A/N: If this is the first chapter you've seen from me for a while, you've missed the previous update because of FFN's alert problem these past couple weeks! Author and story alerts have just been fixed after a nearly two-week period where they weren't going out. So go back and read the rest of Ezhno and Quinlan's adventures! Not to mention, that chapter lays some important groundwork for the next chapter of The Silent Song.

This particular chapter here happens the day right after that lovely family dinner at the end of chapter 24 of The Silent Song, when Feemor told Huei that he had a new master.


Fern-potatoes and Caf


Feemor Ner'iah prefers to wake at the lovely hour of seven-thirty antemeridian – not so awfully, mind-numbingly early as his former master used to do (take that, Qui-Gon Jinn) but not so late as to truly qualify as laziness. It has been his habit since he reached knighthood, and it is not one he will break simply because he has a new padawan.

The previous evening's helping of stickli-root nerf stew had settled nicely into his stomach, so he had thought nothing of carrying his new, slumbering padawan back to quarters, and tucking the young Nautolan into the previously empty chamber beside his own. And then he had gotten himself a nightcap, because stars did he need one after a day like that and turned in for the night.

But on this day, Feemor Ner'iah wakes to the scent of fern-potato pancakes.

He stares at the ceiling of his sleeping chamber and frowns for a long moment. He does remember placing fern potatoes in his conservator unit two days ago, but as to why they suddenly seem to have transformed into pancakes, he cannot fathom.

The sweet-spicy smell of well-grilled fern-potatoes lingers as he follows logic to the only obvious conclusion.

Feemor rolls off his sleep-couch and pads out to the short hallway. He halts where the hallway opens into the wider part of the apartment, and stares at the kitchen.

"You made breakfast," Feemor says, slowly.

Huei Tori raises his head sharply, startled. His navy-blue headtresses swing against the leather strap holding them back as he widens his eyes instinctively. His eyelids shudder for a moment, and then lower, flicking once over scarred, silver-white eyes.

Feemor presses his lips together. It is as expected. His new padawan is as of yet still unused to his new sightlessness, and there are …things…they will need to discuss. Especially with the healers–

Blast. I've forgotten to get that medical report from the healers.

He becomes aware that Huei is grasping the plate of steaming potato-pancakes so hard that the knuckles separating his finger-webs have faded to a lighter blue.

Oh.

"Fern-potato pancakes?" Feemor says lightly, pulling out a chair with a prominent screech and settling into it.

Some of the tension leaves the Nautolan boy's shoulders. Some. Not much.

"I searched through your conservator unit upon waking at my customary hour," Huei enunciates, clearly. "This was…the only food product I could be reasonably sure I identified correctly, and was not too challenging to cook without…visual input."

Feemor watches him swallow once, painfully.

"Let's sample the fruit of your labours, then," Feemor says, with a hint of dry humour in his voice that he hopes communicates well. He takes the plate carefully, and presses a fork into Huei's hand as he sets the plate down with a deliberate tap of ceramplast against tabletop.

Feemor takes a bite.

And blinks.

"Stars," he mutters. "That's…better than some of the things I've had at diplomatic dinners."

Huei's silver-freckled cheeks flush deeper blue at the words, and the tension drops from his shoulders completely. He feels for the plate-rim with one hand and digs at the edge of a potato-pancake with the fork in the other. "Is the piece secure?"

"Yes."

The Nautolan boy frowns, though, when he samples it.

"Too much Bothan pepper," he murmurs. "Forgive me – the container you have must have larger openings than the one I was used to."

"Huei," Feemor says, suddenly.

"Yes, Master Ner'iah?" Huei replies, immediately. "I mean – Master." The tip of one white tooth appears as he gnaws at his lower lip.

"Call me whatever you like," Feemor says. "Within reason, of course. But that's not the point. The point is you made breakfast."

"Was I not supposed to?" Navy brows draw together in a worried frown. "I'm sorry if I–"

"No, that's not it. Just," – Feemor puts down his fork and puts a hand over Huei's wrist – "you made breakfast."

