Archive of Our Own

Consciousness crept up on him slowly. And then it attacked, boots first.

Suddenly aware of an uncomfortable weight pressing down upon his nose, forcing his breath into shortened snorts, Obi-Wan startled. Blinking his eyes open, confused, he found dark words filling every part of his vision, bearing down upon him. Bringing a clumsy hand to his brow, he knocked the datapad clean off his face.

‘Gurghahh!’ Obi-Wan said then. Full of his natural eloquence.

He sat up, disorientated and feeling slightly sick. Looking down accusingly at his rumpled robes and then at the offending pad on the bed, he felt his lip curl automatically in disgust. Treaties of Great Import, Disc 4, Article Y5FB8-NN: ‘The Collaboration of the Unoduxx.’ No wonder he’d passed out.

Obi-Wan groaned deeply. He was never going learn it all. Not even if he lived to be as old as Yoda. A familiar feeling of dread pooled deep within him. The galaxy would always escape him.

Orange light filled his quarters, casting strange shadows across his desk. It lit up the scrunched flimsies of scrapped work, empty caff cups and chewed styluses, as well as the ailing Yinnea plant his Master was determined he should nurse back to health. So far, Obi-Wan’s well-intentioned prodding had only succeeded in making it far, far worse. He winced every time he caught sight of its increasingly dusky and drooping fronds. If it *insisted* on dying, he only wished it would do so quickly and release him from its tortures so he could get on with things.

He frowned at himself then, cross for having had such a thought. It was a living being and deserved every ounce of his attention and efforts. He must try harder to resist his tendency towards self-indulgence.

He had no idea what the time could be. How embarrassing to have fallen asleep in the middle of the day. His mind flashed an image of the tow-haired crechling he’d once found crashed face down in his dish during lunch duty as a senior initiate. No better than a child.

Stretching his sore limbs, Obi-Wan automatically cast his awareness outwards. The Temple was calm, full of milling bodies, at peace with all. His Master’s steady presence was close by and rippling with quiet pleasure, golden and green. As Obi-Wan’s senses steadily sharpened, he realised he could hear a gentle thudding noise drifting though from the living space, punctuated by grunts and the occasional small crash of crockery.

Now, what on earth could he be up to?

On second thoughts, perhaps he was best off not knowing.

Obi-Wan was slowly becoming accustomed to the various… eccentricities of his Master. Qui-Gon was, in many ways, a deeply strange man. A faultless warrior, a wise guide and legendary Jedi, with a padawan who had resolved to devote himself entirely to living up to his example. But, nevertheless, an enigmatic man who had clearly lived on his own for long stretches of his life, unbent by the consideration of others and unencumbered by any care for social mores.

His slightly more demented idiosyncrasies were the bedrock of their now-shared life. His taste for mud and dirt and damp (and that was just his tea); his ability to destroy the inherent order of a room within seconds of entering it; and how his natural taciturnity could stretch into hours of silence so rich that Obi-Wan jumped upon hearing his voice again… His padawan was growing accustomed such things and was slowly reconciling himself to the lifelong likelihood of being surprised by an inscrutable Master who seemed to delight in defying expectation and did not care to explain himself.

(Try as he might, though, Obi-Wan found himself unable to accept Qui-Gon’s fondness for Vandollian throat-ringing, an exacting musical form from the Far Reaches of which his Master was a truly shocking student, despite all the early morning practice he did, occasionally waking Obi-Wan up in a cold sweat…)

Who knew what madness was waiting for Obi-Wan beyond this door?

The boy sighed, resigned to his fate, and stood to leave his chamber, groaning again as his muscles protested at the long, pre-dawn hours he’d spent in the salles. The end of quarter matches were in a week and Obi-Wan was determined to do well in them. Unfortunately, they clashed badly with some important examinations (galactic history, astrophysics *and* his agricultural practical), as well as the additional training Obi-Wan was now required to undertake for the commencement of his quarter shifts on the flight deck. It made his stomach hurt just to think about it.

