Chapter Text
And it is written that we should not fear.
And it is written also that we should not change, like words,
like past and future,
in the plural and in the loneliness.
If with a bitter mouth (fragment)
by Yehuda Amichai
Translated by Robert Alter
Qui-Gon bows to the High Council and leaves the chamber. Another somewhat successful mission, another mild rebuke for his unorthodox methods, another set of blank faces when he inquires about the investigation into the Sith he’d killed on Tatooine. And more importantly, their progress on freeing Obi-Wan from the Toydarian.
And so life, like the Force, goes on. Yet, dissatisfaction is like a pebble in his boot, a grain of sand under his belt, a flickering shadow on a sunny afternoon.
He knows what the problem is. He’s lonely.
Before Tatooine, he’d been thinking about taking another padawan, even going so far as to drop in on the Initiate classes to see if there were any suitable candidates. A few months after Anakin’s knighting, Adi Gallia had suggested a promising young Human girl with a bright, questioning mind, and while Qui-Gon had thought her capable and full of potential, she hadn’t quite clicked with him.
Master Yoda had just nodded and said, "Choosing the right padawan, an easy task it is not."
Now, of course, Qui-Gon is grateful he hadn’t selected Siri Tachi as his new learner, but he is still feeling frustrated and unfulfilled. When will the damn Council get off their collective asses and free Obi-Wan?
He needs to get out of the High Council Tower and find a quiet garden in the Room of a Thousand Fountains to meditate on this lack of serenity. Which is why he keeps pressing the call button for the tower elevator, as if that would summon it any quicker.
Finally, the door opens with whoosh, and to his shock, Knight Arsu H’syan steps out, nearly crashing into him.
"Excuse me. Oh, Master Jinn!" She bows, the obeisance smooth. "My apologies, I was caught up in my own thoughts."
Qui-Gon has to laugh. "I have to say the same. I think it’s a common affliction for those coming and going from the High Council chamber.
Knight H’syan nods. "Quite true, either one is preoccupied with the words about to be spoken, or mulling over the words just said, wishing for more eloquence or less temper."
"Exactly." Qui-Gon takes a breath and asks. "Tell me, were you able to deliver my gift?"
She nods. "Yes, and I must say, Ser Kenobi is quite the extraordinary young individual. Not at all what I had expected."
Qui-Gon grins. "No, he isn’t, is he."
"When you told me that he was fifteen years old and a slave, I was expecting an angry snot-nosed brat, someone pissed off that no one hadn’t come to free him yet. What I found - " Knight H’syan shakes her head. "Was someone who argued like a High Councilor. He dressed me down like a Teaching Master giving me a failing grade, but he had the patience and wisdom of a Jedi Sage when dealing with Anakin and his mother."
Qui-Gon rocks back on his heels, infinitely pleased by the young knight’s report. "What did Obi-Wan do?"
"For starters, he took me to task for trying to buy him on Council’s orders. I should have questioned any assignment that violated the core tenets of Jedi law, even if the assignment was expected to fail."
"He argued against his own interests?"
"Most convincingly. I told him it was not my place to question the High Council and he looked at me like I was a pile of freshly dropped banthashit. I can even remember his exact words. 'If buying a slave is illegal for the Jedi, you should be questioning that. Blindly following orders you know to be wrong is the path to fascism, dictatorship, war crimes, the slaughter of innocents, and so many other crimes. You’re committing an illegal act because you’re just doing what this so-called High Council told you to do so? I thought the Jedi were better than that. Are they the guardians of peace and justice only when it’s convenient?’"
Qui-Gon rocks back on his heels, shocked and absolutely delighted. "He really is quite extraordinary, isn’t he?"
"To put it mildly."
"And is he all right?"
"He seems to be, for all that he’s a slave on an Outer Rim planet under the control of the Hutts." Reva, the Council Padawan on duty approaches, telling Knight H’ysan that the Council is ready for her. "Since I’m going to be dressing down the Council for this assignment, our paths may not cross again for a while, Master Jinn. I’ll probably be sent on some terminally boring assignment for the next five years. It has been a pleasure. I’ll send you a complete report of my encounter with Ser Kenobi after I finish with the High Council. May the Force be with you."
Qui-Gon bows to the young knight. "And may the Force be with you, always, Arsu H’syan."
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While the encounter with Knight H’syan improves Qui-Gon’s state of mind about Obi-Wan, he’s still unable to find his emotional center, despite two hours of meditation in his favorite garden.
