Chapter 18. When Memories and Reality Collide

Dreams and memories passed Qui-Gon's time, only fading to inconsequence when his padawan was allowed to visit and chatter the details of his day – airing all the small grips and grievances that seemed so magnified in the eyes of the young and the lonely…

…D'eandre stared at him – and sneezed (Qui-Gon hid a smile)

…N'tal would not switch beds with him and would not say why ("you will soon move into padawan quarters," he placated the boy and earned a smile in return)

…Kendra - smiled every time she looked at him (that seemed the worst horror Anakin could imagine, no matter how Anakin had so delighted in Padmé's smiles)

Each visit was like the last: No one likes me, Anakin would wail, plopping onto Qui-Gon's lap only to be cheered by a hug, all the petty irritations of fitting into a new life squeezed from memory.

Beneath his own delight was the simple satisfaction that he was now needed once more, not some relic to be discarded like a piece of outgrown clothing. Qui-Gon basked in Anakin's light, this treasure of the Force given into his custody.

He was the Force's servant and he would devote himself to do all that the Force commanded of him and more – nurture and guide the Chosen One into his full glory.

He hungered to set forth on the Force's path.

The irony of his situation didn't fail to strike Qui-Gon; he who had always counseled that one should live in the here and now and let the future worry about itself. So here he was, impatient with the limitations of the present. He wanted to get on with the future yet was stuck in bed to rest and recuperate from the past.

With little to occupy him in the long, lonely hours when he lay alone, urged to rest, his memories wandered the aisles of time – playing, replaying, or anticipating moments of his life. He little doubted his recent visit with his old master had stirred up a lot of otherwise forgotten memories – many good, a few not. Some brought smiles, some brought frowns. A few prickled his eyes with regrets; those few he chose to relegate to the dustbins – curiosities to be again discarded for of what use were regrets? Regret was nothing more than wishing one could change the past – and the past was forever gone and out of reach.

But the Force had its own ideas; it controlled the images that whispered across his mind, those of the past and of the present, scrolling almost too fast to react. Let them flow… remember them now as you experienced them then…and so he did, finding in them peace and contentment; much joy as well, these snapshots of a good life, by and large.

He had always found delight in things around him, even with a cold and stern – but gruffly courteous – master. His old teacher, if never really a friend or confidante, had been a large part of his life for many years. It had been good to see the man – even more distinguished and dignified now; still every bit the proper Jedi Master regardless of any potential – and in Qui-Gon's opinion, unlikely - change in that status.

That visit was just before the first trip to Naboo.

They had met on Serrano, Dooku's planet of birth, in the family estate. The tenth Count, a childless cousin had recently died. As the nearest eligible relative, Petr Dooku would inherit the title and lands – but not if he remained within the Jedi Order. He had been made aware of his status as heir-apparent half a decade earlier.

"I decided then not to reject it outright, but let the future take its own path," Dooku had explained to Qui-Gon.He had chosen to make no hasty decision since none was yet needed – there were other males in the line of descent should he chose to renounce family for the Force when the time came. The Jedi had raised him, but disillusionment had been creeping in for some time as Qui-Gon had been well aware; few were the secrets within the Order.

The time had come – he had just a month to make his choice. He had chosen to spend it on Serrano. "One does not renounce any option until one understands all of one's options" he had explained upon his padawan's arrival.

The invitation and its purpose both were unexpected and to Qui-Gon's surprise, he had accepted with little hesitation. He was between missions, alone in quarters that echoed hollowly to his senses with his padawan so often away now on his own missions; a man restless, weary, and wondering if this was the shape of life to come.

Two men, each growing older, each contemplating the future – somehow, it seemed right.

Over several glasses of distinguished and fine wine – after all, a Jedi sacrificed much but one should never drink swill if alternatives were available, each had agreed - they touched on many things – discussed the Council's slow slide from servants of the Force to servants of the politicians, something that alarmed them both. Qui-Gon was not as disillusioned – yet – as his master; he still had faith in the Force that the Jedi would correct their course even if the Republic did not. It seemed Dooku was more disillusioned than ever, considering his next words.

"I've been speaking to others weary of this bickering and posturing, this endless game where the desired result is moving nowhere."

"You desire to become an agent of change – a 'politician' perhaps, my master? Is not such beneath the presumed next Count of Serrano?"

Dooku raised an eyebrow and twirled his glass almost as if he had been considering the idea. Qui-Gon's eyes widened - could such an impossibility actually be under contemplation? - until Dooku leaned back, a negligent wave of his hand dismissing such absurdities as leaping into the political arena. Both had seen political ideals crushed under political reality far too often to take such seriously.