He wanted so badly to prove himself to Qui-Gon, to assure him that he’d been worth all the trouble he’d caused, he almost ached with it. He knew his Master still did not trust him, not entirely. Obi-Wan felt the weight of his estimation hanging in the balance. He also knew, along with the whole Temple, that he walked a knife-edge, that his course was deeply uncertain, that he could fall just as easily as he could rise. Easier, in fact… and what an awful shock *that* had been.

He had to rise. He had to show them he was worthy of the name Jedi, of the life he had been gifted. This was his first challenge, his first chance since everything went so badly wrong. He had spent every spare moment single-mindedly working towards these fixed points of his future. Tournament, exams, training. He just had to keep his head and try his hardest and hope he would not falter as he had faltered so many times before.

Feeling panicked, he forced himself to shove these thoughts abruptly downwards and away. Obi-Wan took a steadying breath and rounded the corner.

His Master was bent over the kitchenette bench. His broad back was almost silhouetted by the strong orange light beaming in through the shuttered windows, and Obi-Wan could see his huge arms were working like pistons. Many strands of his brown hair had escaped from the leather tie. Qui-Gon often looked like he’d been dragged through a brush backwards, somehow managing this even in the ordered tranquillity of the Temple, and Obi-Wan knew it should not warm his heart as much as it invariably did.

He stepped forward, unsure of himself in his stockinged feet.

Qui-Gon looked lightly over his shoulder. ‘Ah, Padawan, sleep well?’

Obi-Wan, caught in the act of rubbing his eye, felt himself flush. ‘Yes. Sorry, Master, I can’t think what happened.’

‘Can’t you, now?’ Qui-Gon turned, a wry expression on his face as he looked him up and down. ‘You have been pushing yourself too hard. No sabre can burn at both ends, Obi-Wan, as I’ve told you before.’

But Obi-Wan, tired as he was, was only half-listening, and far too curious about whatever was occurring to mind such words. Qui-Gon was not only wild-haired but also a little pink in the cheeks. Robe discarded, he had the sleeves of his tunic rolled up, and was covered almost head to foot in white dust. The bench behind him was covered in the same sort of powder as well as smears of oils and surrounded at all sides by tottering and tipped containers. In the middle of it all sat a large yellow orb that gave off a bright, living smell.

‘Master, what *are* you doing?’

Qui-Gon lifted a short laugh to the ceiling and turned back to the bench, knowing that Obi-Wan would come to settle at the spot by his elbow. ‘I’m making bread.’

He reached for the orb and, pressing the heels of his hands across it in opposite directions, flattened it into a strange diamond shape, before scooping it all back together with one twist of his wrists.

‘What?’ Obi-Wan blinked.

‘I’m making bread,’ Qui-Gon repeated patiently, before elbowing him in the shoulder. ‘Surely you know what bread is, young one. I’ve seen you eat enough of it. Though not so much lately, I’ll grant.’

‘And I’ve seen you burn water!’

Obi-Wan bit his lip, mortified by his own words.

But Qui-Gon’s smile only grew, and his eyes were dancing.

A thought struck Obi-Wan in horror. ‘Oh, Master, you should have woken me! I could have gone to the canteen! I’m sorry I fell- ‘

‘Peace, Padawan!’ Qui-Gon turned and grasped his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. He removed his hands, leaving their memory on his tunic in great white prints. ‘You needed the rest. I, on the other hand, was feeling restless.’ He turned back to his bread-orb.

Obi-Wan drew closer. ‘Restless?’

Qui-Gon glanced across at him quickly, then nodded, gaze turning thoughtful. ‘I awoke to it. Though perhaps I should have been better prepared… I confess, it has been many seasons since my feet have rested so long in one spot, or my hands have been so idle.’

That’s because of me, Obi-Wan thought ruefully, stomach sinking. He had disrupted his Master’s life beyond all measure, bringing chaos and betrayal and bloodshed with his very presence. And now they could not even go anywhere until his studies were completed and his examinations at an end for this rotation. So he brought boredom too. It was no life for a Knight like his Master, a man who had been wandering the stars since before Obi-Wan was born, whose name was spoken of with awe and love throughout the galaxy. No wonder Qui-Gon had tried everything he could to escape such a fate.

