.                      Bonds of Choice #15
                  Star Wars: TPM FanFic Series
                         by HiperBunny
                        (message 1 of 4)
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"Obi-Wan.  Wake up."

Obi-Wan's eyelids fluttered once, then snapped open.  He realized he'd
dozed off over a stack of datachips.  He'd been out of bed for hours,
catching up on work time he'd lost to sleep.  Though he'd put Qui-Gon under
for a solid rest, he'd not gone back to sleep himself.

He suppressed a grin, recalling the surprise in Qui-Gon's mind when Obi-Wan
had put him down.  The desire to grin faded when he realized Qui-Gon was
probably going to be peeved at his little trick.  Oh well.  Duty must be
served and a Padawan must attend to the Master's needs whether the Master
liked it or not.  If Qui-Gon really wanted to argue that point, he was
welcome to take it up with the traditions of the Padawan's Duty.  

In any event, Obi-Wan was out of bed and fully dressed when Qui-Gon called
on him.  He rubbed sleep from his eyes and briefly considered offering
breakfast of some sort.  His stomach rebelled at the idea, so he put it
aside.  

"Bring your lightslate and come with me," Qui-Gon smiled, beckoning.

Qui-Gon set out on a long stroll, one that put them close to the Temple
Library.  As they made their way through the halls, Qui-Gon spoke of this
and that in a quiet, instructional tone.  Obi-Wan's hands disappeared
behind his back, his head inclined towards his master, attentive,
cataloging every word said.  Nothing unusual about the scene, just a Master
instructing his Padawan on some point or another.  *How easy it would be to
disguise basest blasphemy,* Obi-Wan thought wryly.

"My Padawan, I am going to give you something that hasn't seen the light of
day in ... several centuries at least.  I've seen something of what it is,
what it can teach us, but ... Kourt thinks you are the one," Qui-Gon
shrugged.  

"The one what?  I thought everyone was in a lather about that Skywalker kid
being The One," Obi-Wan spoke in a quiet, deferential tone, thinly
disguising the humor in it.

"No, uh, not that The One, a different 'the one'," Qui-Gon smiled
minutely.  "He thinks you're going to be able to understand something we've
been struggling with for ... well ... quite some time now.  I can only make
this gift to you.  I can do little to help you with it, but what I can do,
I will do, always." Qui-Gon had led them deep into the oldest, most
protected part of the Library archive.  He touched a door panel and waved
Obi-Wan inside.

The Padawan stopped, tried to understand what he was looking at.  Finally
he regained the ability to speak.  "Books."

"Yes.  Books.  You begin to see the problem, no doubt," Qui-Gon smiled.

Centuries ago, millennia, probably, books had been abandoned for more
practical, more compact forms of data storage.  With the move to electronic
storage, paper and ink was no longer a viable method for transporting
information, either.  Though still used for art and decoration, the
materials had become quite expensive and difficult to obtain in some parts
of the galaxy.  Though there were some hardcopies of texts in the library,
they were not what one might properly call a book.  Thin sheets of
fiberplas with two-dimensional print was no replacement for their ancient
counterpart.  The very scent of the room brought a change to Obi-Wan, as if
he'd been transported through time, back to a day when the Order had been
of wholly spiritual intent.  Or perhaps forward, to a time when all these
things had fallen away and come new again.

Obi-Wan began walking through the rows of books.  Not as many as he'd
thought at first, but plenty enough.  The free-standing bookcases were two
shelves higher than Qui-Gon's head, in rows five wide and five deep.  The
walls were lined with shelves crammed full of books and books and books. 
He reached out and touched one carefully.  He'd only ever held two books
before in his life.  The second had been the little instruction manual that
the Kurasians had given him with his Feathers of Heaven box, though it was
more in line with the hardcopies in the Library stacks.  Though the
illustrations and text had been hand-made, the materials were obviously
modern replacements for the pulp-and-dye creations that now surrounded him.
The first had been a religious tome, sacred on some distant planet, ancient
and real.  He'd all but mind-tricked the owner for one chance to feel the
pages under his fingers.  The object had called to him, powerfully.

