And so it was that Obi-Wan Kenobi was formally apprenticed to Master Qui-Gon Jinn, in the great Gathering Hall of the Jedi Temple, with the entire Jedi Council, and many more of the Temple’s residents, in attendance.
He stood in the center of the Hall, warmed by the light of the sun pouring endlessly through the fifty-meter tall windows. A TSD hummed busily about him, trimming his longish hair close to his head, but leaving carefully untouched a portion behind his right ear. He glanced to the right, and caught Bant’s eye as she stood between Garen and Reeft, beaming at him, her coral skin alight with joy on his behalf. Garen gave him a huge grin, scrunching his eyes closed comically. Reeft raised one fist and tapped his chin, a signal of unalloyed approval whose origins were lost in the misty beginnings of their childhood friendship.
Trying to hold his head very still, he managed a lopsided smile at them.
Turning his eyes the other direction, he saw his Master standing with the Council members, looking impossibly tall next to Master Yoda’s diminutive form. Qui-Gon gave him a nod and a smile, and his own smile stretched into a grin of its own volition. On Qui-Gon’s other side, Tel Udrunn sat next to a hovering medchair, her arm curled protectively around the chair’s occupant, A’ali Cek. A startling white bandage covered the bacta gel coating her injury, but she offered Obi-Wan a bright smile nonetheless. He knew that she had overridden the Healers’ wishes to come to the Hall this afternoon, and he felt honored.
He had thought so often of this day, when he had seen other Braiding Ceremonies, and watched here and there a fellow student become a Padawan. He thought of them now, those older apprentices, striding beside their Masters with easy confidence and extreme grace, their lightsabers swinging, their braids hanging nearly to their waists. He tried to summon up an image of himself like that, and failed utterly.
Qui-Gon waited, arms folded, watching the droid finish its work, and then glanced down at Master Yoda.
“You knew all along, that I was meant to teach this boy.”
Yoda’s ears raised alarmingly as he answered. “Nothing, I knew! Not my place to interfere with you, it is.”
Qui-Gon looked back at Obi-Wan, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Of course, my Master.”
At the very back edge of the crowd, behind a group of Healers, a lone figure stood, absolutely still, his face schooled into a rigidly pleasant smile. Bruck watched, as the droid hummed away from Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon stepped forward. He watched, expression never wavering, and a dark spirit moved restlessly beneath his skin. The web of stories he had spun had seemed to satisfy those who had asked, and he had not been summoned to appear before the Council. If they called him, he would only spin the web more skillfully. He had tasted the dark wine of manipulation and deceit, and he was learning well to mask its hold upon his soul.
A silence filled the Hall as Qui-Gon stood beside Obi-Wan and faced the gathering: Masters mantled with experience and peace, the few Knights who were not absent serving the Republic in the far reaches of the galaxy, students with eager, wistful lights in their eyes, Healers radiating the power of the Living Force. He placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and said, “I’ve come to this place to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my Padawan Learner. You who honor us with your presence here know that it is my duty as Master to teach, and Obi-Wan’s to learn. The Braiding is the symbol of that commitment.”
He turned to Obi-Wan, face solemn, but an encouraging glint lighting his eyes as one eyelid drooped in the subtlest of winks. Obi-Wan had to look away to keep from laughing.
Qui-Gon’s hands moved deftly, despite their size, taking the uncut hair and swiftly plaiting its length, until a short braid hung behind Obi-Wan’s ear, barely long enough to be seen, but there nevertheless. He secured it with a slim yellow cord that had once been wrapped tightly around his own Padawan braid, many years ago.
When it was finished, they faced the assembled Jedi as Master and Padawan, and Qui-Gon said, “We serve the Force.”
From scores of throats came the answer, enveloping them with its bright power: “May the Force be with you.”
And thus it was done.
******
At the next waning of the moon, General Molu stood before the Oracle of
Triki.
He was dressed in a simple tunic of silvery gray, unencumbered with any weapons, and yet he seemed more imposing, not less, as he waited, still and unwavering.
A large crowd had squeezed into the Oracle’s Temple, so much so that the requisite twenty paces of open space around the petitioner was in danger of being compromised. A huge contingent of Molu’s soldiers stood bunched along one wall, their faces bleak. At the edge of the circle, eyes snapping with malice, stood Kai, the cultural officer, a large dagger thrust ostentatiously through his belt.v Orthu Bela stood beside the Oracle, eyes bereft of their usual jovial glow. He raised one hand, and the muttered chatter in the room died away, smothered under a blanket of tension.
He looked long into the General’s face, and then turned to the Oracle, shoulders heavy.
“Oracle, will you hear us?” he asked.
“The Oracle is always willing to hear,” the mellifluous voice responded.
“General Molu has violated the gods’ taboo regarding the purity of the small moon’s sky. He comes to ask that the gods judge his actions and pronounce exile or absolution.”
A pause. There was no sound but the shifting of feet, and a sudden hastily smothered cough..
Then, the Oracle spoke.
“The gods have seen this action, and are grieved by the breaking of taboo. The waning moon is sacred, and its purity must remain inviolate.”
A halo of thick tension seemed to circle every torch and spotlight in the Temple. The air pressed down with an ever-increasing weight as the Oracle contemplated the offense and the offender.
Then, it said, “However, the gods find no evil in General Molu. He has wielded an honorable sword.”
As a cheer erupted from the soldiers’ throats, the voice continued, “He may go in peace.”
Molu permitted himself a smile.
And, much later that evening, he slipped out of the wholeheartedly joyous party that had erupted in the Main Court, and lifted his head to study the stars, a gilded cup held casually in one hand. He turned his face slightly, just enough to take in the sparkling region of space where Coruscant lay, far beyond the range of sight.
“I’d better send a comforting message to the Master Jedi,” he thought. “He and young Obi-Wan are probably thinking I’ve taken a dagger to my own heart by now.”
The moonlight caressed the sky. It was a good night for addressing the gods, and, as he thought of his Jedi friends, he dipped his fingers into his cup. Flinging a spray of winedrops upward, he spoke a blessing.
“May the gods walk with you, Master Jedi and Young Apprentice. May you serve the galaxy for many years in the power of your joint strength.”
Then he drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders, and turned to rejoin the celebration. On the pathway behind him, an offering of droplets shimmered in the light of the waning moon.
*FINIS*
A brief note from the author:
My sincere and heartfelt gratitude:
**to Laheara for creating and maintaining the Early Years Archive, without doubt the best SW archive on the web!
**to Uncle Harold, beta reader extraordinaire. Any mistakes in this story are the result of me mucking about with the text after he'd already done a thorough beta on it.
**and most of all, to you, o readers, for sticking with this story since its inception, and sending me so much encouragement and positive feedback along the way. I started posting this story in November (!!), and some of you have been reading it ever since. I do not take for granted the compliment you pay me by staying with me all this time, and I can never thank you enough.
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