A/N: For those who never read the Jedi Apprentice books, brief summary of what happened on Melida/Daan . . . Obi-Wan felt a connection with the Young, who were a group of teenagers trying to stop the endless warring between the Melida and the Daan. He felt so strongly that he ought to help them that he left the Jedi Order, because Qui-Gon would not allow him to stay. This was seen as a betrayal by Qui-Gon, and by most of the Jedi. Things blew apart, Obi-Wan's close friend died, and he asked the Jedi for help. Qui-Gon went back. Eventually things returned to the way they were, but not without a lot of trouble and pain. Their bond had been broken and it took time and effort to get it back. In this story Melida/Daan happened four or five months ago, but it still hurts both of them, in different ways.

On with the story!

Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 10: Illumination

At sunset, a flotilla of barges pulled out into the calm sea, which, shifting in gentle swells of indigo, reflected red-gold crescents from the sinking sun. The sky was smeared with deep green above the burgeoning redness, clear and thick like opaque azhali balm, healing but suffocating, determined to bury the stars that struggled to shine through despite all efforts to hide them. No candles would be released until the last sliver of the sun vanished beneath the rim of the world.

The Jedi were honored guests aboard the Presidential barge, but in this ceremony they were not the center of attention, and nothing was expected of them. This event was for the lost, and those left behind. Silence reigned, only the gentle slap of the ocean against the wooden sides of the barges loud enough to be heard, steady and solemn as the rhythm of a dirge.

Qui-Gon kept his eyes on the western sky, very careful not to spy on his apprentice, who was attempting, very cautiously, to make an opening with Amora Hindegar. It was obvious that the girl was having none of it. And truly, Obi-Wan might have a chosen a better time. The girl was deep in grief, and every moment only seemed to widen the rift between not only the two young people, but also between Amora and rest of the world. She was losing herself in a whirlpool of dark emotions, the Jedi Master sensed. Obi-Wan was right—something had to be done.

At last Obi-Wan surrendered, his shoulders slumping as he stood by the railing a few paces to Qui-Gon's right, his gaze dropping to the darkening waves. Amora stood straight, brittle, head and shoulders taller than the young Padawan. Her gaze was empty and broken, fixed on the dying sun. A few more moments of heavy silence, and the last corner of the sun disappeared, though the entrails of its bloody death still stained the sky in fading red.

Immediately Qui-Gon saw the pinprick flickers of yellow flame on some of the surrounding barges, though most mourners were choosing to wait until the night deepened. Rothis Hindegar stepped forward and wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders, and she leaned his head on his arm as he murmured to her. Obi-Wan stepped away, giving them space, and joined his Master in gazing at the first candles beginning to bob on the billowing waves.

"Now, Master?"

Qui-Gon looked down at the blue-green eyes almost lost in the twilight, seeing the grief rise to the surface for the first time since they had left Melida/Daan. The boy had buried it deep—too deep. They had never worked through it, too busy bolstering their own shattered relationship. Qui-Gon had not given thought to what his Padawan had lost, what he would need to recover from it, and he regretted that oversight. Now that they were on a firm footing, their bond healed and vibrant and shining brightly between them, it was time to look back with clear eyes and remember what had been forgotten.

"Whenever you're ready, my Padawan," he said gently. "This is your time. Did Ambassador Grenik tell you about the traditions?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "I asked him to explain them twice. I wouldn't want to misuse them . . . don't want to offend their heritage."

Impulsively, Qui-Gon laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Not what I meant. I know you would never intrude on a culture or twist a rite. I just wondered if you knew that this is meant to be a time of freedom for mourners. Don't think you must follow any set pattern, but take what seems good from the traditions. Do what feels right to you. Every grief is different, and heals in its own time. The Release of Candles is meant to help that process along, not force a false expression of ritualistic reverence for death."

