Legacy V

Chapter 30

Beginning

It was Anakin's first Jedi funeral.

He tugged urgently upon Obi-Wan's wide sleeve, brow rumpling in consternation. "That's not what we do with people on Tatooine," he whispered.

The young Knight hushed him with a curt hand gesture. The bodies of the two Temple guards felled by the escaping Sith acolyte went up in purifying flame, pillars of light reaching skyward from the lofty pyramid's roof, intense heat immolating their mortal forms, hammering gross matter back into ash, into fluttering star-stuff, sparks and whirling flakes like white snow. They were the first to be honored with martyrs' rites in centuries ; every member of the Order presently on-planet stood in formal attendance, cowls drawn up, dark cloaks formally clasped, every mien grave, every heart heavy with portent.

"We only burn trash and stuff," Anakin repeated, a thread of revulsion underpinning his hissing tone.

An admonitory frown.

"Master? Did you hear me?"

The boy was insistent to the point of distracting. Obi-Wan cast a brief, aggravated, glance to his immediate right. Qui-Gon Jinn did not turn his head, or give any other sign of acknowledgement than an equally brief and subtle brush of his fingers in the curious child's direction.

Look to the living, Obi-Wan.

He checked himself upon the brink of objection; but the future was now his proper concern, certainly no longer the past – and perhaps not even the present. A firm hand on his apprentice's shoulder guided them backward, to the outer margins of the assembly, where a pollutant-laced night breeze carried smoke over the Temple's ramparts and into the glittering sky. He lowered his cowl with both hands, inviting Anakin to speak.

"It's wrong. It's like they're dead animals or something," the boy explained, manifestly disturbed. "At home we bury people we love and put a grave marker where they lie. So you can never forget them."

Ah. The young Jedi looked out past the streams of frenetic air cars, the columns of industrial burn-off, the pulsating lights and holoboards of the boundless city below. One of a diplomat's most essential skills was translation. He settled his weight against the balustrade, smiling slightly as his small companion reflexively imitated his posture.

"What does burying mean to you, though? What is the significance of the custom?"

Anakin's nose scrunched. "Well… Mom always used to tell me the story of the Origins. Where people are fashioned from dust and all. And so when we bury a dead person, we're just returning them to where they came from, sorta."

Obi-Wan nodded, gravely. "And likewise, as a Jedi I would tell you that in truest sense, we come from the Light." He inclined his head toward the towering funeral pyres, the twin beacons of unfurling radiance yearning star-ward behind them. "Light returns to light, and the body to ash – to dust. It's much the same, from a certain point of view."

"Oh." A thoughtful hesitance. "I guess so, when you say it like that. But I still think it's mean not to put a grave marker or anything. So you can always go back and remember them."

"But what if you could remember them more truly by going forward?"

Anakin looked up at him, brows knitted, comprehension tantalizingly outside his immediate grasp. "But didn't you ever lose anyone you cared about and want to go back to visit them?"

Obi-Wan smiled ruefully. "I've found it is better to carry them with you, in thought and deed, than to cling to the past. That is a difficult, but important, lesson."

The boy yawned hugely; it was past midnight, after all. "I'm tired," he declared, drooping eyes fixed upon the billowing smoke, the umber-clad convocation surrounding the pyre. "Is it almost over?"

The ceremony was all but finished; but that which it heralded and signified had only just begun.

"Let's get you back to quarters before I'm forced to carry you there."

"I'm not a baby!" Anakin scoffed, stumbling over his own feet as they made their respectful departure.

Quarters, naturally, posed a conundrum of their own.

"Don't be ridiculous," Qui-Gon Jinn chided. "You need the space, with a padawan underfoot. Trust the voice of experience. And the balcony affords a superior view."

"I can't be responsible for foisting indigence upon your botanical collection."

Typically, the tall Jedi saw through his flimsy subterfuge. "You mean that you will miss the plants. I cannot be blackmailed into bequeathing them to you, Obi-Wan. My loyalty is outweighed by compassion for the innocent."

The plants stood in a bedraggled heap upon a hover palette, ready for transport. "Contrary to libelous rumor, I only caused the demise of one succulent in all my years as padawan - and that was Garen's fault, technically. So it doesn't count."

The older man raised his brows, leaning down to examine the moldy leaf of some favorite specimen. "Someday, I shall fathom the peculiarities of your 'counting' system, my friend. Until then, I am keeping these manifestations of the Living Force under protective custody."

He had long since despaired of winning a debate against the maverick Jedi master; instead , Obi-Wan made himself busy rearranging the worn furnishings in the common room.

"I suppose I could requisition some replacements… that meditation cushion is older than you."