"Yes." Huei is losing that expression of contrite worry now, and one that reads are-you-fully-sane is slowly beginning to replace it.

"You made breakfast without any visual input at all," the older Jedi emphasises. "In an apartment you are unfamiliar with, with ingredients you could not be sure of, and without any aid whatsoever."

"You have a press-grill with an automatic timer," Huei protests, wrist twitching in Feemor's grasp. "I identified the other simple ingredients I needed by scent and taste. I know how to use a knife well enough not to need to see it."

"You're actually trying to make excuses for your incredible ability to adapt," Feemor says incredulously, staring at his new padawan.

Huei's head-tresses flicker sharply at the praise. "I don't understand."

"What don't you don't understand?"

"My performance is unsatisfactory."

"How so?" Feemor gapes.

"The pancakes were imperfectly seasoned. I misjudged the time you would awake. I am unsure as to the extent of the mess, but I believe I may have spilt some Rikknit eggs during their preparation."

Feemor stares at him for a long moment. He can already feel the beginnings of a headache start up behind his eyes.

"Right," Feemor says quietly, letting go of Huei's wrist to rub at his own unshaved chin. "I need caf."

"If you tell me where you keep it I'm sure I can–"

"No. You're sitting down. I'm getting my own caf. You want a cup?"

"I–" Huei pauses. "Yes. Please."

"Okay, I'm going to lead you to the sofa. There's a low table at your knee level about a half-metre in front of it, so mind your shins."

"Thank you."

Huei is very quiet and very composed as he is guided to the sofa and told to sit. This he follows to the syllable, back straight, hands folded in his lap, sightless eyes boring a hole into the opposite wall.

Feemor takes note of this and resists the urge to throw his hands into the air. The rustle of fabric might be a giveaway.

He makes as much noise as possible as he brews up two cups of caf, to cover up the mutterings under his breath.

"Here," Feemor says as he slides a cup of caf with a saucer into Huei's hands. "Be careful. It's hot."

"Thank you, Master," Huei intones.

Feemor settles into the sofa opposite and places his own caf onto the coffee table. He urge to lean back and massage his temples is overwhelming, but he resists the temptation with aplomb.

"Let's go over this step-by-step," he begins, once Huei has taken a cautious sip of caf and has felt for the table to put down the saucer. "Firstly: what made you think you needed to make breakfast in the first place?"

Huei's eyelids flutter. "It is part of my daily duties."

"As Master Dooku's padawan?"

"Yes."

"What did these daily duties comprise of?"

"I would wake an hour before Master Dooku did, to make breakfast. After the meal I would clean up, then go to classes. When classes finished for the day I would then return and clean the apartment. Then I would cook supper. After supper was done, we would eat and I would wash up afterwards. The remainder of the evening was left empty for my assignments. The only variation to this would be if something required repairing. Then I would do so, before turning to my own studies."

Feemor feels something heavy and slimy slither into his chest. "Master Dooku never undertook any of these tasks himself?"

Huei's lips open slightly in suprise. "No. These are the required duties of a padawan."

Feemor opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Master?" Huei ventures, as the silence lengthens.

"No."

"What?"

"No," Feemor says, vehemently. "Those are most definitely not the required duties of a padawan."

"Oh." Huei relaxes a little out of his ramrod-straight posture. "How so?"

Feemor takes another long gulp of caf. "I'm going to need a moment."

"Of course, Master."

"Just…stars. Stars and galaxies. Sith-spawned Kessel death-pits. He might be my grandmaster, but this…"

"…Master?"

Feemor puts down his cup with a thunk. "Right. Forget what Master Dooku said to you about a padawan's duties. Between you and me, that's a load of bantha turd."

"Bantha…turd?" Huei's lips form incompletely around the word, like the phrase is unnatural to him.

"I used nicer words this time."

"Oh."

"Okay, let's lay down some ground rules about this apprenticeship."

"Yes, Master," Huei says, straightening his back automatically.

Feemor catches the movement and suppresses a sigh. "Firstly, you're not obligated to make me breakfast every day. I appreciate the effort, and you've all the makings of a galactic-level cook, apparently, but I shouldn't require that of you. It wouldn't be right. Nor would making you solely responsible for the maintenance of this apartment."

