Summary: Qui-Gon gently turns Obi-Wan down. Obi-Wan fails to
turn down a rather nice substitute.
Disclaimers: Not mine, no money. please don't hurt us.
Notes from Bunny: I started this story after reading for
PadaWan kriski's series. What can I say? She inspires me to
think obtusely. Knight Fi provided the pairing and MrsHamill
encouraged me to keep on trying. She encouraged me to the point
of writing the bits I couldn't write for myself, hence the
co-author status. And also hence a story many folk told me
'couldn't be written'. Or was that 'shouldn't be'?
Notes from the Olde Broad: This is soooo Bunny's fault it's not
even funny. Just see if I get involved in any of her shit again
any time soon (OW! Don't twist my arm so dang hard!). It was
her baby, really; I just held the head, cut the cord and
removed the caul. Don't hurt me. I have a low pain threshold.
The cliffs of San Michele are dangerous this time of year, snow
and ice turning serene contemplation into possible suicide. I
can't find it in myself to care - about that, anyway. The
distance between us makes me feel like a dead thing-I can't
sense you in my mind.
And you are not in my heart.
I left Naboo and your bedside in anger, in a childlike snit, a
fit of despair at your gentle rebuff. You were so calm, so
poised, though you breath rattled in your chest like the gasps
of a dying man. You are not dying-modern medicine and my own
will pulled you back from the Force's eternal embrace. My will
and my strength in the Force, the skill you taught me, but
mostly my love.
So, yes, you are healing instead of dying. If anyone is dying
here, it's me.
I don't know what I expected. We've saved one anther's lives
before, countless times. Why this time would be any different I
can't imagine. Only my foolish schoolboy dreaming made me think
it might be. Just this once, just this last time...
The wind cuts through the many layers of clothes I wear, whips
my braid across my eyes, cheek, lips, lashes in rapid
succession. It stings, I guess. The sting seems to say 'This is
what you are. This is all you are.' I sniffle, battling tears
and winning. I don't really want them freezing to my cheeks,
but if they did I'm not sure I could bring myself to do
anything about it.
A ripple in the Force brings my head around, hand going to my
'saber with automatic caution. But the ripple fades and there
is nothing but a single figure, a man, to be seen. Dressed in
winter white, cloak, tunics, pants and heavy black boots, his
hand raises in acknowledgment of me as he continues up the
hill. I turn back towards the sea, not wishing for company but
also not willing to run from just a man.
His boots crunch on the thin layers of snow as he takes a place
beside me. I glance his way; black hair, tall, lean frame under
the cloaks, brown eyes. No, green... no, blue... finally all
three and none of them. And that nose! It's a wonder it doesn't
tip him over when he walks. He is silent, watching the waves
fling themselves against the rocks below him, not returning my
scrutiny. When finally he does speak, the tones remind me of my
own accent. I wonder where he is from, to speak that way. My
own voice was carefully schooled to be of all lands and of
none. His words are simple, but mystifying.
"You'll not want to stay past sunset. The cold will kill you in
an hour and I'll tell you: freezing is not the most pleasant
way a man can die."
I frown at that. Who is this, a man who had come to look after
the little lost Jedi? He must be from the fishing village not
far from where I landed. Odd that it took the locals this long
to come find me, question me. Odder still that someone would
even want to. Or is that my own despair talking?
"Come on then," he invites. "The cliffs will still be here in
the morning, as will the sea. As will be your questions and
your sorrow. For now, let's eat, have a beer - or two or three
- together. Mine ekel esata vren ekel."
I should refuse. I came here to be alone, to marinate in my own
anguish, not to be succored by a stranger. But almost
automatically (after all, you did drill manners into me), I nod
once and he sets off at an easy pace, the stride of a man with
somewhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. We
descend from the cliffs in silence, traverse the village proper
and go beyond it somewhat. His house is a low, stone structure
snug against the winds, proof against the weather. Inside is
warmth. A kettle hangs over a cheerful fire, whistling merrily.
While I shed my outer garments, my supposed benefactor busies
himself with tea-making, leaving me to my own devices. I look
around the little house, taking in the small workbench,
dataset, incongruous fireplace, and a large, comfortable
looking bed in the shadows. One room holding all the comforts a
single man might want in this lonely place.
"So, how long have you been at the Temple?" he inquires,
stripping his own winter warmth off.
I chuckle shortly, unsurprised at having been rumbled so
quickly. "Twenty-three years."
"Your whole life, then? Good. Best not to waste time if you're
going to be a Jedi," he smiles in approval and hands me a
steaming cup of tea.
"You seem to know much of it, " I reply, sipping at the minty
brew.
"I make it my business to know what kind of warriors I'm likely
to meet, wherever I am," he smirks. "Have you a name?"
"Yes."
After a moment he continues, rambling on as he gathers things
from cupboards, making a meal. I settle down onto the floor,
not wanting to let myself be too comfortable. Not sure why I'm
here at all.
"They call me the Malkavian, though I doubt they really believe
I'm a bloodsucking deamon. They're probably down at the pub
making up songs about the Jedi and the Witch anyway, just to
keep up appearances. My own fault, really. I let them see too
much," the Malkavian shrugs. "I, too, have a name."
I hold my peace and he his. He gives me a plate of bread, fruit
and cheese, fare I am long-tired of but most accustomed to. It
goes down well with tea and I find myself comfortably filled
when the meal was done. I begin to rise, to make my goodbyes
when he pins me in place it a hard stare. "Beer," he reminds
me. "There is much to speak of, yet."
I subside, accepting the nut-brown drink when it arrives. It is
rich and good, warming places the fire couldn't touch and I
wonder if perhaps the local brew has been improved upon by some
outside influence. At that moment, in that place, I find I do
not care if it has not been. Perhaps if I drink enough of the
brew, I won't need to listen to my host for very long. Or to
myself. Or to you.
"Ever seen a fire before?" he asks
It seems a safe enough subject, so I reply honestly. "Rarely."
"I've always thought it quite a shame that so many
civilizations have gotten away from the hearthfire. Oh well. I
expect we'll come back to it sooner or later. The fire, you
know, is life."
I consider those words, studying the flame almost reflexively,
as I would have considered a new lesson. The fire snaps and
crackles, licking upwards towards the chimney, giving light and
warmth to the room. It is very pretty, but I can not see that
it is life. The Force is life, though not half so attractive at
times.
"Methinks the Jedi doubts my words," my host grins. "Have
another beer."
I look down, surprised to see that my glass is empty. He takes
it to the small keg next to the workbench and refills it. "So,
well, you're wearing a braid, so you're still a Learner. Don't
get too many of your sort around here. More often than not, I
go drag some Knight off the cliffs and smack some sense into
him," the man lounges on the rug before the fire, sipping from
his own cup. "Yoda doesn't pay me enough for this crap."
I jump at the name, then let my shoulders sag in resignation. I
should have known that little green...Master hadn't suggested
this place on a whim. "You know Master Yoda?" I inquire glumly.
"But of course, mon cher. He was the first Knight I hauled off
the cliffs, lo these many moons ago. Though to be honest, I
think he was more here for the beer than the company. At first
I thought he was your garden variety lunatic, muttering about
the Force and Passion and Anger for hours on end. I finally
worked out that the Force, whatever that is, led him here so he
wouldn't be a danger to other Jedi. Well, eventually we worked
everything out for him and he went on home. Sent me a little
gift, he did, sort of as a thank-you, I suppose. Anyway, ever
since then I've been hanging around here, off and on, keeping a
Jedi jump watch. Fast forward several years and here you are."
He tips his glass back, swallowing rapidly. "So what's your
sin? Hate? Anger? Fear? Passion?"
I must have made some show of surprise at that, because he
chuckles low in his throat.
"Passion. Ah, the poison of youth, to have their hearts run
away with their head. Now what is it you're so passionate about
that you nearly turned yourself into a Jedicicle trying to get
away from it? Money? Power? Freedom? No, nothing so ethereal
for one so young... ah. A lover." He smiles as though pleased
he has figured out a tricky puzzle.
"Are you a mindreader or just a very good guesser?" I inquire
archly. The bitterness in my voice actually surprises me.
"Sorry kid. After a while the mysteries of the human soul just
aren't all that darn mysterious. There are only three real
motivations in this Universe: love, sex and death. Since you're
not out there doing katas as if your life depended on it, I
know you are neither the hunter or the hunted. So that leaves
two things, which at your age, probably don't seem all that far
removed one from another," he smirks again. "Another?"
I sigh with resignation and hand the glass over to him. "That's
very good brew you have here."
"Not mine. This is the stuff Yoda sends me. He tells me it has
rather odd properties on Force-users. Tends to make
them...receptive, which is good because I don't play well to a
hostile audience. Drink up and we'll get to the object lessons.
So, who is it you want to screw?"
I nearly choke on a mouthful of beer, manage to get it down
before delivering a glare.
"Ooooh. One of those." An eyebrow lifts sardonically. "Okay,
who are you so *in love* with that you absolutely have to go to
bed with them?"
I sigh. "Did you ever hear that bit about 'Be wary of rousing a
wizard's wrath?'"
