Master Apprentice Archive Life's Little Mysteries Quick search:

Life's Little Mysteries

by Saraid

Author's Webpage: https://www.squidge.org/~pumpkin/saraid/fiction.htm

fandom: TPM

Pairing: Q/O

Rating: nc17

Series/sequel: no

Feedback: please

Warnings: none (trust me...)

Notes: for my squash <g>

"Obi-Wan."

The low voice was barely loud enough to penetrate the young man's sleep. But he'd been trained for ten years, by his master and himself, to respond to that voice under any circumstance, so now he roused almost automatically, sitting and reaching for his lightsaber, on the floor beside his low pallet.

A large hand closed on his shoulder, halting the movement, and he managed to get his eyes open, memory flooding back. The mission to Rejhkta, the battle with the rebels, their success and subsequent escape ...

They'd only arrived back on Coruscant a few hours ago. He'd dropped their gear in a corner, intending to clean it come dawn, stripped, and fallen into his bed with scarcely more than a cursory wash.

"Master?" What was wrong, that he was being woken from the first good sleep he'd had in weeks?

"I am sorry, my Padawan." A small light flickered to life and Obi-Wan could see his master's face, see that the man was as exhausted as Obi-Wan himself.

The first light of dawn was just beginning to creep through the big window. Obi-Wan's room was a typical padawan room: almost an afterthought added onto his master's quarters, hardly more than a closet. But it had been the first place he hadn't had to share with anyone else, and the window that took up half the outer wall made it special.

Normally he remembered to close the heavy drapes before he slept, but this time he'd simply been too worn out. So it was just as well his master had woken him-the light would have done it in another fifteen minutes anyhow.

But he silently yearned for those last few minutes.

"Have we been reassigned already?" he asked, patting Qui-Gon's hand with his own and climbing out of the narrow bed.

The taller man stood, shoulders slumped slightly, and spoke while Obi-Wan pulled his last set of clean robes from the wardrobe-the room was too small for a closet of its own. He'd slept nude, as was his habit at home, for simple comfort. There was no embarrassment; they had dressed and undressed in front of each other thousands of times.

"Yes. A situation has arisen on Doolan Five, and we are the only field-qualified team in residence. The Council is leery of sending a single representative or a team with a younger padawan."

"What's the situation?" Tying sashes, feet into boots that were stiff with dried mud; he'd need to clean them soon, before they arrived.

"I will brief you on the shuttle. Stores is supposed to be sending us a delivery of clean garments. We are scheduled to leave in the next quarter-hour."

Dressed, the padawan returned to his bed and debated changing the sheets. He'd done that before the last mission, and he'd only slept in them for a few hours. It was easier to rest when he came home if the bed was made, so he made it up again neatly and gave it a wistful glance as they left. One of the millions of things he had learned from his master's example, if not directly from the man himself.

He mused on that as they walked the halls, which were just beginning to come alive for the day. It was the tail end of the quiet hour, that time after the nocturnals went to bed for the day and just before most of the diurnals came out of their rooms prepared for it.

Behind the many doors they passed, he knew there were Jedi masters, knights, and padawans, all breaking their fast or curling up for sleep.

And he, and his master, were on their way out again.

He'd been a padawan for ten years. Barely achieved that level, but as soon as Master Jinn had accepted him it had been as if his past, as an almost-failed Initiate, was erased. He was a padawan and that was all that mattered to anyone in the Order, and, really, to anyone outside of it.

But lately he had been thinking about that next level. He was almost twenty-four. Too old to be a padawan much longer. Soon a decision would have to be made; he would become a knight-elect, or he would be gently steered into another branch of the Order.

It wasn't like when he was an Initiate, where the deadline was set in stone: thirteen years, or the species equivalent, and then you were out. To become a knight-elect was a much more delicate process. Though he had watched and studied others in his classes for years, he had never quite identified the identifying characteristic. Why one was chosen, allowed to grow their hair longer, to tie it up in that all-important tail, and go on to be-come a full knight, and another was shifted to one side and became instead a healer, or a teacher at one of the training Temples.

There were padawans older than he was by ten years or more, humans, and then some who had become knight-elects before they were twenty. He couldn't figure it out. But he was becoming anxious about it. To miss his goal at this date, after training for ten years, would be terribly painful.

His master would not let that happen. He believed that, but it wasn't always up to Qui-Gon to decide, as his infrequent clashes with the Council proved.

His thoughts kept him occupied as they boarded the shuttle, to find the supplies waiting for them, and were shown to a small cabin with one bunk, which he insisted his master take.

Sitting on the floor beside it, datapad on his knees, he studied the situation on Doolan Five, becoming increasingly worried by it. Why had the Council let it go on so long? The entire planet was involved in a civil war, there was rioting in the streets of the capitol cities. Food was being rationed and hoarded.

Things were very bad, all of it triggered by a ten-year drought and a historical racial intolerance.

As he leaned back against the hard edge of the bunk, his shoulders cushioned by his draped hood, he felt a movement near his face, and just turned his head a little to see what it was.

His master's hand twitched, as if he was dreaming. Then the hand slid an inch over the fabric of the blanket, until it came to rest beside Obi-Wan's cheek, just brushing it.

Qui-Gon sighed and sank deeper into sleep.

Setting the datapad aside, Obi-Wan extended his legs and let his arms rest loosely at his sides. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. If he slept long in this position his neck would cramp, but it would be okay for a few hours. There wasn't room in the bunk for two, even if he had been a scrawny thirteen-year-old still. Qui-Gon's lean bulk took up all of the available room.

Obi-Wan sighed. It had been only a few hours since he was awakened in the pre-dawn light of his room, but it felt as if days had passed, again. The situation they were going to deal with, the question of his future ... these things added weight to the exhaustion that was already pulling him down. He went with it, and slept.

Qui-Gon's hand was warm by his face, he could just feel the calluses that hardened the long fingers.

It was a comforting feeling, having that hand there.

Why are they keeping us waiting, Master? I thought our presence had been requested?" Feeling rested, but made restless by several hours of waiting in the small room, Obi-Wan held the twenty-fourth position of the Soothing Breeze kata, which he had been repeating for the last hour, at quarter and half speed. It concentrated his breathing and slowed his heartrate, good for enclosed spaces.

Seated at the small table, in the single chair, Qui-Gon was using a data pen to work a complicated line puzzle Master Windu had given him. He had been carrying it for a while, working on it whenever he had a free moment. It pleased Obi-Wan to see him enjoying himself. Qui-Gon was a serious man, but he had a sly sense of humor and he made a point to schedule leisure time for both of them when it was possible. He had taught Obi-Wan that this was important, to live a well-rounded life.

Breaking his pose, the padawan finished the kata. It was important to finish things. He moved to stand beside his master, who was methodically placing a piece on the puzzle screen, and waited patiently.

The piece clicked into place and the game gave a soft hum, and the screen blinked, brightly. It startled Qui-Gon into a laugh and Obi-Wan smiled at the sound.

Qui-Gon turned and they shared the moment of laughter. He folded his hands in his lap and the smile lingered on his face.

"I wasn't ignoring you, Padawan. Your form was excellent, but you missed the thirteenth position by about two inches on the second run through."

"Thank you, I did notice that," ruefully Obi-Wan answered; he'd been expecting that mild correction-he'd let his restlessness interfere with his concentration.

"Although the Doolians have requested our assistance, it's obvious that there is a lot of dissension. I suspect some last-minute negotiation to allow our presence."

Glancing around the small room, Obi-Wan nodded. They had traveled from the shuttle to their plain room through an equally plain hall after disembarking at an isolated platform in need of repair.

"You can see the evidence of their conflicts," he commented, touching the plascrete wall. It had once been painted, blue, he thought, but it was bare now.

"War sometimes stimulates an economy, but a civil war destroys one," Qui-Gon said.

"We've seen it too many times," Obi-Wan responded to the sadness in his master's voice.

The door opened, and a Doolian, only the second one they had seen, stepped into the room.

Actually, Obi-Wan couldn't be sure this was the second one he'd seen-Doolians, the majority race of the planet, were practically identical. About four meters, with greyish skin, blue eyes and four arms, they were reasonably attractive by human standards. Their racial counterparts, officially the Russats, were a reddish color that had inevitably led to the nickname ÝRustiesÜ. Neither had any body hair and both were aggressively muscular.

"Greetings, honored Jedi." The Doolian gave a half-bow, upper set of arms crossed in front of him and the lower set crossed behind. From the briefing Obi-Wan knew this was a respectful greeting, and he returned it in human fashion, aware of Qui-Gon standing beside him and doing the same, left arm in front and right arm behind as they bowed.

"We are honored to be of service," Qui-Gon replied.

"I am Daga, the city ambassador. I have been assigned to escort you to your quarters and introduce you to the negotiation panel."

"Thank you. We look forward to meeting your needs."

Another exchange of bows, and Daga led them out the door. They passed the hallway they had originally entered by, and then they were outside again. Under a grey sky, overcast with clouds caused by what Obi-Wan assumed was pollution, they could see ragged bands of people in the streets below. Mostly it appeared to be young and adult males.