Maybe now he knew why.

"What am I to do with these, my Master?" Obi-Wan tucked his stray hand back
into his sleeves.

"Well, I suppose that's entirely up to you, my Padawan.  What you see
before you is the pitiful remains of the once-great Jedi Temple Library. 
The countless volumes we once must have owned have been reduced to this. 
Much of what was taught ... in the very earliest days, in the very, very
beginning has been lost over time, as water wears the mountain.  The Order
has changed over the millennia, as have our teachings.  All that remains of
our origins is this, and most are blissfully unaware of its existence. They
belonged to Kourt Crowe for a long time.  He collected and preserved them
from outpost Temples, as did our Master before him, and hers before her and
so on and so on.  This has been going on for so long, I think the Order has
forgotten that they ever owned this little collection.  He gave them to me
shortly after I became a Knight," Qui-Gon settled down in one of the rows
and watched his Padawan wander around.  "And now I give them to you."

"Why?" Obi-Wan finally asked, trying to include all his questions in one
word.

"Prophecy, feelings, call it what you will.  Somewhere in these books, we
don't really know where, lies the answer to a question we don't even know
how to ask yet.  It touches on the Force, the Light, the Dark ... don't
think that little introduction to our theories brought you anywhere close
to the truth.  That was just a mental exercise to get you started." 
Qui-Gon shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts.  "Anyway, we've never
been able to find the question or the answer.  Actually, I've never
looked.  I think Kourt actually tried to read all of this stuff, at some
point or another."

"He couldn't find what he was looking for?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Well, there's over a hundred languages here, most of which are dead. 
That's part of the problem, too many languages.  Besides that ... I don't
think he was meant to.  Actually, I know he wasn't meant to.  So did he. 
Um, there was a prophecy.  Poorly translated, it runs something like 'And
the undying will gather up That Which was Written.  And their children's
children's children shall be weakened, and grieve them mightily.  And the
children unto them shall make gifts unto The Teacher.  And The Teacher
shall Teach unto The One who shall read that which is written.  And
understanding will come unto him, and through him, and with him it shall go
out to all peoples, all times, everywhere.'  Anyway, near as anyone can
tell, I'm the Teacher.  That used to really impress me," Qui-Gon grinned.

"Until you figured out that it was your student who was going to get all
the glory," Obi-Wan returned.

"Eyah ... well, that and the fact that the student in question will either
be hailed as a hero or murdered outright by those he thought to be
trustworthy.  Hard to tell, exactly," Qui-Gon's eyes clung to Obi-Wan,
trying to memorize his features.

"I'm not going to be killed by a mob of Ewoks today, Master, so don't go
borrowing trouble," Obi-Wan warned.  "Prophecies have a way of twisting
perceptions.  We can't trust them to tell us the whole truth, or even when
they're being fulfilled.  We can only listen to the Force and trust it to
know what it's doing."

Qui-Gon nodded.  "You have learned your lessons well, Padawan.  If a trifle
ungainly, what you say is correct.  Anyway, here it is.  That Which was
Written.  Lots of it.  Good luck."

Obi-Wan came to sit next to his master.  "That's it?  Good luck?  I don't
get any hints?" 

"Oh, weren't you paying attention?  I've brought teaching to you.  Now you
read.  I'll clear your class schedule, re-code the lock down here for you. 
The books are all very well preserved.   You should still be able to read
most of them, if you know the languages.  We took good care of them.  I'll
be along with some dinner later," Qui-Gon grinned at his surprised
student.  "I'm kidding.  I'll go get us some provisions and we'll see how
best to start."

"THANK you, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, very much relieved.  