Obi-Wan looked up to find kind eyes resting on him and a great feeling of warmth reaching out to enfold him. Their fledgling bond, so strong as strangers to one another, had been bruised and battered by late events and now lay weak, worried over. Though Obi-Wan knew Qui-Gon could sense something of his mind and he could feel occasional brushes such as this, he found himself unable to respond in kind. He felt wrong-footed by it all, suddenly. As if he had forgotten how to do something as natural as breathing. Perhaps this was the best they could hope for, and he should be grateful.

Breathing in deeply, Obi-Wan shook his head to clear it of his unhappiness. He was only half successful. The warmth retreated at his lack of response, replaced by a well of regret.

He peered closer at the yellow orb, hoping perhaps to distract his Master.

‘I’ve never seen anyone make bread before.’

‘Is that so?’ Qui-Gon had a strange look in his eye. Was it… Pity? Guilt? Disappointment? Obi-Wan could not quite grasp it, and in another breath it was gone, replaced by raised eyebrows and a distinctly mischievous look.

‘Well, then, allow me to be the first to show you.’

Qui-Gon shifted the orb to a metal sheet on one side and reached for another bowl. As he did so, Obi-Wan found himself captivated by his Master’s hands – so huge and strong they seemed capable of holding whole worlds together. They danced across the counter, gathering ingredients with practised ease.

‘There are as many ways of making bread as there are stars in the galaxy, but this is the way I was taught.’

Obi-Wan knew he should be getting back to work, the crushing weight of everything he had not yet learnt a constant pressure on thoughts, but he was captured by the moment. Glass jars glinting in the deepening light. The tantalising promise of new knowledge. Qui-Gon’s unusual effervescence. It was not often his Master was this expansive (not with his Padawan, anyway) and Obi-Wan would not want to risk losing it for all the worlds. Besides, he was starting to warm to Qui-Gon’s off-the-cuff lessons, frustrating though they could be when all he wanted was a straight answer. His Master was a living, breathing pedagogy, in that regard.

‘Now, my young Padawan,’ said Qui-Gon, clapping his hands together and sending up a cloud of powder. ‘The most important part of our bread is this.’ He held up a crusted jar containing a sort of beige ooze.

Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkled at the way the pale sludge burped and bubbled. ‘What is that?’

‘It is a living thing. Or, rather, a gathering of tiny lifeforms, both wild and ancient, carried on the wind to my people. They feed upon the other ingredients, breaking them down, building them up, binding them all together. This bread cannot be made without them, though many others are.’

Opening the jar and setting it down, Qui-Gon brought the bowl containing the ingredients towards him. Taking a wooden, deep-curved spoon, he scooped a measure of the wet paste out and dropped it into the well he had made in the dry mixture with his thumb. The strange stuff immediately seemed to animate, becoming more liquid and trickling slowly outwards from the well, as if seeking something.

‘It is called a ‘tosaigh’. Which means a beginning… or, rather, many beginnings. It sleeps until it is needed, and then begins its work.’

Qui-Gon began to mix the dry ingredients into the well, gathering with his fingers, turning the bowl each time. Obi-Wan marvelled at the deftness of it all, the practised flow of his Master’s movements. The mixture, too, was amazing, ever expanding in its efforts to embrace the other ingredients and draw them into its core. And as it bound them together it began slowly to change colour. Qui-Gon’s fingers left swirls of deepening yellows and oranges; the more he mixed the more the colour spread, until it seemed as if the dough were made of captured sunlight. It reminded Obi-Wan of bright days in the Temple Gardens, where the beams of light falling through the high glass ceilings felt almost heavy with the smell of blossom.

‘Does it always go that colour?’

His Master chuckled. ‘Well, what do you think?’

Obi-Wan paused, thoughtful. ‘I would think… not,’ he said, with some uncertainty.

Qui-Gon tipped the yellow mixture out onto the counter, scraping with the wooden spoon where it seemed reluctant to leave the bowl. It fell with a satisfying wet smack.

‘Please, explain.’

‘Well,’ Obi-Wan fidgeted, eyes fixed on the heaving dough and brow furrowed. ‘I think it would maybe depend on the ingredients you used and how the… lifeforms might react to them. If they break down the mixture, surely what they produce depends on what they are working with.’