The needs of the body drive him to his feet and back to his quarters, where he finds a decently stocked kitchen. Even though it’s been over two years since Anakin’s been knighted, he hasn’t quite forgotten the necessary habits of being a Master caring for a padawan, and it only takes a minute to send a message to the Quartermaster asking for a restock while in transit back to the Temple.
The conservator reveals a container of stew, plenty of fresh veg, a loaf of bread, a block of butter and one of cheese - perfectly satisfactory for supper. He sets the stew to reheat, chops up some of the vegetables to brighten the standard commissary fare, and slices some of the bread and cheese as an accompaniment.
The only thing missing is a padawan to set the table and discuss the day’s events. But that will come soon enough.
So Qui-Gon hopes.
He lingers over the meal, catching up on the doings of the Temple via the newsletter on his data pad. Four knightings in the last month, twenty-seven Initiates have been selected as Padawans, his old friend, Micah Giiett has been appointed to lead the Council of First Knowledge, replacing Jocasta Nu, who has resigned to focus on running the Archive. The newsletter also mentions several new scholarly publications that are now available and in general circulation, the replication of the contents of the Corellian Archives have been completed after starting almost exactly two-hundred Standard years ago. And the newsletter ends with the same closing note that’s appeared in every edition for the last three hundred some-odd years: the Jedi Genetics Bank is still hoping someone might find a mate for Lonesome Lughashe, the massive, long-lived Force-sensitive Testudinoidial that has been living by itself in the Temple’s zoologic park for the last five-hundred years.
Qui-Gon smiles. The Temple newsletter hasn’t changed since he was an Initiate. Probably since his master had been an Initiate.
Although, it would be a stretch to say, since his Grandmaster had been an Initiate. The Order and the Temple were quite different when Master Yoda had been young.
With that thought, Qui-Gon shakes his head. Contemplating the distant past isn’t something he’s up for this evening. The negotiations on Jabiim had been lengthy, difficult, and ultimately, not as successful as hoped for.
As a non-Republic world, the Order has little influence over Jabiim, but the Senate had put together a package of incentives that Chancellor Valorum hoped might lead the consortium of mining companies to abandon their reliance on slave labor and join the Republic. The offer wasn’t rejected, but taken under "consideration" until the next convocation of mine owners. No fixed date for that event had been set, and Qui-Gon departed Jabiim with a polite bow, knowing full well that the mine owners are not going to give up on their slave labor - not without greater incentive from the Republic.
Tired and just glad to be back in the Temple for the foreseeable future, he dumps his dinner dishes in the sink, rinses them off, and fills the tea kettle for an evening brew. There’s three months worth of recorded holo-dramas to watch, a well-broken-in couch, and a comfortable blanket to snuggle under.
Even Jedi are entitled to their creature comforts. Qui-Gon smiles at a memory of Master Yan religiously tuning into The Wild Sons of Serenno, a long-running holo-drama that had been based on an ancient myth about two feuding brothers from his home world on the Outer Rim. To the best of his knowledge, that particular drama is still in production, and Master Yan is still watching it even on Mandalore.
Qui-Gon’s tastes lean to more modern tales, heavier on the interpersonal strife rather than the expensive costumes and turgid poetic dialogue. One of his favorites is Between the Darkness and the Dawn, a silly bit of fluff about a Judicial officer in love with his criminal informant, who is constantly getting them both into deep poodoo.
Tea brewing, he checks the recorder, and to his delight, there are seven episodes waiting for him. He’s about to settle down with the tea and a packet of ginger biscuits when he notices the message waiting light blinking on the suite’s comm unit.
Most people will contact him on his personal comm unit, the one he carries with him everywhere, but there are a few who like the niceties of leaving a message with a holo-transmission. His former padawan, Anakin, is one of them, especially since he now has the means to do so.
Qui-Gon sighs, scoops the tea ball out of the pot, drops the cozy on it to keep it warm, and presses play on the comm unit.
As expected, the first message is from Anakin.
Hello, Master Qui-Gon, I hope this message finds you well. Anakin bows, as if he’s standing before the Council, the little shit.
When he straightens, even in the flickering blue light of the holo-transmission, it’s clear that Anakin is exceedingly happy. "I’ve just returned from Tatooine and, well, I’ve met my birth mother. And freed her. Padmé was very finally able to help me obtain the rest of the funds for that. It was a very weird thing, to buy a sentient - especially my own mother. And let me tell you, she was very unhappy about the whole process. She didn’t want to leave Tatooine - you were right about her being very attached to young Obi-Wan. She fought me every step of the way."