Qui-Gon went out and returned with a rather large crate. "I thought this
might be of help to ... I must confess, Obi-Wan.  I did not know you were
the one we were looking for until quite recently.  Just before you were
taken into the Group, in fact.  I bought these over the years, when I
could.  I began manufacturing them myself, after a while."

He popped the locks on the crate and revealed more books.  "They're blank,
all of them.  There aren't enough here for everything in this room, of
course, but I thought perhaps the most important texts ... "

Obi-Wan was on his knees before the crate in an instant, lifting one after
another from it.  Each was hand-made, thread-bound in the ancient style. 
Some had plain, but sturdy covers, clearly the ones Qui-Gon had made.  He
opened one of these and found the tiny sigil that stood for Qui-Gon Jinn. 
Tilting it to the light, he could see it was written there, not stamped. 
"You can write?"  Obi-Wan whispered.

"Not to a calligrapher's standard, but yes.  I can write," Qui-Gon
shrugged.  "To be honest, it's not terribly different from using a stylus
on a lightslate.  There is a certain exotic quality to using pen or brush
on actual paper that I find appealing.  The mechanics of writing took years
to perfect, but it seemed prudent to learn."

Obi-Wan found a wide, flat box in the bottom of the crate and lifted it
out.  Within, there were any number of pens, inks, a small stack of paper. 
"Will you teach me?"

"Of course, if you wish to learn.  I had no idea you would want to put the
time and effort into it, Padawan," Qui-Gon laid his hands over Obi-Wan's. 
"I will teach you anything I know.  My oath is good."

Obi-Wan nodded, embarrassed.  Of course Qui-Gon would teach him.  And he
would learn.  "But not today, my Master.  We have much work to do.  First
we must look at the records of what we have and ... what?"

Qui-Gon looked sheepish.  "No one has ever cataloged them.  Obi-Wan, we
can't READ most of them!  I mean, there are books here written in script
that might as well be bird scratches for all the sense I can make of them. 
Kourt tried, as I said, but his head for language is worse than mine, never
mind the written forms of communication!"

Obi-Wan nodded, understanding.  While most cultures develop a language of
their own, the Jedi were children of the Republic, raised on Republic-held
worlds and generally kept to Republic-held systems.  No matter where they
found themselves, someone was sure to speak Republic Standard Speech. 
Learning the languages of the Republic civilizations was considered a
*noble* pursuit, but certainly not practical on a larger scale.  A Jedi
might be conversant in the eight or nine variations of Standard, as well as
the language of his native planet and one or two others, but that,
generally, was the end of it.

Unlike the Senate, which was obliged to have any number of translators,
both droids and native speakers, on hand at any given moment, the Jedi were
far more accustomed to having that work done for them.  There had only been
a handful of exceptions in recent years, Jedi who had made a hobby of
speech and written forms of language.  Obi-Wan knew them all, had learned
from them all, and now he had his reason.  "Bring me one, please, Master."

Obi-Wan sat on the floor and set up his lightslate.  No, he might not be
able to copy the texts yet, but he'd be damned if he didn't start a proper
preservation of the information, here and now.  Qui-Gon returned with a
stack of books, setting them down reverently beside his student.  

"Here, you let me do the record.  I'm sure you'll have enough on your hands
without that," Qui-Gon said, taking the slate from him.

Obi-Wan nodded, centered himself and picked up the first book.  It was,
indeed ancient. "I should be wearing gloves," Obi-Wan observed.  

"We'll remember that, next time," Qui-Gon promised.  "Can you read it?"

Obi-Wan opened the cover, relieved to see the ink and pages had withstood
the test of time. "It's in Elder Low Common," he told Qui-Gon.  "Um, a
dialect of it, but I think I can give you the practical upshot."

Qui-Gon nodded, fingers ready over the keypad.  

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and began.  "On Balance and Control, an
instructional guide to natural harmony.  Written by Dosobo Beirak.  Skies,
Qui-Gon!"

"I imagine we'll have a lot of that in here," the Master observed.

