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