Summary: The date listed is the date the 'snapshot' was
written/posted. Each piece is a segment within the same
universe, but they are not in any sort of order. Each piece
stands alone (iow-there are no "cliffhangers"). The snapshots
will run the gamut from G to NC17. Some may be several pages
long, some only a couple of paragraphs; some will contain smut,
many will not; they will be different styles with different
voices.
Disclaimers: Lucasfilm, Lucasfilm, Lucasfilm.
March 01, 2000
For three weeks straight it has rained. A constant deluge
falling from gloomy, dark skies onto increasingly murkier
ground. My young padawan has himself become gloomier with each
passing day. He grows restless and bored with our enforced
tenure indoors.
He studies, performs a few simple exercises, meditates. But
youth's exuberance must have an outlet and his has been too
long obstructed.
A few moments ago the sun struggled it's way passed the heavy
clouds to shine weakly down on our wet world. Obi-Wan ran
outside. I expected him to keep on running, to pull the Force
around himself and disappear until he had expended three week's
worth of accumulated energy.
Instead, he is standing, arms out-flung, head tilted back. He
is letting the sun melt away his discontent while he absorbs
the bright gift of light that it offers.
The sun appears content to linger upon him. And why not? The
smooth line of his throat, his slender frame with it's thin,
but proficient muscles hold the promise of the man he is to
become.
I turn from the window. Now I need to meditate, for a master
should not become too prideful of his apprentice.
End.
March 04, 2000
"I don't believe you."
"I'm telling you, it's true."
"Dansa is right, the Jedi don't keep slaves."
"I don't care what Dansa says, I know what I saw."
"Tell us again, Tin'ya."
"I arrived at the guest suite and the Jedi let me in. I told
him that I was to be his servant for the duration of his stay,
a gift from our Magistrate Riln. He said that my services would
not be needed."
"Yes, yes, you told us this part."
"You said you wanted to hear it again."
"We do. Ignore Shen'ak -she's just jealous because you got to
see him up close. Go on."
"Okay, so he tells me that my services would not be needed and
I say 'none of them?' To which he replied in the negative,
looking towards the bedroom. Out comes this nice looking young
man with clothes in his hand. 'Do you want these or the brown
leggings tomorrow, master?' he asks. You see -he called him
master -he is a slave."
"You said he was a body slave!"
"He was."
"Sounds more like a dresser to me."
"Well he didn't look like any dresser I know. He looked
like a body slave. Besides, there's only one bed in the south
hall guest quarters."
"She's right. There is only one bed there, I made it myself at
half-sun."
"So? Maybe he sleeps on the floor."
"That still makes him a slave."
"Yeah, but not necessarily a body slave."
"I still can't believe that the Jedi own slaves."
"After all the things we've heard about them, it does seem
strange."
"I know what I saw."
End.
March 05, 2000
Obi-Wan pulled his lower lip between his teeth, absently
worrying the soft flesh as he critically studied the canvas in
front of him. He looked past it to his subject, frown clearing
from his face as he took in his master's still form.
Qui-Gon had agreed to sit for him, choosing to perform the
Still River Mediation while posing. This particular meditation
called for all movement to be performed inside the individual
while they stayed absolutely still. Kneeling on one knee, hands
loosely crossed over the raised leg, his master had not moved
for the last hour and a half. Even his hair, pulled free of
it's customary tail, hung quietly about his shoulders and face,
not stirring. Even unmoving, there was a grace and flowing
beauty to his master that tugged at Obi-Wan's heart.
He let his gaze drop back to the picture, knowing he would not
share it. He would have to choose a different subject to
complete his final project for his art class, which was a pity,
for he was sure the work would have garnered him top marks. He
had successfully sunk himself into the Force while painting,
just as Master Glonst had taught them. But not only had he
successfully captured the aura of his master in the canvas, he
had also managed to include his own soul.
His deep love for his master filled the picture, imbued the
canvas with light. Too new and precious, he was unwilling to
share the feelings yet with his master, let alone put them on
display for all the temple to see.
Teeth once again set into his lower lip, he took his flatknife
and scraped the canvas clean.