However, one question hung unanswered as yet - was his master seriously considering leaving the Order? For a title and – he had to admit - a cellar of exceptionally fine wine?

Neither chose to address that question, so instead they spoke of lessons learned and lessons taught, of padawans growing up and themselves growing older than either cared to admit. Qui-Gon knew he had been feeling old, of late. The passage of time creaked in his bones and the stiffness in his muscles each time his padawan extended a hand to pull him upright those increasingly more common times the master found defeat at the end of his padawan's lightsaber.

He still remembered the first time: the shock within them both and his "well done" slap on Obi-Wan's back; his padawan's slow and shy grin. Sorrow had warred with pride that day, just as amusement had warred with relief not long after when his padawan was unable to break through his defense and was instead the one with a blade at his throat.

"I am still the master, am I not?" he had challenged, a glint in his eyes.

Laughing eyes had looked into his and steadied into a gaze that saw too much; a formal bow once he had gained his feet had surprised him. "You will always be."

"Brat." But he knew then he was not the victor at all, not in the way he had thought. He had gained a far more precious prize instead.

Not just "brat," but "insolent whelp" had come to mind more and more often, though; a buffer, Qui-Gon supposed, against the ache of knowing he would soon be alone, in the twilight of his life.

The limitless energy of a young man in the prime of his life, face yet unlined with the soul-deep weight of experience – no, only the temporary creases of puzzlement or laughter that did not etch deep - reminded him he was past that stage of life. He would never be that way again. Youth had passed him by; youth now threatened to depress him – even that depression a sign of too many missions, too many years, too little rest.

How ironic, how tragic, that the gentle soul that had comforted with its very presence now left dismay in its absence.

"Young one," once affectionate; "young one," now a reminder – or his wish to stop time?

"Be mindful of the Living Force, Padawan," ah yes; "worry ill becomes a Jedi, Obi-Wan," – oh how those phrases had sharpened his tongue. "Release your anxieties."

A murmured, "Yes, Master," always followed; a sincere desire to do as commanded – even as the master illogically wished Obi-Wan would affirm himself, not his master. He could not be set free, not if he was not free to assert himself.

Holding on…or letting go. Pushing away and squeezing too hard. Wanting to see Obi-Wan lead his own life – and wishing to keep him within his own.

The Force had solved his conflict. It had led him – to Anakin.

The "Chosen One."

A small spitfire, a mop-headed boy with a smile and heart as large as the Force, just as untamed and free-spirited as the master had once been, oh, so many years ago. This boy rekindled his own youth and enthusiasm.

The Jedi master tingled with eagerness as he thought of Anakin and the boy's remarkable talents. Only one youngling before him had shown such promise – and had betrayed his gift for worldly riches and pleasures. He had delighted in gambling, in drinking, in womanizing while outwardly maintaining a disdain for such worldly things.

Disdain. Like arrogance, cruelty, indifference – all were words that described Xanatos. Deceitful. Xan allowed himself indulgences. Only years later had Qui-Gon realized to what extent.

There had never been mirth in his eyes, as there had been in the padawan who followed him. Obi-Wan had been a gentle soul with a wry wit. Obi-Wan…who was his padawan no longer. A strange ache spread through Qui-Gon, built of sorrow and regrets and - . "No," Qui-Gon shook his head; no, he didn't want to feel the tug of what was past and would have been gone anyway. That time was past. Gone. He himself had made it so. Shattered it by – "Don't do this to me, don't!" he murmured to the Force; these were memories he had never meant to recall, never to relive.

Memories that had twisted from pleasure to pain as realization – the enormity of what had transpired slowly began to seep in. "No!"

He would deny he was the cause; he had had justification.

Obi-Wan had defied him; had sided with the Council – against the Force.

Yet the memory of a tear slipping free from pained eyes rose before him, the tear that had caressed his cheek as he lay dying from a Sith's blade in Obi-Wan's arms. He had loved those eyes, that window into everything that Obi-Wan was. Everything he felt shone through them so clearly. Loyalty, honesty, faithfulness. Affection even when he had hurt the boy. So many times he had hurt the boy, but the boy had always hidden his hurt behind his loyalty – no, behind a façade.

He had to remember that.

He had finally seen beneath that façade.

There was no need to ache for what he thought lost as long as he remembered it had never truly existed. Why ache at all when he could focus ahead?

On Anakin.

His gift from the Force.