"No, but probably because only a Jedi could say that without
tripping over his own tongue. Look, I'm sorry if I don't seem
all that sympathetic to your pain, but I godda tell you, you're
not giving me a lot to work with here. So spill. You can't just
keep it bottled up forever. I promise I'll never tell a soul.
Scout's honor." He holds up his hand in a sort of salute,
seemingly amused by his own actions.
My glare cannot hold. Against my better judgment, perhaps
helped by the brew coursing through my veins, I relax enough to
speak. "Oh very well, though I've no doubt you've heard it all
before, o wise and revered one. My master and I were in a
battle about two weeks ago. He nearly died."
Abruptly I paused to push down that overwhelming panic that
surged up my gullet at the memory of you being impaled. After a
deep breath, I continued. "I loved him so much I was able to
use the Force in a much greater quantity than would be my
normal capacity. I saved his life. Later, in the hospital I
told him I loved him and he...patted me on the head and said
thank you." I downed the rest of my beer, not looking at him.
"The end."
He gets up to fetch another round. "But that's not really the
end, is it?"
"Of course not. I got angry, hurt at being rejected, asked to
be given some time away from the Temple. Master Yoda suggested
I come here, which, eventually, I did. Now 'The End'.
Satisfied?"
"Well, again, no. Not the end. Just the beginning, in fact, if
you assume Yoda sent you here with a purpose, which I assure
you he did. Tell me about this Master of yours. Tell me how he
makes you feel."
I sigh, knowing I am too far into my cups by now and not caring
much at all. "Oh, he's wise and good and pure and Jedi to the
bone. Beautiful, of course, all lean muscle and feline grace.
His hair...his eyes...those hands..." I sigh again, realizing
with a start what a lovesick fool I sound like.
"But that's not why you love him," he prompts.
"No, of course not. I love him because..." my hand wanders up
from my lap, making an eloquent gesture of futility. How can I
explain something that lies so deep inside me that it throbs
with every heartbeat? How can I possibly explain, even to me?
Obviously, I could not explain to you.
"I see," my companion smiles. No, he grins. It's rather
infectious, actually, and I almost grin back before stopping
myself with a reminder of how despairing I actually am. "Then
there is some hope for you, my friend. Regard this simple fire.
Regard this simple trivet."
"What trivet?" I inquire, for there is none to be seen.
"Heh. Got ahead of myself there, didn't I? Well, that's what
happens when you get old."
He goes about the room gathering up various items. An iron
trivet, a roll of bandages, another round of beer. The latter I
understand and drink. "Regard the fire, there. It is life."
I turn my gaze upon the fire once more, trying to see what he
is telling me. The fire did seem to be alive, dancing and
twisting. But I knew it to be a simple chemical reaction rather
than some mystical resource. Luckily my companion is ready to
elaborate.
"Life," he said "is not the act of living. You can live forever
and never really be alive, trust me on that one. Life is
experience, and what those experiences do to you. Life is the
act of change."
I keep my gaze on the fire, trying to see change. "I don't get
it," I finally admit.
He snorts, unsurprised. "There you see the fire of wood. Wood
burning. It burns long and warm, makes water ready for tea,
makes the room livable, provides cheerful atmosphere. That is
fire on wood. Eventually, the fire will burn the wood away and
it will be no more."
I nod once, to show that I am following him. It's not good
enough, because he again snorts through that beak of his. "So
you put wood into the fire and the wood gets changed to heat
and light and soot."
I nod again.
He unrolls some of the cloth bandages. "If you put something
else into the fire, you get a different result." He tosses a
wad of rag into the fire. "There, you see? Hotter, brighter,
more flashy, but quicker, of shorter duration."
I keep still, waiting.
He doesn't disappoint. Whoever he is, he's had students before
and knows the thickheaded properties of the Learner. "Fire
doesn't change all things immediately."
He picks up a long metal rod from beside the fireplace, holds
it up to illustrate, says "Poker," so I know the thing's name,
and places it on the fire. After a moment he pulls it out
again, showing me that it was not burned.
"Okay, so some things burn and some things don't. What's your
point?" I finally ask, losing patience.
He doesn't lose his. "The fire, my Jedi friend, is life. The
flame is living. The wood? What is that? Is that the time you
have with your master, comfortable, useful, but destined to
end? Yes, I think that fits. Good analogy that, glad to see I
haven't lost my touch. And the iron? Let's call that love. True
love unyeilding. And the cloth? How about lust? Yes, quick,
hot, ephemeral."
He picks up the iron trivet and begins twisting the bandages
through it. "Here's how it always looks. Love and lust all
bound up in each other. It LOOKS like you can't have one
without the other. It LOOKS like they are two things making up
a whole. But is that true? Go ahead, throw a little lust and
love into your life," my companion grins.
I accept his offer and toss the package in. The cloth burns
away quickly. Life, experience, burning the lust away, leaving
the... "Oh." I take a big gulp of my beer to push the lump back
in my throat. "You're good at that."
"I'm not a wise man, you understand. Just bored."
"So what do you suggest? I ravish my Master and see if I still
love him afterwards? I don't think he'd go for that," I
chuckle, but it sounds rather desperate to my ears.
He yawns and stretches. "Dunno. That's the end of my spiel. I'm
for bed."
I stay there by the fire, watching the trivet grow hotter and
hotter, changing color in the embers. Eventually I use the
poker to drag it back out of the fire and onto the hearth. The
sounds of my host disrobing behind me are momentarily
distracting, but I push them firmly from my mind.
So what now, Kenobi? What do YOU want? I know what you want, my
Master, you want a good little Padawan that you can be proud
of, that you can teach and train and raise to be a good little
Knight. You don't want that good little Padawan to love you
with a passion that burns... like that fire. But I do. Oh, how
I do. Fuck serenity, I love you passionately my Master, and
your rejection hurt damned bad.
Both rejections, actually. Against my will my mind drifts back
to that awful moment before the Council when you slammed your
shields down against me the first time. You and your damned
Chosen One. How I wish I was your chosen one.
My beer has long since vanished and my eyes swim from looking
at the fire too long. The pain in my chest grows instead of
fading like I hoped it would, and I feel cold.
There's a presence behind me and a hand on my shoulder.
"There's only one bed but I'm willing to share, Jedi. C'mon.
Don't be alone, it's not worth it."
I look up at him and realize I'm crying, damn. His face is a
blur as he squats next to me and gently wipes away the tears.
"Bed, Jedi. Everyone needs sleep. Even people who live
forever."
Managing to get to my feet, I let him help me take off my
tunics, then sit on the bed to take off my boots. He crawls in
first and pulls me down next to him and just holds me while I
sob. I hate being this needy, this hurt, in this much pain, but
I just can't stop. Finally I fall asleep.
I wake up the next morning and immediately know it is a
'morning after'. The pain in my head is that of a thousand
Gungans pontificating. My mouth feels like it has been coated
in raw sewage. Perhaps the Malkavian has done me a service.
This hangover is so bad I can't even feel the hurt in my heart.
But someone is touching me, so I gather up my Jedi courage and
crack one eye open. The Malkavian is kneeling beside the bed
holding a glass of water. "Drink this," he says. "It will help
the worst to pass."
I close my eye and nod my assent, which was a mistake. He helps
me to lean up enough to drink, then places a cool, damp cloth
over my eyes and forehead. The water does help, and the
headache begins to recede. My eyes and throat ache from the
weeping, but that too has begun to fade. It feels good to
simply lie in this warm bed and be cared for. I can hear my
host puttering around the room, making ready for his day's
work. Whatever that is.
A knock on the door interrupts him. I hear him go to admit the
petitioner. A woman's voice fills the room, too loudly, before
he shushes her. "I've a patient, Murra. He's not well this
morning."
A low chuckle follows this information. "You could start a Jedi
petting zoo with all those you've put back together. Too bad
your healing doesn't work on normal folk, Methos. We could use
another pair of hands when the flu season hits."
Methos. I wonder if this is his name or some kind of title.
He's laughing, a surprising sound. "I do what I can, Murra. But
they don't come here to have their bodies healed. You know
that."
"This one looks to need some body-healing. Or less of your
brew, either one. I'll let the wives know you're keeping
company. Will you still be gathering at the north woods today?"
Murra sets something down near the hearth and turns her steps
towards the door.
"Aye. He'll be well enough to walk along, once I've gotten
something solid in his stomach," the Malkavian assures her.
"Then we'll expect you at the boiling-off house this afternoon.
Mind you get done before it hits. Good day, Methos."
"Good day, Murra," my host replies. I decide that must be his
name and file the information away, in case it comes in handy
later. And before 'what' hits?
I lay still and listen to him fiddling with something near the
fire. When he returns to the bedside he has another glass of
water with him. "Come have some breakfast."
I drink the water and stretch, slowly, calling on the Force to
pour energy back into my system, speed the fluids where they
need to be, stir my blood for working. After a long moment of
concentration my headache has receded completely. I go and join
my host beside the fire.