End.
March 06, 2000
They walked side by side, faces twin masks of calm.
A short break from the negotiations allowed us all to stretch
our legs and get a bit of fresh air. It also allowed us to back
away from each other and let our tempers ease.
The gardens were a peaceful place and I was not surprised to
that it was here that our arbitrators chose to walk. Most of us
had come here to absorb the atmosphere, each finding some small
amount of privacy among the trees and bushes before we had to
return to the table to face one another.
As I watched our arbiters disappear around a corner I realised
their hands were linked.
End.
March 07, 2000
I was running. Tripping over rocks and half-hidden roots. I had
dropped out of Force speed some moments earlier, too unskilled
and tired to keep the focus needed to sustain that velocity. My
master had matched my pace, I could feel his presence in my
mind, offering comfort and encouragement as we raced through
the dark woods.
Without warning pain flared through me as my master was hit; a
bright hurt that had me stumbling to my knees, trying to catch
my breath as it bloomed through me. As abruptly as it had
started, it stopped -my master shielding me from his injury.
I was kneeling, mud wet beneath my knees, the wind whipping
leaves into my face. I could feel the residue of the hurt in my
mind, like a dull ache. I climbed to my feet and turned,
looking to my left to find my master. I ran to him, but it
seemed to take so long to reach him, as if I were moving in
slow motion. I could feel the Force whispering urgently about
me, speaking to me through the frenzied wind -hurry, hurry,
hurry.
He was kneeling, holding his abdomen and I could see that his
tan tunic was decorated with a bright ribbon of red.
"Master." I touched his shoulder as I spoke, pouring strength
into him, sharing the excess energy of adrenaline that was
rushing through me. He nodded and grasped my forearm, pulling
himself to his feet. I wrapped my arm around his middle as he
slung his over my shoulder and we lumbered on, trusting the
wind and darkness to cover our tracks until we could rest.
End.
March 08, 2000
In the feral garden, on the west side of the temple, there
grows a flower. It stands among the other plants, making a
place for itself among the wildness. It is the only one of it's
kind. My master is over 800 years old and even he claims that
it was the only surviving plant of it's species when he was a
young padawan himself. He calls it the spunbell.
It is a hardy plant, and beautiful when it flowers. The stem is
slim, yet sturdy; it takes a strong wind to bend it. It's
petals are soft and warm to the touch, the colour a burnished
gold that seems to change with the movement of the sun. The
stamen is long and slender, pushing up from the base of the
rounded blossom. I have yet to smell anything quite like it's
perfume and if I try to describe the scent, I cannot find the
right words.
I turn from contemplation of this small flora to greet my
padawan. Tall and shining, he watches me rise, then turns up
his face, soaking in the morning sun; my very own spunbell.
End.
March 09, 2000
I plunge into him.
I pull out, almost all the way, and then do it again.
He cries out, back arching and I am entranced, frozen by the
sight of pale skin covering bone and muscle in a perfect arc.
My focus shifts from the smooth, tight heat of him around my
erection to the small patch of skin just above the cleft in his
buttocks.
Soft, downy hair, the same that covers his body where ever it
seems bare, if you look closely enough. Pores, dripping sweat.
I touch my finger to the spot and bring it to my lips. Salty,
and sweet -the full bloom of his scent rolled in with the
breads we ate at noon-meal.
"Master!" He says it like he is in pain and my focus shifts
again. I realise that I have stopped moving.
I pull almost all the way out again.
And I stop.
He whimpers, his body beginning to tremble minutely, my own is
shaking far worse as I hold back the one movement we both
crave.
"Please." So quiet. So calm. Not a flicker of emotion in the
words to betray the desperate need.
I plunge into him.
My body is shaking so badly now that I can no longer
distinguish his movements. All that matters is the way I fit
inside him. The way it feels as I pull out again and start the
circle anew. In and out and in and out and I'm shaking.
I'm shaking.
I grab hold of his hips, something to hold onto, some piece of
him to ground me, to hold me with him because I'm afraid I'm
going to fly apart.
I plunge into him.
I plunge into heat. I plunge into softness. I plunge into
clutching, possessive muscles.
