Legacy II
Chapter 2
Six weeks' absence had left its baleful traces upon their shared quarters, despite Qui-Gon's detailed and strident instructions to the automated cleaning staff. There was a tell-tale mustiness to the cycled 'air – nothing to be attributed to the Temple's super efficient ventilation network, but merely an inevitable result of decaying plant matter.
The tall Jedi master made some laconic sotto voce remark upon the dubious competence of the droid gardeners, and set about assessing the damage to his drooping collection before he had so much as divested himself of cloak or boots. Obi-Wan, by contrast, trudged over the threshold to the dimly lit interior and made a beeline for the nearest round meditation cushion, upon which he sank down with a muffled expression of gratitude, eyes drifting closed and limbs slackening as he felt the familiar pulse of the Force in this place, his home. It was late - most the other residents in the vast buildings various wings had retired for the evening- but he still savored the quiet hum of diverse generations, the unspoken harmony of so many Jedi gathered under one colossal roof.
Qui-Gon plucked off dead foliage, imbued the worst victims of neglect with a generous and revivifying nudge of the Living Force and stalked off, grumbling, to locate a watering can, while his young companion tried and failed to achieve meditative quietude. Six weeks – system after system, crisis after crisis, negotiations, hostilities, the tension of delicate intelligence work, the ennui of stalled diplomacy… he ran both hands through his mass of long hair and found it lamentably lank, in bad need of hot water and some cleansing liquid. But the 'fresher was so very, very far away and he was so very, very, very tired.
"You'd better retire before you keel over where you sit," Qui-Gon advised, still busily puttering about on the balcony.
"The plants can wait, Master," the younger man felt obliged to point out. "…We'll make a funeral pyre tomorrow."
A snort. "You are a heartless fellow, Obi-Wan."
He was? Too exhausted to muster impertinent reply, or to formulate any droll witticism in his own defense, the accused let his hands drop to his lap, between crossed ankles. "Guilty as charged. I choose voluntary exile in my bedchamber, whereto I shall be banished posthaste, never to return."
The tall man reemerged through the balcony doors, a small and miraculously tenacious seedling nestled beneath one arm. "No parole," he said, striding across the apartment and back into the outside corridor, presumably in search of paramedic aid for the ailing botanical specimen.
Obi-Wan heaved himself upward, groaning, and clamped down on an ear-splitting yawn with practiced Jedi stoicism. He was just on the point of serving the pronounced sentence upon himself when he thought to sync his commlink to the Temple system.
There were but few messages waiting for him: Senior Healer Ben To Li wished to know why neither he nor his esteemed mentor and accomplice in perfidy had appeared for their scheduled yearly physicals, and to issue various veiled threats against their obstreperous persons if they did not comply with expectations soon; Head Archivist Madame Nu had called to sternly demand the return of some holo-volume carelessly left to languish among the stack of others in Obi-Wan's current custody; Jedi Knight Feld Spruu politely inquired whether his friend might be available to assist- ever a treacherously vague term – with instruction of a senior initiate and junior padawan class tomorrow afternoon.
All of which quotidian affairs seemed far too taxing even to take under consideration. He flicked the 'link closed and stuffed it back in a belt pouch, then half-stumbled into his own room and collapsed in an elegant sprawl across the low sleep mattress.
He did not even notice when Qui-Gon returned a few minutes later, and promptly followed his young comrade's fine example.
The Council had the good grace – or the simple prudence- not to summon the pair of returned sojourners until late morning the following day. They appeared dutifully before the circle of assembled masters and were delivered of a lengthy, tedious, and painstakingly detailed mission report covering the entire period of their absence and a dozen different consecutive assignments, taking it in turn to give accounting of their actions and to endure the mild interrogation consequent thereto. Over a year into their partnership as full ranking peers, if not quite equals, the cloud of notoriety that had hitherto dogged Qui-Gon Jinn's steps seemed to have dispersed somewhat, its ominous edges melted a bit by the sunshine radiance of his young counterpart's natural and deserved approval.
