Over 5800 words. I needed to fit more into this chapter, because Tahl had to turn up sometime. I'm mentally knackered, but hey, I'll do anything for my lovely readers. A huge thank-you to everyone who favourited, followed, and reviewed. A note, though: there's a reference in this chapter from chapter 2, The Council Meddles in the Rain, where Qui-Gon reads one of Obi-Wan's homework assignments. If you get confused during their conversation, go back to chapter 2 to clear it up.

Replies to guest reviews (and to people I was too lazy to PM – sorry):

ErinKenobi2893: No problem. I don't know what Xanatos's fate is going to be, but I've got plans. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm. Your review is partly the reason I wrote so much for this chapter.

Guest: *Hugs you back* Come on, your fics are probably excellent. I'd like to read them! You don't have to hide from me by reviewing as a guest! PM me a link to your fics if you want to!

Crazy: Yeah, I don't really know anything about the Stark Hyperspace War either, only that Quinlan changed after it. Thanks for the continued reviews.

SWfanfan: Thank you for all the reviews! Xanatos is one conflicted soul, if you ask me. I think he would cling to a small part of his past, no matter how much he claims to hate it. Why would he try to target Qui all the time if he didn't? Oh, and the Obi and Darth Vader feels. T_T

Link: I try to update every three days or so. Thanks for tracking this fic even though you don't have an account – I remember how annoying it was to do so before I started writing, myself.

Fanfic Lurker: I'm killing myself setting up plot points here, that's what. Messers Chun and DuCrion are very hard to get right without being cliché. Argh. Hope you like this one. XD

Guest 2: Tahl's in this one! :P

And here is the monster chapter. It's monster because I last posted 2 days ago. :P

(:~:)

Only very rarely does the Jedi Council begin a morning with such anticipation of good cheer. Indeed, Yoda confers quietly with Master Yaddle as the morning light shortens their already small shadows, his grumbling chuckle less of a growl today and more of a self-satisfied snicker. Well, as close to a snicker as Yoda could be expected to produce. Plo Koon and Saesee Tiin banter light-heartedly on their right, joined sporadically Even Piell's short, barking laughter. The twelve red-cushioned chairs are filled one by one, their occupants greeting each other warmly.

Mace Windu settles himself comfortably into his seat, the perfect personification of the Jedi Code, all muted power and elegance as he glares penetratingly at the floor over his steepled fingers. Others may view his lack of participation in the conversation around him as an attempt to conserve the stoic and proper image of the head of the Jedi Council; but in reality, he stares at the circular flower of harmony etched into the marble floor in an effort to stop a wild smile from stretching across his cheeks. He is not completely successful.

By the Force. He is a Jedi master, second-in-command to Grand Master Yoda, but the childish hilarity bubbling up within him is unworthy of even the youngest padawan. Already, his lips are twitching uncontrollably, in anticipation of the sheer enjoyment the first meeting of the day would bring. Oh, he had been waiting for this moment for years – for Qui-Gon to throw off his burdened cloak of bitterness and guilt and serve the order with the same unrestrained joy he used to. Despite his emotionless façade, Mace Windu is happy for his old friend.

And it would be so entertaining to prove himself right after months of thinly-veiled arguments in this very chamber. Since Qui-Gon would be coming the Council with a request of his own, Mace would have the most excellent opportunity to play the generous, understanding master, all the while flinging the hidden words I told you so into that old desert djinn's face.

If he were some rich politician instead of a Jedi master, Mace Windu would probably be rubbing his hands together, cackling with unrestrained glee. A pity. He would have to settle for the Jedi equivalent – fry that ignorant gundark alive with words, and then roast him in the senior level dojo later.

"Control yourself, Master Windu," Yoda chortles as he hops up onto his seat.

"Of course, my master," Mace replies easily. "First item on the agenda?" he calls to the gathered Council.

Adi Gallia turns perceptive brown eyes to him, and says simply, "Jinn."

"Well, let's get this unpleasantness over with," Mace sighs wearily, hoping that his emotions are not too evident in his carefully blank gaze.

The most-recently promoted member of the Council stares coolly right back at him, her cream head-tresses swinging.

