A/N: I'll be gone until the thirteenth, first at my great-grandpa's funeral, then counseling at a junior high girls' camp, so I thought I'd go ahead and post this chapter. Glad you like it so far! It's about to get a lot more interesting . . .

Chapter 2: Cast Away

At first Qui-Gon thought he was looking at a Master-Padawan team, but then he noticed that the boy didn't have a braid. He was still an initiate. Also, the older Jedi didn't have the look of Master about him—Qui-Gon felt no sense of protectiveness for the boy, no affection or pride, as he imagined all Masters had for their apprentices, as Dooku had had for him even though Qui-Gon was not a Jedi. From the pale-eyed young man Qui-Gon sensed . . . regret. Regret, pain, stubbornness . . . but nothing of a Jedi Master with a young Padawan.

For the boy was very young indeed. After the first, cursory glance, Qui-Gon found his eyes straying often to the youngster, as the adult Jedi talked to the Agri-Corps workers. The boy looked tired, nigh exhausted, as if he was just recovering from injury or illness. And it was more than a physical weariness . . . this weariness seemed to seep into the boy's bones, laying hold to spiritual and emotional depths that it had no right to touch. It emanated from the boy in turgid waves, an utter despair that Qui-Gon shuddered at.

None of this showed in the boy's features and stance, save for the shadows of weariness blotted beneath his eyes. He held himself straight, dignified, the somewhat foul Bandomeer breeze lifting reddish-brown locks off his smooth forehead. He would be a very appealing child, if his face was not so solemn and worn.

His eyes should be brighter, Qui-Gon thought, irrationally and without evidence. Those eyes ought to be always shining with life and vigor, brilliant, lit from within. They are not meant to sit so dully there, as if they have no purpose but as holes to let in the sights of the world. The boy's soul should be looking out of them, eager to see and experience life. Something has gone awry for this lad.

The boy glanced up for a moment, met Qui-Gon's gaze through the crowd. He quickly looked away again.

"Thank you for bringing the supplies, Knight Xanatos," Heim Shilbey, the Agri-Corps supervisor, said warmly. "We understand that you had a rough trip from Coruscant."

The pale-eyed man, Xanatos, nodded wearily. "Very rough, yes. And your new recruit from the Temple acquitted himself well." Briefly the long-fingered hand alighted on the boy's shoulder, and the young one's gaze flicked up to the Knight's face, then swiftly away. "Obi-Wan Kenobi will be a credit to your operations here."

"I don't doubt it." Heim grinned, giving the boy a rough pat on the arm. "Tangled with a few Togorians, did you?"

The boy—Obi-Wan Kenobi—merely nodded. Qui-Gon felt a sudden surging desire to hear the whole story behind that. Perhaps the youngster's fatigue could be attributed to a battle with Togorian pirates; perhaps the dullness in his gaze was simply from the shock of a harsh introduction to the galaxy after sheltered Temple life. But somehow, Qui-Gon didn't think so.

"Well, let's get to work on these supplies, shall we?"

Qui-Gon moved forward with the others, and they began off-loading bags and crates from the shuttle into the Agri-Corps grav truck. Xanatos took the boy Obi-Wan aside, speaking quietly to him. Jinn should not have been able to hear the nearly-silent conversation, especially occupied as he was, but one of the many hidden talents he harbored from Knight Dooku's unofficial tutoring was an ability to focus the senses to a startling degree. If he weren't experiencing it himself, Qui-Gon would not believe that a human could see so sharply or hear so clearly, but he could.

"You will focus on your mission," Xanatos said firmly. "It is your last mission. It will take you through the rest of your life."

"To be a farmer . . ." Obi-Wan murmured.

Hello! Farming is good for the soul! Qui-Gon thought. But that wasn't the way Obi-Wan saw it. The despair in the boy sharpened, seemed almost to weep for untasted delights now forever denied him.

"To be a cultivator of life," Xanatos interrupted. "To feed the hungry. To bring hope to those who have none. It is a noble calling."

Obi-Wan's despair had made him reckless. "But it isn't my calling! Please, Knight Xanatos, if you'd just . . ."

"No." Xanatos paused to pull in a deep breath. "I know you believe that you are meant to be a knight, Obi-Wan. But if that were so, the Force would have brought a master to you."

A brief pause, full of flurried emotion swiftly hidden. Qui-Gon was in the shuttle for the moment, so he could not see the pair, but he could imagine the young hands spread in supplication, the older ones raised in negation.

