind. He saw with poet's eyes as he made his
slow way back to his and Obi-Wan's and Anakin's rooms. Water
and stone and wood and air greeted him at every turn, children
and green plants in the grassy courtyards, carved fountains,
airy glass cloisters speaking of ancient tradition, of art and
will and peace in duty, scented with bright flowers, the warmth
of the evening's baking bread. The Moment. This moment and the
next and on into the future.
Physically, he was sore and very tired, needing the Force to
keep his feet steady, his pace smooth. The empty spaces in his
chest ached. He would hurt tomorrow, but now he was filled with
a renewed sense of purpose, buoyed rather than weighed down by
responsibility and duty. /I am Jedi, I will
teach/ (and certain parties may regret that he will so do - for
he will be led by the Force in this as in all his other works.)
With his breath deepening and rough with growing joy, he
stopped in the archway leading to the herb garden, face to the
distant sun of Coruscant. For the first time since Naboo he
felt he truly fit inside his skin. Even the trembles and sharp
complaints of his body were but notes in the song of Life,
evidence of love, of effort, of possibility. The beginning of
the next stage of healing. He knew he had a long way to go, but
it was a beginning. (And he was not alone, however far away his
loved ones might be, never alone.)
Resting against the smooth stone of the pillar holding up the
arch he contemplated the sunlight on the garden for a moment
longer, planning his next steps. /Back to their quarters,
making sure to greet the plant with affection & respect.
Take a long, hot, much needed shower. Find that poem (or write
it out if he cannot find it) and if it isn't one Ylian gave him
it will be an excellent thing to give her. Dress fully and
formally, lightsabre in place (as it has not often been
recently) and go sign himself back into the teaching roster. To
do, to serve, to love./ He smiled broadly at the sturdy herbs,
his eyes crinkling and sparkling. Yoda would be pleased. Mace
... might not be. /Greetings, my Master. Have a care,
Councillor, I have taken up my duty again./
And with a last nod and smile to the garden, wrapped in the
Living Force, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn turned to set about
making his intent reality.
/The corner of the circle do I stand,/ /Choice,
chance and change contained within my hand./
[...to next stage.]
Notes:
The poem that runs through this story is a villanelle, a very
strictly structured poetic form, originally French. All those
repetitions are in the rules, part of the format. I wrote it
for the story, taking an almost-villanelle I had written a
number of years ago and re-working it significantly - expanding
it to proper length and giving it a new direction and focus.
Here is the full text, with punctuation:
Villanelle II 11 August 1999
The corner of the circle do I stand
Perceiving both the shadow and the light
Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.
No comfort here, no surety but sand -
The fond familiar offers no respite
The corner of the circle do I stand.
What is this flame, this fire none withstand,
That binds and loosens, frees all, fastens tight?
Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.
And does the darkness beckon from that brand,
Conceived, destroyed in paradox of might?
The corner of the circle do I stand.
Desire is simplicity - demand,
Accept - soul, flesh and heart unite:
Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.
Bright and black, this torch at my command,
And I must balance will with sense and sight -
The corner of the circle do I stand,
Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.
The image of 'the corner of the circle' is not original to me.
Many years ago I read a Blake's 7 story in a fanzine that used
the line, and it stuck. (It may have been the title of the
story, even. I don't remember - not the author, title, 'zine or
even the plot beyond that it had to do mostly with Avon &
some kind of psychic something.) But the paradoxical
concept/image remained indelibly fixed. Thank you to whoever
you were. :-)
The holo-image that Qui-Gon thinks of is the picture that Black
Rose put up as a challenge-pic -- found at:
(http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/gallery/fan/force.jpg)
I see a very clear illo for this whole segment: two images
confronting each other - that pic, and one of JAOA Qui-Gon,
again dressed only in leggings, but scarred, with short hair,
kneeling with his arms in the same positions, sabre unlit (or
faintly lit) -- he's using it up full in the ritual, but this
is more of a mental/symbolic picture rather than trying to be a
photograph -- but still with the green glow in his other
hand/surrounding him.
One picture, both figures connected by the attention of the
Present on the Past -- the Past is wholly in its captured
moment, a memory, an image. The Present wishing for the past to
be still his, knowing it is not, cannot be, but something else
can be/is becoming. The line of attention drawing a diagonal
from upper left to middle/lower right, the Force still potent,
ever present.
I have asked Black Rose to draw this for me & at such time
as it is done, I expect it will be found on the JAOA page.
This story also owes a great deal to the SCA, and several
fighters in particular who have shown me something of the Art
of fighting, and gave me the wherewithal to understand the
significance of salutes and the need to work out understanding
in action. I hope I have managed to convey some of the love,
energy and beauty of the form as well as the effort.
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