"We might still be arguing if not for that singular young man and his suggestion on how to pry Shmi loose from that old Toydarian. I’ll tell you about that when we have a chance to talk."
He pours a cup of tea and listens to Anakin as he burbles on about his mother, about Padmé and her many perfections, about the rebuilding of Theed. He’s been tasked to take the lead with working with the Gungans, the sentient natives who live in technologically advanced aquatic biospheres, but traditionally have been distrustful of the human colonizers of Naboo.
Qui-Gon listens with half an ear, paying more attention to the tone of his padawan’s voice, noting how happy and content he sounds, rather than Anakin’s actual words.
"Please comm me when you get back from whatever mission the Council’s sent you on. I’d love to talk with you. May the Force be with you. Skywalker out.
Qui-Gon makes a note to send Anakin a message, arranging for a holo-call at a mutually convenient time. He drains the rest of the tea and is about to turn in when the "message waiting" flashes again.
Surprised, Qui-Gon presses the play button. The holo-emitter does not light up, and the audio quality is dubious.
"Master Jinn, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Qui-Gon hits the pause button and then the replay, not sure he’s heard correctly.
"Master Jinn, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Yes, he did.
"I hope you don’t mind that I’ve contacted you. I wanted to thank you for your gift. Knight H’syan delivered it several days ago, and I have been enjoying the lessons you’ve composed with great relish, particularly the ones on Galactic History."
Qui-Gon stares at the comm unit, still not sure how he’s hearing young Obi-Wan’s voice from an impoverished Outer Rim planet like Tatooine.
"The funds you left behind have been put to good use, and I’ve managed to scrounge up parts for a long-range antenna. Mos Espa is on a direct line of sight to the Eiram Sector and the Starlight Beacon, so not only am I able to catch the signals boosted from the Core, I’ve been able rig a transponder that will decode and travel on the Station’s inbound frequencies. I was able to route this call to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, and the main communications center forwarded me to your comm unit in your quarters. I identified myself as a colleague with similar interests in history. My comm window is small, but it’s possible that with luck, we might actually be able to talk in real time. If you’d like that." Obi-Wan sounds almost heartbreakingly diffident about that
Qui-Gon actually claps in delight, like a Youngling promised a special treat. "Oh, Padawan, that would be a thrill." He presses the play button and lets the rest of the message play out.
"Master Qui-Gon, words are insufficient to express my gratitude for your gift. Even if it is my fate to remain on Tatooine for the rest of my life, I will take strength from your kindness and compassion. May the Force be with you always. Obi-Wan Kenobi, out."
It is infinitely difficult not to go down to the Temple landing dock, commandeer a two-seater, and fly out to Tatooine, the High Council and Jedi Law be damned. Obi-Wan belongs here, at the Temple, as his Padawan, under his protection and guidance. The thought of that brilliant young man suffering as a slave, trapped in that damned Force-inhibiting collar is unbearable. And he’s all alone, now that Anakin’s managed to pry his mother out of the Toydarian’s greedy clutches.
The Council has been doing an excellent job of stonewalling him whenever he asks about their progress in prying Obi-Wan loose. They’d only told him about sending Knight H’syan after he’d threatened to go rogue. If he hadn’t bumped into H’syan, the bloody damn Council would never had told him anything.
Qui-Gon takes a breath, and then another. Anger is dangerous, so is attachment. It’s a little shameful that young Obi-Wan, not even a Jedi, seems to have better control over his emotions than he does.
Tomorrow, he’ll hunt down his Grandmaster and seek his advice. For now, sleep.
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Obi-Wan really has no regrets about getting Shmi off of Tatooine. There’s always been a worry in the back of his mind about her fate in this timeline, given how strongly Watto despises her, for no good reason. But he feels her absence in every moment of the day, from the time he awakens to the time he climbs down from the roof and back through the window into the empty house.
When the loneliness begins to eat at him, Obi-Wan tells himself that he’s endured so much worse. That Darkness does not hold sway over the Galaxy - at least not yet. And his fate is far from written.
From what Master Qui-Gon had told him during their precious hours on the rooftop, in this timeline, the Jedi are far stronger and more numerous than they’d been when he’s last lived. The various conflicts that had eaten away at the Jedi Order’s strength and influence have either not occurred or the Jedi have been triumphant. Which makes Obi-Wan wonder if the Sith are incompetent or are playing a much longer game.
