Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 11: Consultation
Qui-Gon remained sitting there by the rail, watching the sea, until the first candles began to gutter and flicker out. Their time here was almost ended. It had been cleansing, healing, and he did not begrudge a single moment.
The Jedi Master stood, eyes still gazing unfocused out across the waves. The sea seemed to mirror the sky, countless candles like twinkling stars against the sky of dark water. It was a shame that the light had to die, succumbing at last to the effects of time and burning. Then again, Qui-Gon knew that nothing lasted forever. Each had a time allotted by the Force, lived and then ended. That was why living in the moment was so very important, for no moment lasted, and each was precious.
In a way, he mused, every sentient life was a candle shining in the dark. We are given this length of wax to burn, so much and no more. Some have brighter flames or more colorful personalities, but all are priceless and unique. I wonder how the Council would respond to this insight, if told them that all Jedi are no more than candles against the sea?
He smiled and made his way back to the bench where Obi-Wan now slept, head lolling against the wooden slat, arms crossed loosely across his narrow chest. Qui-Gon sat next to him, still savoring the sight of the candles as the cloud of light slowly began to diminish. The barge tipped slightly as the waves swelled, and Obi-Wan body shifted bonelessly with the movement, brushing Qui-Gon's arm momentarily, then sliding a few centimeters back. Obi-Wan sighed sleepily and hugged himself tighter, face turning away, as if his dreaming mind wanted to respect Qui-Gon's privacy and not intrude upon his grief, just as the boy had done awake.
Qui-Gon looked at him with a slight frown. The Padawan's arm had been chilly against his, and even now the boy shivered minutely in the depths of the ocean night. It had not occurred to him before this moment that it was getting rather cool out here, but Obi-Wan had always been more sensitive to the cold than he. The boy's robe lay loosely around him—perhaps he had fallen asleep before the temperature began to tell.
The Master hesitated for a moment, then reached over and adjusted the folds of brown cloth around the slim body of his Padawan, drawing them close and tight. He wrapped an arm around shoulders that suddenly seemed small and slight in the circle of his broad arm and pulled the boy against his side, holding him still in the shifting of the waves. Was it his imagination, or did Obi-Wan actually seem to melt into the half-embrace, leaning more heavily against the man's side as he realized he was welcome there?
Qui-Gon smiled gently down at the boy, wondering when he had become so important to this sour old Jedi Master who used to prefer solitude. He wondered when it became so imperative that he see that brilliant smile every day, that those blue-green eyes should light with childlike pleasure in simple joys, that the young body should be warm and sheltered and at ease as much as was possible on their often dark and hard path of life, and the pure spirit should be comfortable and happy.
He didn't know quite how and when it had happened, but somehow those goals had become first in his heart, no matter how duty and calling demanded his full attention. It was foolish, he knew, to attach so much of his own happiness to that of another. A Jedi could not afford to depend on anything but the Force, and part of him drew away from these unaccustomed sensations, no matter how pleasant they were. But a louder, more insistent part of his spirit reveled in this newfound joy, the filling of places long cold and empty, dry with dust and crusted with the salt of old tears.
More than one kind of cleansing had occurred tonight, he realized. Yes, it had been good for them both. The past had been honored and released, making room for the future. It was good to set aside their roles as Jedi for one night and be merely a man and a boy, healing from old wounds, separate, yet together in the most fundamental way.
Qui-Gon sensed a presence and looked up, drawn out of his musings just in time to see a dim figure sit on his left side. "Greetings, Mr. President," he said softly. "My heart is with you on this night of grief."
Rothis Hindegar nodded gravely at the traditional salutation. "And mine is with you, on into the morrow," he replied. "We are honored that two Jedi would take part in our small, provincial rite."
"We were honored to be allowed to join you," Qui-Gon said, though a part of him sorrowed at his error, that the cloak of a Jedi could not truly be set aside even for a single night. It was too much what they were, he supposed, wrapping every fiber of the being. "My apprentice and I both have suffered loss in the past few months, and this was a most beautiful and reverent way to honor that. How are you and your daughter? Amora seemed to take it very hard."
He was prepared to press this issue, aware of Obi-Wan's perception that something was not right with the girl, and his own instinct of a darkness clouding her presence in the Living Force. It was arrogant of them to try to step in at this late date, perhaps, but they could not pass by suffering, be it physical or emotional, while there was any chance of helping.
But the president surprised him. He heaved a deep sigh and studied the Jedi closely in the dim light. "Amora . . . Amora is not doing well, Master Jinn. It has been nearly a full year since my wife died, and Amora still grieves. I fear that something deeper is wrong. But she will not speak of it, not to me, not her friends, not to the grief counselor I took her to a few moon-cycles ago."