He is dishing up some sort of hot cereal, adds dried fruit and
hands me the bowl. This is accompanied by a mug of cool milk
and all of it feels wonderful once I get it inside me. He
watches me eat, amusement - and something else - shining in his
eyes. "Well, you're welcome to spend the day shivering on the
cliffs, but I'm going to the north woods to gather sap. Care to
join me?"
I nod once. I've always preferred productive work to brooding.
We bundle up in our cold-weather gear and he leads me to a
small shed behind his home. After some rummaging about he
presents me with a wooden yolk with a large bucket hanging from
each end. He shoulders his own and leads the way along a tiny
footpath and into the woods north of the village.
I keep my peace on the trek, and my companion also seems
disinclined to break the silence. The world is frozen and still
around me, the snow and cold making a beautiful still-life
artwork of the woods. Before we have gone very far, the
Malkavian leaves the broken path and approaches one of the
large trees nearby. A sheltered bucket is hanging from the
trunk, the handle hooked over a little tube that is driven into
the side of the forest giant. He sets his yolk down and pours
from it a thin fluid, and ice. "The sap run was good this year
in the southern wood. I'm not sure what that means, except I'm
about the only one foolish enough to be out here gathering the
north. I'm glad to have some help," he smiles.
I nod and look around me, notice that many of the trees also
have buckets hanging from them, like odd fruit. Without need
for instruction, I begin to collect the slushy sap into the
larger buckets I have carried here.
Before long my hands are numb and the yolk is growing heavy on
my shoulders. When we clear the area of its harvest, my host
leads me to the other side of the footpath to collect from the
trees there. The snow is not very deep, barely reaching my boot
tops, but walking in it with the weight of my yolk pulling at
me is difficult. My thoughts wander as I work, over the
conversation of the night before, of the events between you and
I, my Master, of the reasons I am here this day, doing this
common work beside this strangely uncommon man. When we have
finished collecting from this grove, we return to the footpath
and journey deeper into the woods. A question has formed in my
mind, one I finally give voice to.
"If the fire is life, what is the snow?" I ask my companion.
He chuckles. "Snow is patience, Jedi. The willing sleep of
rest, the natural cycle of 'wait and see'. Many would think
these woods dead this time of year. They're only waiting in
this snow, for the time when sun-fire makes them live again."
I nod at that and ask nothing more, concentrating on the work
at hand once again. Eventually my load is such that I begin to
cheat, using the Force to make the buckets seem less weighty.
It is for the best. It takes some long time to fill our yolks
completely. The sun, what we can see of it behind the cloud
cover, is working its way towards lunch time before we head
back. We make our way past his house and back into the village
to a large home that seems to have been constructed from whole
logs. There are children running in the yard, and here the snow
and dirt have been churned to an icy mud. I smell the smoke of
a wood fire. When we round the corner I see the source for
myself. An enormous pot is being heated on a large fire.
Villagers run to and fro, bringing wood to fuel the flames,
bringing more sap from a large reservoir and pouring it into
the cookpot, bringing refreshments to one another as they work.
The atmosphere is rather festive and gay, and I feel totally,
helplessly out of place.
I follow my host to the reservoirs and empty my sap where he
shows me. A woman is standing there, taking note of what we
bring. "Who do I credit his to?" she demands of the Malkavian.
"To me. He'll not be here long enough to see the profits. I'll
be sure it is made right," he tells her.
"Four then, for Methos. Are you going back out to gather, or
will you work here?" She looks around the yard. "We need
woodsplitting, at least until lunch. I can credit you the
work-hours..."
He nods and gestures for me to follow him. I make so bold as to
ask "Is your name Methos?"
He nods again but makes no comment. I sigh and try again. "What
are they doing?"
"Sugaring off. They're not a wealthy people. They have to use
up every resource they can lay their hands on, just to survive
most years. There'll be sugar and syrup for the next year, but
only through hard work now. Sweetener is too expensive to
import when it can be made from the woods." He leads me into an
enclosure, where boys and men are chopping wood. Some raise
their hands in greeting when they see him, but look at me
askance. I'm used to that. Jedi are rarely looked at in the
same way folk look at other people. Only in the Temple are we
not considered to be outsiders of one stripe or another.
Methos snorts at the villagers and grabs my arm. "Ever chop
wood?"
I shake my head no.
"Let me see your hands," he directs. I turn my palms up and he
feels them. "Your calluses are in the wrong places. Do you want
to go back out to the woods by yourself?"
I think about it for a long moment, trying to decide whether or
not I want to be alone. I know I'll just be stuck with my own
depressing thoughts, even if I am getting something done. "Show
me what to do," I request.
He nods and sets to work. I watch as he sets a log-chunk on a
chopping block and splits it with an ax he has procured from a
supply kept nearby. He splits the chunk again, so that he has
four more-or-less even pieces. "Like that. Not exactly saving
the world, but..."
I nod and turn towards the waiting wood. I clear my mind and
close my eyes, getting a solid grip on a log with the Force. A
bit of pressure here, a tug just so and it falls into four
pieces. "Will that do?"
His lips compress into a thin line of displeasure. "Can you not
be quite so conspicuous with that? Stand on the other side of
me. I don't want you frightening anyone."
I nod, abashed, and do as I'm told. I work beside him, trying
to appear as if I'm just lounging against the fence while he
works. In fact, I do my best to keep up with him, focusing all
my thoughts on the work before me. Even though I do no physical
labor, it's strangely tiring. I don't know how long we work
before a bell begins to ring, but the next thing I know he is
to shaking me by the shoulder and telling me to stop. "Lunch,"
he explains.
I follow him inside the log house and take a seat beside him at
a long trestle table. I copy his motions, taking only what he
takes, eating as he eats, and still the strange looks come my
way. I hate this, hate feeling so isolated from everyone and
everything, so far from the home I wish I was still welcome in.
I release my disgust to the Force, but the discomfort is acute.
I berate myself mentally, *You're here to figure out what to do
with your life, not fuel conversations in this little town for
the next decade!* Luckily Methos eats quickly and I am able to
follow him from the table before anyone can work up the nerve
to address either one of us.
He says nothing but goes to collect his yolk once more. I
follow him, happy to be away from stranger's eyes but miserable
to be so vulnerable to their stares. I should be beyond this by
now. Of course, before now there has always been the calming
presence of a venerated Jedi Master standing as my shield
between those eyes and myself. Where is your protection now, my
Master?
The snow is pulling at my boots again as we work our way
through the trees. Snow is falling now as well, collecting on
my cloak, falling into the buckets, clinging to my hair and
ears. I pause to pull my hood up and glance up towards the
thickly clouded sky. The woods are still and silent, only the
vague form of Methos in his winter whites letting me know I am
not alone. I've never known such quiet or such stillness. For a
moment I fancy even the Force has stilled, here in this quiet,
slumbering place. It may not be a smile, but I feel my face
relax for the first time in days as I realize I've gone almost
a whole day without meditating. This may be the first time in
my life such a thing has happened. I sink to my knees, folding
myself into the familiar posture.
The posture I learned from you, my Master.
The last time I saw you in this posture, you were showing off
for that Sith creature. Pushing your Jedi serenity in his face,
jeering him to rush, to make an error in judgment, to show
weakness as the insult of your calm was thrown at him. I
remember my thoughts, trapped just a few feet away from you. I
wanted to scream, to cram your own lessons down your throat.
Never Lose Focus. Watch Your Opponent. Do Not Rest Until
Resolution Is Achieved. Assume NOTHING.
That last one was in the forefront of my mind as you knelt
there, nothing but a gate of energy protecting you from a
demonic warrior. So insolent, my Master, kneeling in
meditation, deactivating your saber, spurring him into a
mistake made in haste.
Well, Master... who ended up making the mistake?
I saw it all, you know. The angle wasn't good, but I could
still see it. You are so fond of telling me how old you are, my
decrepit Master, only the best 'saber fighter in the galaxy ...
second best now, eh Master? You over-extended. I saw it quite
clearly ... he had worn you down, you aged Jedi you, and then
managed to pull you into overextending on an overhead parry. It
was like slow motion. The butt of that double 'saber coming up
to your chin, and the surprised, shocked even, expression on
your face as he ran... you... through...
The snow feels good. It is good to kneel and rest, to pause my
labors with no eyes on me. Who made the mistake, Master? You,
in your confidence? He in his aggression? I in my compassion
and desire to save you? Perhaps it is this last that was the
mistake. Perhaps that day was the time selected for you by the
Force. My actions may have thrown the way of things into a
flux, for which I am now being punished. It certainly feels
that way. To be sobbing over your form as you asked me to
promise to train that boy... I didn't want to hear that! Why
couldn't you have said anything else, any word of apology, of -
of love...
A sharp slap brings my attention back to my surroundings.
"What?" I demand, shocked.
"Wake up! If you're tired, we'll take a break. If you need to
meditate, we'll go back to my place. DO NOT REST OUT HERE! It's
way below freezing and getting worse as the... oh never mind.
Come on, we're going back." My host kicks my yolk towards me.
"Get up."
I stand and lift the yolk to my shoulders, abashed. I know
better than to do something like this. What's wrong with me?
It seems we're done for the day then. Silently I help put away
the yokes and buckets. The snow is swirling strongly now, and
the day has almost turned to night from the deep cloud cover.