Still, the older man could not help but quirk a tiny wry smile whenever one of Obi-Wan's creative "negotiations" earned only an indulgent sigh or occasional flicker of amusement in the Force. His former padawan, meticulously groomed and exuding palpable deference to his elders, stood in the circle's center and calmly explained in cultured velvet tones that he had imposed upon the Marthusian Dowager, that he had appropriated planetary resources to a worthy cause on Belifax, that he been obliged to make an expeditious departure from the prison bloc on Yammutz 6, and that the purported interim government on Ord Inistus was, in his considered opinion, a wretched hive of scum and villainy— while the Councilors placidly sat by and nodded their understanding or even tacit approval.
Had Qui-Gon made any one of those bald declarations, he would immediately have been censured for rogue conduct. It was, he noted with passionless detachment, simply not fair.
The thought attracted his companion's notice, for Obi-Wan glanced in his direction, the most fleeting of impudent smirks twinkling in his eyes.
Brat. Revel in it while you may. After all, they had a salle reserved for two hours this evening, and then they would see who had much yet to learn and who was – still - the master.
Midday meal served as breakfast, and they ate with proportional relish, in the comradely but respectful quiet typical of the Temple's senior refectories. Only when their plates had been whisked away by an efficient droid waitron, and they were sitting over the cooling dregs of silpa tea, did Obi-Wan venture to break the comfortable silence.
"I've not forgotten our appointment in the dojo later," he said, with several gleeful nuances of anticipation. "If, of course, you are sufficiently recovered."
Qui-Gon skewered him with a disdainful look. "I am not so ancient as all that, my friend."
"You misinterpret me," the younger Jedi replied, feigning wounded feelings.
"Hm. I'll misinterpret you later." The tall man waved a hand. "Until eighteenth hour, then."
Obi-Wan's bow was every bit as low and heartfelt as it had been when the sacred oaths of apprenticeship had bound them together; the former master of the pair was tempted to abrogate his resolution to give the young man a resounding thrashing with his saber later…. until he observed the cocky swagger that carried the aforesaid scamp out the wide doors and into the adjoining concourse, cloak hem frisking merrily at his heels.
And even then he could not entirely repress his chuckle.
The fulfillment of various minor duties was a simple matter after a good meal and a solid night's rest. Obi-Wan returned the truant holo-book to the Archives and meekly endured Jocasta Nu's chiding lecture (the Archives are a repository of wisdom for the entire Order, Kenobi, not a private treasure hoard from which you may plunder at will), apologetically rescheduled the mandatory physical exam in the Healers' ward, choosing a date upon which he would, if the Force favored him, be a convenient thousand parsecs away on another mission (no no, there's no need to pester Master Li, simply convey my regards to him later), and then ventured upward to the boisterous corridors that housed the older initiate dormitories and classrooms.
Jedi Knight Feld Spruu's tall, trim figure was lounging idly against the wall outside a large instruction hall.
"What's this?" Obi-Wan jested, drawing alongside his Twi'Lek colleague. "A Knight of the Order loitering about without purpose or direction? For shame."
"Kenobi!" One blue hand shot out, seizing the thick bundle of chestnut hair tied back behind the newcomer's head and bestowing upon it an amicably ferocious tug. "Still as smart-mouthed as ever. And scruffy.. look at this mess. You know, there's no need to display unbecoming envy of my lekku… but if you want to dazzle the ladies, you should divide that mangy tangle into two and drape one side over your left shoulder." He demonstrated with his own magnificent headtails, grinning broadly enough to reveal stunningly white – and slightly pointed – teeth.
Size mattered not, but anyone even casually familiar with comparative biology would know that Feld's endowments were indeed ostentatious and, from a prospective Twi'Lek mate's perspective, rather promising.
"Ma'dhuu le yimasa," his friend shot back. "Besides, personal vanity is forbidden, as is slothful squandering of the gift granted us by existence."
Feld dragged a hand over his rugged blue features. "Save me," he moaned. 'Not another lecture." He pulled a horrified face and backed away a pace, peering through the slatted observation port in the classroom door to check on the proceedings inside. "Hells' moons - old Yoda always goes far over time."
"Is your padawan in there?"