"You could," Qui-Gon agreed, amicably. His clothing and personal possessions fit inside a single battered travel valise, which he hefted atop the palette. "But you may wish to wait until your padawan is completely house-trained. Fifteen or sixteen at the minimum. And do not tell me that the lightsaber burns on that wall, or the scars and stains upon that table, do not count."

They shared a quiet chuckle, reminiscence momentarily sweetening the bittersweet taste of succession.

"I … really will miss the plants, Master."

The tall man's grey eyes crinkled merrily at the corners, fine lines of mirth and understanding radiating out from their corners. His mouth quirked into a lopsided smile. "You are allowed visitation rights."

A snort of disdain. "I'll remember that next time I want to photosynthesize in good company."

"You'll remember that the next time you crave decent tea; I'm taking that with me as well."

"What?"

"Is there a problem, Obi-Wan?"

"You cannot simply appropriate all the tea like a vile Huttese privateer!"

"I can, and I shall."

"We should at least play sabaac for it."

"I would win," the Jedi master smugly declared.

"Fine. We'll settle it in the dojo."

"I would still win."

"You would try."

"There is no try."

"Then you would not."

"Have I touched a nerve?" Mischief danced in the Force, sprightly and ageless. Qui-Gon held up a hand. "You may be a master in your own right now – but the privilege of seniority still pertains. If you wish to indulge your shameful appetite for Noorian first-leaf or Chandrilan sapir, you will have to abase yourself upon my doorstep in suitable fashion."

"Oh, I'll show up on your doorstep, all right," Obi-Wan darkly promised.

"That is the general idea," his former mentor observed, lightly, steering his loaded hover palette toward the exit with a deft flick of the Force.

"I still have the balcony, you know."

A warmth of affection stirred between them. "I know. Have a care not to fall over the railing… I shan't be here every moment to keep an eye on you."

"I think Anakin is the likelier victim of reckless disaster."

The tall man waved open the door to the outer passage. "I'm not making any such wager," he remarked, dryly. "It is a poor student who does not surpass his master – but your padawan has a long, long way to go before he reaches that milestone."

"I'm flattered."

Qui-Gon jerked his chin at the patiently idling trolley. "You had better assist me with this… I am under strict healers' orders not to undertake strenuous activity."

With an ironic quirk of one brow, Obi-Wan dutifully Force-pushed the heavy freight into the outer passage, followed by his gently chuckling companion.

"I didn't even know this place existed."

Qui-Gon had procured for himself a tiny apartment suite adjacent, via a short connecting corridor, to the arboretum.

"Apparently there was once a groundskeeper who dwelt herein. The rooms have been used for storage, time out of mind… but I think it deserves a new lease on life."

"We'll never see you again… you'll be communing with the gardens for days on end."

"Perhaps." The tall Jedi set out his chipped tea bowls and the self-heating ceramplast pot upon a low inset shelf. "…There is much to be meditated upon, certainly."

Obi-Wan settled upon a squat meditation cushion, drawing his legs up beneath him in lotus position. "There is indeed. Master…" A pensive pause. "When you were… when I tried to anchor Ben To's healing trance .." His eyes slid sideways, seeking elusive words to express the thought puzzling his inmost heart.

"Spit it out," Qui-Gon advised, gingerly lowering himself onto the opposite seat.

But it would ring false, a dissonant jangle of absurdity, were he to say it aloud.

Qui-Gon waited, hands folded, a mysterious smile playing about the corners of his eyes.

"I thought I felt Master Tahl, "Obi-Wan blurted out.

His former mentor merely nodded. "There is much, much for us still to learn," he replied, at length.

"I …did feel her?"

"Search your feelings." The smile danced in the musty air, frolicked between shadow and luminance, wove among the texture of loss and discovery, wending a sinuous path toward wisdom. "It may be that the Force is wonderful, beyond even the ken of your beloved sages."

Obi-Wan dipped his head, smiling as he shook a gentle negative. "Surely beyond mine, then."

The Jedi master rested calloused hands upon his knees. "Ah, but you have taken a padawan - and are about to have the scope of your understanding forcibly widened."

The younger man grimaced, playfully. "And you will relishing every moment of it, I have no doubt."

"You may be assured I will."

Anakin could barely muster the nerve to hit the transponder.

A reply. A reply. Mom.

Trembling, he hunched deep in the overized chair and pressed the relay. A light flickered somewhere on the sleek console, and then her voice filled the echoing chamber, magnified and distorted by the triple hub transfer and the accrual of interstellar particulate static – but it was still Shmi, warm and uncomplicated and honest.

Stinging tears battled for release; he swiped them away with a fierce hand.