"You don't understand, this is hand-written, not press-copied!  This was
actually WRITTEN by Master Beirak!"  Obi-Wan didn't know whether to drop
the book or bow to it.

"He was a great thinker, Obi-Wan, but still just a Jedi, the same as us,"
Qui-Gon reminded him, trying to calm the younger man.  "Carry on, Padawan."

Obi-Wan obeyed that command instinctively. "Chapter One, The Necessary
Center."

************************  

Hours later and they were halfway through the text and arguing.  Again. 

"Are you SURE that's what it says?" Qui-Gon asked for the third time.

"MASTER, while I am just as aware as you are that the accepted translation
would be 'Taking content from form is simply done,' what this text SAYS is
'Removing the message from its composite parts is foolishly undertaken.'  I
SWEAR that's what it says.  Look, right here," Obi-Wan leaned over and
pointed to the line.

"I can't READ Elder Low Common, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon reminded him.

"Well I CAN," Obi-Wan snapped.  "So put down what I tell you or ... or ...
go do some pushups!"

Just then, Obi-Wan's comm link chirped.  Keeping a steady gaze on his
Master, Obi-Wan took the link from his belt.  "Kenobi."

"Obi-Wan? It's Jayden.  Listen, I hate to bother you, but could you come to
the music room?  Swed's at it again."  The Knight sounded tired, stress
thick in his tone.

"Yes, of course.  Right away.  How long?"  Obi-Wan closed the book in his
hands and set it aside.

"Sixteen hours on the pianoforte.  Four on the synthesizers before that."

"I'll be right up," Obi-Wan clicked the link off and began putting things
away.

"What's wrong?" Qui-Gon asked.

"It's Swed.  Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it," Obi-Wan murmured.

"Do you mind if I join you?  Perhaps I can be of help ... "

Obi-Wan was touched by his master's offer to assist his friend and accepted
with a nod.  "Do you think it would be okay to take some of this back to
our rooms?  We'd be more comfortable, working there."  He stretched,
relaxing muscles long-cramped by his seat on the floor.

"Of course.  This belongs to you now.  You can do what you wish with them,"
Qui-Gon smiled.

"We'll take these two and come back for more later," Obi-Wan decided.

The trip to the music room was a short one.  Knight Hunter was waiting by
the door.  "I didn't want to worry you, Obi-Wan, but he really does need
rest.  Every time I ask him to come with me, he begs to be let alone.  I
really don't have anything pressing for him to do, so ... "  

Obi-Wan nodded, understanding.  "I'll see what I can do."

Swed was in his preferred chamber, seated at his favorite instrument.  The
music he drew from it was haunting, full of pathos and desolation.  Obi-Wan
sighed.  His friend had long been given to depression and ennui, a
situation most uncomfortable for a proper Jedi.  Oddly, he was one of the
most focused, competent individuals Obi-Wan knew, seemingly unhindered by
his bent for emotional indulgence.  Occasionally, though, Swed would find
himself with time on his hands, without work to focus him.  It was then
that the call of his sorrow would enslave him, driving him to extreme
behavior that most Jedi found incomprehensible.  Obi-Wan had nothing but
sympathy for his friend, a feeling that had often served to break the
cycle.

"Swed?"  Obi-Wan murmured when the song came to an end.

The elder Padawan looked up.  His eyes were tired, dark smudges underlining
their fatigue.  "I can't get it right," he all but sobbed.

"It sounded beautiful," Obi-Wan began, but was stopped by Qui-Gon's hand on
his shoulder.

"Again, from the beginning," the master commanded.

Obi-Wan's mouth dropped open in shock.  The idea was to get Swed out of
there, away from the siren call, not to pitch him further into it. 
"Master?"

"Let me help him, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's tone made it a gentle command.