Both Jedi paused to absorb the situation, and then Daga was hurrying them on politely. "It is not safe to be seen outside." If such a large and dignified individual could be described as huffy, Obi-Wan would say that Daga was.

"Have there been attacks on government representatives?"

"Many." Daga made a face, the heavy jowls swinging. "No one is safe, there is no respect left."

"I understand your frustration," Qui-Gon said gently. "We have seen many such situations resolved successfully." It was the kind of thing he often said to soothe unhappy bureaucrats, before he really lit into them, politely and with tact of course.

They had traveled several miles of raised pathway. Obi-Wan kept careful track of how far they had gone and the turns they had taken. He knew his master was doing the same. It was a skill taught early, memorizing paths and the locations of landmarks, of which this devastated city had few. The only one he took note of was the tallest building, about forty stories, half caved-in and topped by a crooked spire. They passed close enough for him to get a good look at it, a hundred yards or so.

Composed of rusted metal, the strands as large as shuttle cables, it had once been gilded, flashes of brilliant gold still clinging stubbornly to the top.

"There was a terrorist bombing," Daga said, using all four arms to make hurry-up motions. "Now a Force shield keeps the citizens away, so that no one will be injured if it collapses further." He shrugged, a remarkably human gesture. "It is a waste of energy, but we no longer have the equipment to tear it down and there are too few of us left to risk losing any in such a senseless fashion."

Not that war isn't senseless, Obi-Wan thought to himself. He caught the half-roll of Qui-Gon's eyes and bit back a smile, inappropriate under the circumstances.

Ahead of them Obi-Wan could see a break in the walkway, where the material had been shorn off almost cleanly.

"From here we go down," Daga said mournfully, pointing with two left hands at a rickety-looking ladder, built to Doolian scale, which meant it was very large for Obi-Wan. "I'll go first, and protect your descent."

He began climbing down, very agile using all arms. Qui-Gon gestured at Obi-Wan, who went forward with a mild bit of excitement. Studying and katas were all very well, but he much preferred a physical challenge. Making the rungs on the Doolian-sized ladder qualified.

It was tricky. His master started down when Obi-Wan was nearly at the bottom.

Just as Obi-Wan jumped from the bottom rung Daga gave a shout. Whirling, Obi-Wan freed and lit his saber in the same motion, to see a crowd of natives-two crowds, one Doolian and one Russat-coming at them from two sides. Many were brandishing blasters and firing indiscriminately at their enemies and the Jedi.

Blocking shots as quickly as he could, Obi-Wan could barely spare a half-second to glance up at his master who was trapped on the ladder, an easy target. He hung on with one hand and defended himself with the other, but Obi-Wan saw one shot get through, catching him on the upper thigh. He swayed dangerously, but recovered.

"Master!" Obi-Wan backed up to the ladder, still blocking shots. Daga had unfurled a port of clear shield that he was using to defend himself while he returned fire with a small energy weapon. Several of the attackers fell, taken out by his blasts and the shots returned by the Jedi.

It finally became apparent that they were surrounded. And the attackers seemed to be coordinating: working together to take out the small party and not concentrating on each other so much, though men fell on both sides.

"Run, Padawan!" Qui-Gon shouted at him, his deep voice hoarse.

Taking a chance, the younger man backed into the ladder and looked up. Qui-Gon's robes showed that he had been hit more than once. "No, Master!" he shouted back, leaping for the first rung of the ladder. If they could regain the top they could push the ladder off and be safe. He grabbed Daga's shirt and pulled, meaning to show him the plan.

The Doolian half-turned, and took a blaster shot full in the face, and he fell clumsily against Obi-Wan, who struggled to hold him up.

A blaster shot hit his leg, and it buckled. He couldn't keep his grip on Daga. Trying to lower him without injuring him further while defending himself one-handed was hopeless, so Obi-Wan let him fall, cushioning it with a touch of the Force, suddenly grateful for the hundreds of lessons Qui-Gon had made him endure on dividing his attention.

A large Russat broke through the crowd. He was wearing military-style clothing and in his arms he carried a rough-surfaced metal ball. In the time it took him to raise it over his head and throw it, Obi-Wan recognized what it was: a primitive explosive device. He didn't have time to protect, only long enough to throw up his free hand and give it a Force push away from them.

It landed a few feet away, next to a walkway support.

It looked rather innocuous, sitting there, ugly and lumpy.

And then it exploded.

Given instants to decide, Obi-Wan covered Daga's body with his own, as much of it as he could, concentrating on head and torso. The sound of the blast seemed to hang in the air around them. Their attackers were scattering madly.

Then a rain of shrapnel thundered down on them. He clutched Daga's body, feeling the sharp stabs of pain as he was hit with jagged-edged pieces of plascrete, wood, and metal, his body jerking under the pounding. Colors flashed behind his eyelids, which were squeezed tight, his face pressed to Daga's shoulder-the Doolian smelled of spice of old rust.

His sight greyed out and he hovered on the verge of losing consciousness, then everything snapped back into focus with almost painful clarity.

It was silent.

Not just quiet, but a total lack of sound outside himself. Daga wasn't making any noise beneath him, but the rise and fall of his triple-lung breath pattern was reassuring. It wasn't until he moved that Obi-Wan decided his hearing had not been damaged. He lifted himself to his elbows, aches flaring, and bits of crumbled plascrete showered to the ground. And he remembered his master.

Qui-Gon.

On the ladder when the bomb went off! Obi-Wan surged upwards, wiping blood from his face without truly registering what it was. It was just blurring his vision and he needed to see. He needed to look for his master, presumably buried under the remains of the collapsed walkway.

But he couldn't see anything. Even compensating for the fact that Jedi robes in brown and cream would blend well with the debris, he couldn't spot any sign of Qui-Gon.

At his feet Daga roused, and then rose, shaking dust and splintery bits off. He laid a massive hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "We must go before they return."

"I must find my master." Stepping away from him, he opened himself to the Force, seeking Qui-Gon's unique signature, and finding nothing.

"The rebels will return, with reinforcements. Then the scavengers will come. We must reach safety before dark."

Obi-Wan cast a measuring glance above. The small sun hung low to the horizon, but, remembering from his studies earlier in the day, he estimated that he had some time before it became too dangerous. "You stand watch. I will search for forty minutes. If you see the rebels approaching we will leave then.

"I must insist that we leave now. The Doolian sucked air, making his chest and neck swell, an intimidating display reminiscent of their amphibious ancestors.

Obi-Wan ignored him, clambering over the larger chunks that had somehow missed him and Daga. His Force sense was wide open, but he wasn't detecting anything.

If his master-if Qui-Gon-had been killed in the explosion, he would have passed into the Force. Despite their friendship, Obi-Wan wasn't certain that he would have felt that. He'd been concentrating on surviving, and advanced Force manipulations were still new to him.

Would he have felt it? He liked to think so, he had always believed that the two of them shared a closer connection than many master-padawan pairs, this belief bolstered by his observations of and interactions with other padawans and their masters.

But Qui-Gon's Force-sense was so delicate, his manipulations so fine, that perhaps this too would have been accomplished with the elegance that marked all of his interactions with it. Despite the appealing aspects of that image-Qui-Gon joining the Force with all of the grace and dignity that had stylized his life-Obi-Wan rejected it with a vehemence that surprised him. He dug vigorously in the location he judged Qui-Gon would have fallen, tearing the thick calluses on his hands, one short fingernail ripped painfully.

He glanced around every few minutes, checking the area, checking Daga, who was stoically ignoring him, his attention focused on their surroundings.

Obi-Wan's internal clock ticked off the minutes until there were none left.

"We must go. He is gone, and I do not wish to join him." Daga did not look at him. He remained fluffed up, which indicated the level of his distress.

It was dark, and there were ominous shadows gathering at the base of many of the surrounding buildings.

"I can't just leave him." It was a weak protest. Everything he knew was telling him that his master was dead.

But his heart said no.

'Live in the moment', Qui-Gon would say. And if Obi-Wan was to live in this moment, and the next, he had to go.

"Now, Jedi." Daga's earlier geniality was completely gone. Looking at him as he climbed back out of the rubble, Obi-Wan decided that the Doolian was pale.

"Yes."

When Daga started away at a trot, Obi-Wan couldn't help a last longing look at the remains of the walkway. There were already scavengers-he was unable to determine the race digging into the rubble.

If they found his master, they would be rewarded for his return. He would pay whatever he had to, to assure that Qui-Gon received the dignified farewell he had earned.

The reaction set in later. Daga took him to the current safehouse, patrolled by the remnants of the legal army, where the negotiating teams hid, doing their best to make an agreement that would lead to peace. After his awkward arrival, he bled on his hosts; they were disturbed by the story but not particularly surprised.

There was a moment of breath-stealing pain when Daga gestured at the large table, which was mostly covered by a map of the city, and Obi-Wan realized that Qui-Gon wasn't there. He was not there to step up to the table and take control of the situation. He was not there to begin making sense, to start these people toward the peace they needed.

He wasn't there.