He turns away from her glance and towards the gilded double doors. Muahahahaha. Vapaad had its benefits. He could relish in defeating an opponent, as the Light laughs along with him. Mace hides his grin behind a contemplative hand to his chin, waiting for his victims to enter the lair.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan stares curiously up at Qui-Gon as the turbolift rockets them up the central spire of the Jedi Temple, the dawn light casting their faces in half-shadow. The walk from the Healers' wing had taken longer than expected, due to Obi-Wan's half-healed feet. Fortunately, the tall Jedi had backed him up when he adamantly refused the hover-chair the droids pressed upon him. Now, however, the stinging ache in the pads of his feet is enough to make him doubt the intelligence of his decision.

Obi-Wan shakes himself back to the present. Qui-Gon is saying something. "Obi-Wan, you do not need to participate in this Council session unless asked directly," Qui-Gon states plainly, his eyes burning a hole in the durasteel doors of the turbolift. "I shall deal with the…unpleasantness, myself."

A question floats to the surface of Obi-Wan's thoughts, and he quashes it down quickly before it can transmit across their bond. Nevertheless, Qui-Gon's chin flicks down toward him. Amusement emanates from the larger Force-presence like warm light from a glow-bulb.

"The Council is worthy of respect," Qui-Gon says, at length. "I am not required to offer more than that."

Obi-Wan nods affirmation as a computerised voice announces their arrival at the top of the spire. The doors slide open, and Obi-Wan halts mid-step as the view spreads itself out on both sides of the waiting lobby. His mouth drops open.

The whole of Coruscant seems spread out in a gently curving arc, miniscule figures of aircars and public hovercraft scattered over the shining levels like insects on silver water, the dawn light skimming across the surface in solid bars of gold. And like the half-mirrored pane of an ocean, the city-planet is seemingly bottomless; level after level it descends, deep gorges and shallower reefs clinging to obsidian towers, ethereal in their beauty and harsh in their jagged edges. Larger interstellar ships split the currents of aircraft, Nabooian Gooberfish that blot out the light of Coruscant Prime in hulking silhouettes. Some distance away, the sleek shapes of senatorial yachts gather around the Senate dome like shoals of Skekfish. It strikes Obi-wan that it is quite the apt simile; Skekfish are blind, sharp-sided and hunt in relentless groups, much like the politicians themselves.

And then a warm hand is on Obi-Wan's shoulder, and a finger under his chin, closing his slack jaw. "Focus, young one," Qui-Gon murmurs, smiling. The very same words that he first said to a crècheling Obi-Wan mere days ago.

The two of them cross the short expanse of larmalstone floor to the waiting doors, an adult Aiwha leading its hatchling in their first flight across the endless ocean of Coruscant.

(:~:)

The moment his boot comes into contact with the floor of the Council Chamber, Qui-Gon knows that the battle has already been decided. The Force is awash with humor, the twelve furled Force-signatures that make up the council shimmering with the emotion. He is half-blinded by the light streaming in through the wide windows. The smallest of frowns draws his mouth into a line. So this is their move.

But two can play this game, so Qui-Gon bows deeply at the waist, sensing Obi-Wan follow suit. Then they wait for the Council to speak.

Mace Windu is the first to break the silence. Of course. "What brings you before the Council today, Master Jinn?" he asks innocently. The effect is somewhat ruined by the glittering victory in his eyes, and the way they rake over Qui-Gon's shaven chin in amusement.

Qui-Gon acknowledges this first strike with a bow of the head. Mace, you manipulative gundark. So you want me to state what you already know. He stands firm in tradition, and declares formally, "I come before the Council to inform you, masters, that I wish to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my padawan learner." He is treading a thin line of barest respect here – to inform, not request.

But Master Windu snaps the line as effortlessly as the gesture that accompanies his reply. "The Council will consider your appeal, Master Jinn. But before we do, I believe there remains a few answers you owe us."

A short silence. "And what may those be?" Qui-Gon inquires pleasantly, his cheeks aching with the effort of not scowling.

"Would you care to explain the sudden reversal in your stance in regards to our suggestion that you take another padawan?"

