A Better Day
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no death, there is the Force.
The words tumbled over and over in Qui-Gon's head. Dusk had long since fallen, and he hadn't moved from the spot in the large glass floor. He had settled onto the tile, leaning against the window and staring into the middle of the room at nothing. Shadows stretched across the circular pattern on the ground, chasing each other quickly or slowly as ships beyond the Temple eased their ways through the night skies. Damp paths marked his strong features, and even now his eyes glittered in the darkness from unshed tears.
Soft footsteps echoed in the room, though Qui-Gon took little notice. He was absorbed in the Force, delving within himself to that most sensitive place, trying to bring it to the surface, to release it into the Force. He wanted to be a Jedi, stoic and unfeeling, but he didn't know how. Nothing seemed to work; he didn't have peace, he didn't have serenity, he didn't have knowledge. Death was still very real. His emotions were still very strong.
He became aware of someone sitting next to him. Aislinn watched him quietly, wrapped in her cloak for warmth, the lights from the outside illuminating parts of her face, casting unsettling shadows across her features. "Yoda told me you would be here," she said softly when he glanced at her, almost questioningly. "He seemed concerned for you."
"He thinks I try to keep myself apart, that I'm afraid I'll be hurt again if I become close to someone else. He also suggested that I've just been denying my pain, pretending it doesn't exist, in hopes that it will go away." Qui-Gon felt apathetic. It seemed that he had hurt for so long, fighting for so long, that he couldn't remember why, or against what.
"Have you?" The question seemed innocent enough, but Qui-Gon knew that she was thinking quietly, assessing everything he said and carefully filing it away to make an understanding of him. They were taught to do so, to take each instant to create a more complete picture of those around them. The hesitations, the vocal inflections, the way answers were worded; all was a method of reaching people and accomplishing what should be done, what was the will of the Force.
"I can't spend my life grieving," he replied finally, sifting through his emotions to find an acceptable answer for her. For himself. He took a deep breath, trying to fight the tears that threatened to resurface.
"You can't enjoy your life if you spend all of it denying that grief," Aislinn replied gently. Qui-Gon shook his head sadly, his mouth turned down in an attempt to quell the tears. He had neither the words nor the strength to say them. They sat in silence for a while, tears sliding unbidden and unwanted on his face.
Aislinn reached out and brushed some of the dampness from his cheek, her hand cool against his warm skin. She watched, her own face mirroring his grief, though hers more for his pain. The younger padawan opened her arms, and Qui-Gon, feeling very young and foolish, crawled into them, burying his head on her shoulder and shaking from his sobs. He wrapped his own arms around her, enjoying the warmth and comfort of having someone near, anyone near. He had missed the companionship of his master, the mere enjoyment of having an emotional support, a friend, nearby. He didn't know if he trusted Aislinn, but she was there now and was willing to accept him at his lowest point. That meant much to him.
"Why?" he finally asked her through his tears, his head still hidden by her shoulder.
"I don't know, Qui-Gon," Aislinn replied, gently rubbing his back to soothe him, stroking his hair. "We all have our own paths, and the Force guides us to what is best. Perhaps this is preparation for something greater to come. You may need strength for a much more difficult path, and this is the only way to find it. You may need the insight of a padawan who's known grief and adversity. You may need to make your way across brambly roads that no one else had trodden, that no one else can take."
He continued to cry softly, clinging to her soft robe. The entire process was painfully silent, the ache of a broken heart trying to mend its tatters back together. Aislinn began to hum softly to him, trying to soothe him from his desperation, even though she knew it wouldn't take just an evening or one bout of tears. Her humming took on a tune, and then, she was singing softly to him, "Can you feel the hearts of the children? Aching for home, for something of their very own. Reaching hands with nothing to hold on to but hope for a better day, a better day. Crying someone, help me to feel the love again in my own land. But if unknown roads lead away from home, give me loving arms, 'way from harm."
Her voice faded, swallowed into the silence of the room. Qui-Gon cried on, oblivious to the world around him. Soon, even his sobs began to slow, dimming to the occasional shudder. He was curled across her lap, head on her shoulder, arms around her, tears on his eyelashes. Soon his breathing became deep and even as he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
(Author's note: The song that Aislinn sings is called Prayer of the Children, with the words and tune by Kurt Bestor.)