Obi-Wan sighed. "I will not ask again."

"Good." The older voice had softened slightly. "I cannot train you. We are . . . too much alike. I see myself in you. And that . . . frightens me."

"I will not turn."

Brave words, strongly spoken, Qui-Gon thought wonderingly. The boy's despair had not yet destroyed that conviction. He truly believed that statement with all of his heart.

"And I did not turn," Xanatos said, almost gently. "But it was a near thing. Too near. I . . . I cannot risk it. I'm sorry. It's not you, please believe that."

Again the boy's despair sharpened and increased, all but overwhelming Qui-Gon with its intensity. He thought he caught an echo of Obi-Wan's thoughts, faint and distant and somehow fragile, formed of thin ice sculpture that would shatter at a touch. If that's true, why did no one choose me? Why did every master pass me by? It must be something in me that drove them away!

Now the voice of Xanatos was gentle. "You will do much good in the Agri-Corps, Obi-Wan. Focus on that. Don't look to the past—it will only hurt you."

Resignation now, taut, quiet. "Thank you, Knight Xanatos. I will."

Qui-Gon ached—no one so young should speak in such a way. It seemed unbearably cruel, that this boy should work his entire life for a single goal only to have it snatched away at the eleventh hour. Qui-Gon did not know life in the Temple, had only gathered parts of it from descriptions and reminisces, but he could imagine. And he could feel it in this child, discarded for reasons he could not control, nor even influence much.

Jinn was outside now, waiting in line to deposit his latest armload in the grav truck, and he saw Xanatos place a hand on the boy's shoulder. It was not truly a friendly gesture, not offered in comfort or reassurance, and Obi-Wan obviously gathered none from the cool touch. It seemed like a last push, casting the youngster away to fare as best he could in this new and hostile world.

Qui-Gon felt many urges tugging on him, like confused currents in a troubled sea, none of them firm or even coherent. He could get no fix on them, could not find direction for how he ought to respond to this new ache. Uncharacteristically, he faltered.

With so many hands bent to the task, the grav truck was soon loaded. Qui-Gon almost stepped forward then, but Obi-Wan Kenobi clambered into the cab, his eyes downcast. Heim Shilbey shook hands with Xanatos, then gave Qui-Gon and BonMi the Meerian farewell, hands extended with the palms up, then turned downward. Then the Agri-Corps truck departed.

Xanatos made arrangements with BonMi for the repair of his shuttle, then disappeared onboard, apparently to a bunk-room there. Qui-Gon and the Meerian gave each other a shrug, as if to say, Offworlders. Whatcha gonna do?

With a soft sigh, Qui-Gon turned back to the city. As always, he would wander, stopping to chat here and there, to play with a street child, to help an overburdened merchant with his goods, to watch a family interact and dream of the gift growing in his wife's belly. Swiftly enough the day would pass, as it always did, and soon he would be able to discuss these strange new sensations with Julune.

X

"I thought I heard the boy's thoughts. His thoughts! Is that even possible?"

Julune shook her head, the side of her mouth twisting upward. "You would know better than I. Did you ever experience such with the Knight who taught you?"

Qui-Gon shook his head thoughtfully, leaning back into lumpy cushions of the couch in their temporary home. "We had a bit of a connection, just enough that he was able to help me learn the meditation exercises by showing me. Knight Dooku said that if we were truly Master and Padawan, the connection would be much stronger, to the point that we would always be aware of each other's feelings unless we deliberately blocked them out."

She snuggled against his arm, nuzzling her nose against his solid bicep. "Could you have formed such a connection spontaneously?"

"I don't know." Qui-Gon frowned, lowering the datapad he'd been reading into his lap as his eyes lost focus. "I feel that I ought to find out, though."

"Then do." Julune settled her shoulders back against the couch, running her fingers over the screen of his datapad. "Read to us, big papa?"

Qui-Gon felt a big, goofy grin spread over his face. This was fun. He was a little bit shy about it, as it seemed rather silly, but as she'd asked for it . . .

Carefully he lay down, his long legs dangling over the arm of the couch, and nestled his cheek against the swell of her abdomen, holding the datapad before his face. "Comfortable?"

He felt Julune's fingers carding through his hair, and the gentle quaking of her laughter. "Extremely."

Qui-Gon began to read, pitching his voice to be heard both by his wife and child. He rather hoped they made this a part of their evening routine. Family togetherness. The best thing in the galaxy.