A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in a long time…but DRL hit me bad. Hugs to everyone who reviewed…I'll write back in the next post, I promise. In the meantime, here's the next instalment.

IX

Time seemed to come to a stand-still. For a few muted seconds, the galaxy appeared to have come to a grinding halt: Obi-wan, standing on the stone platform, nearest to the protection offered by the orange awning, King Zor and Cra slightly further away from him—and last of all, Qui-Gon, standing at the edge, one hand resting on his hip, eye-brows raised in open challenge.

/Master, do but consider what you're embarking on. /

/I have considered enough, padawan mine, and have made my decision. It is up to you, now, to assist me in carrying it out./

/A public exhibition in front of Scalti? Forgive me for speaking so, but I believe this is insane. /

/Believe what you will. But remember that you are bound by the rules. My rules, at the moment./

/You deliberately misled the King!/

Qui-Gon shook his head almost imperceptibly, his chestnut mane brushing his collar slightly. /I will do what I must./

A strange other-worldly feeling settled on the padawan—as though the worlds he knew had suddenly chosen to behave in a completely irrational manner. What bothered him even further was the fact that…far from being disturbed by this extraordinary change of events, a part of him—a miniscule part, certainly—was actually beginning to relish it. Insane. There had to be a reason—unconventional Qui-Gon might be, but he was also well-known for achieving results with his methods. Spectacularly successful results, one could say. Results that…

Abruptly, he understood. With Scaltia's setting sun throwing its golden rays onto the arena, Obi-Wan raised his head. Oh yes…his master was seeking to make him understand. Proposing a solution to the confusion that had been corroding his mind for weeks. His lips curved in a smile, even as he felt the same, curious weakness stealing into his joints. I know what he seeks…but I cannot give it.

/The longer you hesitate, Obi-Wan, the worse it becomes./

/I have the option of refusing to fight./

/Yes. In which case you will have earned the undying scorn of all present here./

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. /A Jedi cares not for such things./

/Indeed. There speaks T'shar's student. I concede, here and now, that you know far more about the Jedi ways than any living Jedi Master in the galaxy./

The words were delivered with a sting—and Obi-Wan flinched. That was not what he had meant. He had meant to draw on T'shar's words…and then, he realized that more than one meaning could be assigned to his statement. One, that he undoubtedly had assimilated the Archivist's words—the other was that his own master's teachings meant little to him. His eyes widened. Was that what Qui-Gon thought? Force, no…

But there was no time to waste. The conversation between them had taken no more than a few seconds…and Qui-Gon had already begun to make preparations for battle. The master was looking at him quizzically, as though completely and intimately aware of the mental conflict he was going through—knowing Qui-Gon, he probably was.

Blast.

A wave of embarrassment swept through the padawan. His master was punishing him—making a mockery of him, although well aware of his weaknesses. This was not the time, nor the place…

In front of him, Qui-Gon had activated his weapon—the light-sabre hissed into existence with a prolonged hiss—a sound he had both grown to admire and respect, it seemed, in another life-time. Below them, the Scaltian mass of humanity heaved a deep, reverent sigh—the Jedi weapon was little more than a thing of legend…this would be, for many, the only real opportunity to see it in use.

The green blade swung lazily in front of Obi-Wan's eyes, as though inviting him to learn; to absorb what he had had no hesitation in learning, in other times and at other places. Of power, safety, and beauty; of the countless times this blade had been used to save weaklings—defenceless civilians caught in the middle of wars they knew nothing of; to save Twi'leks, Bothans, Ithians, and the Force knew how many other beings, both sentient and otherwise…

T'shar mocked him.

…to kill, maim, and cut down. To use more Force than is thought necessary.

To save. To defend. To drive away those who seek to murder with abandon.

…to chop; wound and injure—to use even when completely unnecessary.

A tool of defence.

…an excuse to slaughter.

Ten paces away from him, Qui-Gon raised his sabre in a mock-salute. /Are you done with your internal conflict yet, padawan mine?/

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, anger spiking up in him—an anger that should not exist in the first place; that he had no business permitting to exist. The words were cruel; calculated to provoke him, he knew. Meant to make him…

Abruptly, without giving pause to think any more, he slid his fingers towards his own weapon, hooked into his belt—despite his lately acquired aversion to violence and light-sabres, long years of habit had kicked in, and he had clipped it on despite all misgivings. His fingers gripped the hilt with no hesitation whatsoever—he noted this with some surprise—and flicked the activation switch twice. The blue blade hissed into reassuring existence.