Qui-Gon nodded, his gaze shifting to the dying candles. "Obi-Wan and I have both sensed something amiss in her. I meant to say something to you."
"You are Jedi. You have seen much of the galaxy and no doubt encountered many troubles, political and personal. Tell me, do you have any idea of what else I can do for her?"
The hope in Hindegar's voice made Qui-Gon wish that he could give him a simple answer, clear everything with a few words. This was a good man—he suffered because he saw suffering in his daughter. Qui-Gon wanted very much to alleviate that.
Unfortunately, nothing was simple. The Jedi Master sighed. "I can only repeat what you already know. Somehow, you must convince Amora to open up and talk to you about what is troubling her." And who am I to offer such advice? he wondered suddenly. I've known for some time that something is troubling my apprentice, and I've made no move to discover what it is. How dare I presume to counsel this man when I cannot communicate with my own teenage charge?
But the president nodded slowly, as if the Jedi offered sage wisdom instead of the obvious observation it was. "Do you have any idea of how I can go about doing that?"
"It is necessary that you have a deep relationship, that you spend time together and trust each other. She needs to feel safe and secure with you." Even as he spoke, he wondered, evaluating his relations with his Padawan. Did they have that? "From what I have seen, you and Amora do have that. I sense only peace from her where you are concerned."
Hindegar's shoulders sagged. "Then what can I do differently? Something must be done."
It was like a flare of light across Qui-Gon's mind, the sudden realization that their two situations were different. Obi-Wan was a strong and compassionate young man, working tirelessly to act as a Jedi should, to better the lives of all around him. Amora, by contrast, had shut herself away. Perhaps that was the answer.
And once again, Obi-Wan had shown him the way. The same sort of trick that had worked on Nibbi might very well be the key to unlocking Amora's hidden self.
Qui-Gon sat a little straighter, taking care not to disturb the boy who slept against his side. "It appears the Amora has fallen into depression. She is isolating herself, correct? There are ways to overcome such sorrow. The first step is stop the isolation. She needs to respond to others' invitations to be a part of life. The second step would be for her to seek out such opportunities. And the third would be for her to try to help others.
"I can understand that you would not want to force Amora into anything, but perhaps there is a way we can prompt this process to begin?"
President Hindegar smiled, sitting up straighter even as the Jedi had, hope bright his eyes. "I am eager to hear your suggestions."
X
At first Obi-Wan's dreams were strange and unsettling. The ground beneath his feet was unstable, shifting in the wind that blew frost into his bones. Broken images flashed by his mind's eye: green eyes, pale hair, rushing water, a dirty street. He felt his breath and heart quicken, and though he did not know why he was afraid and could not control his body's reactions, he was ashamed of this baseless fear.
Then the wind changed. Though it still blew against his face, it had softened and warmed. The hiss of the surf in his ears became rhythmic, deep, even comforting. Though the surface he stood on still shifted, he felt sturdy and balanced, his stance secure.
Eventually he was aware of being carried, his body unresponsive and the movement not of his own volition. Normally this would have disturbed him, but somehow it felt right and natural. He was safe. All was well with the galaxy.
Still, Obi-Wan was curious. He pushed toward a groggy awareness, though he allowed his body to remain loose and limp and did not open his eyes.
It was Qui-Gon. His master, the wise, mighty Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, was carrying him. Obi-Wan heard the deep, steady thud of the man's heart vibrating through the bones of his face, felt the warmth of the broad chest sheltering him from the ocean chill, the strong arms holding him secure against that warmth. There was even a slight scent this near to the mighty Jedi, a hint of spice that laced the sharpness of cool air in the boy's nostrils.
His first instinct was to be embarrassed. How childish, to fall asleep and force his teacher to carry him like a baby. Not the best way to go about trying to impress his stoic master, being so weak, needing to be coddled. He was just proving how useless he was as a Jedi.
But the second instinct, following so quickly and strongly on the heels of the first that it completely overwhelmed it, was to enjoy this. This felt good—no, it felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. This was the way a parent would carry a child, wrapped firm and close in gentle arms. While Obi-Wan did not want to be seen as a child, he could not help but revel in this new sensation.
He knew it was an illusion. Qui-Gon would never see him as anything but a student, a burden laid on him by the Force. Again the embarrassment rose, and he quelled it, and the guilt that came for doing so. Obi-Wan let his mind slide back into a deeper sleep, once again refusing to acknowledge his confused emotions. He was getting rather good at that.
This feeling of warmth and security would never be a reality. But for now, he could pretend.