The Padawan bowed, stepping back.  Qui-Gon went to the pianoforte and laid
his hands upon the soundbox, swaying gently with the music.  His head fell
forward, hair swinging past his shoulders to shroud his face as he lost
himself in the tones and swells, pitch and timbre, the subtle manipulations
of the composition.  Suddenly, his head came up.  "No, no.  Stop."

Swed obeyed, folding his hands in his lap.  

"Here, let me ... "  Qui-Gon looked around the room, strode to the wall and
lifted an instrument from the available selection.  "Listen."

He tucked the instrument under his chin and tuned it, hands moving expertly
across the pegs, drawing a soulful passage from it when at last he was
satisfied.  "Listen, you've got to make allowances for the vyol," he said,
stepping behind the other Padawan. "Again."

They played together, blending the tones of the two instruments in a mesh
of glittering enchantment.  Obi-Wan's throat ached at the sweetness, lost
in the world it created.  They came to the passage Qui-Gon had found fault
with and the union fractured.  Obi-Wan heard it, that time, the place where
Swed's interpretation went wide of the mark.

"No, stop!" Qui-Gon objected, tapping the score with the vyol bow.  "It can
not  be rushed, it must grow and be pure sorrow."

Swed nodded, seeming to understand this odd instruction while
simultaneously accepting the strange words Qui-Gon used.  Again they began,
this time coming closer to pure harmony.  "Better.  Once more."

"I can't do it justice," Swed mourned.  "I have tried, Master."

"It is that very thing that prevents thee, sprite.  I think thou'rt
overtired.  Perhaps you'd best to rest before we try again," Qui-Gon
stepped away, moving to return the vyol to the rack.

"Wait, Master Jinn! I can do it!" Swed stood, eyes beseeching.

"Of course you can," Qui-Gon's voice had returned to its more natural tones
and accents.  "You'd've not studied under Master Vren'Kel if you couldn't. 
But you've pushed yourself too hard, young sprite.  Go sleep.  If I'm free
when you wake, we'll try again."

Swed looked longingly at the pianoforte, then gave an equally hungry look
to Qui-Gon.  Qui-Gon's expression softened and he drew the younger man into
an embrace.  "I know.  Her passing was a great loss to us all, Padawan. 
But driving yourself to distraction over her memory wouldn't please her,
and using her music to break your own spirit?  I can't allow it.  Go rest,
sprite, and we'll find something our partners can enjoy with us."

One of Swed's rare smiles broke out as he stepped back and bowed.  "Thank
you, Master Jinn.  I might have asked sooner, if I had known ... "

"Not many do anymore, Padawan Bvroukala.  I hope you'll keep it to
yourself," Qui-Gon looked near to blushing.

"Yes, Master," Swed bowed again.  "Anything you wish."

"I wish for you to sleep more regularly and stop vexing your master.  My
Obi-Wan is a good friend to you, wants to help you, but first you must
learn to help yourself.  Now go," Qui-Gon stepped back, nodding towards
Knight Hunter.

When they were alone, Obi-Wan raised an inquiring eyebrow at his master.

"What?" Qui-Gon asked.

"I could ask you the same thing.  Or better yet, when?  When did you have
time to study music?  And when did you have time to write all those papers
in the stacks?  Why did you never tell me?"  Obi-Wan gestured helplessly.

Qui-Gon sighed and took a seat at the pianoforte.  "You've never shown any
interest in music, beyond singing, like you do with Corubia.  I didn't want
to turn that pleasure into another set of lessons for you, Padawan.  Music,
seriously learning about how to make music, is not a simple undertaking if
it is taught properly.  I couldn't see teaching you halfway.  I thought it
best to simply ... leave things as they were."

Obi-Wan nodded, understanding. "But Swed?  What was that 'sprite' thing?"

Qui-Gon chuckled.  "One of the better music teachers in the Order was
Master Vren'Kel.  She called all her students 'sprite' because she had a
terrible head for names.  You'd know you had gained proficiency when she
finally remembered your name.  I hadn't seen her since my trials, but I did
run into her about two years ago.  She called me 'Jinn', so maybe I did
benefit from her instruction."