"Why?" Huei inquires.

"Because it's supposed to be the other way round!" Feemor exclaims. He winces, though, when he senses the other boy twitch in the Force. Their bond is not yet fully formed, but the beginnings of it stretch between them, like juvenile vines weaving their futures together.

Feemor takes a moment to compose himself. "My apologies. Allow me to explain. I am your master now, and you are my student. As such, I am responsible for your training, welfare, and general wellbeing. Filling the hours of your day with tasks that I am perfectly able to share in and taking time away from your personal enjoyment or pursuit of your studies would be unforgivable on my part."

"Personal enjoyment," Huei states, blankly.

"Yes. What are your hobbies?"

"Hobbies?"

"Oh, don't tell me. You didn't have time for anything else except classes, chores, and studying."

"Is that not how it is supposed to be?"

"No."

"Then I suppose I enjoyed cooking, for what it was. I was alone, undisturbed, and able to create something for my master and I to share." At the mention of my master, Huei's Force-presence contracts in upon itself.

"Fine. I won't take that away from you," Feemor says, reaching for his caf again. He wishes now that he had made it double-strength. "Let's alternate cooking and cleaning. I'll draw up a schedule for us in raised Aurebesh. Which reminds me, we need to go get you sorted on learning that."

"Yes, Master."

"Also, as nice as that sounds, you don't have to respond to every word I say with that phrase."

"Yes, M– oh." Huei falters for a moment, and then the edges of his lips curve upwards, ever so slightly. And then: "Master?"

"Yes, my Padawan?"

Huei's Force-signature blossoms a little at the title. "What will we do today?"

Feemor glances at his chrono and lets loose a yelp that nearly has Huei upsetting his cup of caf.

"We're going to be late for the healers," Feemor groans.

"Oh." A slow smile spreads over Huei's cheeks. "Then we had better hurry. I shall wash up–"

Feemor flings out a hand to stop him, only pulling back at the last moment, when he realises that will not work. "Hold it right there. I'm doing it. You go get dressed."

"Very well." Huei feels for the edge of the table before him before standing up.

"Wait," Feemor says as the young Nautolan takes a measured step towards the wall, webbed hand outstretched.

Huei tilts the side of his head towards him, listening as the Jedi Master sprints into a room and back out again.

"I'm going to have to push aside your head-tresses," Feemor warns.

Huei feels warm fingers brush clear a space to his scalp, and something click into place at his right temple, between two head-tresses. A lovely, familiar feel of silka-beads weighing down the leather strap on that side of his head.

His padawan braid.

He raises a trembling hand to feel it slide over his fingers.

"I've added the appropriate bead to the end," Feemor says, an edge of something in his voice. Pride? "Two beads, actually."

"Two?" Huei asks, confused.

"One for the change of masters. Another for a trial of the flesh and mind combined. But if I could, I would add another. For sheer verve."

Huei knows he shouldn't be smiling as widely as he is right now. He ducks his head in embarrassment.

A hand falls on his shoulder, and grasps it securely, grounding him in the Force.

"I'm looking forward to many long years learning from each other, my young padawan," Feemor says.

Huei senses the Force swell between them, tendrils of light curling and strengthening into a tangible bridge. The light swells, and brightens, and washes away the beginnings of a Shadow, of a path that once led only to the Sentinels, and did not fork.

His road is not visible, nor straight, now. There is a bend in the path.

But in his mind there is light.

A bond.

"So am I, Master," he murmurs, as the last of the Huei Tori, the young Sentinel, washes away.


A/N: Just another reminder - this is my second update of this story in a week or so. So go back and read the previous chapter if you haven't already, because I updated it when alerts were messed up.

I've been writing loads of new shorter fic on my tumblr at (eirianerisdar tumblr com) too so go visit it if you like! And reviews, as always, are much appreciated. I'll be working on the next chapter of The Silent Song, now, since my exams are over and I have time. Thank you for reading.

Next up on Silent Measures: Feemor and Kit work out a way to adapt Huei's lightsaber skills.