A/N: If you only follow this story (though that seems unlikely) I've posted a new chapter of The Silent Song recently, and a new chapter of Before the Shatterpoint this morning. Have a read :)
An Old and a New Blade (Part 1)
All in all, Feemor Ner'iah muses, it is very fortunate that the Jedi Order trains all their initiates in blindfolded lightsaber forms.
Watching his padawan – his new, recently-blinded padawan, no less – run through every Shii-Cho form from basic to advanced with picture-perfect execution is quite something, at least.
Huei rotates out of his last flip with a muted rustle of tabards and tunics, reversing the sapphire lightsaber in his hand and chambering it behind his arm as he comes to a halt precisely at the spot where he started from, four minutes previous. His chest is heaving, and sweat drips off the ends of his head-tails and clings to the silka-beads of his padawan-braid, but his lips hold the hint of a smile.
Leaning against the wall beside Feemor, Kit Fisto lets loose a low whistle. "Master Dooku really doesn't pick them for anything other than raw talent, does he?" he murmurs, softly.
"You're the resident Shii-Cho specialist at the moment," Feemor whispers back. "Thoughts?"
Kit's trademark white-toothed grin makes an appearance. "He's blasted good, if that's what you're asking."
"Wonderful," Feemor says, smiling. "Huei, that's good enough for now!" he calls. "Come over here and take a break. We'll move on to Makashi next."
"Yes, Master!" comes the response.
"It's only been two days, but you seem to be doing fine with the new training bond," Kit says softly as Huei begins to trot towards them, obviously using Feemor's Force-signature as a reference point.
"It involved breakfast, caf, and a headache the size of Coruscant Prime," Feemor mutters wryly. "At least on my part." He closes his mouth before Huei comes within audible range. Kit's snort, on the other hand, reaches the younger Nautolan.
Huei turns a questioning chin towards the source of the noise, but makes no comment.
"Here," Feemor says, pressing a towel into his padawan's hands. "I don't think you need more work in Shii-Cho for the moment. That was very impressive, padawan."
"Thank you, Master," Huei murmurs in reply. His dark blue cheeks are flushed navy from the exertion, but they deepen further at the compliment. Shy pleasure radiates over his shields.
"We'll see about sparring after you're done with the Makashi forms," Kit interjects. "That should present another set of challenges."
"Yes, Master Fisto."
"And call me Kit. I'm barely a decade older than you."
Huei eyelids flick once over his scarred eyes. Feemor is sure that if Huei had eyebrows, they would be raised.
"Drink," Feemor snorts, nudging a canteen of water at Huei's forearm. "Ignore Knight I'm-very-young here."
Kit turns toward him. "Did you say something, Master greying-hair?"
"Is your hair greying?" Huei asks suddenly, with interest.
"No, it is most certainly not," Feemor replies, sharply. "My hair is gold, and it will stay that way."
"Hm." Huei tilts his head, Force-signature flaring slightly as he probes along their bond. "You're lying," he says, after a moment, smiling slowly.
"It's one lock," Feemor says, as Kit chortles beside him. "Hardly counts."
"If you say so, Master."
"Insolence isn't to be tolerated," Feemor says, mock-sternly.
Huei seems to shrink in the Force.
Feemor realises his mistake a step too late. "Though I wager I could tolerate it in small amounts," he amends, making sure to drop his shields enough for Huei to sense his comfortable amusement.
It takes a moment, but Huei's shoulders relax, and his slim fingers unclench from around the towel.
The silence is still somewhat awkward.
"What level have you reached in Makashi?" Kit inquires, breaking the silence.
"I'm halfway through the third," Huei replies. His voice is quite calm. "Though I have yet to practice those above level two blindfolded."
"As much as you can, then," Feemor says. "And keep that lightsaber on its lowest setting."
With a nod and a short bow, Huei trots off again.
"Step a bit more to your left – yes, that's right, stop there and start – I don't think katas are necessarily the problem," Feemor lowers his voice, as Huei flourishes his lightsaber in a textbook-perfect Makashi salute. "I can send him images through the bond just fine. Should be enough to learn new ones without issue."
"The problem is actual combat, you mean," Kit says, equally softly.
"Yes. Action requires a reaction, which in turn inquires observation."
"Difficult."