He shrugged out of his cloak in a leisurely manner, aware of the crowd's second, even more breathless reaction to his weapon, and almost smiled. They would be watching something not many citizens were privileges to watch, en masse—a Jedi master and his apprentice, sparring towards the Force alone knew what end.

Towards his left, he sensed, rather than saw King Zor's face break into a beatific smile—did the monarch even know the ramifications of what was about to occur?—and nod in approval. He watched Qui-Gon bow gracefully to the King; a move which he mirrored. Moving away from King Zor, Obi-Wan raised his own blade in front of his face in one easy sweep—a creditable manoeuvre in achieving the same sarcastic effect Qui-Gon had, he hoped.

Master and padawan stood facing each other for what appeared to be a full minute—until Qui-Gon raised his arm and threw the blue necklet into the air...and it flew past the steps, past the edge of the arena, almost into the centre of it, where it lay glinting in the evening light.

"Claim it—if you can."

Obi-Wan threw a brief look up at the heavens, gripped his light-sabre with what appeared to be slippery hands, ignored a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and advanced.

Before he could go two paces, however, his master had leapt forward, bringing his sabre down on his head—it took Obi-Wan every ounce of self-preservation he had mastered, to raise his sabre and stop the swing. The sabres clashed in one blinding flash of white light, and Obi-Wan felt a bone–jarring shudder go through his arms as he felt the sheer weight behind the blow.

He looked up in undisguised alarm at Qui-Gon through the sabres locked—and saw that the eyes were now midnight-blue—intense, and completely focussing on the moment. The master had, it appeared, decided to go on the offensive. Qui-Gon very rarely took the initiative in the field, always acting as per the tacit Jedi principle about waiting for battle to come to him, rather than seek it out. An admirable trait—but one that was not to be used, this time.

Force, I can't match his power, was his last, coherent thought before he raised his sabre to deflect another blow that aimed for his left shoulder. He managed to thwart the blade—again, barely in time.

Must get away, was a brief impulse that flashed through his mind as he abruptly turned away, using the Force to literally swirl out from under Qui-Gon, to somersault high into the air, landing half-way through the steps surrounding the arena. Gasps from among the audience reached him—he reflected, wryly, that they were about to receive their first real exhibition of true Jedi powers. Assuming I survive that long.

A second's reprieve was allowed him as he wiped sweating palms on his tunic, as Qui-Gon followed him along the steps. Before the master could lash out the padawan had leapt up again, his body instinctively choosing the easiest and most flexible forms of escape. This time, he landed on the dusty ground of the arena. And noted, through the corner of his eyes, that it was of truly magnificent proportions.

Qui-Gon could not have picked a more convenient venue.

He sensed the audience automatically crane their heads along the barricade that separated them from the wide expanse in between, and flipped himself in time to evade another blow. Feeling the heat from Qui-Gon's blade almost scorch his ears—Qui-Gon's blade was calibrated for a much higher intensity than normal Jedi weaponry—he rolled away from his mentor, cautiously inching his way towards where the necklet lay.

He turned around, blade in hand, and watched Qui-Gon's eyes narrow. He had been well-coached by his teacher in such tactics, and smiled slightly. Obi-Wan could flip and twist and roll around for hours together; his small body was much more adapted to such tactics, and there was little Qui-Gon would do about it. Victory—of sorts.

That, of course, was before he twisted himself upright—and rammed into a sheer wall of Force that had no business existing in the middle of the arena.

Blast the sith hells of Corellia, was his first vicious thought as he barrelled full-tilt into the power-surge, and almost fell back, losing his light-sabre in the process. Qui-Gon had anticipated his strategy minutes ahead of himself, and had accomplished what he himself would have done, were he in his master's position—barricaded him from approaching the entire arena, and fencing him within a small part of it. The advantage of this was that Qui-Gon, despite his formidable Force prowess, could not hope to hold it forever.

The disadvantage was that he could probably hold it for a time enough to force Obi-Wan into submission.

He raised himself slowly, leaning on one elbow, staring at his mentor as Qui-Gon made his leisurely way towards him, green blade held now at a much easier stance. He knows I can't do much, was Obi-Wan's bitter thought. I'm defeated almost before we started.

As the Jedi master approached, it struck him that Qui-Gon's face did not really reflect any pleasure at this success. No teacher worth the title would take any delight in such a performance.

The Scaltian audience had gone completely silent.