Qui-Gon seemed pleased with this. ‘You have good instincts, Padawan. I advise you to trust them.’

He turned to the mixture and began to work with it, cupping his hands to collect its spreading edges and draw it together, pressing down firmly with the heels of his hands into the centre of the mixture. Rather than running away from itself, the dough began to bind together as Qui-Gon’s movements became firmer and firmer.

Encouraged, Obi-Wan pressed on with enthusiasm. ‘Master Mundi says that the AgriCorps labs are working on a formula for bread synthesis. One drop and boom: a loaf of bread! Isn’t that marvellous, Master?’

Qui-Gon hummed non-committedly, but his face seemed to cloud as he worked the dough.

‘I just can’t stop thinking about what a wonderful gift that would be from the Jedi. Just think of all the good something like that will do… All the people in the galaxy whose suffering will now be at an end. We can free them from worry and strife and hunger and they can finally advance and learn along with the Core Worlds.’

Obi-Wan was so excited by the wonders and possibilities of modern science, so busy looking into a brighter, more equalised future, that he did not notice his Master’s eyes resting at length on him until realised that the broad hands had stopped moving and looked up, suddenly apprehensive.

Qui-Gon was frowning.

‘Master?’ Obi-Wan asked, already starting to feel stupid. He had clearly got something wrong but could not imagine what it could be. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘That is not our purpose, Padawan,’ Qui-Gon’s voice was hard and shockingly stern. ‘It is not our purpose to deliver the Outer Worlds from themselves. Nor to discover new ways to bind them more closely to slavers and traders.’

Obi-Wan blinked, taken aback by the vehemence of Qui-Gon’s response, stung by the ways his words had been taken.

‘That is not… Forgive me, Master, but is it not our purpose to defend the galaxy against darkness and destruction? As well as that which leads towards it, such as hunger? With our lightsabres and our learning? With the Force?’

Qui-Gon spread his hands, still tacky and floured. ‘But the Force is not the preserve of the Jedi alone, young one. We may indeed master it, but it binds all living things with their worlds, and all worlds as one. Not only that, it is responsible for the *ways* of each world, of each people. Something we should have no jurisdiction over… Indeed, it is our duty to protect them.’

Obi-Wan shook his head in disbelief. ‘You cannot believe that expanding knowledge and banishing ignorance are bad things?’

His Master’s eyebrows raised, and he tilted his head, wiry hair pooling at his shoulder. ‘I think that if we banish hunger whilst banishing all else besides, further delivering the hungry into the arms of those who would control and quash them under the guise of progress, we become a form of destruction ourselves. Regardless of our best intentions.’

‘Oh.’ Obi-Wan said, then opened his mouth only to find it empty. He looked at his feet, thinking of how easily such destruction could happen. Thinking of his own recent heavy-handedness?

He heard Qui-Gon sigh and, after a moment, turn back to the counter and resume his work on the dough. A few uncomfortable moments passed before he spoke again, but his voice had returned to its natural gentleness.

‘You must understand, Padawan, that the Order does not simply serve the Republic. A Jedi must understand the higher forms of the Force as they exist in all lives – beauty, truth, hope. Love. These, above all, must be preserved.’

Realisation, as usual, dawned late on Obi-Wan, who lifted his head with a sudden thought. ‘Who taught you how to do this, Master?’

Qui-Gon stilled, just for a moment, but he allowed the intrusion. ‘My father.’

‘And he gave you this… stuff?’

‘Just as his father did. And his father. And so on it goes.’

‘The same mixture?’

His Master’s hands worked the dough, stretching it in opposite directions with the heels of both palms before bringing it back together, making cutting motions to fold it back over itself. He would then punch it with his knuckles before flattening it out again.  

‘It is a tradition. Each child is given a part of their family’s tosaigh, to take with them through life. To make their own beginnings.’

Qui-Gon pushed the dough across the counter, leaning forward and using his forearms to roll it. Obi-Wan heard the huff of breath leaving his lungs as he reached further and further.