"Yes, and I need her for this afternoon's session – you are coming, I presume? I knew you would not let me down!"
"I'll help. Though I have a bad feeling about this."
The tall Twi'Lek quietly guffawed. "Obi-Nobi, always the doomsday prophet. What, oh what, have I ever done to deserve such aspersion heaped upon my innocent head? We are only going to play Push-feather with the little ones."
"I knew I had a bad feeling about this."
As it turned out, Feld had reserved a wide gymnasium and recruited two other senior padawans to assist with the planned lesson: Karmuch Aell, a patient Tarpaun who was always eager to lend a hand with the younglings, and who was almost certainly destined for an illustrious career as clan or crèche master – and Master Adi Gallia's young protégé, the redoubtable Siri Tachi.
A sharp frisson ran through the Force before either she or Obi-Wan could throw up mental shields. The byplay escaped the notice of the room's twenty excited young pupils, all eagerly anticipating some sort of entertaining new game – but Feld Spruu was not so oblivious. He raised brows at his companion, registering mild concern.
Obi-Wan shook his head, a minute signal that nothing was amiss. Nothing was amiss. What cause for alarm was there in a chance meeting between himself and Siri? None at all. His abruptly elevated pulse could protest all it liked, and the vibrant flush spreading over Siri's high cheekbones and smooth forehead could proclaim contrariwise until Hoth thawed, but there was nothing of consequence in the occasion.
"Ah, Padawan Tachi, you could come after all!" Feld enthused, drawing Siri into the warm circle of his private regard. "Excellent."
"My master was called away unexpectedly to the Legislative district; there is an important meeting between several Mid-Rim principalities this evening – a diplomatic dinner – and as you know, her family is well-connected. Her cousin is in attendance as well." Stass Allie, a scion of the same influential Tholothian house as Adi Gallia, was in many ways the heir presumptive to the Councilwoman's position both within the Order and in the Coruscanti ambassadorial venue.
Siri's speech was quick, clipped with professional alacrity and precision, and determinedly and exclusively directed at Feld. Her glorious white-gold hair was tightly bound into a double fish-tail plait, a taut weaving of discipline, a complex knot like that binding her iron will to her calling.
"And I presume I need not make introductions?" Feld's dazzling smile widened as he thrust an arm in his companion's direction.
There was no circumventing the awkward encounter. Siri met his gaze evenly, crystal clear eyes widening and mouth tightening at the corners as she realized what etiquette their difference of rank demanded. Her breath rose and fell, a soundless exhalation laced with every possible degree of irony, and bent her head in the obligatory bow to a superior. "Master Kenobi," she intoned.
He kept a perfect sabaac face – but she knew him well… far far too well. Her blush deepened as she sensed his inward and highly mischievous delight in the formal show of submission. And the sapphire lightning of her upward glance – fleet and combative, and just perhaps tinged with humor – did nothing to quell the enticing thrill in his gut.
Obi-Wan looked away, casting his gaze over the assembled younglings instead. Zhoa Pleromata, Feld's vivacious young Nautolan apprentice, stood in a cluster of her agemates, watching the proceedings with wide opalescent eyes.
"Master Obi-Wan!" she chirped, skipping across the smooth floorboards toward him. She, too, made a him a deep obeisance and then looked up, her black pearl eyes shining with hero worship. "Are you really going to play with us today?"
He smiled, shutting out the distracting awareness of Siri's awareness of him, her gaze now traveling luxuriously down his back, tracing a sizzling line of approval along his spine. "Only if you promise to show clemency," he answered the youngling, flashing a lopsided smile. "I'm rather intimidated already."
Zhoa giggled and fidgeted, delicate fingers fretting with the hem of her overlarge tunic. "It's easy; all you have to do is knock your opponent off center," she assured him, surveying her elders guilelessly. "Padawan Tachi is very, very good at it. Maybe she can show you how?"
His smile curdled into a private grimace. "Yes, I'm sure she could. And win, too." After all, she already had him badly off-balance.
Zhoa skipped in place. "I'll ask her!" And away she scampered, to make a special request for a demonstration, leaving her interlocutor to draw in a deep centering breath and compose himself for the trials ahead.