We go back inside his house and shed our boots, coats, gloves
and scarves, creating little puddles on the floor from melted
snow.
He is quite obviously a bit peeved at me still and I find his
continued silence maddening. As he starts to putter around his
house, obviously preparing to clean up and change, I realize
I've overstayed any welcome I might have had. I've warmed up
enough so I reach for my coat.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks harshly, removing
his shirt before the fire.
I struggle for calm. Deep, clear water. "I'm returning to my
ship. I wouldn't want to burden you any longer, I've stayed
enough as it is. I thank you for your hospitality."
He just stands there and grins devilishly and I realize he's
quite a handsome man, even with that nose. Lean and whipcord
strong, about my height and build, actually. His hair is spiky
short and if he'd had a braid he could have passed for a
Padawan. He's still grinning, not saying a word, and I frown.
"What?" I finally ask, for obviously he knows something I do
not.
"You know, for a Jedi, you are pretty stupid. Don't you hear
that?"
Now I'm pissed and I don't bother trying to release it into the
Force. "Hear what? What are you talking about?"
He shakes his head in mock sadness. "The wind, Jedi. It's a
storm. Hit a little early, but within the next few minutes
it'll be a white-out. No one's going anywhere for at least a
day, maybe two. Why do you think we were working so hard to
gather the sap today?"
As soon as he says it I can hear it... I can feel it. My
despair has been such that I couldn't even hear the Force tell
me about this storm, and because of that I feel even worse.
What a fool I am ...for loving you, for coming here, for...
It must show on my face for his grin turns into a frown and he
shakes his head. "You Jedi. You need a whole new line in your
damned code about guilt. You take on the whole fucking universe
of guilt. I'm gonna go get a shower."
Saying that he quickly finishes stripping off his clothes and
saunters to the back of the house where his small, primitive
'fresher is. I can't help but follow him with my eyes and
immediately blush for doing so. Yes, he is an attractive man.
But he's not YOU! I let myself slide to the floor next to the
tightly shuttered window and just wallow in it. Guilt, yes, and
anger, and frustration and a whole host of other negative
emotions. As I have been taught, as YOU taught me, I fold up
into a meditative posture and try to examine all my feelings,
try to release them into the Force. Is my host right? Am I
taking on the entire universe of guilt?
Needless to say, a meditative trance doesn't come to me and
eventually I sigh and stand up. Methos comes out of the back
room at that moment, a towel low around his hips, his hair
still wet. He rummages around in a bureau and throws me some
clothing.
"You and I are close enough in size, you should be able to wear
my stuff. Here. You'll want to go get cleaned up. There's a
clean towel next to the shower. Sorry the water's not very
hot...my water heater works on solar power which you might have
noticed isn't particularly abundant at the moment."
I nod my thanks and strip. He's right, my clothes are grimy
from sweat and slush. Clean clothes would be a blessing, as
would a clean body. I put my dirty tunics in a pile by the
fireplace and turn to walk to the 'fresher - and I feel eyes on
me. I turn, but he's doing something at the sink. Maybe I
imagined it.
A little shower cubicle and nothing but tepid water - luxury
compared to what we've had to deal with in the past, eh,
Master? I wash hurriedly and dry, then realize I've left my
borrowed pants in the main room, so wrap my towel around myself
and return.
There's warmth and good smells now, a dinner of some kind that
Methos has put together. As I don the borrowed pants, I realize
the wind is really howling now, battering at the windows and
door. None of it gets through the sturdy stone walls though,
this place was made to last against just this kind of storm.
Suddenly I realize that I'm thinking of you, of how much you'd
like this place, this house, even this storm, and I shove these
thoughts away again and swallow against the lump in my throat.
We eat mostly in silence, but not strained silence. He
apparently respects my need for quiet, either that or he's just
a very uncommunicative man. Maybe both. After dinner, I help
him clean up and we sit by the fire with more of his brew.
After some time, I hear a voice talking, as if from far away.
What a shock to realize it's mine.
"...didn't want a Padawan. But I convinced him, finally, and he
took me on. I thought, I thought we had a good bond, I've loved
him since I figured out what love is. Every time I find out
about another kind of love, I find that I already feel it for
him. And then we got sent to that little mudball, to those
damned Trade flunkies ...but it was the kid that really got me.
He stood there, just stood there before the whole be-damned
Council and took the kid as his Padawan learner! I wanted to
yell, to scream at him, and he just shut himself away from me.
Told me where to go and what to do which I did like the good
little Padawan he wants me to be...
There's something in my eyes. It burns and stings and it's
causing my nose to fill up too.
"You know, what we fought, it was a Sith. Ugly bastard too.
Looked a bit Zabrakian but who the Hell knows? I cut the thing
in half and watched it fall into the melting pit and felt
nothing but glee, until I remembered what it did to my Master."
Damn. I wish I could clear my eyes. "And when I went to him, he
thought he was dying. Well, I did too. And you know what he
said to me? Promise me you'll train the boy! Fuck the boy! And
fuck him, too! Why couldn't... oh, why..."
Oh shit, oh shit, I'm crying, that's what's in my eyes, that's
why I can't go on. I'm shaking too, and I feel hot, maybe I'm
sick, I don't know, Master, where are you, why aren't you here
to help me?
Someone is holding me now, tightly, rubbing my back and my head
just the way you always used to do when I felt bad or was sick.
Warm skin under my fingers that I hold on to, as I wail out my
anguish and desperation. There's a soft voice in my ear, and
warm breath on my hair.
"That's it, kid, just let it out. Sometimes you godda just
scream, you can't let it ALL go into the Force, whatever the
hell that is..."
So I do. After a while, though, you run out of tears I guess. I
cough a bit against the crap in my throat and I'm handed a
tissue. I realize I'm laying on the floor in front of the fire,
and there's a warm, comforting body holding me tightly. Methos.
He must be getting tired of having a sobbing Jedi around.
I wipe my face off and blow my nose and realize I really should
pull away, but it feels so nice. I want to be comforted, and
he's apparently willing to comfort. "Thanks," I murmur into his
chest.
He shrugs a bit, but doesn't let go and for that I'm thankful.
"All in a day's work, Jedi. I don't mind, you needed help, I
can help. I guess Duncan's been rubbing off on me."
I pull back enough to look into his face. "Who's Duncan?"
"Heh. Somebody you'll never meet," he replies, then looks into
my eyes.
Big mistake. How can someone so young have such old eyes? They
look right through me, see right into my brain and my breath
hitches in my chest. I've only seen one pair of eyes that
intense, and they're deep, dark blue.
But Methos' eyes aren't. And he doesn't have a beard either, so
touching his face is far different than touching yours, Master.
And kissing him would feel different than I would expect
kissing you would be like. If you ever would kiss me. Which
apparently you're not willing to do. But Methos is.
His lips are very soft.
And his body is hard, tough, and curiously smooth at the same
time. No scars, not like me. He traces every scar on my upper
body, and I have quite a few; he kisses several of them too,
before looking back into my eyes.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks me, very quietly.
I take a deep breath and do something I haven't done since
Naboo. I consult the Force, check within myself to see if I am
on the right course. Much to my surprise, the Force responds to
me at once, and the answer is 'yes'. I reach up and pull his
lips back down to mine.
The fire is close at my back, but is nothing compared to the
heat that pours out of his kisses and into me, into my mouth,
pooling in my groin. Where that molten desire gathers my body
grows taunt with need, nipples into rough pebbles, cock into
needy stone. I'm moaning, all this emotion of want and desire
and, yes, passion, flooding me, my senses. I'm not channeling
it out into the Force, not releasing it or stepping away. It's
filling me up, filling the aching, empty place where you
usually are. This is a fire of linen, of silk and satin, so
hot, so quick and I've been so, so cold without you, Master.
And he's being careful with me, for some reason. As if I were
an unblooded child in his arms, as if he is deflowering
something sacred. I groan into his mouth, try to say I'm not a
virgin but he's shushing me, saying the time for words has
passed and he is right, so right that I push over on top of
him, wordlessly expressing all the craving he has sparked
within me.
His hair is soft in my hands as I cradle his head, holding him
for kisses. His fingers are making long treks up and down my
spine, teasing groans and pleas as he draws circles in the
small of my back. I'm undulating, pressing into him, seeking
the right touch, the sweet caress, knowing it isn't best like
this but not wanting to stop and make it better.
Finally it is Methos who makes things right, gently turning me
onto my side and stilling my thrusting. "Here, or would you
prefer the bed, Jedi?" he smiles at me.
"Here, here, I need..." but he is gone away and I fall onto my
stomach, face buried in my arms, eyes itching, cock so hard I'm
near screaming for release. "Don't do this to me, please..." I
am appalled to hear myself whimper.
Something soft hits my head and I look up. A pillow. Methos is
kneeling beside me again, a bottle of oil in one hand. "Turn
over," he invites, and I'm all to happy to obey, settling the
pillow under my head, tucking my arms under it, watching what
he does to me. His eyes promise that it will be something worth
remembering.