Qui-Gon's Force-presence flares slightly, but the cool blue tendrils retract an instant later. When he speaks, he is the picture of utter calm. "The Force commanded me to do so. And the Force, as we all know, always offers wise counsel." As opposed to the other particular source of authority.

The Force crackles in reprimand. Yoda frowns, his gimer stick contacting the side of his chair with a sharp crack. Apparently, he sensed Qui-Gon's silent addition to his spoken words, and his displeasure fills the very air with sparks of energy. "Test the Council, you must not, Master Jinn."

Obi-Wan stiffens slightly beside Qui-Gon.

An apologetic tone. "Yes, my master." Insufferable green troll.

But Qui-Gon's answer is insufficient to placate Yoda. The Grand master's large emerald eyes snap in irritation. "Say will of the Force this is, do you?" he growls, his already-lined brow furrowing further.

Qui-Gon nods. "Yes, I do. So you see–"

"See, we do. See, you do not," Master Yoda huffs, raising his stick to point accusingly at Qui-Gon's equally sharp gaze. His next words are softer, more sorrowful. "Blind, you are."

Qui-Gon opens his mouth to reply, but no words come. Had he not admitted this to himself? He clamps his jaw shut, seething.

"Saw great suffering in you, the Council did," Yoda continues, his voice less rough but no less reprimanding. "And so recommended that you take a padawan. And will of the Force, it was." He presses on, not giving Qui-Gon a chance to reply. "Defy only the Council, you did not. You defied the Force itself."

The Council starts, murmuring. Mace Windu shifts in his seat. He is not enjoying this quite as much as he thought he would.

Qui-Gon remains silent for the longest while, head bowed, the Force an inconstant, roiling sea around him, held back by walls of pure will. Then a drawn-out breath leaves his lips, and he meets Yoda's gaze full on. "I beg the forgiveness of the Council." The words are heavy as they fall out of him, but with each breath, he seems to straighten further, an unseen burden leaving his shoulders. "I realised this myself, on Ilum." His gaze strays to Obi-Wan, whose eyes are wide as they stare up at him, finally understanding. "Yes. I feared to take another padawan. I feared failure, and I did not trust myself or the Council." Qui-Gon bows, closing his eyes. "For that, I owe you an apology, my masters. I still have much to learn."

Throughout the confession, Obi-Wan blinks up at Qui-Gon, his mouth slightly open in awed surprise. His expression turns to mortified horror, though, when at a motion from Yoda, Qui-Gon pivots smoothly to bow to Obi-Wan. It is not the deepest of bows, but the entire idea of a master, let alone his master bowing to him is inconceivable.

"I owe you an apology as well, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says clearly. There is no jest in his motions or his words. "I acted in a–"

Obi-Wan reaches out and touches Qui-Gon's sleeve, shaking his head once to show his understanding. As the Jedi master straightens, Obi-Wan bows in return, taking his bow far deeper than Qui-Gon's.

Then he turns back to the Council, his cheeks practically glowing scarlet in the early morning light. Qui-Gon faces forward again, but his gaze slides over to Yoda.

A flicker of a smile passes over Yoda's lined features as he watches this exchange. "Hmm," he mutters grumpily. "Resolved, this is. Speak of it no more."

Two heads incline toward the aged master.

Mace Windu leans forward, a grin of his own threatening to break his ineffectual mask. "Now that this is resolved, we can address the matter of Initiate Kenobi."

"Accept Master Jinn as your master, do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Master Yoda wades into Mace's impending monologue with all the subtlety of a rambling bantha. Quite an achievement for one so physically small. Master Windu pulls up short, blinks once, and acquiesces.

Obi-Wan nods enthusiastically. He usually would have dispensed of eagerness in favour of calm poise, but he is beginning to understand why Master Qui-Gon hates Council sessions so much. He'd much rather get it over with quickly. Qui-Gon stares openly at him, confusion flitting across his beardless face. Where is that cultured young boy he met in the crèche?

"Vell, vell, I think ve have heard enough," Master Even Piell rasps, flashing his terrifying scarred grin at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan smiles back uncertainly, not quite knowing how to respond to the tiny fearsome Jedi.