"Honored Jedi." The acting Prime Minister for the Doolians sensed his pain. Spreading both hands wide, apologetically, he spoke: "We regret your loss. Do you require time to mourn?"

It took a minute to sink in. The answer was on his lips almost before he thought it. "No. My master prepared me to follow in his footsteps and I will not dishonor his memory by shirking my duty."

The man seemed pleased by his answer, and gestured at the table. It was only a few steps, but Obi-Wan felt himself growing in stature with each one.

He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, padawan of Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

He would represent the Order with as much of his master's dignity and skill as he could.

They poured over the maps for hours. Obi-Wan quickly determined that the best course of action would be to locate the main leadership of the rebels, and take them into custody. They agreed on three possible locations for the rebel hideout, and scouts, brave beings who would risk all to stop the senseless war, were dispatched to learn as much as they could of each. They demanded Obi-Wan's blessing and he gave it, bemused. It was an old tradition, that of soldiers asking the Jedi for favor as if they were Gods. Jedi could ÝpushÜ a teeny bit of Force into the spirits of those who asked, and Obi-Wan did so, thinking that these people would need all the help they could get. Undoubtedly the rebel base would be well hidden and protected. They risked their lives.

Then he was taken to a small room, almost a closet, that contained only a pallet on the floor and a low table with a bowl for washing. He did not complain, knowing that this was probably a palatial suite compared to the accommodations the others had. Sitting on the pallet, having cleaned dust and blood from his face and hands, Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, waiting for the pain to come.

His hands, loose in his lap, twitched, and he raised them to cover his eyes, pressing hard. But no tears came.

He thought about this small pallet and how he should have been sharing it with his master, about the way Qui-Gon would have appeared to take up all the room, but would have left just enough for his padawan to be comfortable, curled into the curve of his big body, warm and safe. Before he had become Qui-Gon's padawan, Obi-Wan had not known the comfort to be found in casual contact. The first time they had been forced to share a bed he had volunteered to take the floor, thinking that his master would not want him so close, but Qui-Gon had ignored his protests and insisted.

Being wrapped in those long arms, curled against that broad chest, Obi-Wan had discovered the true meaning of comfort. Nothing had ever made him feel as safe or protected. After that night he had no longer doubted that Qui-Gon wanted him as padawan, that his master wanted him by his side.

Still no tears came. His throat felt tight and his eyes hot, but he couldn't cry. And he needed to. His master was dead. He should cry. What was wrong with him?

Feeling like he had failed though he'd only begun, Obi-Wan lay down on the little bed and closed his eyes, but sleep did not come gently.

We have located the rebels," Daga spoke firmly. He seemed fully recovered from the previous day. Obi-Wan felt well, and rested, and guilty about it. He was not grieving for his master and he didn't understand why. Yes, it was a good thing if Qui-Gon had passed into the Force, but surely he should at least miss him a little bit?

Well, he did miss him. He kept expecting him to be there when he turned around, to step up when Obi-Wan asked for advice, to find his silent bulk waiting at his shoulder when he needed it.

This was an entirely new sort of pain, but the padawan knew that what he was feeling had more to do with guilt than actual sorrow. The guilt was due to his lack of sorrow-losing his master had not made him miserable, so he would make himself so in other ways, as penance.

Had his feelings been so shallow, had their relationship really meant that little to him? He had never thought so. But to judge from his reactions over the past few days, he had been wrong.

Daga was staring at him stoically. The room had not changed since Obi-Wan had arrived; an air of quiet desperation hung over it, the pall enchanced by the layers of soot and dirt that covered the surfaces no matter how often they were wiped off. There wasn't much water, little to be spared for cleaning.

"Which location?" Obi-Wan asked belatedly. No matter his personal troubles, he had a mission to carry out.

"In the underground."

"The sewers or the water treatment facility?" Both of those public works had ceased functioning months ago and provided lots of hiding space for the rebels.

"The treatment facility," Daga said. The negotiators all looked to Obi-Wan as if they expected him to make a decision.

He crossed his arms in front of him, hands clasped within his sleeves, and remembered the many times he had seen Qui-Gon stand thus. His master's calm serenity, hard-won but effective. Perhaps if Obi-Wan adopted that pose the calm would follow. It hadn't worked so far, but he was unsure as to the reasons.

"How many?" His mind was only partially on his work; he hoped that wasn't too obvious. For the past three days he had only slept fitfully, eaten little. Not because he was grieving, but because he seemed unable to. This lack was making him doubt himself, and his guilt was growing daily. Once again he pushed those doubts aside, to be dealt with after the mission, and refocused on his work.

"Twenty to thirty. She was not able to get close enough for a full count."

"It's good that she considered her safety." Several of the scouts had been lost, killed while searching for the rebel bases. Obi-Wan had wanted to join the search, but Daga had discouraged him, pointing out that he was their last hope and it could take months to get another Jedi there with their communications equipment down. As it was he could not contact the Council and tell them what had happened, or ask advice or guidance.

And he needed guidance. Not with the mission; it was pretty straightforward.

He needed guidance for his heart.

"It would be best to go ahead and raid them tonight." He wanted this over with, these people set on the path to peace.

"Many of our troops are still outside the city, camped in the hills." They had been sent there weeks ago, before his arrival, to keep them safe and cut down on the fighting within the city-not to mention the resource drain they represented. "There are nearly four hundred of them there."

"Bringing them in here would just complicate matters. We want to capture the leaders for negotiation. If we bring in the army they're liable to be killed."

"We only have a handful of warriors here," one of the ministers objected. "The rebels are better armed than we are."

"We have enough people, and we have me." There was no pride in the statement. Qui-Gon had taught him to take pride in many things, but not his fighting skills, for they were too often used in violence.

"You think we have enough people?" Daga sounded as if he was challenging, but the young Jedi remained firm.

"With careful planning and execution, yes." Bending over the maps, Obi-Wan traced a path through the massive plascrete tunnels that used to vent purified water into the now-drained aqueduct. "Three teams, going through here, and here, and here. They won't be expecting this route and if they do detect one team it's unlikely that they'll check them all."

"Three teams is not enough."

"If we put teams into every pipe they'll figure it out and flood them." The rebels could open the gates and let the million gallons of stored water within the treatment plant out, flooding the tunnels they would be using.

"They may do that anyhow."

"It's a risk that we will have to take." Obi-Wan straightened and met Daga's eyes. "This is the best chance." He had been trained in strategies for every situation. He trusted himself and his training.

He trusted his master. Even if he did not mourn him.

"We should do as he says. He is Jedi," one of the officials spoke up. Obi-Wan raised a hand and shook his head. "Do it this way because you think it will work or because you trust my judgment, not just because I am a Jedi."

"But you are." It was insistent.

"And I am human, and mortal, and as prone to errors as any cautious man." Not as cautious as Qui-Gon had been, but his master had been known to throw caution to the winds on occasion as well.

"We will do it because we trust you," Daga grunted. His second set of arms crossed while the first set clasped fists. "Show us the way it should be done."

"Yes." Bending over the maps again, Obi-Wan took a scruffy sheet of real paper and began sketching a battle plan.

It hit him again while he tried to sleep that night. There had to be something wrong with him. Something lacking. Qui-Gon had been wrong, as had all of the masters who spoke of him as compassionate. He'd always known that he didn't have Qui-Gon's touch with the Living Force, that his abilities were more directed toward the future, but everyone had been certain that he had developed much of the sensitivity that made his master so empathic.

They must have been wrong. Because his master was dead, and Obi-Wan didn't even feel it.

Perhaps he was suffering from some delayed-shock syndrome? Since sleep was not coming at his call, he got up, and knelt on the hard floor beside his pallet, arranging himself in a meditation pose. It was easy-too easy, shouldn't he have trouble with this, under these circumstances-to slip into a second-level trance and methodically check his bodily functions, his mental status, his Force connection. Every Jedi did this as frequently as necessary, but he had neglected it in the past few days. Perhaps there was something within him, some illness or mental disturbance that would explain the lack of emotion he was feeling.

Several long hours later he surfaced, faced with the undeniable truth; there was nothing wrong with him. Everything was in order. He felt fine. Good. Far too good for a padawan who had just lost his master.

He remembered Sha-Al Tandria, a human female that had been kind to him. She had been older than he and was taken as an apprentice about the time Obi-Wan had his tenth birthday. It had only been three years later that her master had been killed during a battle on some mission, and he'd been caught up in his own agonies at the time, on the verge of being sent to the AgriCorps, but her anguish had been vivid. The Council had sequestered her because her hurt and shame had been uncontrollable at first. It had been weeks before she was able to go about with others again, and she'd been prone to sudden crying fits.

He should feel like that. If he had loved Qui-Gon the way a padawan was supposed to, he should feel like that now. But all he felt was lonesome, and overwhelmed by the mission, though he knew he was hiding that well. He missed his master, yes. As if the man had gone on a long solo mission and Obi-Wan didn't know when they would meet again. Not the way he should, with the man gone forever. Gone from his life, Obi-Wan's training in jeopardy, everything he had known changed.

It was an effort to climb into the little bed again, but he did not fool himself with the thought that that was because of his grief. For he had none.