The fire has died down somewhat, making the light a warm, red
glow that tints his pale skin, an amazingly erotic effect. His
long fingers are touching me, shoulders, chest, tease the
navel, quick journey back up to stroke and pinch my nipples. I
have the odd sensation that I can now accurately imagine what a
harp feels like in the hands of a master player, for he is
surely a master in this. I don't know if the sounds I'm making
could be construed as music, but they are heartfelt and joyous.
I should be touching, reciprocating, but he seems to enjoy what
he does. I make no move to interrupt. He leans down to kiss my
mouth, jaw, throat, traveling all over the scarred and
uncherished planes that are my body. His kisses make me holy.
Soon he is pulling my pants off of me, freeing my body to his
observation and exploration. My breath is harsh and my
heartbeat is loud in my ears. The snap and hiss upon the hearth
make me feel like a willing participant in some pagan rite.
When he touches the insides of my thighs, I loose the civilized
part of my brain, the better portion of my Jedi reserve and
howl like an animal, arching up towards him. My skin is
burning, which is not strange considering that a red-skinned
firesprite is making love to me. His mouth is on my cock,
kissing and lapping, an insolent smirk indicating he well knows
the madness his touches are creating within me. When he
swallows me, letting his throat constrict around my shaft, I
lose all memory of peace. This is nothing like the tender
pettings and reserved couplings I have known with my partners
at the Temple. This is Passion and for the life of me I don't
know how I've lived so long without it.
I've lost control of myself. I'm babbling my need and desire to
Methos, the Malkavian, my deamon-lover who has stripped me of
all serenity and calm. No, not stripped, I've thrown it away
quite joyfully and have no plans to hunt for it anytime soon.
He has let me slip from his mouth and is coating me with oil. I
can't still my hips, I'm thrusting towards his slick fingers.
That smile is still on his lips, he knows what is happening
within me and he's guiding me, protecting me along this
journey. My face is wet, no one is telling me to hold back,
control myself, be serene. There is no frozen pond of Jedi
reserve hanging like a stone, an accusation in my mind because
you are not here, Master. It is I, your Padawan, alone,
careening on this dangerous course. I wouldn't have it any
other way.
He's naked now, straddling my hips, guiding me towards that
tight, hot channel. It is a baptism of sorts, a cleansing and
renewal as I am drawn upwards, my hips rising up to meet what
he so willingly offers. Now he is not smiling. His mouth is
open, his eyes are closed, and his panting breath makes his
chest rise and fall, quickly. I reach to touch, find his hands,
arms, chest, try to catalog and memorize this experience. It is
happening too fast, too fast. Quick, flashy, ephemeral,
inexplicable as most miracles are. I am proud that I am not
trying to run away from it. I am exultant that I am embracing
it, turning to it, holding it to me tightly and am not afraid.
I think I say this out loud because he is whispering 'I know I
know I know' and I really think he does.
Now he is moving above me and I move below him, pushing and
striving, making good use of the gift I have been given. The
light is glinting on our sweat-gilded flesh, tiny rubies
glittering upon us. I trail my fingers down his flat belly,
trailing paths down his moist skin, seizing upon his tumescent
penis, stroking with all the eager will that he displays in his
use of my own shaft in that hot, tight channel. He's so
beautiful, Master, all narrow lines and wild cries, hips
bucking, claiming and offering all at once. Too beautiful, I
can't hold back and have no will to try. My orgasm spills out
of me as do my gasping words as I call him the fire, my flame.
The Malkavian sleeps well into the morning, a warm comfort
beside me in his bed. I am restless, though, and pent up by the
howling storm outside. The little room we share is far too
small for proper exercise, even if it were unfurnished. As it
is, there is little for me to do as I wait for my de facto
lover to arise. Eventually I drift towards the dataset and
decide to see if anyone has attempted to contact me in the last
couple of days.
I manage a patch through to my shipboard computer, despite the
weather's attempt to thwart me. To my surprise, there are two
messages, both from Coruscant. One is from Master Yoda, under
the heading of 'Urgent', a word I have never associated with
that venerated master. The other is from the Council and
post-marked some few hours before Master Yoda's. My hand
trembles as I consider what lies before me.
Master, you obviously did not consider what an awful position
you put your Padawan into these last weeks. You cast me aside
before my Trials, an action that, by tradition, should have
cast me from the Jedi for all time. The only thing that saved
me was the fact that you were acting in defiance of the Council
when you put me aside. That, and the fact that you were
mortally wounded before the Council could take your actions
under advisement.
Then, my beloved Master, you did not die.
It is one thing for a Padawan to be without a master, if the
case is one where said master has passed on. Quite another for
a Padawan to be unmastered while his 'master' yet lives. None
will take a student on under those circumstances. At least, no
one has in all the years the Jedi have existed. When I was a
child you nearly destroyed my life by putting me aside, by
shoving me away at every turn. Then, it was a painful letdown.
Now, again, you have nearly destroyed me by your actions. It is
nothing less than the basest betrayal on your part, o my
beloved Master. Here, on the very razor's edge of my lifetime's
fulfillment, you have come near to denying me the only thing I
ever strove for, other than your love. You have nearly denied
me my rightful place as a Jedi Knight.
I left your bedside full of hurt and anger, a deep, dark
bitterness in my soul that I could not come to terms with.
Finally, all that has been burned away from me through weeping,
through pain and through passion. Now there is within me the
peace and serenity I have long sought, the balance I had lost.
I did not find it in meditation or contemplation. I found it in
the arms of a willing, caring lover. Does that surprise you,
Master, that I could find peace and serenity in something other
than the Force? You should try it sometime. It is an amazing
catharsis. Now, there is only one thing left in me, of all the
things I carried away from Naboo when I left you there. The
knowledge that I have been done a grave injustice.
It is the work of the Jedi to see that justice is done.
My lover is stirring in his bed. I look at my messages but do
not open them. Something in me does not want to face this news
alone, whatever it may be. But now there is another upon who's
strength I may safely draw, if only for this little time.
Whatever is in these letters, there is one I may go to, where
comfort can be had without a price. That gives me the strength
of will to continue.
I open Yoda's letter first, out of sheer perversity.
***
Obi-Wan,
Try to explain, I shall, what the Council has done. Qui-Gon's
petition was deemed to be sincere and heartfelt. His plea has
been granted. For all that I fear the training of young
Skywalker, the Council, his training will arrange. Decided we
have not, who's Padawan you will be. Your feelings on this
first must be known, before decisions can be made. For a
certainty, and by the declaration of the Jedi Council, Anakin
Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn's Padawan is NOT.
Qui-Gon asks after you every day. I assure him you are well, as
the Force tells me you are. Words from you, a comfort to him
would be. Though reasons for withholding your comfort from him,
surely would be understood by all.
Of your location he is unaware. Preventing him from hunting you
is made possible by the will of the Council and a constant
guard on his person only. Your assistance in this matter I
request. Best to be resolved, this is, before lasting damage is
done to you both.
May the Force be with you,
Master Yoda
Jedi Temple at Coruscant
***
I close my eyes, trying to understand what this means. If
Anakin is not to be your Padawan, something must have happened
while I was away. Something important. Something monumental.
The Force shifts around and through me as I read through the
message from the Council. It is, for the most part, a
transcription of a Council session, in which you had the
starring role. As the realization of what you have done begins
to sink in, a sense of overwhelming disbelief takes root in my
heart. It is impossible to believe that you would have done
such a thing, so publicly, so irrefutably. Smiling without
humor to myself, I recognize that by now I should be accustomed
to you doing the impossibly unlikely. You are infuriating at
times, Master.
I close the dataset down and return to bed. My mind is whirling
with the knowledge of what you have done. This is a wondrous
and powerful thing you have done, and apparently done for me.
For my benefit. Out of your caring for me. I am stunned beyond
belief, in need of contact with something real, something
alive, to ground me. I wrap myself around the bundle of life
that is Methos the Malkavian, drinking his presence through the
Force, even as I snuggle against him for warmth and comfort.
"Mornin'," he mumbles. "You're up early."
"I just read the most amazing thing," I tell him.
"What's that?"
"My mail. There was a letter from the Council," I tell him.
"Poor you. Is there anything I can do to help?" He smiles, but
I sense real concern and compassion from him. He's a good man,
Master, and I have grown to care for him in these few hours
we've spent together.
"My master has done something quite ...unexpected. Something
that..." I sigh. The truth is, I don't really know what your
actions mean. You are so far away from me.
"What has he done?" Methos prompts.
"He apologized."
I do not try to explain what a formal apology to the Council
entails. Since he does not know you, it is impossible to make
him understand how incredible this is. In my mind I can see you
clearly, kneeling before them all, those men and women you have
so often defied and stood against. I see your long, powerful
form bowing, forehead touching the floor as you enumerate the
trespasses for which you repent. I wonder which of your past
defiances they wished they could get such an apology for from
you. I wonder how close Master Windu came to a coronary at
seeing you so abase yourself before them.
I wonder if you realized the words you spoke were being
recorded for all time, that I would eventually know of them, if
not hear them spoken. You are far to cagey to have forgotten
that particular point. I think, Master, you were speaking to me
as much as you were speaking to the Council.