"Yes. Seen enough, we have." Yoda's gnarled voice is already growing more distant. "Approve of the match, the Council does. Begone with the two of you." But his sly, unwavering gaze suggests he sees more to their actions than he reveals.

"Thank you, Councillors," Qui-Gon murmurs, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. As one, master and padawan bow to the circle of the Jedi Council.

And if they take their leave with undue haste, the Council pretends not to notice. A Jedi knows when to retreat.

As the doors close, Mace Windu is not the only member of the Council who makes his mirth known. The Council Chamber echoes with the unhindered chuckles of the twelve highest-ranking representatives of the Jedi Order, and Master Yoda's among the loudest.

(:~:)

It hasn't really sunk in yet for Obi-Wan that he is a padawan. Qui-Gon's padawan. He shuffles in a daze behind his master's billowing cloak, the familiar halls of the Temple blurring strangely behind the sudden moisture in his eyes. He isn't going to be shipped off to the agri-corps. He would no longer have to sit numbly in the crèche, the oldest child there by years, counting the days to his thirteenth birthday with trepidation and shame in his heart. And in Qui-Gon, there is finally a person to which Obi-Wan can speak to in images and emotions, without the need of stylus and flimsy.

And then a thought slams into his chest like a solid wall of euphoria, leaving him breathless with elation. I'm going to be a Jedi. Long years of training still await, but his future is less clouded. The ache in his feet is worse than ever – and his smile could split the sky.

Qui-Gon spares his increasingly wayward apprentice a glance, breathes a sigh, and motions at a stone bench set in an alcove. Hesitantly, Obi-Wan follows, unsure of his master's intentions.

With the solidarity of the smooth grey marble beneath them and the warm wall at their backs, Qui-Gon removes a canister of paste from within the folds of his robes and directs Obi-Wan to remove his boots. Obi-Wan does so confusedly, but arrests his motions when he acquires an inkling of what is about to happen. He shakes his head vigourously, waving a hand at the metal container that Qui-Gon carefully opens.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon's tone brooks no argument. "Your feet have yet to completely heal. The pain is distracting you from the present. Seeing as levity is already doing a marvellous job of unfocusing you, I am seeking to remove the second source of distraction."

Now blushing with embarrassment, Obi-wan removes his last stocking and wiggles his toes, wincing as he does so. Angry red lines crisscross his sole.

"And there we have proof," Qui-Gon says wearily, but not without a twinkle in his eye. "Willow root balm," he answers Obi-Wan's unspoken question. The lid opens to reveal a sharp-smelling paste. "You are not the first very young apprentice I have had to work with," Qui-Gon murmurs with a smile. "I took precautions by asking Master Avarin for this before we left the Healers' wing."

The Jedi master's fingers are surprisingly gentle as they smooth balm over the soles of Obi-Wan's feet. The head of gold-brown spikes shakes as Obi-Wan giggles silently. It tickles. Qui-Gon notices, for the first time, that he cannot see Obi-Wan's lightsaber anywhere. The boy must have hidden it in his tunics, to appear submissive before the Council. Obi-Wan has once again surprised him with his ability to think ahead.

As Qui-Gon works, he branches off into a different topic. Only a mask of control separates him from his burning curiosity being shown. He has wanted to have this conversation with the boy for quite some time. "Obi-Wan, what are your opinions on the abandonment of negotiation in favour of a more direct approach to conflict?"

Obi-Wan jerks slightly, thrown off by the abruptness of the question. Perceptive grey-blue eyes narrow slightly. He mimes writing something, and then jabs a finger accusingly at Qui-Gon's eyes. He points to the imaginary sheet of flimsy on his lap.

"Yes, my very young padawan. I read your homework assignments." Qui-Gon smiles slightly at the muddled emotions seeping across their bond. Apprehension is at he forefront. Obi-Wan is worried about the quality of his work. Qui-Gon hides a private musing that quality should be the least of Obi-Wan's worries. "I was very interested in your argument against aggression regarding the Jedi master who boarded a pirate vessel in the Mandaorian Road blockade fourteen years ago." Having finished spreading medicine Obi-Wan's left foot, he moves on to the other without preamble. "Am I right in thinking that your opinion is unchanged?"