Knowing that he was bordering on self-pity and disgusted with himself because of it, Obi-Wan called the Force to him, and made himself sleep. Peacefully and comfortably, the sleep of a tired man. But no more than that.

Daga, you are leading the second party," Obi-Wan repeated himself, putting a touch of Force into the words, determined that the big Doolian should obey him. It was an arrogant thing, to be a Jedi and they all had to guard against misusing their powers, but in this case it was necessary. Obi-Wan needed to go in on his own and focus all his attention on the rebel leader that he had to catch to end this mission. He prayed that it would end this mission.

"You cannot go alone." Both sets of arms crossed at the sides, the Doolian was angry.

"For this to work I must get in undetected so that I am ready to help when you arrive. I can cloak myself in the Force but not the rest of you."

"And if you are found out?"

"I will not be." Again, no pride touched his voice, his heart. He could do this, but it was not something he bragged about. Qui-Gon had been very thorough in his teachings.

"Let the Jedi decide, Daga," an official spoke up. "He has planned everything so far."

"And done well," another added.

"Only if it works." Daga seemed more irritated than he needed to be moments before they attempted this attack.

"I can only do my best." And his best was a worthy effort, so his master had always told him.

"If we don't leave soon we'll lose what light we have." One of the soldiers was fidgeting. Eager for battle? Or just ready to get it over with? Obi-Wan thought it was the latter.

"Everyone knows their path?" he asked, eyes traveling the small band. Three groups of four and himself. Not much of an invasion force. But they might outnumber those they were attacking. "Weapons on stun?"

What weapons they had left were all dialed to low power, to ration it, and he was glad of that.

More nods.

"Let us go." Without another word to Daga or anyone, he went out the concealed door of the small building and promptly blended into the fading light of the night. With his hood over his head and a gentle touch of Force applied to the surrounding shadows, he was practically invisible.

There were gasps behind him as the soldiers came out and could not see him, and he smiled. Qui-Gon liked that part. The older man used to play with the crche children this way, hiding himself in the shadows of the courtyard or gardens and challenging them to find him. He had taught Obi-Wan to enjoy the game.

Well, he would just have to play it with the children now, with Qui-Gon gone. It was no hardship.

The poignant thought should have brought pain, or tears, but neither came and despair flooded him again-a poor substitute for grief.

What was wrong with him?

The battle was quick and fierce. Obi-Wan got in easily, slipping past perimeter guards and all the way into the interior rooms where the families of the rebels lived. It was child's play to send the guards to sleep, but as soon as the soldiers started coming in, the rebels tried to open the floodgates and wash out the tunnels, but he was there to stop them. No one was killed, all were treated fairly, and he was relieved when they seemed willing to begin negotiating immediately. It seemed that the Rusties were as eager to end this war as the Doolians, and get on with their lives.

It took most of the night to get them all to a safehouse-not the one the negotiators were living in-and settled into a form of confinement. The families took it very well, though Obi-Wan regretfully insisted that the children be imprisoned as well, in case they were sent to bring reinforcements. He made sure they had good food and plenty of water.

There was no time for sleep. One by one the rebels were brought in and questioned. The questioning was fairly routine, mostly covering details they already knew-they were just checking to be sure stories matched, to be certain there were no others waiting to attack as soon as opportunity presented itself. Then the rebels were tried before the remaining officials, and offered a choice: swear to peace or be sent to a concentration camp.

Obi-Wan, exhausted, helped some of them along with the decision. He knew that it wasn't a method the Council approved of, but Qui-Gon had taught him that it could have its uses if used judiciously. Obi-Wan used it very carefully. In this case the need for peace was so desperate that he didn't think even Master Mace Windu could protest; though he undoubtedly would, hauling Qui-Gon out and dressing him down in the middle of the Chamber.

If Qui-Gon were the one doing this.

He was almost becoming accustomed to the way that felt. There was a pattern to it: think of Qui-Gon, wait for the pain, get a rush of shame that he didn't feel any pain, and then put it out of his mind. Would he be doing this for the rest of his life?

He would have to go to the Healers. This brought another flush of shame; they would know. They would see that he did not mourn his master, that he had not loved his master as he should. They would tell the Council. What would a lack of that nature say about him, what would they make of it?

Self-pity felt no better than shame and he did put it out of his mind, as he had to. Concentrate on the mission at hand. Live in the moment.

"He's doing a good job with the negotiations." Qui-Gon looked up from his computer puzzle and nodded at Mace Windu. The Council member was present to witness and judge Obi-Wan's performance during this test.

It was a harsh, cruel thing to make a padawan believe that their master was dead so that their reactions could be tested. This had been done here, on this planet, for the past three hundred years. It was the life's goal of every Doolian and Rustikan to be involved in what they called ÝThe TestÜ. They worked with every padawan, every potential knight-elect. Their methods were practically a science. They got the best out of the young Jedi.

"Every time I hear him quote you I want to laugh-I never realized that you spout so many homilies."

Mace was trying to cheer him up, Qui-Gon knew. It had been painful for him, to hide his presence in the Force. Physically painful as well, since he hadn't been able to heal himself while smothered under the remains of the walkway, because doing so would have disrupted the Force-shield generator that was hiding him and given him away.

But more painful was watching Obi-Wan. The young man was continuing on, doing his duty, taking care of business. As if nothing had happened. However much Obi-Wan meant to him, it was becoming clear that he hadn't been as important to his padawan.

Many young Jedi made an art form of hiding their emotions, especially those of the more emotional races, like the Humans and Denebians, and Obi-Wan was no exception. He kept most of his feelings to himself most of the time, only letting Qui-Gon catch glimpses of the hurts and fears that all adolescents are plagued with during those turbulent years. As he grew older those glimpses became few and far between and the older Jedi had privately mourned the loss of what closeness they had shared. He had still been privileged to share Obi-Wan's sense of humor, though, and that had made up for a lot.

But even the most controlled of padawans could be expected to show some reaction to the loss of their master.

At the request of the Council, represented by Mace, over the past few days Daga had surreptitiously monitored Obi-Wan: his heart rate, breathing, and general connection with the Force. If he were suffering from a delayed grief reaction, it would have shown up in the monitoring, the equipment was very sensitive. There was some mild distress, but no more than could be explained by the negotiations alone.

It hurt Qui-Gon, deep inside, that he was not mourned by this man. This man that he had worried over, taught, guided, fought with and loved for ten years-this man did not care that Qui-Gon was dead. It was a selfish, petty thing and he spent hours in meditation attempting to rid himself of this negative emotion.

He had no right to be angry with his padawan. Despite the harshness of the circumstances and the violence of the surroundings, the loss of life and general negative air, Obi-Wan was acquitting himself nicely. Perhaps not perfectly-there were other options to hunting down and basically kidnapping the rebel leaders-but he had always been an aggressive sort, given to basic, up-front solutions. Which made his success at the delicate negotiations all the more promising. He had learned well, and everything he did right was a reflection on Qui-Gon's teachings.

Lost in thought, Qui-Gon carelessly placed a piece in the puzzle and was reprimanded by a sharp, unpleasant buzzing sound. With a sigh he reset the game and started again, two levels lower than he'd been working on. Mace gave him a concerned look, it seemed as if he were going to say something-perhaps something meant to be comforting-but, thankfully, he kept it to himself, turning away, going over to the control panel which was manned by an assortment of Jedi assistants.

On the big monitor Qui-Gon could see Obi-Wan sitting in meditation in his tiny, spartan room. He decided to join him, in spirit, and sank to his own knees, again seeking peace with his unworthy pain.

"You cannot keep control of the lake!" Daga shouted at the Rustikan leader, who bristled all of the spikes on his red-pink head and snarled back.

"You have control of the farmlands-we will not trust you with the water as well!"

Again Obi-Wan stepped up to the table. They had been in negotiations for nearly two weeks. Normally they would have started with the big issues and worked their way down to the little ones, but that was not the way these people worked. And he was finding that, left to his own devices, his style of negotiation was more different than Qui-Gon's than he'd expected. Whereas his master was very hands-on-or had been-always on top of things, involved in every decision, Obi-Wan found himself more comfortable to fade into the background a bit more and only step in when he felt that he had to. He was doing less to direct the proceedings and more simple roadblock-solving.

Not that it was actually simple. Qui-Gon might have had the right idea, riding herd on every little detail; seldom had Obi-Wan seen him presented with a stalemate, because he steered the negotiations clear of them before they could happen. But there was room for different methods, and he thought that his were working well, for this situation. He would have to be flexible later, and make sure that he was adaptable in other circumstances. Now he tried to ease the leaders past this newest crisis.

"If you'd like my suggestion?" he offered, not butting in. If they said no, he would back off, until they realized it wasn't working and came to him, as they had done several times already.

The safehouse, the same one that he had first arrived in, had undergone some changes. With the fighting stopped, soldiers returned from the forests had been scavenging, retrieving food, medicine, clothing, everything worth keeping was being found, sorted, and distributed. Some of it had made its way here, and a small squadron had descended upon the place, cleaning it from top to bottom. His little pallet had fresh linens-not new, but clean, and that was a relief. The floors were clean and the food was better. More importantly, people were starting to come back into the city, returning to their homes, being organized into teams that were starting to clean up and repair the damage to the city proper. Fed and clean, teams were carefully chosen, mixed ages and both races. It seemed that most citizens were so thankful that the fighting had stopped that they were being extra-polite to each other and there had only been a few minor incidents reported.