I.
Plunge.
Into.
Him.
And he accepts me.
End
March 10, 2000
I wake up feeling totally refreshed. I have no idea how long I
have slept, but the sun is still shining. I look around but can
not see my mysterious helpers. Had I imagined the whole thing?
Had the pale student and his tall master been a figment of my
overworked and overwrought brain?
I shake myself and check on the wounded -they are my priority.
Many of them are still sleeping but none of them are critical.
It was a very good night for there are no dead.
My stomach rumbles and I realise I haven't eaten since two
mornings past. I murmur words of reassurance to those who are
awake and quietly slip from the tent.
As I leave the makeshift hospital in search of a meal, I
discover my mysterious helpers were no figment of my
imagination at all. They are as real as the wounded behind me.
They are in the small clearing in front of the tents, moving
together in what appears to be a dance of some sort. The dark
lines of fatigue have left the younger one's face and his skin
is no longer alabaster, but a more healthy hue. The elder is as
calm as he always seems to be.
They have removed their cloaks and carry swords that look as
though they are made of energy. They move in tandem, as if they
were one person with two bodies. Even the air around them seems
involved in their dance. I settle on the ground, back against
one of the tent poles as I watch them, drawn to them.
They begin and end each sequence of movements facing each
other, swords held straight up in their hands. They stand still
for a moment and then simultaneously start the next dance. They
do not speak, though I have a strong sense that they are
nonetheless communicating.
They continue, their moves becoming more complex, the dances
growing more difficult and longer as they proceed. The flow of
their bodies is beautiful, organic, and I feel a peace in the
air that is at odds with the purpose of this camp, but which
nonetheless feel right.
Finally the young man falters, missing a move. The elder
side-steps the sweep of sword and resumes the starting
position. The younger hangs his head a moment, takes a deep
breath and also assumes the starting position. They begin
again. This time there is no mistake, but on the next dance the
young one moves out of sequence and they must begin once more.
Again the same mistake and again they restart. When the boy
falters for the third time at the same place, his master
extinguishes the energy of his blade and stands behind his
student, pulling the young body against his own, and wrapping
his hands around the boy's sword. Moving at half the speed,
they repeat the missed move several times and then the master
steps back and watches as the boy completes it on successfully
on his own twice more.
And again they resume the starting position and this time they
flow through the dance from start to finish without mishap.
They bow to each other and both extinguish the energy of their
weapons, hooking the hilts to their belts.
I stand and make my way quickly towards the tent we are using
as a kitchen, realising that I have been rude in my
observation. The feeling of peace that emanated from them stays
with me.
End.
March 11, 2000
"Hey Bant, wait up."
"Bruck? Is that really you? I don't think I would have
recognised you."
"I was hoping you could help me."
"Well it depends on what you want."
"Just some information."
"Okay."
"Why does everyone have a plate or a bowl or a tin? Some new
tradition I'm not privy to?"
"You don't know?"
"I wouldn't be asking if I did."
"Yeah, and you'd have a bowl of your own, too. Initiate Brils
-can you tell Padawan Chun why everyone is carrying a
container?"
"Kenobi's making cookies."
"Thank you, Brils, you can go get in line now."
"Kenobi? As in Obi-Wan?"
"That's right."
"He's making cookies."
"Yes."
"And because of this every padawan in the temple is carrying a
container."
"I can see there's no algae growing on you, Bruck."
"Are you telling me he's making enough for the whole temple?"
"Basically."
"What -is he on kitchen duty now?"
"No."
"His Master is into strange punishments?"
"No."
"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to keep guessing?"
"Master Windu made him learn how to cook from the temple
chefs."
"O-kay."
"So he only knows how to make large amounts of things."
"Like enough to feed the whole temple."
"Exactly."
"I take it he's good."
"Oh, yes! His cookies are better than any I've ever tasted.
Even Master Yoda likes them, although he always pushes to the
front of the line and -hey, where are you going?"
"To find a bowl of my own!"
End.