Obi-Wan nods slowly. Qui-Gon can almost sense the cogs whirring in his head as he tries to work out the meaning of this lesson.

"So you still believe that the use of force was dangerous, then." Qui-Gon glances up to meet Obi-Wan's curious gaze. "And what if I told you that the pirates intended to torch the capital of New Mandalore after their terms were met?"

Impossibly, Obi-Wan's eyes grow even wider. Qui-Gon watches as his apprentice blinks a few times, absorbing this new piece of information, and then points at him, mouth falling open in denial.

"Yes, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says cheerily. "I was the unnamed Jedi master in question." Seeing his padawan's face collapse in stunned horror, Qui-Gon represses a chuckle. "I will not fault you for arguing your opinion, Obi-Wan." A sly smile. "I will only encourage you to change it."

Obi-Wan gapes up at him, completely disarmed before he even knew the verbal duel had begun.

"Close that cavern of yours," his master murmurs. "It is unflattering." Obi-Wan clamps his mouth shut and folds his hands into opposite sleeves, back straightening as he assumes the perfect image of the model student. Qui-Gon's lips twitch with mirth. "Now," he says airily, "Would you again rethink your position on this matter if I told you that further to the pirates' intention to destroy the capital, they were holding a prominent politician and his family hostage on their ship?"

No response. Obi-Wan seems frozen.

"The family in question had a very small child with them," Qui-Gon continues, blasting Obi-Wan's denial into smithereens with the subtlety of a plasma gun. "This two-month old baby, Satine Kryze, would undoubtedly have joined the Force at a very early age if I had not intervened."

Obi-Wan's hands shake slightly in his voluminous sleeves. He bows his head once to his master. Contrite sorrow dances across their bond. Qui-Gon pauses for a moment before sending a wave of acceptance towards his apprentice. Obi-Wan nods his thanks.

"Do not be overly affected by this revelation, Padawan," Qui-Gon sighs. "The Archive report was simply a shortened version of the actual events, as I'm sure you remember. However, I recall it specifically states that it was a reduced version of the events, and therefore should not have been used as a source for an essay such as yours. The full report was for Council eyes, only. Master Yaddle decided that amending it would teach restraint to the younger initiates who read it." A sigh. "Focus determines reality. You could not focus on the problem the same way I did, because you were not there. Reality is very different from recorded history."

The willow root balm is concealed once more, its lid firmly secured, and hidden away in Qui-Gon's robes again, like the conversation that flowed between them. "Let us speak no more of this," he says softly. "The lesson has been learnt, yes?"

His padawan nods, averting his gaze. Qui-Gon's warm hand shakes his shoulder gently. "Do not brood over this, young one."

Obi-Wan turns back to his master in a dramatic reversal, a smirk flitting over his young features. A finger jabs at Qui-Gon's chest again. You do.

Qui-Gon is supremely unaffected. "I reserve the right to do what I wish. I am very nearly four decades your senior."

They resume their slow progress towards the crèche, Qui-Gon's hand remaining on his padawan's shoulder. Their first lesson is complete, but Obi-Wan was not the sole student.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan's box of worldly possessions is appropriately small for an initiate of the Order, following the Jedi Code against materialism. Something in Qui-Gon still jerks slightly when he glimpses the collection of trinkets and aircraft models that would not have looked out of place in a junk heap. But the manner in which Obi-Wan hugs the box to his chest is reveals its importance to him.

"Through here," Qui-Gon says, flicking a finger at a tenth-level residential corridor. The floor is inlaid with textured brown stone here, warm and homely. Qui-Gon takes a few steps, then notices his apprentice is lagging behind. A glance over his shoulder exposes the grimace across Obi-Wan's face as he navigates the uneven ground, mincing slightly on his bruised feet.

Qui-Gon dithers for a moment, analysing the pros and cons of his next actions, and decides reserve can all go to sith-spawned Nal Hutta Dark, for all he cares. Obi-Wan's mouth opens in a soundless yelp as his master hooks one hand around the back of his belt, lifts him off his feet, and relieves him of his box. Qui-Gon settles Obi-Wan's possessions comfortably on one shoulder, raises his other hand to the right height, and sets off down the corridor with his new burdens.