"Oh." Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully. "I think I will wait until it is fully dark then, Master. And . . . and I will say a few words. But I won't describe memories, or pray, or sing their favorite songs." He chuckled, very faintly and sadly. "I don't think I can, in any case."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Would you like to release them alone?"

Obi-Wan raised a hand to touch the large one that still rested on his shoulder. "No. No, I want you to be near." He looked up hesitantly. "Unless, unless you'd rather . . .?"

"It's all right, Padawan." Qui-Gon gave him a smile, as soft and gentle as he could make it. "I'm glad—honored—that you want me near."

Obi-Wan smiled back, a little wanly, and slowly sank down to sit on the wooden deck in a classic meditation pose, feet tucked under knees, back straight, eyes closed, hands laid loosely in his lap. Qui-Gon pondered for a moment, then chose to sit next to him. He watched the candles multiply on the waves, seeming to brighten as time quietly passed, brushing by like feathered wings softly parting the night. He knew it was not the flames that burned more brightly, but the darkness that grew more complete with the fading of the day, yet the illusion was welcome.

Rothis and Amora released their candle, and the elder Jedi heard the Sylelian girl softly singing a lullaby, her voice cracking at times, the melody sweet and soothing in a melancholy way. The President talked quietly, his voice pattering a continuous reminiscence of his lost wife's likes and dislikes, the way she made vuerma tart so sweet and light that it melted on the tongue, her reluctance to rise in the morning and her sleepy beauty when at last she opened her eyes. He laughed softly at times, at others seemed just short of sobbing. After a time Amora stopped singing and simply leaned against him, listening.

When the last shreds of sunlight bled from the sky, leaving only star-scattered blackness, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, surfacing from the light meditation with a long, nearly-silent sigh. He drew the two globes and candles from the folds of his tunic and assembled them, setting the candles in their holders through the small, sliding gaps in the outer spheres, pinching the oxygen capsules to set the time-release. After a moment of consideration he set the clear globe in his lap and lifted the green one to his face. So many candles floated in the waves all about that there was enough light to see, albeit it dimly, all edges and colors made soft and gray by the warm, multicolored light.

"Cerasi," the boy murmured. He took the tiny laser torch from his utility belt and lit the candle, then sealed the globe. Still he sat looking at it for a moment longer.

"I remember you, Cerasi. I remember how surprised I was the first time I saw you. A young person, my age, not a Jedi, but your passion for your cause burned as brightly as mine. You were willing to give your life for peace. You did give your life for peace. The world around you was so dark, Cerasi, so broken, but that just made your spirit stand out the more clearly. You . . . won me over. I thought nothing would ever sway me from my path as a Jedi, but you . . . you had that power. Regardless of my faults, my ignorance and stupidity and disloyalty, and what that did to me, I cannot blame you for that. I can only admire all that you accomplished."

He pulled in a deep breath, running his fingers over the green globe as it warmed in his grasp. "They say green is the color of new birth. And it's the color of your eyes. It is because of you, Cerasi, that Melida/Daan is reborn, on the path to healing. More than what I or Nield or anyone else did, it was what you said and felt and did. I wish I had done more to help you. I wish . . . I wonder what the galaxy would have been like if you had become an adult, and perhaps turned that passion to heal a broken universe as you healed a broken world. I truly believe you might have been able to do it. But even so, you did so much. I wish you could see it. Perhaps you can."

Obi-Wan leaned forward and reached through the wide gaps in the railing, gently setting the globe on the wave that seemed to surge upward to accept it from his shaking fingers. "We don't need luck, Cerasi," he whispered. "Be at peace."

For a moment he just sat, resting his forehead against the rail, gazing vacantly at the globes that drifted by. Each was unique: engraved with small images, glowing with colored lights, sputtering with sparks that managed to be serenely solemn in their playfulness. Slowly, Obi-Wan lifted the clear globe from his lap. With deliberate movements he lit the candle and sealed the sphere, and then he simply sat, staring at the white glow of the flame, bright and pure.