March 12, 2000
The electric sting of the zapper and the dull pain from fists
against his body were easy enough to ignore, long ingrained
training allowing Qui-Gon to release the hurt into the Force
and keep his attention on the details so that he could
faithfully report them later. What had him flustered was the
sharp spike of pain coupled with panic which had flared across
his bond with his padawan before the link had been hastily
blocked by Obi-Wan.
Even now, despite the shielding, he could feel distress coming
from the boy. Their separation was now far worse for Qui-Gon
than anything his captors thought to do and each second,
counted in the throb of his own heartbeat, tore at him.
What had they done to his Obi-Wan?
End.
March 13, 2000
I was introduced to the court when I was sixteen. It was a very
prestigious and elegant ceremony. Monarchs and governmental
representatives came from all over the Republic to be
introduced to me.
It was long, boring and tedious.
Row after row after row of finery and foppish hats. Being upon
being upon being with obsequious manners and limp handshakes or
simpering bows. I had seen enough red to never wish to see the
colour again, everyone wearing it out of deference to the
tradition of my planet. My first edict would be to ban it from
my court -let them pick another colour to show deference.
Everyone stayed too long in front of me, trying to curry my
favour. Droning on, each one with a more elaborate retinue than
the one before and they of course had to introduce each and
every member of their party.
On and on it went until two men stood quietly before me. Just
one man and a youth, not quite yet a man, beside him. They had
brought together their differences -one tall, the other not;
one with long hair, the other short; one wearing the stamp of
age and experience, the other the soft face of youth- within
the confines of plain brown robes over simple tunics. They wore
no jewellery, no gaudy display of wealth or power. They meet my
eyes -blue and blue again, calm, serene, wishing nothing from
me. They bowed simply before me, bending slightly at the waist
and inclining their heads towards the ground.
"Your Majesty," said the man. His voice was low but clear,
soothing to my ears after hours of whining. "I am Qui-Gon Jinn,
this is my apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Jedi offer their
congratulations."
"Thank you, sirs."
"What have you to present?" asked Wilks -the manservant who
stood behind and to the side of me, keeping track of what
outrageous gift belonged with which fawning postulant.
"The Jedi to not deal in material goods, but we would offer our
advice should you ever ask for it."
Wilks gasped and took a step back. Out of the corner of my eye
I could see his hand fly to his throat. I wanted to tell him to
get over himself, but I didn't want to create a scene. After
all the glamour and false blandishments, this simplicity was
refreshing. These two held real power that no amount of finery
could enhance, that no manner of common dress would hide.
"You are most kind," I answered. They bowed once more and made
their way into the Hall of Monarchs behind me. I turned my head
to watch them go. They faded into the crowd and I turned to
greet the next over-coifed guest.
End
March 14, 2000
"-an honorary guard at the door. He's wearing a blue topcoat
over white leggings and a dull sword in his scabbard." Obi-Wan
finished his recitation and opened his eyes, fixing them on
Qui-Gon, who sat on his knees, mirroring Obi-Wan's position.
"What colour were the buttons on the guard's uniform?"
"There weren't any buttons, Master," Obi-Wan answered with a
small smile playing about his lips. "There were however little
gold half moon shapes covering the snaps."
"Very well, you've demonstrated that you can accurately
remember the details, but what do they tell you?"
"That the Regent is more concerned with appearances and
ceremony than with substance. That he does not expect any sort
of threat to be made to his person and that despite his
propensity for showiness, he allows his servants comfort and
function if he can marry them to aesthetics."
"What about the blast doors?"
"He doesn't expect any threat, but he isn't so foolish as to
believe that it is impossible."
Qui-Gon smiled at him and nodded his head.
"It is important to be able to interpret the details that you
see as much as body language. And you seem to have picked up on
a lot that the Regent would not necessarily tell us and that
certainly it would be impolitic to ask. Not bad, Padawan."
"Thank you, Master."
"Now how about the air car that brought us here. Start with the
large details and work your way down."
"Yes, Master," replied Obi-Wan obediently, growing used to his
master's predilection for repeating lessons.
End.