Obi-Wan's arms and legs flail about for a moment, then swing gently with his master's steps. He is quite glad his head is hanging upside down and the blood rushing to his face, for that gives him excuse for the scarlet shade of his cheeks. His pride is not dealing well with being hung off the back of his belt like a hatchling, his arms and legs dangling uselessly toward the patterned floor.

An explosive guffaw erupts from the other side of the corridor, and Obi-Wan turns his head, with some difficulty, to blink at the upside-down images of Siri Tachi and Bant Eerin. The two initiates nearly fall against each other with the effort of maintaining their composure, and as a result their bows to Qui-Gon are upset by their shaking shoulders.

Qui-Gon inclines his head in return, the motion setting Obi-Wan's limbs swaying again and reducing the two girls to tears of mirth. Obi-Wan feels his reputation drift away, never to be seen again. Sithspit. Force-forsaken Dark sithspit. He can never look Siri in the face again.

His master seems to be enjoying his padawan's misery just a little too much. "Pride is not the Jedi way, Obi-Wan," he says lightly.

Obi-Wan watches as his two friends disappear around the corner, their laughter still echoing in air and Force alike, and accepts his inevitable fate as Master Qui-Gon Jinn's new padawan.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon waves open the door to his quarters – their quarters – with a very frivolous use of the Force, but with both his hands occupied, it is really the only sensible choice. Obi-Wan's limbs fan out in a circle as Qui-Gon turns to place the box on a chair, swinging his apprentice with the motion. The chamber whirls in a dizzying sphere as his master places him on his feet again.

When his vision has stopped spinning, Obi-Wan blinks at his surroundings. He hadn't quite known what to expect, as his new master is not the most traditional of Jedi. As such, he is unprepared for the individuality of the rooms themselves. Two small, earth-brown couches face each other on one side of the room, divided by a simple low table of warm grey stone. A circle of white pebbles surround a navy-potted cactus at the table's centre. Twin meditation cushions sit like cream moons to one side of the couches. A wide hand-woven Gabal-wool rug covers the original bland floor, shimmering iridescent shades in the noon luminance pouring in through wide double windows, leading out onto a small light-drenched balcony. The silvered towers of Coruscant fade away to the west horizon past the polished rail. Obi-Wan turns to his right to find a larger table of Felucian wood, the worn knots and lines of growth in the grain itself giving the surface a natural glow. The small kitchen counter behind the four-chaired table is well stocked with hand-labeled containers of tea, gleaming metal and blue-painted stone. Several unfamiliar objects line the wall at the back of the counter, miscellaneous, but obviously of some memorable value to Qui-Gon.

The overall warmth of the room is lulling and comforting. It doesn't look like the lodgings of a Jedi. It looks like home.

Qui-Gon does not comment, simply raising an eyebrow at the glimmer in Obi-Wan's eyes as he turns a circle.

"Your room is the smaller one at the end of the hall," he calls quietly, heating water to make tea.

Obi-Wan clasps his box to his chest and scampers eagerly past the door to Qui-Gon's bedroom – sneaking a glance to find it practical and bare – past the small 'fresher between his master's room and his own, and enters his new room with reverence.

Hmm. Blank walls, grey bunk, durasteel desk with standard-issue lamp. Obi-Wan grins, places the box onto his desk, and sets about making the room his own.

Qui-Gon has already set the table for lunch when his padawan emerges from his lair, beaming. "Wash your hands," Qui-Gon says, not looking up from the sink. Obi-Wan's footsteps pit-pat to the 'fresher and back just as quickly.

To Qui-Gon's eternal gratification, Obi-Wan does not scrape his chair across the floor when he settles into his seat. All it takes is a motion from his master for him to engross himself in his food, digging in with gusto. Qui-Gon watches his apprentice with a wry grin. He had forgotten the bottomless pits that are most young boys' stomachs.

"Drink your tea, Obi-Wan, before you choke yourself." Qui-Gon tilts his head slightly. The reserved initiate he saw on the flight to Ilum is gone. Obi-Wan seems to have put his uninhibited trust in his master. For some reason, this makes Qui-Gon feel lighter than he has for a long time.