"What do you suggest?" Daga growled.

Obi-Wan felt like the Doolian had not liked him since the day Qui-Gon was killed. There were teams repairing the communications equipment; soon he would be able to report to the Council. "Because the water supply is such a vital issue, a committee should be set up to oversee it. A committee composed of an equal number of Rustikans and Doolians, with no chairperson in charge."

"But we have no farms. They have all been ÝreclaimedÜ," the Rustikan protested.

Obi-Wan studied the map. The majority of the farmland was indeed blue, the color that designated Doolian ownership. The Rustikans seemed to have a lot of barren land and city space.

"Doolians are better farmers than Rustikans," Daga asserted.

"Be that as it may-" Obi-Wan waved a hand, silencing the protests that rose at that statement. "Everyone has a right to the profession of choice according to your laws-and that means that Rustikans that want to farm will be allowed to farm." He wondered if he was coming on too strong, and gentled his approach, using the Force to project goodwill and friendship into the room, easing the tension that was growing. He turned to Daga, arms held to his side, non-threatening. Body language was so important to these people, it was becoming second nature to him to hold himself properly.

"There has been great loss of life on both sides." He paused, and briefly remembered one mission on some obscure planet; there had been a law that no one was allowed to be taller than the Emperor-and the Emperor had been all of five-foot-two. Fortunately that had been before Obi-Wan's growth spurt, the one that had added ten inches to his juvenile frame, so he'd come in under the limit, as it were. Qui-Gon had spent most of the visit on his knees in the throne room where the negotiations took place. The Emperor's council had taken pity on him, though; they made sure he was in the room and already down before the monarch came in, thus canceling the need for the Jedi master to walk across the floor on his knees to reach his position.

"Many Doolians who held land are no longer here to farm it." There was a ripple of anger in the air.

Obi-Wan had spent thirty minutes every night of that mission rubbing sweet oil into the bruised flesh and cramped calves, his master grumbling softly in the chair above him.

He waited until the room felt calm again before continuing to speak, the memory making him want to smile. The bad feelings came too. He pushed them aside. When he called the Council he would confess his lack of grief and volunteer to be taken to the healers to find out what was wrong with him. If they decided that this lack meant he could not become a knight-elect if letting his master be killed hadn't already barred him from that promotion, however it was decided-then so be it. He was no longer sure that he deserved to be a Jedi knight.

He had let his master die.

"I suggest that a list be made of all the Doolian land available for farming now, and that lists be made of all the Doolian and Rustikan families that want that land."

"What about hereditary rights?"

"Suspend them. Change the rules. If a family already has farmland of their own, give the land they would have inherited to the Rustikans."

"That's not fair," a Doolian minister complained loudly.

"Fair is ending this war. If you don't compromise, the fighting will start again." He paused a heartbeat, then went on: "Is that what you want?"

"No." Daga sounded defeated and Obi-Wan didn't like it. "None of us want that."

It was quiet for a few minutes as everyone thought this over.

"A good compromise is when no-one gets exactly what they want but everyone gets what they need," Obi-Wan repeated what Qui-Gon had taught him.

"We need time to consider this."

"We have been in this room for too long," Daga agreed. "The cleanup crews need extra hands, we should join them for a day or two."

"I will as well." That was a good idea, Obi-Wan wished he had thought of it. He could look for any sign of his master's body. It was important to him that he found it, so that he could be honored.

With general agreement they broke up, each going to seek the best way to help.

"He's been walking in circles for several hours." Mace was once again by Qui-Gon's side.

They were standing in front of the monitor, and Qui-Gon was worried. He hadn't considered it before, but the lack of grief was probably hurting his padawan, maybe as much as the grief itself would. It should have occurred to him. From the beginning, when he had first refused and then reluctantly accepted the young man as his apprentice, he had known there was a sensitive soul hidden behind those changeable eyes.

"There's no pattern to it." Mace was worried too; they had been friends long enough that Qui-Gon could tell.

It was very quiet in the control room, though there was a lot of work going on. Every word Obi-Wan spoke, every movement and gesture was recorded, analyzed, and probed for meaning and motivation. After the test was over the young man would spend weeks in conference and debriefings, explaining why he'd done each individual thing, what path of thought he'd taken to reach each decision. It was a grueling marathon of rationalization and justification that taxed even the most disciplined minds. Qui-Gon vividly remembered the tantrum he'd thrown on the 38th day of that ordeal.

The Test was usually ended with the signing of the completed treaty, or when those watching decided that no treaty could be completed; a master would walk into the room and greet their padawan, in front of the others, and the padawan's reaction to that would be studied along with everything else. Later, in private, the padawan would be awarded the new rank of knight-elect or given the news that hesh had not been chosen to advance to that level, at which point other options would be discussed. It was an emotional, moving time for most master and padawan pairs. And they all, whether they were advanced or not, had to go through the debriefing.

For Qui-Gon, thinking that he had been responsible for the death of Master Yoda-for losing Master Yoda!-had added such a weight of guilt that he had barely been able to think, much less act. But he had pulled himself together and gotten the treaty signed, and then, after it was all said and done, he'd been so angry that he'd scarcely been able to speak to his master. It had all come out on that 38th day, which ended with him on his knees, head in Yoda's lap, sobbing his heart out.

He doubted Obi-Wan would end up in a similar position.

"He expressed an intention of finding my body, but he's not anywhere near the explosion site." Arms crossed over his chest, the taller man watched the screen thoughtfully. Being unable to touch his padawan's mind severely hindered his ability to read Obi-Wan's face. The padawan had learned to mask his emotions from one of the best at it, Qui-Gon himself.

"No, he's not. He's actually moving further away from it."

The monitor was linked wirelessly to the highest-quality surveilance camera available in the Republic. It showed Obi-Wan from as little as three feet away as he paced, and turned, and paced, and turned, each circle narrower, each one bringing him closer to ...

"He's coming here." Qui-Gon took a deep breath. He'd never thought of that. Perhaps Obi-Wan wasn't grieving for him because the younger man somehow knew he was not dead? There was no way. Their mental bond was broken, Qui-Gon's Force-signature had been wiped clean. True, there had been no body for him to grieve over, but those other details should have convinced him. "Since when does Obi-Wan play by the rules?" he asked himself, earning a disgruntled look from Mace.

A padawan had never discovered the truth about the Test. Some suspected, especially psi-sensitives, but they also knew enough to hold their tongues and play along. If Obi-Wan had figured it out, he would be the first.

"He doesn't know, Qui-Gon," Mace scolded him. "You are projecting your wishes onto his actions. No doubt he's just trying to follow the trail of the scavengers who brought you here."

The scavengers had also been just playing their parts. For Obi-Wan to be tracking them after this long was a testament to his skills.

All things considered, Qui-Gon was positive that Obi-Wan would be advanced. His lack of grief was disturbing, but could be a valid response based on the level of his emotional attachment to his master.

"You're right." He gave Mace his agreement, and sighed. For just a moment he had hoped.

It felt like he'd been walking for months. Like that mission to Nambipana Beta, when he and his master had been run from the village, where a Force-sensitive infant had been spotted, without any belongings or supplies. They had walked 800 kilometers to the nearest spaceport.

Just the two of them, their lightsabers, and the sun.

That hadn't been so bad, actually. They had traded stories, giving each other points for outrageousness and creativity. In the end, about two kilometers from their destination, after nearly three months of walking, they had agreed that the competition was a draw.

It had been eight days since he had begun searching for Qui-Gon's remains. The first day had been when they took a break from the negotiations; now he came out every evening when they called it quits. One of the first things he'd done after the cease-fire was declared had been to bully both sides into forming a team with a single goal: to restore power to the city, which would automatically double the quality of life for the inhabitants and make the restoration efforts that were beginning to make a dent in the wreckage. Because of that, his twilight ramblings were now lit by wavery sulphur lights that gave everything a mildly hallucinogenic quality but did make it easier to see, and avoid stepping into holes or booby-traps that had yet to be disarmed. He disarmed them as he went, six last night and four so far tonight. One thing about the Rustikans; what they lacked in raw power they made up for in creativity.

Stopping, stretching, he checked his timesense. It was late by Doolian standards the 28-hour day was just that little bit longer enough to make him sleepy when he shouldn't be but there was still plenty of time for him to look around before Daga decided he needed to rest. The Doolian had come and gotten him a couple of times when he thought Obi-Wan had been out too long. Theoretically it was no longer dangerous to be out after full dark, but it apparently made the Doolians nervous.

The ground he walked upon was strewn with bits of plascrete and real glass and things he couldn't identify. He'd stopped looking at it during his walk that first night, after he saw what he thought was a scattering of sentient bones. There had been a certain Force-signature to them that convinced him they had been part of a sentient being at one time, probably a long ago. According to the history he'd read, fatalities of the war had dropped dramatically when the exodus had come; a couple of years into the conflict the majority of the population had packed up and moved within a space of a few months, most taking refuge in the thick, foreboding, previously uninhabited forests that covered most of the landscape.