March 16, 2000
Sunshine. Heat. Dryness. The desert stretches around me in a
sea of sand, broken only by my master's form in front of me. I
walk in his trail, clinging to him with my eyes, not wanting to
see the edge of the world that surrounds me on every horizon.
Duban is two years younger than me. He is out here. Alone.
The wind picks up, breaking the monotonous view by throwing
grains into the air, like gritty snowflakes. The air seems to
clamour around me, whispering of fear -mine, another's. I know
my master feels the same urgency that I do for his pace
increases and I slip into a trot to keep up with him.
We must find the boy soon.
End.
March 17, 2000
I kiss his eyebrow, the short stiff hairs tickling at my lips,
and then the tip of his nose, followed by his lips. I linger
here, the smooth, soft warmth an oasis in the bearded face. He
pushes his tongue forward and I let him in, the gentle strength
of him filling my mouth, tasting me, summoning the rest of my
body into wakefulness.
I pull back and stare into his eyes and contemplate my choice.
I can stop, go back into the warm, gentle arms of lady sleep
-he will let me go if I really want to. Or I can let him
continue, let him seduce me with his warm voice, his callused
hands, his long body. There really is no choice and I console
myself with the knowledge that after we can lie in bed until
noon-meal, or even beyond.
As if I need consolation. I close my eyes and sway towards him,
his mouth catching mine as his arms welcome my body against the
warmth of his. His hand cups my head, holding me as he plunders
my mouth. This kiss is not gentle, he is no longer tasting me;
now he is taking me, possessing me, waking up the corners of my
mind and filling them with desire.
Lust flares, rising from the bottom of my stomach and consuming
me, banishing the last traces of sleep. He pushes me down,
yanking the sheet from my body as he follows me, covering me
with himself. I let out a sound of protest as his soft, worn
leggings and tunic keep my from the heat of his skin. He pulls
away slightly and my hands join his, pushing the tunic from his
body, pulling the leggings away, baring him to my touch. He
resettles along my body and I hiss as his heat burns against
me, setting me on fire. My nerve endings flash awake, alive,
yearning for his touch.
His lips cover mine again and mine part, this time my tongue is
the one pushing forward, tasting his mouth. Our tongues
duel for a moment, bodies straining. And then the kiss gentles
as we nip and taste and tug lovingly at each other's mouths,
lips and tongue. We have as long as we'd like - no door chime
to interrupt us, no council with messages sending us on
missions. No distractions. It is just him and me and the whole
day with nothing more to do than explore, be explored.
I lose myself in it, in him. It is, after all, what vacations
are for.
End.
March 18, 2000
Looking for Obi-Wan, I follow shouts and laughter to the large
courtyard in the centre of the castle. I stop and lean against
an arch, watching as my apprentice plays with the other young
men. I recognise the Regent's son, some of the guards and
several of the servants.
They are playing a game involving moving a ball from one end of
the playing area to another and, it seems, the team that makes
the most noise wins. Half the players have removed their
shirts, the other half have not -making two easily
distinguished teams. Obi-Wan is on the team that have not
removed their shirts, his tunic making him look slight which
the other team mistakes as weakness and inability. They think
him the weak link in their opposition's chain. They are wrong
and the cost for their mistake is the game. Obi-Wan steals the
ball from one of the shirtless players and pelts down to the
other end of the field. A great shout goes up among the shirted
team and they hoist Obi-Wan onto a makeshift chair comprised of
several shoulders.
My apprentice's smile is wide and open. His laughter is full
and robust, and I realise that I have never heard him laugh
before, not like this. I wish there were more opportunities to
let him show this side of himself, alas the life we lead allows
far more for sobriety and solitude. It is a hard life and I am
happy to see my padawan, taking pleasure where he finds it.
End.
March 20, 2000
We have only been here for three days and yet I have already
called the Council and advised them that the negotiations wien given to sleep on is far too small
for two, so I suppose it is just as well that it is also hard
and coverless, giving Obi-Wan the excuse of using my arm as a
pillow and my body as a heating source to snuggle close to me.