Master, are you aware that you used the word 'beautiful' four
times in your apology? Do you know you said 'beloved' on two
different occasions, in reference to myself? I know you know.
It is a rare and dangerous thing for you to speak without
thought.
A very dangerous thing. That I know all too well.
I decide to write to you, to tell you where I am; that, and the
fact that I am well, and nothing more. That sense of injustice
is still a cold stone in my heart, but I find, on this cold
winter morning, there is something else beginning to grow
there. I curl up into Methos' arms, begin teasing his shoulders
with light kisses, joyful nips and light touches on his
ribcage. My heart is filled with too many things this day and I
will need his help to further purge myself, to find clarity.
One thing I will protect from his fire, my master. One thing I
will pack in the snow of patience and keep ready, should I find
I am in need of it.
Forgiveness.
I am no better than the Council, o my beloved master. You have
but to ask.
"Tell me exactly what happened, Jedi," the Malkavian encourages
me. He's been 'encouraging' me for the better part of the day,
plying me with beer and backrubs and mind-blowing sex. He seems
amused at the turn my mood has taken, but I can not begrudge
him his smile. The Order is so bound up in its traditions and
customs that it is a strange path to lead the uninitiated upon.
I have often thought one could discover whether or not one
faced a Jedi by asking him or her a straightforward question.
If the response is one bound up in obfuscation and riddle - and
apparently guilt - you've got yourself a Jedi.
The beer is doing its job, as is the backrub and I finally
relent. We haven't much moved from bed today, nowhere to go and
nothing to do but each other. Not that it hasn't been pleasant,
mind, but even a Jedi needs to catch his breath and recharge
eventually. My lover is asking me about my true love, an odd
arrangement by anyone's standards.
I turn over and lay back against the pillows. I want to explain
all the traditions involved in the apprenticing of a potential
Jedi, but have no idea where to start. Finally I settle for
"The Jedi Order is a hidebound, restrictive and anal retentive
collection of traditionalists keeping traditions that no one
can really recall agreeing on, but everyone abides by.
Everyone, except my Master, that is."
Methos nods and settles down on my chest, waiting for me to
continue.
"You'll hear the phrase 'the Code forbids it' on just about
every subject from what colors we wear to how long we should
sleep to whom we should - and shouldn't - fuck. But you know
the real irony? It isn't the Code that forbids. It's tradition.
Jedi are very big on tradition," I reach for my beer and find
it is just a little too far to reach. Instead of shifting
Methos to get it, I levitate it into my hand.
"Do you know that's the second time I've seen someone use the
Force to do something that's actually productive?" Methos
asked.
"Doesn't surprise me," I laugh.
He looks up, surprised. I realize it is my laughter that got
his attention.
"So, tell me about this apology tradition," he nudges me.
I sigh again. I'm still not sure what I think about all this.
I'm still not sure if I'm ready to see you again, or if you'll
even come to me. When I wrote to you, informing you of my
whereabouts, the Force sang with the rightness of it. That much
is a comfort. "It might not happen," I hedge. "If Anakin isn't
my Master's Padawan, he never was. That means my Master never
broke with me. That means he can just show up here, and if he
orders me to come with him, I obey."
"What makes you think that will happen?" Methos presses.
I flick my braid down over his nose. "I was left unshorn. He
didn't cut the braid, so technically he didn't cut me off."
"Technically?"
I shift away from him, not wanting to admit how well and truly
you have been cut off from me, since that moment in the
Chamber. I don't think you meant to seal our bond off. I think
you were hiding, ashamed of what you'd done to me. Well. I hope
you were. If you aren't ashamed of your actions, Master, you're
not half the man I thought you were. "Yes, technically," I
finally say. It's not a thing he could ever understand anyway.
"Hmm. So, say he does come and apologizes? On his hands and
knees no less. What then?"
I shrug, with a snort over the incongruity of that picture.
"Then it all falls to me. I can choose to accept and return to
his side. I can choose to forgive, but leave the Order. I can
choose to withhold forgiveness and seek another master. I can
choose to leave the order without forgiving. This may be the
one time in my life where the choice is entirely up to me.
Assuming he apologizes. I really don't think he will."
"You'd like it if he would, though?"
And that's the thing, Master. I really don't know. I've seen
you as unshakable and unstoppable. For you to ask my
forgiveness would be for the mountain to bow unto the stone. I
wonder what takes more strength, though. Standing tall,
feigning pride in a choice you know to be incorrect. Or
accepting your fault and trying to make it right. I suppose
I'll just have to listen to the Force and follow where it goes.
"Jedi?"
"When do you think this storm will be over? I need to do a bit
of training. I need to focus." Yes, it is blatantly shifting
the subject away from you. Too many areas of uncertainty. Too
many pitfalls yet. I feel the energy of the winds, the wetness
of the snow in the air outside, echoing though the energy that
binds all things together. I could estimate the end of this
storm to the hour. The very minute if I chose. It's better to
speak with another person, make conversation just now.
"Tonight sometime. Will you be out under the stars, swinging
that glostick of yours around in the dark?" he grins up at me.
"Well, if I'm not swinging something around here in the dark,"
I smirk back.
"There is something you have not yet addressed, Jedi."
I groan at his words. He's been at me all day, in one way or
another. When we're not fucking we're arguing. About you,
Master. Make no mistake, you are never far from my mind, no
matter how wrapped up I am in this magnificent body currently
beside me. "What, O wisest of the wise?"
"You're still in love with him."
"Well obviously. And what do you expect me to do about that,
Revered Deamon? It happens all the time, a student falling for
their master. I'll get over it, I'm sure." We both know I'm
lying. Tell me, Master, why is it often less painful to face a
truth with a lie?
Oh, my. Is that what you did to me?
"Sublimate it, ignore it, push it aside until you no longer
feel it, maybe. Get over it? Ha. I'll be gray and wrinkled
before that happens," caught up in my own revelation, I finally
notice he's back to snorting his displeasure at me again.
"Not all of us can be filled with fire, Methos. It would seem
that a few of us need a heart of snow to survive. Let's not go
on like this. It's better left alone," I try to kiss him but he
evades me, easily flips me to my back and pins me there with
his hands on my shoulders.
"Are you really willing to accept all this, on these terms?
Because I sort of thought you weren't quite that stupid," he
says, looking at me with those damned intense eyes of his.
"Don't push it, Malkavian. There are only two things in this
universe I've ever wanted. I'm not about to give them both up
just because one of them has been denied me. I may be stupid,
but I'm not crazy." I push him aside and get up out of the bed
and go to tend the fire as I have seen him do over the last few
hours. We're nearly out of wood, I note, and start dressing to
go fetch some from the pile near the door.
I hear him sigh and I hope he's going to let it slide. I can't
think about what it would feel like to spend the next few years
at your side, aching for you like I do, knowing you know and
knowing you don't care. My eyes fall on my 'saber where it
rests on the workbench. Worth it. Worth any price. My braid
swings down from my hood, and I tenderly tuck it back inside,
protecting that lock of hair as if it were my life. With a
jolt, I suddenly realize - it is. There is nothing else I can
hope for, now that you are not even a wistful dream.
The light shards and splits, making rainbows through the tears
that begin pooling in my eyes. Ruthlessly I clamp down on the
body functions that produce this reaction. You can't cry about
everything all the time. Sometimes you just have to let it go
to the Force. This time I let it go to the storm as I walk
outside to get more wood.
When I come back in, Methos is sitting at the dataset. He looks
up at me, his eyes unfathomable. "You have more mail, Jedi."
I take a deep breath and release the panic those words bring me
into the Force. Carefully, methodically, I set down my load of
wood, then take off my outer clothes until I'm once again clad
in simple, light pants. As I sit at the dataset, Methos presses
his hand to my shoulder reassuringly, then lets me alone.
Of course, it's from you, Master.
***
My Dearest Padawan:
You have no idea how hard it was to start this letter. You have
every right to refute me as your Master and every reason to do
so.
I ask; no, I beg, that you do not. I can't pretend to be
anything other than what I am, and apparently that is very
flawed. I've hurt you, Obi-Wan, and in doing so, I've hurt us
both and damaged something very precious.
I don't ask for your forgiveness. I have no right to do that,
especially via such a clumsy medium as this letter. I do ask,
however, that you consent to see me. We have, I think, much to
say to each other, and I have much to make amends for. Even if
it takes my whole lifetime, and any other lifetime I may have,
I swear I will somehow manage to atone for what I have done to
you. I only hope that you can grant it in your heart to give me
that time.
You are, and have been, the best Padawan, the best friend, any
person, Jedi or not, could have asked for. Please, please let
me come to you, if only to see you one last time. I ask this
not as your Master, but as a person who cares, who loves you,
more than you can imagine.
Please say yes.
Qui-Gon
***
Well. There it is then.
I don't know how long I sit at the dataset, looking at your
signature, numb pretty much from the neck up. I'm so numb, in
fact that Methos actually has to pick up my hand to tuck a cold
glass of his beer into it, then has to hold it to my lips
before I wake up. I take a long sip, then lower the glass and
look into his eyes.