"Ani," his mother's voice murmured, tenderly. "I heard all your messages this morning. I hope this one makes its way back to you. I'm so proud of you, Ani. I knew even before you were born that you are special. You are meant to help people. If you are to be a Jedi, then be the one you were meant to be. This path is laid before you: you alone must choose it. "

A pause, in which Shmi's young son sniffled and frowned, yearning to cross the countless parsecs, to revert to origin, to sand and sun and endless wind, to a pair of strong arms wrapped round him, promising unconditional love and acceptance.

"Listen to me, Ani: make your choice. But don't look back. Don't look back."

Shmi Skywalker 's harmonious tones rippled into emptiness, into an aching absence. The comm. Center thrummed and blipped forlornly around him.

Don't look back.

I've found it's better to carry them with you in thought and deed, than to cling to the past.

"I won't , Mom," he promised, holding his chin high and wiping his face one last time. "I'll make you proud."

"Student, master, the Force: these are one," Obi-Wan solemnly intoned, binding off the miniscule braid and smoothing it into place just behind Anakin's ear.

The boy reached up to touch it immediately, fingers tracing over the tight binding of silken strands, the pledge of support, guidance, discipline, protection. "Wizard," he breathed, reverently.

Directly behind the young Knight, one hand resting formally on his shoulder as he completed the braiding ceremony, Qui-Gon chuckled deeply. "A good beginning."

"I am honored to set out upon this path with you, Anakin," the new master told his small companion.

"Me too!" Anakin piped up, craning his head round enthusiastically. "Are we done now?"

"No. We are doing this properly," Obi-Wan insisted.

Qui-Gon stood, knees cracking riotously as he straightened. "Ah… be warned, Padawan: your teacher is a stickler for tradition."

The boy wrinkled his nose. "What tradition?"

"Haircut," the tall man informed him, blithely.

"But I like my hair the way it is!" the youngling yelped, raising hands defensively over his mop of shaggy sun-bleached gold.

Obi-Wan snapped into authoritative mode. "Personal vanity ill becomes a Jedi," he admonished. "Besides, the outward appearance of a padawan symbolizes his humility at the beginning of a long journey."

Anakin stared at him, aghast.

"Incorrigibly ritualistic," Qui-Gon remarked.

"But… you just said that you were honored to start on this path with me," the new padawan objected. "So really we're both at the beginning. And your hair is long."

Obi-Wan's mouth popped open, but the senior Jedi had already reversed and parried."He's right, Master Kenobi. How shall we amend this inconsistency of word and deed?"

Anakin bounced on the spot. "So we're done," he decided. "And I can keep my hair."

But the tall Jedi master wagged a finger at him. "Not so fast. You both have much still to learn." He hefted the compact clippers in one broad hand. "And we are doing this properly, are we not, Obi-Wan?"

An appalled and half-laughing shake of the head. "Qui-Gon…."

"I myself will admit to a certain attachment to this particular tradition," the infamous rogue confessed. "Now sit down and hold still, the pair of you. Unless you wish to end looking like Master Windu?"

Anakin gasped, and froze on the spot.

Qui-Gon extended a commanding hand, fixing his own former student with a wickedly delighted glare.

Scowling his own incipient grin into submission, Obi-Wan reluctantly sank into position beside his terrified apprentice. "Do your worst, old man."

Anakin's eyes widened.

"Follow my example and you will be sore for weeks," the young Jedi advised his protégé, as a second thought.

"Tsk tsk tsk," the senior Jedi clucked, in undisguised amusement, brandishing his tool with deadly and implacable intent.

The sunset that evening was particularly splendid. Gilt and russet banners streamed joyfully across Coruscant's pellucid skies, drifting clouds and the sparkle of air traffic falling like confetti trails, firework arpeggios of light as the sun settled resplendent upon its curving throne, the limitless horizon.

Anakin stood on tip-toe to have a better view over the railing, too enthralled to notice the restraining hand ever so cautiously bunched in his outer tunic's collar. Qui-Gon leaned upon the balustrade with both hands, a rare contentment smoothing the lines of age from his face, or else chiseling them into the ageless contours of hard-won knowledge. Obi-Wan merely breathed, letting the immensity of the moment, of the future, of the past, fill him with its oceanic thunder, the peace of utter freefall.

For they were truly over the precipice now, irrevocably leaping on pure faith into the unknown, wings spread wide to ride the Force, to soar aloft on destiny's wind, side by side.

Behind them, the automatic cleaning droid emitted a burbling string of imprecatory bleeps at the mingled mess of gold and chestnut locks heaped upon the floor, and dutifully swept away the last vestiges of the past, clearing the scene for whatever the new day might bring.

END BOOK V