The shop bell rings, distracting him from his distracting thoughts. It’s past second noon, and the busiest part of the day. He looks up from the small drive he’d been attempting to repair, and is surprised to see Cyral.
"Well, hello there."
"Hey, li’l Obi."
"What brings you here?"
"Can’t I just be checkin’ up on a friend?" The big Besalisk grins at him and drops a container of something that actually smells delicious onto the counter. "Thought you might be hungry or somethin’, now that Miz Shmi ain’t around anymore to share the load. Haven’t seen you in the markets much."
Obi-Wan smiles back. "Thank you, Lady Cyral." He takes pleasure in watching her wattle turn purple at the courtesy. "It’s been busy. Watto’s not been around much."
Cyral sniffs. "Heard he’s been hanging a lot with our buddy Meekah, down at Jabba’s palace. Don’t know what the Kiffar’s wanting with that old fly, but they’ve been fast friends for months now."
Obi-Wan finds that strange, too. "You hear, or you been seeing?"
"Mebbe both?"
"Aww, Cyral, don’t tell me that you’ve been going Jabba’s."
She shrugs her lower arms. "Dukka and I gotta do something with our evenings. And it’s just every once and a while"
Obi-Wan grimaces. "That’s not a place for good people like you and your mate, my friend. Who’s going to bring me supper and check up on me if you get caught in up the nastiness that goes on there? Even I’ve heard what happens to guests who displease Jabba the Hutt. He’s got a Rancor in the pit below the throne room. And when it gets hungry, some unlucky guest gets to feed it."
"You’re sweet to worry, Li’l Obi. But I don’t play the old Hutt’s games. Ducca and I go and listen to the jizz for an hour or three when Max Rebo’s on the keyboards, then we roll out. We always carry a blaster or eight when we come and go, and only a fool would bother us."
For all that Cyral has been kind to Obi-Wan, he shouldn’t forget that she’s sharp-witted and has not just survived on Tatooine, but thrived.
He pats her huge hand. "I’m allowed to worry, too. You’re my friend, after all"
"Yes, you are." Cyral looks around the shop. "Is there anything you need help with?"
"No, I’ve got everything in order. Shmi and I had a good system worked out, and Watto hasn’t dropped any new inventory on me since she left."
"Well, if he does, and you need help, let me know. I’ll help you get it sorted."
"Thank you."
The shop bell rings as the door opens and a pair of Rhodians enter, the Vrsk brothers, long-standing customers of the shop who are always needing a part or three for their decaying CEC light freighter.
Cyral smiles at Obi-Wan, reminding him, "Now, don’t you forget to have your supper," then glares at the newcomers before making her way out into the hot Tatooine afternoon.
The rest of the day is busy and Obi-Wan doesn’t have a moment to himself before turning the "closed" sign and locking the door. The week after Shmi’s departure, Obi-Wan convinced Watto to put in an in-ground cashbox, so that Obi-Wan wouldn’t have to worry about the day’s receipts if Watto didn’t show up to collect them. He convinced Watto to build it so that he could just dump the dosh in without having to open it, and only Watto would have the key.
Watto had given him ten wupiupi as payment for the "bright idea" and sent him home. Obi-Wan had figured the old fly didn’t want him to see where he was hiding the money.
Tonight, like every other night, Obi-Wan counts out the day’s receipts, makes a note of the total in the account book, and dumps the contents into the lockbox.
Back at the hut he’d once shared with Shmi, Obi-Wan opens the container Cyral had delivered, and finds a nerf-steak sandwich with fried root vegetables. It would have been better if he’d eaten it when it was hot, but it’s actually still delicious. This is a very generous gift and Obi-Wan's not sure he knows what he’s done to deserve it, other than Cyral’s pure kindness.
He finishes half, tucks the remainder in the conservator for tomorrow night and is about to climb out the window for his usual evening’s foray into the Senate proceedings. But the full belly and a long day is an irresistible combination, and he thinks that maybe he can just give it a pass for just one night.
Even the data pads with their wealth of information about this timeline are too much for him tonight and Obi-Wan sighs and climbs into bed. He closes his eyes and lets himself think of his Master in the Temple, in his rooms, perhaps sitting on that tattered old couch with a cup of Sapir, watching some old holo-drama. It had been quite the shock, when Qui-Gon had brought him back from Bandomeer and they’d begun to settle down as Master and Padawan, and his master had asked him if he wanted to watch a holo-drama before going to bed. Qui-Gon had simply said that Jedi were allowed to enjoy things that all other sentients enjoyed, even mass-produced entertainment like holo-dramas.