"He wants to come here. To talk."
Methos just nods, then squats by the chair in which I'm
sitting. "Did he ask you or did he tell you?"
It takes me a minute to realize what he means by that... and I
realize that yes, you could have just sent me a message that
said 'I am coming' instead of asking my leave to join me. You
would have been within your rights, Master, and I suspect you
thought about that well before you sent your letter.
But the Force tells me there is no guile in your letter, that
everything was heartfelt and sincere.
Methos has given me the time to think, just sitting by my side
and looking up at me. Finally, I sigh. "He asked. And I'm going
to say yes."
So I do. One word. For I dare not say more until I see you.
The storm has finally stopped and we are dressed and fed. The
quiet has come again between us, a calm peace that I enjoy. The
dishes are washed and put away and I reach for my cloak. "Come
with me, Malkavian, and I'll show you a thing," I smile,
holding my hand to him.
He gives me a bemused look but fetches his coat and follows me
outside. The village is quiet, we are the only ones about. I am
a little unhappy with myself, with what I am about to do. It is
a trick we Jedi can play on those with innocence in them yet.
He needs to be protected from what games the Force moves us to
play. "Did you ever have a dream that you were flying?"
He smiles and nods.
"And did you ever think you'd trade your arms for wings?" I
press.
Again, he nods.
"Then jump for the moon, Methos. And trust in me."
He turns away, ready to play. I can see this is a game he's
maybe heard about, or seen before. The sense of it is that he
has not been given this gift, so I am made happy to give it.
He leaps high, with a shout and I catch him up in my gentlest
embrace, raising him high along the trajectory he has chosen.
My arms slip into my sleeves, crossed over my chest. The snow
is above my boots now and the cold is sharp and aggressive. But
it will not take long, I know, and I want to somehow repay him
for the kindness and love he has shown me.
He spreads his arms above me, a man-eagle shadow against the
starry night. I provide the safest support as he twists and
tumbles easily, accepting the brushes with death as I subtly
guide his flight. He is all grace and coordination as he
tumbles. His laughter is a blessing. "Jedi!" he cries. "It
would seem there are some things yet new to me!"
I know not how long I held him there, myself at a calm center,
he at a joyous rapture in the heights. I only know when his
body begins to grow weary, when his twists are an effort and
the swoops not under his control entirely. At last I let him
fall, drifting down. I catch his long frame in my arms, and
hold him as tightly as he holds me. His beak of a nose is red
and cold on my face, as are his cheeks, but his eyes are
dancing with pleasure and happiness over this little thing I
have done for him.
We return to his house, and he goes inside while I fetch more
wood. When I come back, he is laying before the fire, naked,
his head propped in his hands a smile still on his face. I
quickly set down the wood and disrobe, joining him. "We're
going to need to split more wood at this rate," he murmurs,
after I throw another log on.
"I'll do it for you tomorrow," I promise, kissing and nipping
my way along his collarbone. He grins in reply and sinks to his
back.
Who is this man, Master, to allow me such access to his
beautiful self? He asks for nothing in return, not even my
name, and yet... and yet...
Once again I taste the heat of his penis and the salt of his
come, once again I enter that tight, hot channel and claim his
sweet body until I feel like I'm going to explode, until I do.
He rises to meet every one of my thrusts, and howls along with
me in completion at our shared climax, and then holds me
tightly as I sob in the agony of our ecstasy. No matter what
happens tomorrow, Master, I will have tonight, I will have
this. No one, not even you, can take that away from me.
You are closer to me now, my Master. I know not your intent,
but your proximity is changing. That bond we share is not
stretched so thin as to be strained now. There are lessons to
be taught and learned between us still.
Methos had appointments to keep in the village, and has left me
to split more wood for him. I tried to use the axe but give up
quickly before I manage to chop off my foot. It is apparently a
learned behavior. So I use the Force in a way I never would
have expected before coming to this cold place. It seems I
still have things to learn, and in that, you were right, my
Master.
I'm not sure how long I've been at this, but there's a right
large pile of split wood now, and I actually feel weary from
the effort of holding my concentration in the Force. And I hear
voices, from inside the house, Methos' of course, and another
that I recognize with an ice cold hand around my heart. How
could you have managed to be here without my knowing?
"...and I thank you for sheltering Obi-Wan," you are saying.
Yes, I shamelessly eavesdrop; I'm too shaky to face you yet.
"Ah." A laugh and I can see his eyes sparkling in my mind. "So
that's his name." When he continues, I can imagine it's because
of an expression on your face. "He never offered, I never
asked. Sometimes it's better that way. He was hurting pretty
bad when I found him."
"I-I know. It was my fault ..." your voice sounds different, my
Master. Softer, less sure of yourself than usual. And in
feeling you through the Force, I can tell, you're not done
healing. Why would you have come here so soon after being so
close to death?
But Methos is still talking.
"Yes, I know. He told me all about it. And I have to tell you,
if you're here just to hurt him more, you're going to have to
go through me to do it." Methos' voice sounds almost rueful in
that, and I smile. Who would have thought my deamon lover could
be so possessive and sheltering?
Why aren't you answering that, Master? For you haven't. There's
just silence and the wind blowing stinging snow crystals into
my eyes. Slowly I begin moving around the side of the house to
the front door, drawn against my will to the tableau inside.
I move inside, quickly closing the door against the chill as I
have learned to do over these last few days. I turn towards the
wall and remove my cloak, hood, scarves and gloves, leaving me
in just my roughly cleaned tunics. Only then do I turn around
to face the two people in the room.
Methos stands with his back to the sink, leaning on it, his
arms crossed. He looks ...enigmatic. I can't figure out how he
looks. But his eyes as they stare at me are kind and
comforting.
Sitting at the table is a figure I never hoped to see again.
It's you, my Master, only suddenly you don't look as large as
you used to. You seem ...shrunken, somehow, hunched over as
though protecting yourself against something. Protecting your
heart. Against physical or emotional injury are you trying to
protect yourself, Master? And your eyes are shadowed; just as
with Methos, I cannot read anything into your posture.
"Hello, Qui-Gon," I say, and I'm quite proud of how my voice
doesn't tremble in the least.
"Pad-Obi-Wan," you acknowledge, never taking your eyes from
mine. I can tell you want to move. But tell me, do you want to
move towards me or away from me?
Silence falls for a time, then Methos clears his throat. "I'm
going to be outside stacking all the wood you cut for me, Jedi.
If you need anything ..." and as he brushes past me on his way
to his coat, he squeezes my shoulder, tightly. I pat his hand,
once, then on impulse take it and kiss his palm.
"Thank-you, my Malkavian," I whisper. He just grins and leaves
me alone to face my fate.
I realize my legs are trembling so I nonchalantly pull out a
chair and sit, facing you across the corner of the table. We
look at each other for a while, and isn't that interesting, you
are the first to look away. You are pale, my Master, and your
hands shake until you tuck them into the sleeves of your robe.
When you do speak, your voice sounds rusty and unused.
"Master Yoda sends his greetings," is your opener, and I shrug
noncommittally. "He was... less than happy at your leaving, at
my behavior." You rub your knees and hazard a weak grin. "At
least this I inferred from the times he whacked me."
There's nothing to say to that either, so I don't. "After
you... left... he came to me and we... talked. He did, anyway."
You look around the room, obviously trying to avoid looking at
me. I, on the other hand, can look no where but at you,
drinking in your beloved face, and I realize just exactly how
much our separation - your separation from me - has cost me.
"Obi-Wan, I didn't remember much of the fight until recently,"
you say in a rush, and this surprises me. But I don't reply and
you go on eventually. "Oh, I remembered very clearly that...
thing... kicking you off the walkway above the powerplant, my
anger at that and my satisfaction at smacking him off as well.
Mostly, mostly I remember trying to protect you."
Wha...? "Protect ME? From what?"
You look at me and smile sadly. "Why, from that creature, of
course. Obi-Wan, the two of us together could barely hold it. I
was certain that... if you had to face it without me, it would
kill you. And I couldn't have borne that."
Suddenly, all the puzzle pieces fall into place. Why I was
unable to use Force-enhanced speed to catch up to you. Why you
were meditating in the force-fields. Even why I was able to use
your lightsaber, something I shouldn't have been able to do. My
mind just shuts down, stunned.
"When I awoke, I had no immediate memory of my injury. I could
vaguely remember the fight, but not the outcome. It wasn't
until you... until after you left that my Master came to me and
told me the whole story, helped me regain all my suppressed
memories. Memories of you almost killing yourself to save me."
You swallow and look down at the table, tracing the grain of
the wood with your eyes. I'm still too stunned to speak.
"Oh, Obi-Wan, what I said must have hurt you so terribly. I
didn't realize... I just didn't... oh, no matter what I say, it
won't be enough. I can't ask you for forgiveness. But I do ask
that we start again. I swear, somehow, some way, I'll make it
right to you."
My brain is frozen in ice and is completely non-functional. I
simply cannot reconcile what I've just been told with the last
few weeks of my life. I cannot believe that everything I have
gone through, all of it, the anguish, the pain, the despair, is
due to a fucking misunderstanding! That simply isn't possible,
Master. You are holding back from me, even now.