"Yes." Feemor frowns, contemplatively. "We'll need to think of something."
Huei, for the moment, is moving with such grace and silken power that the observers are hard-pressed not to imagine him with the dark, flowing cloak and silver hair of his former master. If Huei's bladework was clean in Shii-Cho, in Makashi he is devastatingly precise; his feet slide with soundless elegance over the salle floor, and his wrist sends his 'saber in perfect half-moons of effortless strength.
As Huei progresses further up the levels, though, to forms less well-practised, his wrist begins to lose its perfect angulation. Twice Feemor nearly calls a halt to proceedings when Huei's blade seems to slip too close to an arm or a knee – but something makes him hold his tongue, and he watches as Huei divides the training hall into clear-cut lines of blue light.
Yes, Feemor realises. This cannot be called perfect, but it is worth it so see his padawan struggle with such determination.
Eventually Huei's wrist tilts just a degree further than before – an infinitesimal change in an otherwise passable performance that brings the scalding edge of his lightsaber blade too close to his opposite arm.
Feemor and Kit straighten at the abrupt hiss of pain, and the sharp snap of the deactivating 'saber that follows.
"Huei?" Feemor calls apprehensively, jogging over to where his padawan is knelt on the hardwood floor, one hand pressed to a slim forearm.
"I may have mistaken my lightsaber setting for lower than what it truly was," Huei murmurs as Feemor's hurried footsteps approach. "I shall need to redesign the hilt to accommodate a more tactile setting display."
"Less about the cause of the injury, more about the injury itself," Feemor admonishes as he reaches for the blue-skinned arm with gentle fingers, softly tugging away Huei's other hand.
There is a discoloured patch on the inside of Huei's forearm, where plasma has brushed too close and blistered the skin.
"This needs bacta," Feemor notes. "I should have noticed the 'saber settings were off simply by the sound. I'm sorry, Huei."
"I'll clean up here and join you later," Kit says.
Huei nods, but jerks in surprise when Feemor pulls him to his feet with a hand under his other elbow and begins to walk with him.
"Where are we going?" Huei asks, bewildered, as he matches pace with Feemor.
Feemor's Force-signature turns towards him in the Force, and Huei senses a flash of utter confusion from his master's end of the bond.
"The Healers." Feemor's voice holds an odd note.
"Now?" Huei asks.
"Of course."
"But I haven't finished the set of forms," Huei protests.
Feemor stops so abruptly that Huei would have bashed into him had a calloused hand not fallen gently around his shoulders, preventing him from tipping forward.
"Master?" Huei ventures.
"Wait a moment, if you will, Huei," Feemor says, a completely foreign tone in his words. It is almost…hard. "I'm trying to decide whether I want to hear this."
"Oh."
A moment, and then his master begins to walk again.
"The burn is on my non-dominant arm," Huei begins. "Makashi is a single-handed form. I could easily have waited–"
"My apologies, padawan," Feemor breaks in suddenly, interrupting him. "I think I've heard enough. No fault of yours, understand."
"Yes, Master," Huei replies, though he does not understand at all. Belatedly, he realises his master's shields have thickened considerably in the last few seconds. He cannot imagine why.
This conundrum quite occupies him until they reach the healers' wing, where the burn on his forearm is treated with great care. What sounds like a mountain of bacta strips, judging by the rustle, are handed over to his master. Kit makes a good-natured jibe at this when he arrives and is rewarded with a sharp word-lashing in return from Feemor.
Huei feels the surface of the bacta bandage around his forearm with curiosity. It somehow feels rough and smooth at the same time.
"Huei."
He nearly jumps, startled. Feemor's presence, so unusually veiled in the Force, is right beside him.
A hand on his shoulder. "Let's go home, padawan."
The word shudders at Huei's thoughts for a moment.
Not quarters, or rooms, or residence, even. Home.
Oh.
Feemor makes to let go of his shoulder once they are out of the main bustle of the healers' wing itself, but Huei shifts a little back into the calloused palm, and his master takes the hint.
The warm hand on Huei's left tabard is enough to banish all doubts about his possible difficulty in continued 'saberwork from his mind, all the way back to quarters.
Back home.
Next up: Part 2 of this section, where Kit and Feemor hit upon a solution with much aplomb.