‘And I know your mind, my wily young Padawan. But this is not an attachment. Quite the opposite. It is an inheritance, but also a form of release.’ Qui-Gon’s hair swayed as he moved back and forth. ‘My father gave it to me on our final day together. I was thirteen.’

Obi-Wan’s stomach dropped to his feet at those words. He could not begin to imagine what that would feel like, to lose a father at the age he was now. To walk away from anyone you loved, knowing you would never see them again, their final words forever ringing in your ears.

‘Doesn’t it… make you sad?’

‘No, little one. Why should it?’

When Obi-Wan could not muster a response, Qui-Gon went on. ‘It reminds me of where I am from. It also connects me with my ancestors, for each family’s tosaigh produces differently coloured breads. As I work the dough, I can see and think as my forbears did, though my world is strange and far from theirs.’ He paused. ‘It is my homage.’

Obi-Wan tried to imagine what kind of world Qui-Gon came from. His Master had never told him, and he had not sought the knowledge out. But its connection with the Force must be powerful. Obi-Wan slipped a hand into his pocket and gripped hold of the river stone, his hidden treasure. He thought of the River of Light and saw dappled sunshine and burbling water, bright shoots and sprigs stretching intrepid from rich black earth into an unknown sky. A thatched hut standing proud against a wall of wild yellow roses. He heard the rich voice of a kind and patient man, woven with the laughter of many children. He felt the tang of crystal air, the soft hum of life, and the bone-deep peace of a people completely at one with their land, celebrating this connection again and again.

Flooded with these feelings, Obi-Wan felt a strange pervasion of something like nostalgia, of homesickness, though this unknown world was not his own.

How funny that a Master so renowned for his connection to the Living Force paid such careful attention to his own past. But then… Wasn’t that, after all, what made Qui-Gon such a great diplomat? His acceptance of each world’s cultures and traditions, his ability to understand how they shaped individuals and governments alike, his deep understanding and love of philosophy, poetry and lore, and his willingness to defy the Council in order to advocate for all… Obi-Wan saw now how this was at the core of his Master.

‘I know nothing of the traditions of my homeworld,’ he said quietly.

Qui-Gon kept working, head bowed, but Obi-Wan felt at once the force of his full attention on him, where it had before been wandering in memories.

‘How much do you remember?’

Obi-Wan shrugged. ‘Not much… Flashes of purple grass and sharp white cliffs and a shining sea. Sometimes I think of standing next to someone much taller than me, and of them reaching out and taking my hand. And feeling...’

Love? Relief? Loss? He didn’t know and never would. His throat closed and he shook his head.

‘But it’s hard to hold on to. I was very young when I was brought to the Temple. Too young to remember my family or home or know where to return.’

He crossed his arms, hugging them to his chest and dipping his chin to his chest, overwhelmed. Though he loved the Order with all his heart, and such an upbringing was far from unusual for a Jedi, Obi-Wan had always felt this absence more keenly that he knew he should. His lack of roots, coupled with his increasing inability to tell vision from dream, or anxiety from reality, left him unmoored and unsure. He cared for things too much, too quickly. Always had. Desperate to feel exactly the kind of connection that Qui-Gon was free to remember without attachment.

Qui-Gon breathed in sharply and turned to him. He crouched down and placed a warm, urgent hand on his shoulder. ‘Your self-awareness is to your credit, little one, but please know that no beginning defines an end. Your home is the Force, which surrounds you wherever you go and guides you in forging your own path.’

He lent closer, lifting Obi-Wan’s chin with the knuckle of his finger. ‘Though you may not remember them, you carry the seas of your homeworld in your eyes, just as I grow the wild roses of mine in my heart. And tongue.’

Obi-Wan smiled at that, despite himself, and the grip on his shoulder tightened. ‘A family chosen is not less than that which is given, and we are your family.’ Qui-Gon licked his lips, pausing for only a second or so. ‘*I* am your family.’

‘I know, Master, I just-‘ Obi-Wan stopped, finding himself strangely close to tears. He thought of Bandomeer, and of Melida/Daan, of everything being ripped from him at once. Of each time his Master had turned from him in disgust, had walked away from him without a backwards glance, the imprint of his back a constant in Obi-Wan’s mind. The sickness of the shock upon realising that the hopes he held were false. That he would not be taken back. Not this time.