So there weren't as many broken bones as might be expected. Small favors and all that. The universe hadn't done him any favors lately. He felt like he was owed one. That was immature, true, but since losing his master he'd felt it. Like something big and important was coming to him. Something he had earned-somehow.

That was nonsense. A word Qui-Gon had used sparingly but to great effect. Nothing made Obi-Wan shut up and listen more quickly than that word.

After his stretch he looked up, and leaned back, and looked up higher.

The skyscraper, with its disintegrating tower, drew his attention. He found himself turning to look at it again and again, not understanding the attraction.

Perhaps the Force was trying to tell him something. If so, it was time that he listened.

With another stretch, this one wide-and why did he ache as if he'd been sparring for days?-Obi-Wan turned, and walked directly toward the tower, ignoring the unpleasant tingle that itched at the base of his neck. It got worse as he got closer.

"He's not on the monitor," Mace observed. He'd left for a few moments, fetching a cup of Klah, a popular stimulant drink that originated on a small planet on the fringes of the Republic. It was hard to come by, and Mace hoarded his stash.

"He headed east."

"Why can't we see him?"

"There are no monitors at the tower base. The deflection wave distorts the image so badly that it can't be seen." Mace knew that, and Qui-Gon knew Mace knew that, and he knew that Mace knew he knew. So why did the man ask?

A sideways glance from dark eyes gave him an answer. Mace was merely teasing him, probably trying again to raise his spirits. It was a nice thing to do.

The distortion wave was designed to discourage any super-curious padawans from investigating the tower, which housed the control room, visiting Council members, and any others witnessing the Test. It was also the main hub for the war design group, responsible for all of the booby-traps, bodies, and general destruction that filled what was essentially a very large stage. The Test was really just a play to them. An ongoing drama spiced by the addition of each new padawan.

"I suppose he's sitting at the base, head in hands, pouting." Holding out the rough-cut wooden mug, Mace smiled. With a twitch of eyebrow, Qui-Gon accepted the mug, and drank deeply of the spicy, comforting brew.

"Obi-Wan does not pout," he said between sips.

"Brooding," Mace offered, watching him drink.

Qui-Gon debated draining the mug, but decided that would be a poor thank you for the sharing. "He does not brood." After a last sip, carefully savored, he handed back the mug half full.

"He's perfect, then."

"Except for the fact that he seems at peace with the thought of my death-yes." He tried to make a joke of it, but the words were more bitter than he'd intended. They brought instant worry to Mace's smooth face, and the other man stepped closer to him, offering a silent shoulder of support. Leaning into him slightly, Qui-Gon accepted what he offered.

It hurt, far more than he wanted to admit to himself. Selfishly, he hoped Obi-Wan was cowering in the shadow of the tower, saddened by his loss.

"We'll give him two hours, and then send Daga in to retrieve him if he doesn't come out." Mace's hand was warm on his back.

The itching grew worse. Obi-Wan rubbed at the back of his neck and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at first, but then harder. He made himself stop when he noticed the traces of pink on his fingertips, touches of blood diluted by the sweat that collected in his hair. It was odd that he was sweating, it certainly wasn't hot here. The heavy layer of pollution that hung over the city prevented the sun's rays from reaching the base of the tower. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and folded his arms in imitation of Qui-Gon's favorite pose, and paused to study the area around him.

The tower base seemed stable enough; six-foot square blocks of local stone, rough-hewn, lavender-grey in the faint yellow light.

He scratched his head again, noticed, stopped. It was an aggravating sensation, insidious.

There were some rather large cracks in the stone, places where mortar had crumbled free, but when he touched it he could feel the strength of the building, the rightness of its place in the Force.

"Wow," he said it softly, meant it reverently. For this building to have retained that strength despite the fighting that went on around it and the damage it had withstood was remarkable. Qui-Gon would have wanted to study it.

He'd do it for him. All he had to do was find a way in ...

Hm.

After circling the base three times, Obi-Wan was mystified. He could not find a door or window or any means of access. It was possible that whatever entry there had been was sealed; perhaps a group of rebels or hiding citizens had blocked it somehow ... Obi-Wan leaned against the stone, hands flat on the oddly warm surface, and closed his eyes, sending forth the Force, seeking a way in. There was a crack that he could exploit, several yards away ... but he could find no sealed entry. It was as if the tower had been built for a race of beings that could fly-which the Doolians and Rustikans most certainly could not. They never had.

Perhaps there had been an outer stairway and the entry farther up? Concentrating-the itch intensified until he thought he would have to scream, or rip off his skin, but he managed to contain the urge and shove the feeling to the side of his awareness, if not completely out of it. He sent tendrils of the Force seeking higher, and then higher. And then they stopped cold, a shiver running through him, blocked by what seemed to be a Force-shield, something he'd only experienced in training.

What was a shield generator doing here? There were no Force-sensitives native to this planet.

Stepping away from the wall, he scuffed his boot in the dirt and thought. Smugglers sometimes used planetary conflicts to hide their activities. If they knew that Jedi had been called in to help settle the conflict they might shield-or they could have been shielding all along. Smugglers were a paranoid sort.

The negotiations were going well. There was a good chance-70 percent or more, he estimated-that if something happened to him, they would continue to a successful conclusion now that the fighting had stopped. Based on that knowledge, he was duty-bound to investigate this anomaly, since it would most likely not interfere with his primary mission.

That was one of the hardest things about being a Jedi: ignoring situations he would like to take care of because taking care of them would distract from the actual assigned mission. Someday, he thought, he would take a sabbatical and spend it anywhere he wanted, just fixing the problems he thought needed to be fixed. Qui-Gon would have liked to do something like that; his master had always been saddened by the things they weren't able to do.

He could do it to honor his memory. That was a nice thought. He would have to pick a date to start on, a date with meaning. Perhaps the day he became Master Jinn's padawan. Or the date of Qui-Gon's ascension to knighthood.

That was a worthy goal. After he completed ten years of service he would be offered the opportunity to take a sabbatical. That was what he would do then.

But right now he was going to get into this building and find out why there was a shield generator here.

There was a crack where the mortar between two of the base stones had eroded, and the stones had shifted, probably the result of one or more explosions that had rocked the city. With a judicious application of the Force he spread them further apart and managed to squeeze between them.

He wound up in what seemed to be a narrow hallway, but there were no doors visible. So he started walking, with his Force-sense opened wide, and his âsaber lit in his hand, on low power for light. It would power up with less than a thought if he had to defend himself.

"Has he come out yet?"

Qui-Gon very carefully chose a puzzle piece and examined it, turning it 360 degrees, trying to visualize how it would best fit into the already assembled pieces. He was beginning to think that he would never finish this.

"It hasn't even been an hour yet," he chided Mace gently. There had been a time, when they were young, when he had been the voice of reason and Mace had been the wild child. Oh, he'd let himself be dragged into an embarrassing number of escapades, but it had always been Mace who thought them up.

"I don't like it." With the dawning of middle age, with elderhood looming-though he was more than ten years younger than Qui-Gon-Mace had become set in his ways. Peevish. Stuffy.

"You said it yourself." Deciding to not play that piece, Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair and looked up at his friend. His hair, worn loose just for a change, was falling into his eyes, but he ignored it. "He's probably brooding. I'd feel better if he were."

"It really hurts you, doesn't it." The other master leaned close, his hand firm on Qui-Gon's back. "There's a reasonable explanation, I'm sure. Obi-Wan is very fond of you. You share a strong bond and he respects you deeply."

"But we are not as close as master and padawan should be. Mace, I am terribly afraid. That I have made the same mistakes with him-"

"That you made with Xanatos."

"Or worse. Have I held myself apart from him because of that? I opened myself fully to Xani, offered everything. But with Obi ... I rejected him, and then took him grudgingly. Have I held some resentment for that? Toward him, or the Force, because it bonded us?"

"I cannot answer those questions for you. Xanatos' turning was the result of his weakness, not yours. You, and I, and everyone, did everything we could to correct those faults, but he chose otherwise." Mace paused, and stooped to wrap an arm around Qui-Gon's broad shoulders.

"I do not believe Obi-Wan would ever make the same choice, no matter what the circumstances."

Returning the half-hug gruffly, a little awkwardly, Qui-Gon found his throat suddenly thick, words hard to say.

"Thank you, old friend. Your support means everything to me right now."

"But not always." Mace pulled away and covered their mutual embarrassment with a touch of sarcasm. "The next time you face the Council, this moment will be forgotten."

"No doubt-but the next time we have dinner, we'll remember it," Qui-Gon countered, starting with the puzzle again, feeling moderately better. Perhaps there was no love lost between him and Obi-Wan ....

But, no. His feelings for the younger man ran deep. More deeply that he'd imagined. From the recent hours spent in meditation-more consecutive hours than he'd spent since Xanatos had turned-he was learning something. Learning things about himself that he hadn't been willing to face before.