Maybe that is why, when Obi-Wan falls asleep, he starts to dream so vividly and lucidly, it’s as if he’s in one of those holo-dramas. At first, he doesn’t recognize the location, but that’s fine. It’s a dream and in the way of dreams, he’s not worried about the landscape. He walks and lets the gentle sunlight wash over him, the deep blue sky, and in the corner of his eye, a Jedi cloak flickers in and out of his vision.
"Slow down, Padawan. Enjoy the moment." It’s Qui-Gon, his voice deep and steady, coming from behind him.
Obi-Wan turns to face his master, but he’s confused. This is not the Qui-Gon Jinn he’s been apprenticed to for the last dozen years. This Jedi is years younger, maybe a decade or more. From the lines at the corners of his eyes, this man seemed more accustomed to smiling than frowning, unlike his own master. And then it hits him, this Qui-Gon Jinn is the one Obi-Wan had saved from Darth Maul on Tatooine a year ago. He is not-yet his Master, and maybe never will be his Master, but Obi-Wan can still enjoy the dream.
"We need to be at the Temple by sunset, Master." He doesn’t slow down.
"It’s not like the Organas can start the ritual without us." Qui-Gon reaches out and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Slow down, Padawan and live in the moment. Take the chance and appreciate what we have here."
Qui-Gon lifts his face to the sky and smiles into the bright sun. "This is an impossibility on Coruscant, no? It has often confounded me that the Order chose to consolidate its base on such a world where the Force is so thin. Why not here? Or on Tython? Or Felucia? Or any one of a thousand worlds where the Jedi could have flourished? I’ve asked my Grandmaster that question on more than one occasion and he’s never answered it properly."
"Perhaps because of the proximity to the Senate and the governing body of the Republic? Obi-Wan winces, that answer is far too facile.
"Perhaps, but I think, it the long run, the proximity to the body politic doesn’t serve us well. Distance would be better, why have the Senate watching our every move?" Qui-Gon then looks at him. "And if you even mention the New Sith Wars and the Ruusan Reformation at me, I’m going to take back the Senior Padawan bead from your braid." Qui-Gon actually reaches out and tugs on Obi-Wan’s braid for emphasis.
"Is it fair for you to take the best arguments off the table, Master?" Obi-Wan laughs.
"Just handicapping my brilliant padawan. I know you can construct an argument supporting a Jedi Order based outside of the Senate’s watchful eye half-drunk on Corellian brandy."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Master." Obi-Wan preens, just a bit, it’s rare that Qui-Gon compliments his academic prowess like this. He suggests that the benefit of the Order’s proximity to the Galactic government it is not that the Senate is keeping watch over the Jedi but the Jedi keeping watch over the Senate. "If the Jedi are to be involved in the very fabric of Republic life, instead of becoming ascetic hermits dedicated to composing hymns to the beauty of the Force, it is better that we keep watch over those who control that life. Do you not think, Master?"
The air stills around them and Master Qui-Gon turns and looks at him, frowning. "That is a most interesting argument, Padawan. Identical to the one I made to my own master - practically word for word."
Obi-Wan opens his eyes, momentarily surprised to find himself in a small hut on Tatooine. The dream, and the presence of his Master had been so vivid, even though they never had such a conversation, and in all of their travels, had not once been to Alderaan.
He gets out of bed and looks out the window. Two of Tatooine’s three moons are still ascendant, it’s still hours before first dawn. Obi-Wan sighs and scrubs his face, there’s no falling back to sleep for him. He picks up the transceiver, heaves himself out of the window, and up onto the roof. If he can’t sleep, he might as well listen into the state of the galaxy.
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"If the Jedi are to be involved in the very fabric of Republic life, instead of becoming ascetic hermits dedicated to composing hymns to the beauty of the Force, it is better that we keep watch over those who control that life. Do you not think, Master Qui-Gon?"
The air stills around them and Qui-Gon turns and looks at his padawan, frowning. "That is a most interesting argument, Obi-Wan. Identical to the one I made to my own master - practically word for word."
Qui-Gon snaps his eyes open. What an odd dream. But still delightful for its oddity. To dream about his future padawan, so far into their apprenticeship, but yet, in a setting that he and his own master had experienced.
He picks up his chrono, it’s still hours before dawn, and honestly, he’s tired and wouldn’t mind a few more hours of sleep.
Qui-Gon rolls over, pulls the blankets over his shoulders, clears his mind and drifts back off into a peaceful slumber.
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