The hard weeks ahead loomed once again in his mind, all those eyes watching, weighing, deciding. Everything he had tramped down and put away, deep within himself, over the past month or so crawled suddenly up his throat.

 ‘What if I can’t do it?’ he blurted out. ‘What if I’m not good enough?’

‘Obi-Wan, child,’ Qui-Gon spluttered with some exasperation, taking his hand from his shoulder to wave between them and rest it on his knee. ‘You have at least ten years before your Trials! Don’t you think it’s a little early to be worrying about this?’

‘Oh, it’s *never* too early,’ Obi-Wan said with a severity that surprised them both, causing them to break into sudden laughter. The moment eased but passed by quickly. Despite his impromptu nap, Obi-Wan felt a great wave of weariness crash over him and felt his shoulders sag with the weight of it.

‘I mean… What if I’m not good enough to help anyone?’

Qui-Gon sat back on his knees and looked at him, face inscrutable and eyes appraising. Obi-Wan tried not to fidget under the sudden attention.

‘I know how badly you wish to be a Knight, Obi-Wan. I see how hard you are working to make up for your mistakes.’ Qui-Gon lowered his head, sorrow creeping into his voice. ‘But do not forget they are shared. And do not let your fears rule you. A Jedi is more than their past, more than their weapon, more than their knowledge. They are, above all, their compassion.’

Qui-Gon lifted his head, and his eyes were shining. ‘You, Padawan, have the true heart of a Jedi. And I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise. But if you can find a way to trust me, as you once did, I promise to guide you with all my strength.’

Obi-Wan could barely breathe. He stood, feeling almost as if he were swaying, unsure of what to say, but filled with the most wonderful sense of grace. So, he did not say anything. Instead, upon a strange impulse, he crossed the small distance between them and pressed a grateful kiss to the older man’s forehead, up near the peak of his hair.

He felt his Master’s eyebrows rising beneath his lips, and pulled away. Qui-Gon was the holo of surprise, mouth open and midnight eyes wide. Feeling cheeky, Obi-Wan reached out and shut his mouth, earning a warning tilt of the greying head.

He giggled, but quickly sobered. ‘Thank you, my Master,’ he said, and tried to send Qui-Gon a small, swirling portion of all that he was feeling through their bond. Surprise. Pleasure. Gratitude. Respect. Devotion. Determination. Trust.

It must have worked because a slow smile lit Qui-Gon’s face, lifting the years from the corner of his eyes. He breathed out in something like relief, before holding out a hand for Obi-Wan to dutifully pull him upright (though they both knew he needed no such help).

‘Now, then, Padawan, what do you say we shape this dough?’

‘Yes, Master!’

He patted both the orbs almost reverentially, before making a fist and pressing one into a disc shape, before pulling the dough smartly on one side. The final effect was that of a teardrop, reminding Obi-Wan of the diagram of the new Correllian YT-1300 freighter Garen had shown him in the canteen a couple of weeks ago.

The next orb he chopped with the side of his cupped hand, making three indents around the side as he turned the dough. Then he gathered it under itself, causing the sections to splay out slightly like a fat flower.

‘Now. Your turn.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Padawan-mine, *you*.’

Obi-Wan felt himself flush a little, pleased beyond all that was proper by the unexpected new endearment. ‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’

‘You always do.’

Dipping his head, overcome with shyness, Obi-Wan set to work. He tried to remember all that he had seen, from the initial combination of ingredients to movements of his Master’s hands. Qui-Gon drew silently back, aware from past experience that Obi-Wan sometimes flustered whilst carrying out tasks under close observation. He went to the living space and leaned back on the couch with his arms folded across his broad chest, contemplating the Coruscanti traffic flit across the deepening ochre sky. Though he pretended he wasn’t, he glanced over every now and then with some curiosity.  

After a short while, though, Obi-Wan was forced to call for his aid.

‘Master, it’s not doing what it’s supposed to! I followed all your instructions, and now look.’ Obi-Wan held up frantic hands caked with stiff strands of too-wet dough – the more he tried to free himself from it, the more he stuck to the stuff and to the bowl and to the counter. The mixture was getting thicker and more unwieldy with each attempt work it.