It could be-and he would never let Mace in on this little secret-that his feelings for Obi-Wan ran very deep indeed. Gradually, over the past weeks, he had come to understand that he loved him. That perhaps he was in love with him, or on the path to that state. Because he kept himself so disconnected he hadn't even noticed when it started. Now that he saw it, he knew it had been growing for a very long time. Probably since Obi-Wan became a young man.

It was irrelevant now. There was no chance Obi-Wan would return his feelings, even if Qui-Gon dared speak them.

His padawan scarcely mourned him if at all. There was no chance that Obi-Wan could love him.

There was nothing to be gained by brooding over it. With a small sigh, he placed the next puzzle piece, and was rewarded by a series a flashing lights and cheerful beeps. The next level. Wonderful.

Inside, the shield generator did not bother him. It was clearly designed to keep the curious away and not bother whoever lived or worked here.

After walking for ages Obi-Wan found two doors that seemed to be set on opposite sides of the building. After almost no thought he chose the first one, walking back around until he reached it. It opened easily at a touch and he wondered that it did not squeak or grind. It was far too well-maintained for a condemned building, reinforcing his assumption that something was going on here that shouldn't be.

The stairs went up at least ten stories, and opened to a wide landing, a large room, where several other staircases branched off. There were doors, and signs of habitation; the floors were clean and modern, the plascrete walls painted soothing shades of pale green and blue that looked, when he thought about it, exactly like the ones in the Initiates Hall on Coruscant.

Would smugglers use the same wall colorings as Jedi, or was it accidental? Whatever the cause, it was odd.

He checked behind a couple of doors, and found proof that there were people living here. Most seemed to be tidy bedrooms, with compact cooking units and internal ambiance regulators. Only two seemed occupied, but the others sat ready.

It was getting very hard to restrain himself. What was going on here? In this tower, on this planet?

Determinedly he took the largest, central staircase, which ascended steeply upwards between two bare walls. There was a small landing at the top of it and a large, heavy door of synthetic steel.

The door had no lock, just a single handle, of the looped fashion used at the Temple.

Obi-Wan stared at that handle for several minutes. His mind was blank. It refused to register the significance of finding that pattern here. It refused to think at all.

"Daga has been contacted. He's going in after him," Mace came back to tell Qui-Gon. He nodded, distracted, absorbed in his game. He'd admitted the situation to himself and now he was at peace with it.

"He has a deflector for the shield, right?" Even non-Force sensitive Doolians could be annoyed by the shield.

"Of course. But Obi-Wan should be scratching his skin off by now."

"He's very stubborn about things like that."

"Reminds me of someone," Mace said dryly.

Whatever was behind that door would answer all of his questions;

but did he want to open it?

The Force whispered to him. It called him, taunted him, and Obi-Wan knew that it had led him to this place.

Why?

And did he want to know?

If Qui-Gon were here he would first advise caution, and then plunge forward as his heart dictated, ignoring his own wise advice.

Well, if he were to live in the moment, here was another good one. An important one.

It could be the best, or the worst moment of his life. But he was Sith-damned going to live in it. With a deep breath, lightsaber raised, Obi-Wan pushed open the door, swinging it wide.

In a room filled with tech bays and monitoring equipment and at least eight people of various species, some in Jedi robes, one tableau stood out painfully clear: Master Qui-Gon Jinn, seated at a small table, his puzzle in hand, and Master Mace Windu, standing at his side. Both of them staring at him with wide eyes and shocked expressions on their faces.

There was an instant of potential that hung in the air, still and silent and charged with Force energy. In that instant Obi-Wan understood more than he'd ever seen before. Thousands of life's little mysteries were laid clear, and he understood.

"You dirty Sith!" he spat the curse, almost diving across the room, watching as Mace took a stunned step backwards and Qui-Gon half-rose from his chair, game tumbling from his hand in slow motion to smash into the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

"Obi?!"

"I knew you weren't dead." Slamming into the big body, wrapping his arms tightly around it, fastening his mouth over the lips half-parted, kissing Qui-Gon with a sudden, desperate hunger that left no more mysteries in his heart.

"Obi?!" Big hands were on his shoulders, Qui-Gon was pushing him away-not after kissing back, the younger man noted wryly-and his master was staring down at him, apparently at a complete loss for words. "Obi?"

Well, he could say one word. But that was one too many. Obi-Wan aggressively shoved himself closer and grabbed both sides of the rough-hewn face, the beard bristles crisp against his fingers, and prevented further repetitions with another kiss.

This time Qui-Gon didn't even pretend to misunderstand; his arms went around Obi-Wan's waist and he literally lifted the younger man off his feet as the kiss was returned with joy.

Obi, Obi, Obi ...

He didn't know what he was hearing, exactly, but he knew it was coming from Qui-Gon, from the man he loved, and he strove to get closer, one hand on the back of Qui-Gon's head and the other around his neck, one leg around a narrow hip, robes bunched and sliding between them.

I knew you weren't dead, he thought, and then he also knew that Qui-Gon was in his mind, that he was in Qui-Gon's, that the rudimentary link they had formed for training had drastically expanded and they were together.

You knew. You didn't mourn because you knew. Qui-Gon seemed almost giddy, something he would never have believed of his ultra-controlled master.

The Force told me. I just wasn't listening right.

The conversation devolved into a series of little appreciative remarks about how good it felt to be together, how much they had wanted, needed this, and the embrace went on.

He tasted salt, and wondered which of them was crying. It tasted like the Force, sweet and bitter and true.

"Excuse me."

"Ex-Cuse meee!"

The intruding voice became more strident, and someone was trying to pull them apart. Though he was willing-eager-to continue this to its logical conclusion right here on the floor of the control room, or perhaps that little table, some small part of Qui-Gon's brain suggested that perhaps a bed, and some privacy would be more appropriate. And what Obi-Wan deserved.

"Master Jinn!"

Mace's bellow finally penetrated, and Qui-Gon disengaged himself from Obi-Wan as much as he could bear, tucking the younger man's face into his neck and pressing his own cheek to the top of the scruffy red-blond hair. There hadnÔt been much opportunity for bathing during the negotiations.

Obi-Wan's leg remained around his hip and he could feel the evidence of the passion the younger man controlled so strictly pressing into his own leg.

"What?!" he barked at Mace, seeing a familiar expression on the man's face. He was going to grab Obi-Wan and sequester him and grill him with questions until he knew every detail of the young man's life, Qui-Gon could see it in his eyes. Mace hated surprises, always had.

"I want an explanation of this." There it was, the threatening tone. "Did you forewarn him about the test? Is that why he's done so well?"

"You're a Sladobian Bowl Worm, Mace," he insulted him almost cheerfully. All was right with the world and Mace Windu was not going to take this away from him with his misguided accusations.

That made the man splutter.

"I call for a Tribunal," Qui-Gon said next, feeling mildly guilty at the pleasure he experienced when Mace seemed on the verge of a heart attack. Any Jedi accused of defying the Council could call a Tribunal, but it was usually a last resort. He'd never gotten to that point.

"There is no one here to-" Mace seemed to realize that they had an audience of Jedi techs and knights, and he stopped the sentence abruptly, waiting. The request had to be seconded by someone of equal or greater rank of the Jedi that requested it ... and that ruled Obi-Wan out.

There were no other masters in the room except him and Qui-Gon.

Mace crossed his arms over his chest and set his features.

Qui-Gon stroked the top of Obi-Wan's head tenderly. The young man made a sound, half-inquisitory, half-worried.

"I second."

They all turned and stared at the tech who spoke. She was a small person, with not-entirely-human features, and she wore the deep orange robes of technical services. Her age could not be judged from her face.

Mace looked unconvinced.

"I am Ma-Deb Tan of the St'ang Temple, currently undertaking retraining in the technical services. Currently I hold joint rank of Master Librarian and Apprentice tech."

Qui-Gon's smile nearly split his face. The techs were always so busy that he hadn't had much time to get acquainted with them.

"It will take at least three days to gather enough Council members and bring them here," he told Mace, almost, but not quite, smirking. A Tribunal had to be held wherever he requested it, a safety feature designed to give both sides time to think things through.

"You smug Bantha." Mace seemed almost impressed. But not quite. "Take your padawan to your room and finish what you've started here before you ignite something. I'll contact the Council."

"Thank you." Qui-Gon meant those words more fully than he ever had before.

Let's go, he spoke mentally to Obi-Wan, amazed at the ease of it. A bond had sprung to life between them seemingly out of the blue, but he knew it had been years forming. In the recesses of their minds, abetted by the Force.

A room sounds good. With a bed, I hope. Obi-Wan's sense of humor was intact.

A bed, and me.

As soon as we recover, I'm going to kick your ass for putting me through this.

In that case, I have nothing to lose by doing this.

Obi-Wan was startled into laughter when Qui-Gon bent and slipped an arm behind Obi-Wan's knees, lifting him high into the big man's arms and holding him tightly.

"Maaster!"

"Qui-Gon." He kissed the laughing face, and whispered Qui-Gon.

"Mmmm."

