Hello, there. This story, Tea and Deathsticks, is in no way related to my popular SW story, The Silent Song. Regular readers of The Silent Song will know my predilection for mixing humour with all genres; this will be a slightly serious, at times humorous, and ultimately heart-warming story about master, padawan and their mutual love of tea. Updates will come quickly – a three or four chapter fic.

Enjoy!

Tea and Deathsticks

By Eirian Erisdar

The tinkle of breaking porcelain fills the small kitchen with its bright cadence.

A moment of silence.

Of the two padawans staring at the spectacle in mutual dread, Garen Muln is the first to speak. "We're going to become one with the Force," he states succinctly. "Master Jinn's going to flay us alive for this."

"No, no," Obi-Wan murmurs quietly, wide cerulean eyes still fixed on the sad spectacle. "He may flay you alive, but he'll hang, draw, and quarter me."

Garen grimaces. "I don't know what I'd prefer."

The broken teacup stands forlorn witness to this rather macabre conversation.

Obi-Wan tugs distractedly on his padawan braid. Blast it. Blast it to Sith-cursed Moraband.

The milkstone floor of the kitchen gleams a disgustingly cheery painted blue in the late-morning light, contrasting sharply with the curved fragments of white-azure porcelain strewn on its smooth surface. For once, no answer is presented when Obi-Wan reaches into the Force. No liberal application of it can seal these scattered pieces into a seamless whole.

"Obi?" Garen seems thoroughly unfocused. It occurs Obi-Wan that his shields have slipped, and he throws them back up viciously, vaguely aware of Garen's flinch as his mental probe skids off an unprepared mindscape. Perhaps he should apologise – but no, that brings to mind another apology he will have to make, to a far more terrifying Jedi–

"Hey, maybe we're overthinking this," Garen says, sounding vaguely hopeful. "It's one cup, after all. He has others, right?" His earlier worry is almost gone; Obi-Wan notices he now sports his trademark no-holds-barred-cocksure-Jedi-pilot grin, albeit with a dash more uncertainty than usual.

"Garen–"

"We'll clean up," Garen continues blithely, rifling through the cabinets. "You've got to keep a dustpan somewhere – Oh, Force!"

This last exclamation is in response to his knocking a small ceramic jar off the edge of a shelf. Both padawans lunge for the container physically and telekinetically, and so the small pot jumps on twirling eddies of air, slips through two pairs of scrabbling hands, and comes to a very miserable end through opposing Force pushes by imploding. Loudly.

The kitchen floor is graced with an unexpected rain of snow-white ceramic and tiny, curled leaves.

Panic flares into the Force.

"I'm so sorry, Obi," Garen whispers, his voice hushed.

The panic dissolves and melts into a mere undercurrent of impending doom. Obi-Wan takes a deep, centering breath, wincing mentally as the textured aroma of rare tea coils at the back of his throat.

It is a testament to Garen's character that he attempts to remain optimistic, even at this point in the debacle. "Well, on the bright side of things – at least it's not Master Jinn's favourite tea."

A pregnant pause.

"Force-forsaken stars. It is, isn't it?"

"And his favourite cup." Obi-Wan's words echo Garen's morose tenor as he indicates the scattered pieces of azure-tinted pottery.

Worriedly, Garen flicks at the end of his damp braid. Obi-Wan winces. He is already very much regretting inviting his age-mate back to the Jinn/Kenobi quarters to clean up after their – admittedly rule-flaunting – swim in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

After an indeterminable period, Garen voices the question weighing heavily on both their minds. "What are you going to do?"

Despite himself, Obi-Wan bites back a small chuckle; Garen has not lisped like so since their days in the crèche, back when Master Ali-Alann's word was law. The flash of amusement fades, though, when the blunt reality of the question dawns. Lacking a true answer, he falls back on tradition and code, the stalwart truths that frame the Order's history.

"The Force will provide an answer," Obi-Wan states firmly, with the serene, sure expression that has wormed Garen and he out of more than a few tight spots with the masters in charge of their teaching.

Garen is quite naturally dubious. "You sure?"

"Quite."

"Well…" Garen is due at Master Stass Allie's lecture on advanced inter-system diplomacy for senior padawans in all of ten minutes; the nature of most of Obi-Wan's missions renders him exempt, but Garen knows as well as Obi-Wan does that he risks kitchen duty should he tarry any longer. Obi-Wan is ever so slightly grateful as he watches his friend's loyalty war with caution – but caution is victorious, if only by a small margin.

The door hisses open. Garen's cloak-hem trails after him in a dark pennant of mortification as he darts out into the corridor, throwing a hasty "I really am sorry, Obi," over his shoulder as a last farewell.

Alone in the relatively peaceful quarters, Obi-Wan crouches and brushes a gentle finger through the field of uneven debris. There, flaring like a painted comet-tail from the pile of shattered pottery – a scattered trail of tiny, curled leaves, releasing the sharp scent of earthy spices and autumn honey into the air even as they darken in the puddle of filthy water the padawans had tracked into the kitchen with their boots.

Noorian blossom Sapir. Obi-Wan knows – from the few rare cups of the tea his master had allowed him to sample – that this particular blend of tea does not yield a particularly refined flavour. It certainly does not have the seemingly-thousands of complex aromas or the eye-poppingly expensive price tag of the Corellian tea that master and padawan had sampled a few years prior, when they oversaw the planet's senatorial elections. No; Qui-Gon's favoured tea is a simple variant of common green, Sapir, blended with delicate petals of wild Noorian blossoms. The sweet nectar of a hundred different species of wildflower form a perfect counterpoint to the clear golden bitterness of the Sapir leaf – but its complexities end there.

But perhaps…

Noori is also the homeworld of Jedi Master Tahl Uvain, who once shone in battle as brilliantly as a morning star, but is now unreachable, save for in the unifying currents of the Force.

So this, then, is why Qui-Gon's smile always contains same bittersweet edge as this particular blend of tea when he brews up a fragrant cup of it, every year on the anniversary of her death.

Obi-Wan has never commented on it – not in the three years the ritual has been in place. It is one of those unspeakable subjects that master and padawan never address, but weighs eternally upon them nevertheless, like frost surrounding the edges of the otherwise warm bridge of their bond, a frozen burden of sorrow, of guilt, of regret. The Force has thawed it somewhat, but it is still there.

And with that thought, Obi-Wan makes his decision. He will not cause his master further grief.

A larger piece of pottery catches his gaze. There, clustered on the small expanse, is a small pile of dry tea, held above the water. The ghost of a smile flickers across Obi-Wan's face; using a careful application of the Force, he lifts the few leaves into a clean wad of bandage taken from his utility belt.

With a new determination in his step, Obi-Wan rises, darts off to his room for a quick change of clothes, orders a cleaning droid to the mess in the kitchen floor, and then – when he is girded for war in pristine robes of cream and russet – he slips into the corridor, heading for the Temple's main concourse and the thriving city-planet of Coruscant beyond.

He has assigned himself a mission. A mission for tea.

So Obi-Wan throws himself into battle…haha! I shall update soon. Tell me what you think! Reviews are much appreciated – I especially want the opinions of my regular readers. I shall endeavour to reply to all of you! You all have absolutely no idea how strange it was for me to write an Obi-Wan who can speak…