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no death, there is the Force.
The words tumbled over and over in Qui-Gon's head. Dusk had long since fallen, and he hadn't moved from the spot in the large glass floor. He had settled onto the tile, leaning against the window and staring into the middle of the room at nothing. Shadows stretched across the circular pattern on the ground, chasing each other quickly or slowly as ships beyond the Temple eased their ways through the night skies. Damp paths marked his strong features, and even now his eyes glittered in the darkness from unshed tears.
Soft footsteps echoed in the room, though Qui-Gon took little notice. He was absorbed in the Force, delving within himself to that most sensitive place, trying to bring it to the surface, to release it into the Force. He wanted to be a Jedi, stoic and unfeeling, but he didn't know how. Nothing seemed to work; he didn't have peace, he didn't have serenity, he didn't have knowledge. Death was still very real. His emotions were still very strong.
He became aware of someone sitting next to him. Aislinn watched him quietly, wrapped in her cloak for warmth, the lights from the outside illuminating parts of her face, casting unsettling shadows across her features. "Yoda told me you would be here," she said softly when he glanced at her, almost questioningly. "He seemed concerned for you."
"He thinks I try to keep myself apart, that I'm afraid I'll be hurt again if I become close to someone else. He also suggested that I've just been denying my pain, pretending it doesn't exist, in hopes that it will go away." Qui-Gon felt apathetic. It seemed that he had hurt for so long, fighting for so long, that he couldn't remember why, or against what.
"Have you?" The question seemed innocent enough, but Qui-Gon knew that she was thinking quietly, assessing everything he said and carefully filing it away to make an understanding of him. They were taught to do so, to take each instant to create a more complete picture of those around them. The hesitations, the vocal inflections, the way answers were worded; all was a method of reaching people and accomplishing what should be done, what was the will of the Force.
"I can't spend my life grieving," he replied finally, sifting through his emotions to find an acceptable answer for her. For himself. He took a deep breath, trying to fight the tears that threatened to resurface.
"You can't enjoy your life if you spend all of it denying that grief," Aislinn replied gently. Qui-Gon shook his head sadly, his mouth turned down in an attempt to quell the tears. He had neither the words nor the strength to say them. They sat in silence for a while, tears sliding unbidden and unwanted on his face.
Aislinn reached out and brushed some of the dampness from his cheek, her hand cool against his warm skin. She watched, her own face mirroring his grief, though hers more for his pain. The younger padawan opened her arms, and Qui-Gon, feeling very young and foolish, crawled into them, burying his head on her shoulder and shaking from his sobs. He wrapped his own arms around her, enjoying the warmth and comfort of having someone near, anyone near. He had missed the companionship of his master, the mere enjoyment of having an emotional support, a friend, nearby. He didn't know if he trusted Aislinn, but she was there now and was willing to accept him at his lowest point. That meant much to him.
"Why?" he finally asked her through his tears, his head still hidden by her shoulder.
"I don't know, Qui-Gon," Aislinn replied, gently rubbing his back to soothe him, stroking his hair. "We all have our own paths, and the Force guides us to what is best. Perhaps this is preparation for something greater to come. You may need strength for a much more difficult path, and this is the only way to find it. You may need the insight of a padawan who's known grief and adversity. You may need to make your way across brambly roads that no one else had trodden, that no one else can take."
He continued to cry softly, clinging to her soft robe. The entire process was painfully silent, the ache of a broken heart trying to mend its tatters back together. Aislinn began to hum softly to him, trying to soothe him from his desperation, even though she knew it wouldn't take just an evening or one bout of tears. Her humming took on a tune, and then, she was singing softly to him, "Can you feel the hearts of the children? Aching for home, for something of their very own. Reaching hands with nothing to hold on to but hope for a better day, a better day. Crying someone, help me to feel the love again in my own land. But if unknown roads lead away from home, give me loving arms, 'way from harm."
Her voice faded, swallowed into the silence of the room. Qui-Gon cried on, oblivious to the world around him. Soon, even his sobs began to slow, dimming to the occasional shudder. He was curled across her lap, head on her shoulder, arms around her, tears on his eyelashes. Soon his breathing became deep and even as he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
(Author's note: The song that Aislinn sings is called Prayer of the Children, with the words and tune by Kurt Bestor.)