Qui-Gon did not move, did not speak, even as time trickled slowly by and the boy continued to stare. He knew this was hard. He was amazed by the apprentice's forgiveness, and eloquence, the peace that radiated from him even as tears tracked down his cheeks. This was Obi-Wan's time, and he was using it very well.

At last the youngster began to speak, slowly and haltingly. "This is . . . more difficult than I expected. Bruck. I . . . I remember you. But now I must . . . I must choose how to remember you. And I choose . . . I choose to remember you as a Jedi."

He paused for a moment, overcome, and then his voice strengthened, almost rang with clarity and power, though he still spoke quietly and reverently. "I remember you, Bruck, a Jedi Initiate a few months younger than me. You wanted to be a Jedi so badly. You fought hard. You trained hard. You were passionate in your desires, so passionate that . . . but I will not remember that. I will remember the Light, and . . . and I will honor it. You were filled with Light, once, and it burned brightly in you. That's why I chose a clear globe, so that there would be nothing to cloud the flame. I wish I had done more to help you. It doesn't matter what else was in you, not anymore. I choose to remember the Light."

Slowly he leaned forward, shaking harder than he had with the last one, and almost had to lower his arm to the shoulder to set the globe in the water. "Be at peace, Bruck."

He sat back with a weary sigh, hugging himself and shivering slightly. Qui-Gon saw the fatigue lacing the young features and could not blame him. That must have been exhausting.

The Master tilted his head back toward the benches that lined the cabin of the barge. "Why don't you go sit down, Padawan?" he suggested kindly. "Watch the candles floating in the sea. I think you will find the sight soothing."

Obi-Wan nodded and rose, a bit stiffly. He kept his eyes on the sea as he wandered back to the bench and sank down, slumping bonelessly. A stringed instrument began to play on one of the nearby barges, signaling that it was an hour into the ceremony. Now the Sylelians would honor their dead with music, as well as with candles and words of remembrance. It was a sweet tune, sad and lonely. Soon other instruments joined it, swelling in an outpouring of sorrow that filled Qui-Gon's spirit with light even as it reminded him of the darkness.

Still he sat by the railing, looking out at the waves. After a time, he sensed his Padawan's attention wandering, fading in and out. All to the good. The boy deserved a rest.

Qui-Gon hesitated a moment longer, then drew the ice-blue globe from his tunic and stared at it in contemplation. He had bought it on impulse the other day, while Obi-Wan spent time with Nibbi. It had struck him as an odd thing to do, and he had not allowed himself to understand why he was doing it, what it represented. Now he had to decide whether to release it, or simply hold on to the candle as a symbol of a grief he could not yet acknowledge, much less heal from.

Obi-Wan's words had struck a chord in his spirit, he realized with a slight shock. They rang still, echoing and rebounding, whispering encouragement.. Clutching it to his chest would do no one any good, and would only harm the relationship that Qui-Gon was beginning to realize was the most important in his life, the most precious, the most valuable.

This ice-blue globe was the past. The boy sitting on the bench behind him, half-aware, drooping now as sleep descended, was the future, his legacy, his message to the generations to come. There was no better time than this very moment to release this small, lone candle and all that it meant.

With great care Qui-Gon set the candle in the holder, lit it, pinched the capsule, and sealed the globe. He gazed for a moment longer at the bright little flame that bathed his face in azure radiation, but he already knew what he needed to say. Obi-Wan had shown him the way.

"Xanatos. I remember you, Xanatos. And I will choose, in this moment and ever after, to remember you as a Jedi. The Light burned brightly in you, my Padawan. You would have been a great Knight. I wish I had done more to help you. There are many regrets, many things I could say, but I choose to leave those be. I remember and honor the Light in you, and only the Light. Be at peace, my Padawan, my son."

Tenderly, he gave the candle to the ocean. Then he settled into a meditative pose, gazing over the water, listening to the slow dirge, the gentle rhythm of the clashing waves. He watched the candles shining against the sea.