Only a few yards, through two doors, and Obi-Wan was being dropped to a large, tidy bed, and then he was being smothered by a large, heavy body. He had no intention of questioning his good fortune, though, only squirmed enough to get where he could breathe and opened himself to his master, his new lover and life-mate, and endeavored to give as good as he was getting.

Of course he had never seen Qui-Gon in passion, and it was breathtaking. The big man stripped them both with casual finesse, and proved to have a voracious appetite for sensation, kissing, tasting, and moaning loudly through it all.

When Qui-Gon reared over him, one big hand roughly pumping Obi-Wan's engorged cock, sweat shining on his skin, breathing heavily, and pushed his loose hair back with an impatient movement, Obi-Wan almost came on the spot.

The free hand slid between his legs and one blunt finger teased at the entrance to his body and he moaned, shifting restlessly, pleading.

"Qui-Gon, yes, please, join us, we belong together, like that, yes ..."

A bottle of oil appeared from nowhere; he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, he wanted to close them, to lie back and just enjoy the sparks of electricity that sizzled his nerve endings. One finger, he had never done this before, he knew Qui-Gon could tell because the next finger was gentler, inserted more carefully, and he felt very, very full with just the two of them, wondered how he would stand three, or his lover's cock, which was huge and red and formidable-looking.

Their eyes met, and he smiled shyly before using his own hands to pull his knees up and out, giving better access.

There was no need for words. It was silent in the room, the only sounds the sucking of skin and their harsh breathing broken by the occasional moan when one of the fingers touched something inside him that made him jerk on the bed.

After he'd had three fingers for a while, and was beginning to become comfortable with the distinctly painful feeling, they were withdrawn, and he opened eyes that he'd not meant to close and watched while Qui-Gon poured oil over his own cock, letting it soak into the skin and the dark curly hair speckled with gray and the bedclothes beneath them. The big man moaned softly and bit his lower lip, apparently concentrating on controlling himself, one hand going to beneath his sac. Obi-Wan could see the tendons standing out in the hand, guessed he was gripping himself to prevent orgasm.

The moment passed and he renewed his efforts to keep his knees up, relaxing slightly when Qui-Gon shifted lower, looping Obi-Wan's knees over his elbows, and moved closer, until the younger man could feel the hot, hard, sticky head of Qui-Gon's cock at the stretched and sore hole, ready to impale him.

He lifted his hips, more than ready to be impaled.

Qui-Gon opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but then he closed it and turned his head to kiss Obi-Wan's left thigh, pressing hard, eyes closing just for a few seconds.

I'll try not to hurt you any more than I have to. Regret tinged the mental tone, and Obi-Wan braced himself, using all that he had learned of muscle control to relax himself and make entry easier for Qui-Gon.

Sexually experienced with both of the human sexes and some of other species as well, it wasn't that he had deliberately avoided this particular act, it had just never been presented as an option. It wasn't something he would have done with a casual acquaintance, and he'd never had the time for a serious relationship. Now he found that he was fiercely glad that Qui-Gon was going to be the first one inside him, Force willing the only one.

It hurt. Oh, but it hurt. The burning sensation was quickly replaced by a tearing ache that seemed to travel from the base of his spine right up to the back of his neck, spreading over his pelvis in front. His entire lower body burned, making him resist the urge to twist or pull away. Resorting to a measured breathing sequence, he watched Qui-Gon's face for inspiration.

The older man's eyes were half-closed as he concentrated, and sweat dripped down his face. His mouth was pressed in a tight line, teeth probably clenched behind it. His hands griped Obi-Wan's hips hard, keeping him in place before the unrelenting pressure.

If Obi-Wan moaned or said stop, he knew his lover would, but he wanted this joining, no matter how much it hurt, so he bit the inside of his cheek and gripped the bedspread with whitened knuckles.

At last Qui-Gon stopped, panting for breath, and Obi-Wan dared look down, trying to see how far in it was, how much farther they had to go. It seemed that the older man was waiting, catching his breath, but the burning hadn't abated and Obi-Wan ached all over. He longed to say stop, but wanted to continue more. Balanced on that knife-edge, he did moan when Qui-Gon began fondling Obi-Wan's cock, which had softened considerably. It felt good, surprisingly so, and he shifted instinctively, which made the pain flare, but there was a shadow of pleasure as well.

Give it a chance. Qui-Gon wasn't looking at him, was looking at his ass and cock, petting his cock and balls. It was beginning to take a renewed interest in the proceedings.

I want this, he said, and moaned again, hips lifting slightly, raising one hand to pinch a nipple. The spark of pleasure that accompanied it made him pant. He could feel the flush traveling down his chest.

You're beautiful like this. Both of Qui-Gon's hands touched him intimately, stroked his belly and loins, caressed his inner thighs, which were quivering with the strain of staying spread so long.

" ...please ...," he knew he whispered it aloud.

" ...yes ..." The answer was whispered as well. The burn began again, easier this time, the ache fading but not dissipating. Qui-Gon pressed forward until he was all the way in, Obi-Wan could feel the damp softness of the hair that pressed against his bottom, and Qui-Gon shifted to lean over him, his hands on the bed right beside Obi-Wan's, pushing his knees even higher, wider, and he moaned again, feeling exposed.

The feeling changed. Qui-Gon drew himself back, and pushed in again. It was maddening, the way it felt, such a combination of pain and, yes, pleasure. He could feel it now, why this was supposed to feel good.

"Look at me." Said almost in a pleading tone, no master's tone now, and he opened his eyes, startled to find Qui-Gon's face so close, the dark blue eyes shining with emotions he could identify: love, lust, and a touch of possessiveness.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth and licked his lips as Qui-Gon finished a second stroke, and his mouth was taken harshly, plundered, ravaged, and then his body was being taken the same way as Qui-Gon threw off his control and began to fuck him steadily, hips rocking in a smooth rhythm, balls slapping into Obi-Wan's buttocks.

The pain rose until he thought he might scream, he needed to scream. But Qui-Gon grabbed his hands and used his weight to hold them down and kept going and then suddenly, miraculously, it felt good, it felt so good, and Obi-Wan arched upwards, wanting to take more, needing more, harder, faster. Qui-Gon responded by increasing the pace, pumping powerfully, breath coming in gasps, and then he tore his face away from the kiss and began grunting with effort, his eyes closed, head tipped back and Obi-Wan watched him when it happened; the way his mouth formed an O, the way his jaw came forward, the way the tendons stood out in his long neck, half-hidden by a cascade of sweaty hair.

He could feel it inside too. Qui-Gon was so big that he could feel each pump of the huge cock, could feel the liquid heat as it was forced farther into him.

It took longer than he thought it would, minutes passing while Qui-Gon shook and moaned, hips making little jerking motions to prolong it.

Then he pulled away, sliding down between Obi-Wan's legs as they fell to the bed. Before the younger man could protest Qui-Gon shoved two fingers back into him, as far as he could, and they hit that spot that made him see stars. At the same time he grabbed Obi-Wan's cock and held it steady while he sank his mouth over it, enclosing it in the hottest wetness Obi-Wan'd ever felt and sucking strongly.

With those fingers massaging his prostate and Qui-Gon sucking his cock, all Obi-Wan could do was gasp breathlessly, reaching to bury both hands in the tangled greying hair and thrusting helplessly. Qui-Gon took it, let Obi-Wan thrust, using the older man's mouth as he saw fit and it wasn't long before Obi-Wan was coming, with a deep scream as his body arched convulsively, the release snapping into him with the Force of an explosion.

Qui-Gon tried to drink it all, but some escaped his mouth and when it was over he sat up, and wiped his beard with his fingers, and smiled at his padawan, a soft, loving smile.

I already know that this is going to be my favorite way to see you. He crawled up and laid his head on Obi-Wan's chest to listen to his heart, an arm over him, a leg over his legs, pulling him close.

You can see me like this anytime you want to, he managed to reply, petting the hair he had so abused.

They lay sated and content. The Obi-Wan began to worry. "What about the test? It was a test, right?"

Qui-Gon tilted his head up and kissed him. "You will be a knight-elect before the week is out, Obi."

"But what about Master Windu?"

"Mace just doesn't like it when people don't follow the script. He'll get over it. There will be no Tribunal, though I'm sure he'll find a perfectly logical reason to withdraw his comments."

"I never thought ... that we ... I mean, I used to think we weren't close enough. That we didn't care about each other the way I wanted to."

"I felt the same way. It took us long enough to understand."

They exchanged kisses and pets as they talked. Obi-Wan was growing sleepy despite his best efforts to stay awake.

"You haven't been sleeping well, Padawan," his master scolded gently.

"This is so incredible ... I don't want to sleep through it," the younger man confessed, smothering a yawn. He shifted, turning to his side, and Qui-Gon followed, wrapping himself around the smaller form.

"You're not going to sleep forever." He kissed the sweaty neck.

"This is forever then?"

"Do you doubt the will of the Force?" Qui-Gon chuckled. Almost asleep, Obi-Wan wasn't thinking clearly enough to truly respond, but he did manage to mumble one more thing before he sank into the welcoming darkness.

"I choose this moment forever."

The End