But the manner in which Obi-Wan gorges himself is ever so slightly disturbing.

Though Qui-Gon is glad to see that Obi-Wan automatically clears the table when they are done. In Qui-Gon's prior experience, padawans have the unfortunate requirement of needing to be house-trained, but Obi-Wan is apparently the exception.

A hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder stops him mid-motion. "Over here," Qui-Gon says quietly. He directs his padawan to kneel on one of the meditation cushions, and folds himself down opposite. Obi-Wan sits on his heels, following Qui-Gon's movements attentively.

"Lightsaber out."

The boy starts, new colour rising in his cheeks. Qui-Gon frowns at him, not understanding, but when his padawan removes his burnished 'saber hilt from a fold in his tunics, Qui-Gon smiles. And is somewhat flattered.

Obi-Wan must have spent the few precious hours between their talk in the galley and landing on Ilum modifying his 'saber designs in the ship's tiny work station. The curved metal and cap of his new 'saber echoes Qui-Gon's own lightsaber design, like a casted shadow flared with new ink.

At Qui-Gon's direction, Obi-Wan places his 'saber to the side, as does Qui-Gon with his own.

Qui-Gon reaches for the one longer lock of gold-streaked russet hair that hangs over Obi-Wan's right ear, parts the tuft into three separate strands, and begins to weave them together, a twisting pattern signifying the start of their road together as master and padawan. "The Master, the Padawan, and the Force," Qui-Gon murmurs, fingering each of three tresses. "Just as the braid does not begin with either of the three, neither does our path. The three of us walk as one. The Force binds teacher and student together; the Master follows the Force, the Padawan follows the Master, and the Force leads and serves them both. The path of a Jedi has no beginning or end, but the three walk it together."

A last winding, three lines verging into a seamless whole. A tiny purple bead slides onto the very end, above the binding. "Purple, for a lesson of courage taught from student to master," Qui-Gon chuckles. "A marker usually only earned at a much later time. You have already done well, Padawan." His fingers stroke the braid once, halting at the binding.

Courage. Obi-Wan shivers slightly as he remembers another Qui-Gon, from an age not yet come, who had raised his hand and fingered his braid in the exact same manner. Courage, he had said. For there is a long, hard, road ahead. That Qui-Gon had smiled, and faded away into the icy catacombs of Ilum.

Obi-Wan folds himself into a full kowtow, thanking not only his master before him, but the one from the uncertain future.

Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan strangely for a moment, but a smile flickers across his face, and he bows his head in return.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon hit a wall around sunset that afternoon when he realises to no little horror that he was supposed to go over to Tahl's quarters for dinner, and it is his turn to cook. He had lost track of the days, given his injury and his new apprentice. Obi-Wan glances up from his tea, sensing the sharp spike of panic from his master. Uncertainly – for he is not completely used to the bond, yet – he sends a wave of curiosity over to Qui-Gon.

His master rubs a hand over his face and forcibly exudes calm into their bond. "Come over here, Obi-Wan," he says, more severely than he had intended. Catching himself, he softens his voice slightly. "You see this?" Qui-Gon hefts a large, inconspicuous metal pot from the shelf.

Obi-Wan nods, brow furrowing in bewilderment.

"This is The Pot." Qui-Gon emphasises the two words carefully. "As my padawan, there are a few things you need to know about this." Obi-Wan tilts his head, but nods seriously in answer. "You do not touch The Pot," Qui-Gon commands sternly. "You do not clean The Pot. You will not take The Pot from where I leave it without prior permission from either I or Master Uvain."

The moment Tahl's name is mentioned, a flicker of amusement dances in Obi-Wan's eyes. He gazes solemnly at The Pot. He understands completely – this must be some unknown advanced Jedi ritual known only to the most honourable masters.

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Qui-Gon continues nevertheless. "Each week, either Master Uvain or I will cook dinner in The Pot and bring it over to the other's quarters, where we will then eat. As my padawan, you will now be summarily included in this weekly tradition. I expect you to show the epitome of decorum at all times."

Obi-Wan nods yet again, hands clasped together in front of him, serious, wide eyes staring at The Pot as if it is some holy artefact. Which, Qui-Gon supposes, it might as well be.

