DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
The brilliance of the sun reflects off of the surrounding buildings as the small craft launches into the late afternoon sky. It is amazing how stars work to light the skies. Furnace lights from the inside, a simple meeting of two elemental entities, twined in a dance of eternal length. Their love affair gives life to those around them, filtering down to touch the lives of billions of living creatures. You nearly cry as you think of the power of passion in your life and its reduction from a nova to an ember. He. Cannot. Be. Dead. And Obi. Your son…the light that shines without your guidance…without your presence in his life… your little boy.
“Tira. Please do not stress. They are both physically well.” Mace’s voice still flows like heated honey over your ears, smooth and thick.
Your eyes alight on him, squinting slightly. “Physically?”
Mace sighs and looks at the chrono. “Qui-Gon needs you. Something unexpected and painful has happened…”
You sigh as you realize that for all the man’s talent in negotiating and being a diplomat, he lacks in his ability to talk to women about his friend. “Tell me, Mace.”
“Xanatos has left the Jedi…has turned to the dark side.” Mace’s eyes are deep and soulful as he shakes his head. “Qui-Gon is beating himself…”
You wave your hand to stop his tirade. Now that the problem is out, you are ashamed that you jumped to the worst conclusion for his arrival. This problem, to you, seems to be something manageable compared to your previous mindset. You feel more whole, more in control, and more solid. “At least the boy is alive, Mace.”
“It would be better if he had died.” Mace’s voice is harsh as he turns to face the portal. His eyes watch the moving stars outside, but there is coldness to him that you have not sensed before.
“Mace!”
He reels around to you with flashing eyes. “The dark side is death, Tira. It reaches out and snatches your soul from the world of light and plunges it into darkness. Qui-Gon just watched a boy that he raised turn to death within inches of becoming a knight. It was Xanatos’ own pride and arrogance that led him there. This is the most painful thing that a Jedi Master can experience…”
You hang your head. “I am sorry….I do not quite understand… but I will come talk to Qui-Gon…”
Mace places his hands on his hips and leans his head back on his neck. You see the muscles flex there and realize, not for the first time, that Jedi are very fit men. “I have come to get you because Qui-Gon is hell bent on berating himself over this. He refuses to speak to any of us, refuses to see a healer to mend the broken training bond. He is letting himself touch the dark through what remains in his soul in order to punish himself for getting so close to Xanatos. For loving him like a son….you knew of his attachment to Xani?”
“It was clear to see…” you answer, hooding your eyes. This pain might have been avoided if Qui-Gon had known of Obi-Wan. You had watched, these last few years, as his depth of feeling for Xanatos had spread. As he adopted the initiate as both his Padawan and his son…a son he thought he didn’t have, and a son he thought he would never have, his love for the boy had grown exponentially. You had never begrudged the relationship. You never voiced anger with the boy coming on all Qui-Gon’s visits with you. You never told Qui-Gon of the time when Xanatos had snuck into the bedroom while you and your lover were engaged in lovemaking. If Qui-Gon had loved the boy, then so did you, out of respect for your life love.
“His love for you is the only deep seated emotion and relationship that he has in his life now. Yoda thought that you might be able to talk with him…” You nod as you face forward again. You will talk to him, and try and soothe him.
The gardens of the Temple are as you remember them: lush, green and alien to your eyes. Plants are brought to the walled garden by traveling Jedi, by visiting family, by grateful diplomats and grace the walls and walkways with their life and fragrance. The sun pierces the hanging greenery. You round the corner and see that you are at the very perimeter of the small parcel of land. Ahead of you lies a large rock that borders a small stream. Qui-Gon sits perched upon the rock, his head bent down, and his long hair hanging against his chest. His tunic is gone - only the undertunic remains and it is hanging open on his broad frame. His feet are bare and the leggings are rolled and tight against his calves. He looks….lost.
You close the distance, thankful of the leggings and tunic that you were given to wear. A slight breeze gusts up and lifts the fine strands of his hair. His tongue sneaks out to whet his lower lip, making it glisten in the sun. He sighs and lifts his had to look at a tree and speaks lowly. “Love….they brought you here didn’t they?”
You nod, knowing he can sense your affirmative answer. “They say that…”
“…only you can bring me back….” His voice is tight and gritty.
Again you nod. You have known this man for almost twenty years, and his voice has never sounded so empty. You step to the rock, grasping at its cool strength to climb. The facets in its surface help you and soon you are sitting slightly behind Qui-Gon.
“I don’t want to come back.”
The words are plain and spoke with a deep pain. You reach out to embrace him, only to have him lean away from you. You arch back and slowly lay a hand between his shoulder blades. The skin is smooth there and strong, vast. “Qui-Gon…”
“I want to leave the Order, Tira. I want to come live with you on Alderaan. I don’t want to ever face pain like this again.” His voice is scratchy. The sound of it brings a lump to your throat. You have trouble swallowing.
A gust of air lifts his locks again, and you are aware of the smell of musk and man. You head slides forward to touch his back, your eyes drift shut on tears.
“Twelve years he was with me. And I loved him like he was my own flesh and blood. The son I will never have.” His voice permeates from his back like a deep rumbling stream over rocks. You can feel the words cutting your soul.
“I am sorry, love….so sorry.” You sigh as you feel his muscles tighten. The feeling of absolute light that you always felt from him…of living things and love, of air, fire, water and earth pure and unadulterated….is not as pure as it once was. There is darkness to it now…a shadowing of the white, soft light.
His head leans back, dusting you with his hair. The sun is beginning to set; a study of red and orange is appearing in the sky. You can feel his pain- his agony of the pain of ripped love. The depths of a male bonding experience half a lifetime long, torn at the seams and lying prone on the ground. It is only at this moment that you realize how deep the torn training bond must be. As deep as your love for him, but different, more spiritual, more ether based.
“Please say I am welcome with you…” he whispers. “Let me come and be.”
“You are always welcome, Qui…” you whisper back, brushing your lips against the thinly covered shoulder. “But I think that you should examine this decision more…”
“And what…” he cries almost hoarsely. “Decide to remain in a life that will only give me pain…that will only separate me from the ones that I love? I have given up a family…I have almost drifted from you…I interact with people in their lives at the risk of my own…all I want is peace.”
You slide your arms around his middle, and tighten them. You can feel the press of tears in his being. The need for the flow to start, but you also sense the stubbornness that will hold them back. His voice gets rougher as he swallows convulsively and continues.
“He was the son of my heart, Tira. And he is dead to me now…or so the Order tells me. That if I see him on the street, or on a mission…I am to engage him in a fight and conquer him. Kill him.”
“Qui…”
“No more I tell you….I will not do this. I will not kill someone I love for the sake of a religion that is drifting from its roots.” His voice is choked for a moment and you realize that the tears have started. You press your hand up on his chest, and begin to rock back and forth. You cradle his large body as best you can like you would a babe.
Time passes without measure. Soon the moon peaks through the trees. The small stream nearby adds to the atmosphere by tumbling and bubbling over the few stones in its path. You have much to convince him of and much to argue against…but first you must let him grieve. And if that must occur here, on this rock, in your arms…then it must.