Qui-Gon stopped a few feet away from his student, blue eyes looking at him in what appeared to be…revulsion? Obi-Wan blinked.

"Archivist T'shar would be pleased," observed the master, and Obi-Wan felt slightly sick. "Her able pupil has now accomplished a level of total, and complete inadequacy." He cocked his head, taking in Obi-Wan's position.

Obi-Wan let his eyes rest on the only thing that met his eyes from this angle—Qui-Gon's boots. Yes. T'shar would be pleased. And I have refused to raise my sabre other than for defence tactics.

Why, then, did he feel so empty?

Above him, he saw Qui-Gon shake his head, as though conducting a conversation within himself. "Xanatos was undoubtedly the better swordsman."

A vibro-blade twisted itself into Obi-Wan's stomach. What?

He looked up at his master, eyes widened in disbelief; brows twisted in complete horror. "What?" he whispered.

"One of the ablest—and best. A pleasure to teach. An honour to watch." Qui-Gon's eyes flicked carelessly over the padawan, his manner conveying exactly what he thought of the present one.

They were words Obi-Wan had never hoped to hear from Qui-Gon—words he had always dreaded hearing during the first few years of his apprenticeship; words which he had thought, with confidence, that he would never hear again. They drove into him with all the brutal ferocity of a sand-cat; he swallowed resolutely, as he swallowed the insult.

His brain, it occured to Obi-Wan, had stopped functioning, and now seemed incapable of any kind of rational thought process. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

This was not happening. Xanatos was gone, after causing endless pain and misery to those he loved. One with the Force. The fallen Jedi no longer among those that lived.

And yet, Qui-Gon valued his previous padawan more.

A hitherto unknown surge of anger washed through him. Qui-Gon had no right. No right, to talk of him this way—to dismiss him so summarily; to treat him as though he were a clod of dirt from Tatooine. He was a warrior, trained in the arts of a Jedi; taught, made to learn, and immersed in martial arts ever since he had been able to speak. He was no novice. He could defeat a master, if he chose.

His own master.

He gritted his teeth. He would not betray Qui-Gon, as Xanatos had done—he would not try to stick a virtual vibro-shiv in his back; or injure an unsuspecting opponent from behind—instead, he would prove his merit honourably; prove that he was the equal—nay, better than Xanatos. The best of those trained by Qui-Gon Jinn, master duellist, unequalled in the known galaxy in sabre tactics.

Almost involuntarily his eyes narrowed; palms closed into fists. They don't feel wet anymore. A faint buzzing sound, not unlike the oceans of Ta'akin wended its way through his brain…it was the sign that he had been waiting for, unconsciously; a sign that his body was preparing itself. A moment later, he raised his head, still half-lying on the ground.

First things first.

"Wait," he murmured.

Qui-Gon stopped and turned, his eyes uninterested. "Yes, padawan mine?" The words were an insult.

Obi-Wan's lips curved into a bloodless smile. "I have a gift, if you will," he spoke. Abruptly, he flung his palm out…

…and a fist-full of fine, Scaltian sand found an easy target in Qui-Gon's face.

Behind him, Obi-Wan felt a rush of air—and it was what he had been waiting for. The Force-Wall built by Qui-Gon had abruptly crumbled into nothing, with the master's momentary distraction. Depending on the padawan's next move, it might re-build itself...or would stay in a rumpled mess.

Obi-Wan had decided what he would do, however. In a Force-aided flash, he stood up, calling his light-sabre to him in one easy sweep. "We have unfinished business, my master." He put as much emphasis on the last two words as he could, and had the satisfaction of seeing Qui-Gon's expression change.

The master's eyes raked over Obi-Wan's face, noting every change, every shift in expression, every tiny crease that would be evidence of the transformation taken place.

The change was apparent at once—gone were the lines of exhaustion, the dejected expression—and most of all…the eyes were no longer a deep, cloudy grey. Instead, they had now resolved into a deep, crystalline blue-green…the colour of enthusiasm. The colour of pride, of joy and of calm. Of eagerness, of victory. Of justice and peace, of a hard day's work well done.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, the warrior.

"Do we, now?" Qui-Gon enquired mildly, his eyes belying what he felt in his heart of hearts.

"Very much so."

"Indeed."

Obi-Wan raised his sabre in an exact replica of the mock-salute that Qui-Gon had given him, minutes ago. "On guard, revered master mine."

With that, he gathered himself, and sprang in an easy leap towards Qui-Gon.

Tbc…