The Pot clangs as Qui-Gon places it on the stove. "Now, on to your punishment," he says matter-of-factly.

Obi-Wan jerks from his awed stupor, turning to his master in shock. The questioning pulse dies on their bond as Qui-Gon looks coolly back down at him, one hand stroking his newly beardless chin.

Ah. That.

"Now, in my day, a trespass of this magnitude would have resulted in fifteen laps around the Temple perimeter," Qui-Gon declares nonchalantly. "But given the state of your feet, we shall instead teach you another valuable lesson." Obi-Wan nods morosely, hands fiddling behind his back as he waits for his doom to be pronounced.

But is doom is not what it seems. Qui-Gon smirks. "You will consent to my teaching you how to make the dinner I planned for tonight, memorise the recipe and method, and dictate it next week, along with a report on the nutritional value and field-work advantages of every ingredient. I also expect that the next time I require the same meal, you will make it to a satisfactory standard without any aid from my person."

Obi-Wan's mouth has fallen open again. But this time, his gape turns very quickly into a smile.

(:~:)

Tahl turned up outside their door at precisely seven hours after meridian, greeting Obi-wan warmly and raising an appreciative eyebrow at Qui-Gon's clean-shaven grin. Apparently, she had not wanted Obi-Wan to walk the distance to her quarters on his still-injured feet. Dinner was a spectacular affair – Tahl had this amazing quality of holding a conversation without Obi-Wan feeling left out – and Obi-Wan had eaten far more than Qui-Gon would ever have thought he would. A half-hour later, his padawan is asleep in his chair, cheek on the table, sunk deeply into a food coma.

"He's so adorable," Tahl whispers, tracing a finger over the tiny braid that barely touches the grain of the table. "You know, it really annoyed me that when I heard that you were awake and came to see you in the infirmary, you were obviously having one of your master/padawan talks and I didn't have the heart to interfere."

Qui-Gon pauses in the act of gathering up the dishes. "Tahl."

She looks up immediately, sensing the disquiet in his voice. "What is it?"

"I sensed something on Ilum," Qui-Gon says quietly. Tahl listens with rapt attention, hands folded over his, as he efficiently explains the Dark presence he felt, and the part it might have played in the Gorgodon attack and the avalanche.

"We don't know enough to say for sure," Tahl murmurs, afterward. "You should bring this to Master Yoda." Her voice is light, but her gold-green striped eyes are disturbed.

"Tahl, I…" Qui-Gon swallows. His throat is dry. "The presence felt familiar. I fear it might have been–"

"No," Tahl's face has set. "I'm always honest towards you, Qui. You know that. So I'll be blunt now – you can't let what happened to Xan weigh you down anymore. It might have been him on Ilum, but it could equally have been nothing. Don't brood over this any further. Find your answers tomorrow."

Qui-Gon nods wearily. Tahl's frankness is one of the many reasons he values her friendship so much. "Thank you," he answers. He rubs her hand once, then begins to stand.

"It's late. I should go," Tahl says softly, so as not to wake Obi-Wan. "You should tuck in your pathetic life form."

"He needs to learn I won't coddle him," Qui-Gon jests in return.

"You'll do it anyway, so why bother living in denial?" Tahl whispers over her shoulder, hugging The Pot to her as the door hisses closed over her smile.

Qui-Gon sighs, and goes to do as he is told.

(:~:)

A word to all the writers out there: I. Hate. Microsoft. Word. Grammar. I've lost count of the number of times it thinks a word doesn't exist. Apparently, 'label' can't be used as verb. My beta discovered that according to Word, 'slitted' doesn't exist either. It's just gone all red and wiggly-lined for me too. And so the software says it doesn't exist, while those five one-word sentences I've just written are supposedly perfectly acceptable. Why can't we have Obi-Wan design word-processing software? Everything would be peachy that way. That aside, DO tell me what you think of this longer chapter.

Next chapter: Qui-Gon finds answers to more than one question, Huei Tori's master is revealed, Kit Fisto winks up a storm, and Avarin returns. I'm EVIL. Muahahaha.