My arm has long since gone numb, a relief from the painful
tingles that started just after my apprentice had fallen
asleep, his head growing heavy with somnolence. His hair
tickles my chin with the slightest movement by either of us. I
believe I shall insist on a trim tomorrow. His small body takes
up an inordinate amount of room and, for someone who eats as
much as he does, he is all hard bone and sharp angles.
Obi-Wan thrashes in his sleep, burrowing further into my side
and snorting once. Finally his breathing settles again into
long slow breaths. The very faintest whistle heralds his
exhale. One. Two. Three. Four...I get to 47 before he mumbles
indistinctly and I realise that I have been counting them.
It is going to be a very long night.
End.
March 22, 2000
I listen to the little grunts and sniffles he makes, the rustle
of the bedcovers as he moves, settling in. These aren't new
-not even that they are performed in the same bed as I is new.
But this is the first night, the first time that I have heard
them coming from my lover.
In the past I have soothed nightmares with a gentle touch and
soft words. Tonight I curl up behind him, pulling his hips
tight against mine, wrapping my arm around his chest -warding
off any nightmares before they may even begin.
He snorts softly and presses tighter against my body, just as
he always does when we share a bed. But tonight his skin is hot
and soft and next to mine with no clothing to impede the
electric touch of it. My body grows hard for him -hard and
needy and he responds instinctively. Still asleep, he twists in
my embrace, pushing his leg between mine even as he nuzzles my
chest and settles against me. His breath huffs out gently,
tickling the hairs on my chest.
I look towards the window, the never dark sky of Coruscant
shines dimly beyond the glass, the sky busy despite the hour. I
press a kiss to the top of Obi-Wan's head, the short hair
tickling my lips as my beard must tickle his.
The night will not be long enough.
End.
March 23, 2000
We hover along the now alien sandscape, the heat baking us
despite the cooler. The detector, finally functional, beeps
steadily. I curse the wretched machine, between it and the
storm and those damn fool Jedi insisting that they search for
the boy, we are now looking for three dead instead of just one.
And what are we going to tell the Senate? No good will come of
it, that much I know without doubt.
The hypnotic beeping suddenly becomes frantic and Tecaur
shouts, bringing the hovercraft to a stop next to a dune.
Excited, he brings me the monitor, showing me what the machine
has mapped within the mound. An outcropping of rock forms the
centre of the dune, a small pocket of air sitting to one side
of the rock. Within the pocket are the temperature signatures
of two humanoids -two live humanoids. It should be
impossible, but there it is -unless the infernal detector is
malfunctioning again- the Jedi live, buried within the dune of
sand.
I sigh with relief and offer a quick prayer to R'chni before
directing the excavation of the Jedi. Dare I hope that the boy
we have lost has been saved in the same manner?
End.
March 24, 2000
Sometimes, as we lie in bed together, I trace the lines of his
body, his muscles firm beneath the warm flesh. And I think he
is perfect.
I have to wonder if I am doing the right thing here. Have I
created him with this in mind? To lie beneath me,
writhing in ecstasy? To like next to me, warm and beautiful and
soft in satiation?
I was there when he was an initiate, watching him work, train,
begin. And when I chose him as padawan, when I made him repeat
kata's and 'saber routines until he shook with exhaustion and
strain -did I do this for him? For the Order? Or for myself? I
have moulded the perfect Jedi in mind and body and am lying
here next to him, my body sated and sweaty, having taken it's
pleasure in him.
He turns to me, eyes shinning. His hand lifts, cups my cheek,
the thumb dancing across my lips.
"You make my soul happy, Qui-Gon."
And suddenly I know. I did what I did because it was what he
wanted. I may have formed the mould, but it was Obi-Wan who
provided the raw materials, he who brought it to life. I
haven't taken anything, but I have been gifted with everything.
End.
March 26, 2000
Qui-Gon's gentle probe was blocked by heavy shields -shields
not meant to keep him out but to keep pain and panic within.
Still, he could feel the hurt leaking through like a creeping
mist pouring over thick stone walls. It scared him.
It scared him badly that Obi-Wan was shielding him from the
pain. You don't have to be strong Obi-Wan, he wanted to shout.