I can't bear to look at you any more so I bury my head in my
hands. The next thing I know is your arms around me, rocking
me, murmuring into my hair. "Oh, Padawan, my Obi, I do love
you, I never understood, beloved, please..."
Well, that managed to get through, at least. I grab your arms
with my hands and jerk you up to my face. "You WHAT?" I hiss,
suddenly furious. "You LOVE me? How is that possible, my
Master? I'm just a PADAWAN, remember?"
I know I'm clenching your biceps hard enough to bruise, but to
your credit you don't flinch away, either from that or from my
anger. You swallow and meet my eyes... oh, the pain, the tears
in your eyes are enough to unman me.
"I-I do, Obi-Wan. I do. I thought... I thought what you said
was just, you know, a filial love... that you didn't... but you
SAVED me, Padawan, you almost killed yourself to save my life!
Once I realized that, once I remembered your tears, and your
pain... oh I caused you such pain, my love, and now I know. How
could you not truly have feelings for me and do something like
that... and-and I'm telling you right now that if you EVER try
something stupid like that again I'm going to..."
I put my hand to your lips, just to make you stop. I can't bear
to hear this, not now, not after all this. It is too much. It
is too little. Your lips go still under my fingers and I
finally have the silence I need to speak. "You came all this
way, just to tell me that?" I whisper. The numbness is
spreading from my brain, down through me, into my heart. Into
my soul.
You sit back on your heels and look up at me, obviously
confused. An odd situation to say the least. I can't imagine
what must be going on in your mind, but there is plenty in my
own to keep me occupied. I have had enough of silent suffering.
"You turn me away, claim another, break my heart and steal my
hope, then come here and say it was just a mistake? And I'm
supposed to accept that?" I'm growling now, and the fire pops
behind me, punctuating the words. "Why didn't you stay in your
Temple and send a messenger? Why did you even bother? I was
safe here, Qui-Gon. No one trying to kill me, no one hunting or
hurting or rejecting me... Damn it, I've been HAPPY here..."
and now my voice is cracking with emotion.
My words have fallen on you like a torrent. You are yet the
mountain, too strong for the rain to weary. I pause, try to
bring myself under control. You raise your hands, slowly, so
slowly, to cover your heart. I find myself suddenly, utterly
calm with the unreality of it all. You are speaking words too
strong for my poor mind to immediately comprehend.
"In my words and deeds, injustice have I done to you." You
place your palms on the floor, on either side of my feet. You
are bowing low to me now, until your brow is pressed to my
boots. Breath will not come to me, and time has slowed around
us.
"I, Qui-Gon Jinn do solemnly apologize for the wrongs I have
done to you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Before the Light of the Force I
beg forgiveness for these acts of injustice. I failed to accept
you as my Padawan when first I knew it was our destiny to be
Master and Apprentice. I caused you emotional pain with this
rejection. I denied you as my Padawan before the Council and
blocked our bond to prevent you from knowing my shame. And..."
Even in my stunned stupor I realize you are not done yet and I
wait. I have no idea what you could possibly be thinking, no
way of stopping what has happened, is happening here. Finally,
you speak once more.
"...and I denied my true feelings and withheld the love I feel
for you, out of nothing more than fear and selfishness. My soul
is darkened with these sins. Only you can cleanse me once more.
I have a debt to you, that I freely acknowledge. Please,
Obi-Wan Kenobi, take mercy upon me and help me to gain your
forgiveness."
There is absolutely nothing else I can do in response to this,
nothing. So I lean down and slip my hands into your hair. It is
a blessing, a sacred act, what is happening between us. I can
feel the Force sparking with our purity, Master. Can you feel
us, as we were meant to be? We are on the edge of it, here in
this moment. I can make all things right between us, if only I
have the courage. If only I can make the words right.
"Forgiveness is freely given you, Qui-Gon Jinn. As is my love."
You look up at me and I slip my hands down to cup your face.
You are close, so close I can taste your breath a moment before
I press my mouth to yours. Your lips taste of salt, Master,
from your tears and mine, but they are just as soft, if not
softer than Methos' lips. And they are yours.
I kiss you hard, and your lips yield to mine freely, granting
access to my tongue so that I can taste you, and replying in
turn. When we break the kiss I bury my head in your neck and
just hold on, tightly, as if my life depended on it and maybe
it does, I don't know for sure. But finally you take my head in
your hands and gently pull me back to look at me.
"In my letter," you say, "I told you I have no right to ask
forgiveness. Thank you for permitting me this privilege. What I
said to you... before... was hurtful and hateful and just
heaped injury upon insult. I will always, eternally, be
regretful for my words, and not only the words in the
infirmary, but also the words before the Council, before we
left for Naboo again with the Queen, even for my initial
rejection of you at Bandomeer. You would think an old man like
me would learn from his mistakes eventually, but I guess I
probably won't. I'm sure I'll do something else some day to
hurt you again, too, but I'm going to try very, very hard to do
better from now on, if you give me the chance to.
"But please, Obi-Wan, my love, my beloved, no matter what I
say, no matter how I hurt you, know that I love you now and I
will love you forever. Nothing I say can change that. Nothing
you do, even if you leave, even if you request another Master,
which is in your rights, none of that can change how I feel..."
Now we're both sobbing, and I'm trying to get a word in
edgewise and I don't even know what it is, and you're shifting
to sit on the floor and pulling me down on to your lap and just
holding me and I know I'm home. I'm home.
Methos is gone when I finally go to look for him. Qui-Gon has
returned to our ships to prepare for our return home. We can't
leave one of them behind, nor do we wish to be separated during
our journey back to the Temple. He promises to work something
out and I'm sure he will. My Master is a very resourceful man,
given proper inspiration. There is something yet to do before I
leave.
I follow the new-broken path through the snow and down to the
beach, where tiny fishing boats are upturned for the winter
wait. I must step carefully along the icy shoreline, be careful
not to slip and fall upon the slick, wet rocks strewn about.
Methos is standing down by the waterline, watching the waves
break, giving me all the space I need, to do what I must to do.
That is done now. This is done now. All except one word.
I stop and look at him, all alone in his winter whites. That
spiky black hair is being molested by the sea breezes, making
him look like the wild sprite I have come to call him. As I
watch, he begins to move and I am transfixed by what I see. He
steps forward, then back, arms coming up into a most familiar
Form, twisting himself through leaps, immobilizing his body to
block, surefooted and confident, even on this treacherous
ground. His boots kiss the stones like dancing shoes.
His movements are not perfect, for he can not touch the Force,
bring extension and line to completion, nor does he wield a
lightsaber in the parry and strike. Instead, he moves a sword
about him, floating it through the salty air, as confident and
easy with its weight as I am with the near-weightlessness of my
energy blade. Without a word I step in beside him, power my
'saber and join the Form at his side. I am not perfect in this
form, either. It is an art made for and by a taller man and I
choose not to reinforce my technique beyond what my body can do
on its own. The sweep and glide of defense, attack, rest and
movement take us far down the beach, away from the boats and
breakers. When finally our dissimilar blades rest in the final
position, I turn to him. "Where did you learn my Master's
Form?" I demand.
"From your Master, of course," and that devilish smirk is back.
He quickly puts it away. "There was a time when he, too, needed
the cleansing fire."
I look out over the ocean, up the shoreline. From here I can
still make out the cliffs Yoda had recommended to me.
"Xanatos?" I ask.
I don't need to look to know he has nodded. His hand falls on
my shoulder. His sword has apparently disappeared and I wonder
at his magic. Then his long arms slip down around me, bringing
his strong body up against mine once more. One last time he
holds me. I keep my eyes on the cliffs.
"I'm glad you didn't go back up there," he says. "The ones who
do, well, they usually don't need their ships again."
I shrug. "So you really do keep a jump watch out here?"
I feel his nod against my hair. "Very few go up twice, that
ever breathe the air again. Your Master was not a strong
swimmer. Luckily, I am."
I twist around in his arms, meet his eyes and know the truth of
what he says. After a long moment, I tuck my head down on his
shoulder and accept what he has entrusted to me. After a long
moment, he steps back, holding me at arm's length, as he has
not done since I arrived. "Take care of him, Jedi. You've both
had too much pain to bear. Be comfort and pleasure to one
another."
I nod dumbly, not knowing how to thank him for all he has done
and given me.
"Send me some beer, if you think of me again," he smiles. "I'm
not the sort of man who can have too much."
I nod again, and in my heart promise to do at least that, if
not more. Finally, there is only one thing to say to him, to my
Malkavian, my deamon lover, Methos, and that is what I came to
tell him anyway. So I say it, hands clenched tight around his,
remembering the cold, remembering the cliffs, remembering the
fire. "Goodbye."
He takes his hands back and tucks them in his pockets, turns
from me and walks away down the beach. To my eyes he looks
timeless, as if this could be any stretch of beach on any
world, at any point in history. I hope, when the universe is
crumbling and the saviors of the world are in need of good
council, one like him will be there to save men from
themselves. Force will it shall be so. I raise my hand in
salute, though he can not see me. Goodbye, Methos.
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