He felt his face growing hot with embarrassment but Qui-Gon, approaching the counter, held up a hand.

‘Peace, child. Remember, this is a living thing, which works just as it wishes. Not every dough is the same, and it is up to you to get a feel for the bread, and work with it accordingly. You can only encourage and guide, never control. Listen.’

Confused, Obi-Wan looked down at his sticky hands. Listen?

Placing them into the bowl once more. He tried to think of everything Qui-Gon had taught him today, what he had taught him each day. He allowed it all to flow around his mind before he cleared it completely, releasing all his thoughts and frustrations to the Force. He sent his awareness to his hands, to the tips of his fingers and the soft, cool touch of the dough. He found a tremendous energy there which he had not quite appreciated before, obscured by his growing temper. Now it sang with life and promise, a desire to grow and to give.

As he worked this time, the dough responded willingly. He kneaded and gathered and pressed and rolled with his eyes closed, following the feel of it, and the whispering of the Force beneath his fingers. He sank into something like a trance as he did this, a moving meditation. He awoke sometime later with a feeling of intense peace to find the dough shaped into a bright yellow triangle in front of him, three large dots in the middle. The light that filled their quarters had faded to the dark flashing blue that counted for Corascant’s version of evening.

His Master smiled approvingly down at him, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Obi-Wan could not tell how long he had been standing there.

‘Well, Padawan. I would say that is a job well done. What do you say we bake these and give them as gifts to our friends?’

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to agree, but then changed his mind.

‘Master, if I may… I know of a foodbank nearby for the lower levels. Would you mind awfully if I took there instead? Only we have more than enough food at the Temple and I know none of our friends would miss these loaves.’ He hesitated. ‘Unless they are special and not for sharing beyond kin?’

Qui-Gon blinked, once, twice, and then grinned more widely than Obi-Wan had ever seen in their relatively short time together.

‘No, child. I think that is a wonderful idea.’

After a moment, the older man breathed in deeply through his nose and clapped his hands together. ‘Now, I think you’ve been cooped up here long enough. Go on, be gone with you, go and stretch your legs…I don’t want you darkening this doorway until past last bells.’

‘Yes, Master,’ ever obedient, Obi-Wan went to put on his boots, standing to attention by the door controls.

‘And Obi-Wan?’

‘Yes, Master?’

Qui-Gon held up a single finger. ‘You are forbidden – absolutely *forbidden* – from doing anything of use, do you understand? If I hear that Master Nu has caught even a whiff of you in those archives, there will be hells to pay. At the very least, nappy duty at the Creche.’

Obi-Wan ducked his head and did not say anything but grinned all the way out of the door.

When he returned much later that evening, stumbling and yawning with happiness, the quarters were dark. He could feel his Master was still awake, most likely reading in his chamber. He weaved his way towards his room, enjoying the feeling of looseness in his limbs and calm in his spirit after a swim with Bant. He knew he would sleep well that night, with none of his usual tossing and turning.

Pulling his robe over his damp head as he walked through the door, he was half-way across his room before he freed himself. He pulled up short at the sight that met him.

On his bed was a jar. A jar of gunk with a golden lid.

He picked up the jar. The lid had been engraved with the beautiful symbol of their Order – Obi-Wan had always loved the light at its centre, lifted and lifting. But, strangely, around the sabred star and wings were curling vines and flowers and fruits, softening the bold design, wrapping it in teeming life. A reminder of the most important lesson his Master would teach him. Obi-Wan traced the sinuous lines with trembling fingers and knew that Qui-Gon had worked the metal himself.

‘Oh, Master,’ he whispered, heart filling. He hugged the jar to his chest.

It was then he noticed the note, written on a flimsy and placed underneath.

‘For all your beginnings (and endings), my dear Padawan. May the Force be with you. Always.’

The note ended with Qui-Gon’s symbol, the one that adorned the door of their quarters: a circle containing three curving lines, making a concave triangle almost like a star in the middle. Obi-Wan had always thought it looked like leaves. But, suddenly, he knew better.

It was a rose.

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The End.

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