He wanted to beat at the shields in Obi-Wan's mind, tear them
down with the force of his own thoughts and cradle that hot
flame that burned so brightly in his life. But he didn't.
Instead he sent comfort and love and hope to his padawan
-gentle breezes to surround and warm the frozen bloom of
Obi-Wan's psyche.
He's going to be all right, became Qui-Gon's litany and he
barely felt the impact of his captors solid fists. They were
only to be endured so that he could be reunited with his
padawan once they were done "questioning" him. So that he could
see for himself what they had done to Obi-Wan; so that he could
begin to make it better, make it right. You are going to be all
right. He sent the thought as forcefully as he could, knowing
his padawan would never disobey a directive from his master.
Hands tightly bound behind his back, Qui-Gon was prodded to his
feet and then propelled down a dark hall by four guards. They
stopped in front of a large steel door dotted with rust. One of
the guards began searching through a set of large keys on a
heavy brass ring. The keys scraped along the ring, clinking
together, marking the passing moments as each was discarded and
slid to the bottom of the ring.
Qui-Gon felt a moment of panic himself then -he'd expected that
he and Obi-Wan would be separated for questioning, but had
assumed that afterward they would be incarcerated in the same
cell. He let out a sigh of relief as a group of three guards
rounded the corner, Obi-Wan in their midst. The relief poured
over him like water, only to be followed by sharp electric
shock as Obi-Wan stumbled and his guards roughly picked him up.
His padawan could not see.
Blind. Qui-Gon fought for calm, finding it in the Force,
letting the constant presence fill him and smooth the jagged
corners of horror in his mind. Obi-Wan was pushed and Qui-Gon
reached out, catching his padawan by the arm, his other hand
reaching to touch Obi-Wan's side. His touch seemed to soothe
his padawan and Obi-Wan straightened, finally letting go and
dropping the shields that held him apart from Qui-Gon.
The panic was gone, chased away by his touch and he helped
Obi-Wan build a temporary wall around the pain, boxing it away
for another time. A guard hit Qui-Gon, grunting at him and
pointing at the door of the cell which was pulled open. Qui-Gon
turned slowly, resisting a shove from the guard, moving forward
only when he felt Obi-Wan's fingers brush against his back.
End.
March 27, 2000
"I don't see why I'm doing this and not you, Master."
"Because the Queen is a young girl, barely older than yourself.
She doesn't want to dance with an old man like me."
"I don't think she wants to dance with a skeleton tripping over
her feet either, Master. And I don't think you're old."
"Thank you, Padawan. Tell me, how long have we been dancing."
"About half an hour."
"And how many times have you tripped over my feet?"
"Not once. But this is in our quarters, with you. At the
ball I will be in front of hundreds and with the Queen -it's
not the same at all."
"Obi-Wan, I have watched you perform katas and drills for
several years now, often at levels far above the norm for your
age group. You have just now mastered the Ta-Pik, an extremely
intricate dance, made all the more difficult by the fact that
you are not double jointed as the Eyun are. I refuse to believe
that you will not be able to perform the inaugural dance with
the Queen at tomorrow's ceremony."
"Yes, Master. I will do my best not to embarrass you or the
Order. But will you dance with me a time or two tomorrow?"
"It would be my pleasure, padawan, though I suspect the other
youths will want their chance to dance with you."
"But Master, I only know the Ta-Pik and the Republic Standard
Valse. What if someone asks me to dance something else?"
"I suppose I shall have to spend the rest of the afternoon
teaching you the various symmetry steps preferred by the Eyun."
"Thank you, Master."
End.
March 31, 2000
"We've done what we can, Master Jinn. The bacta has regenerated
the eyes. It is now only a matter of time before the nerves
start transmitting information again."
"So he will see again?"
"We believe so."
"Why is he still wearing the bandages?"
"We'd like him to keep those on for a while."
"How long?"
"A week, maybe two. We'll examine his eyes every couple of
days, monitor his progress -but really it's better for the eyes
if they can rest during these last stages. Too much light or
strain could reverse the healing."
"Will I be able to take him home?"
"Yes, as soon as he wakes up."
"Thank you."
"Now, why don't you go and finally get some sleep?"
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