"How did she die?" Obi-Wan was suddenly curious about this Jedi who had so
influenced his own teacher.

"Stupid politicians and their stupid greed.  She was on a simple
fact-finding assignment last year, but someone got paranoid about what it
could lead to and ... poison," Qui-Gon sighed, shoulders sagging.  "It
seems such an odd thing.  We Jedi have so many talents beyond what
outsiders know.  They see us as fighters, negotiators, some kind of
galactic police.  They never know we're just musicians, artists, scholars
and cooks with a very strange day job."

Obi-Wan smiled.  "Is that how do you see me, Master?  A cook with a strange
day job?"

"Aren't you?  When you're in a pitched battle, or slogging your way through
a nasty swamp trying to pull some kind of miracle for people who don't know
you or care about you, don't you ever consider just chucking it all and
becoming a mechanic or something?"  Qui-Gon smiled.

"Well, mechanic? No, Swed and Corubia are much better at that sort of thing
than I am.  But maybe a teacher.  Oh, and I did once want a farm of my own
... " Obi-Wan grinned back at his master.

"There, you see?  Do you think the Kurasians know or care about that?  Or
the Daegans?  No.  They think we're out there serving some higher purpose. 
I wonder what they'd think if they knew how often I did my duty only
because I promised myself some of your hotcakes when we got back here?"
Qui-Gon stood and began closing up the pianoforte, putting music away,
tidying up for the next person to use the practice rooms.

"But what about 'We are Jedi first, and servants to the Light?'" Obi-Wan
asked.

Qui-Gon studied Obi-Wan for a long moment before answering.  "A Jedi ... is
not all one thing.  Neither is the Force, nor the Light.  When I see
justice served, that is service to the Light because it creates a peace, a
balance in this life.  When Kourt ends the life of an evil person, that is
service to the Light because it prevents future wrongs and redresses past
ones.  When I take up an instrument and play, that too is service to the
Light.  It makes me happy, brings joy to my soul, creates good where it
might not have been, before.  You could be a perfectly good Jedi and never
do more than meditate and keep yourself serene.  When you share your gifts,
your talents, whatever they may be, that is service to the Light.  That is
the core of the Jedi way. Our options are myriad, our opportunities beyond
number.  We are not confined to the machinations of politics, the heat of
battle, the coordination of government, though these are the places where
our talents are most often recognized.  When you are truly of the Light,
everything you do is a service to it."

Obi-Wan was silent for a long moment, considering all that his master had
said.  It would seem there was much yet he had to learn and perhaps there
always would be.  A tiny smile played across his lips.  If anything could
be a service…

He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Qui-Gon. 
With great reverence and honest respect, he rose up on his toes and placed
a gentle kiss on his master's lips.  Qui-Gon's arms came about him, drawing
him closer as the kiss deepened into an expression of something nameless
and infinite.  The Moment stretched out around them, bringing their
presence in the Force to perfect clarity.  Obi-Wan hardly dared breathe,
for fear of ending the exchange prematurely.  His eyes drifted closed as
his hands made circles along Qui-Gon's ribcage.  Scent and taste mingled,
there in the crystal purity of the Light.

He knew not how long they so embraced.  When finally they parted, his knees
shook and his voice wavered.  "So ... hotcakes, huh?  Maybe I'd better let
the Council know how to motivate you," Obi-Wan joked.

"Don't you dare."  Qui-Gon grinned. "Listen, I need to go see Kourt about
one or two small matters.  Why don't you check the library for information
on how best to preserve your books while we work with them?" Qui-Gon pushed
the door open and let his student precede him.

"Oh, I don't know.  I was thinking of working on my roast mekul recipe
today," Obi-Wan ducked his head to hide his smile.  

"You're trying to bribe me, but it won't work.  Research first, then
mekul," the tone was firm and commanding.

"As it please you, Master."