Archive: SWA-L, M&A
Disclaimer: George owns Star Wars. As if we didn't know.
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: PG
Spoilers: TPM spoilers.
Summary: Obi-Wan reflects on his life with his Master.
After Qui-Gon's funeral, Anakin and I went back to the quarters Amidala had given us in the palace. "We'll move your things into my room, Padawan," I said to him. As he left my side to go gather his belongings, I touched his shoulder. "Ani, are you sure you want this? It...isn't easy. The bond between master and student is more intense than you can imagine."
He smiled at me, his blue eyes shining. "I'm sure."
When he returned, I was waiting for him. "Padawan?"
"Master?"
I met his gaze calmly, covering the aching loss in my chest. "Are you ready?" "Ready for what, Master?"
"I need you to witness this for me, since my own Master is dead. And then...well, you'll see."
"I'll witness," he said.
I picked up the silver-handled scissors Qui-Gon had bought when I was not quite thirteen. The ones he'd used to cut my hair. The ones I was about to use to cut Anakin's...and to take off my own braid.
I reached up and snipped through the braid, felt its small weight leave me. By all rights, it should have been Qui-Gon who cut it from me, who caught it as it fell.
If there was any justice in the universe, his hands would have been on my shoulders and his mouth on mine in a solemn kiss of congratulations.
Instead, Anakin watched gravely as the braid slid down the front of my robe and curled into my lap. I reached for him, drew him close to me, and lifted the scissors to his hair.
As I snipped, running my fingers through the fine strands and collecting the cut hair in my lap, I thought of how it felt when Qui-Gon had done this to me. His hands had been so gentle, and the scissors had made a rasping sound in their newness. I had been not quite thirteen, and the feel of his hands in my hair had been intimate and seductive without being sexual. I had never felt so close to anyone as I did then.
The scissors did not rasp now, but snipped smoothly. For twelve years, Qui-Gon cut my hair with them, every two months, regular as clockwork. Even when we were on a difficult mission, he always found the time to sit me in front of him and run his hands and the scissors through my hair. Once, when I was seventeen, I leaned back against him, pressing into his hands, craving his touch. Gently, so gently, he'd wrapped his arms around me and held me close.
I brushed the fallen hair away from Anakin's shoulders and took my braid out of my lap. I cut the unbraided tail off and began weaving my hair into the lock of his I'd left behind his ear. Qui-Gon had done this, too: woven his hair into mine as he wove us into Master and Padawan, adding bits of my own cut hair to the braid until it passed my shoulder.
Oh, Master, I am not ready for this task. I am only just a Jedi Knight, only just past the trials. I should not have an apprentice, not yet.
Oh, Master, why did you leave me?
With an affectionate pat on the shoulder, I sent Anakin to wash the hair from his body. I swept the cuttings from the floor and made up Anakin's bed, adding extra blankets so he wouldn't be cold.
Then I took my braid, eighteen inches long without the tail--the tail that was now part of Anakin's braid--and pulled out my lightsaber repair kit. I affixed metal loops to the ends and tied the braid around my neck. The scraps of my Master's hair in it are all I have left of his physical self, all I have left of his caring for me, of the touch of his hands and the warmth of his arms around me.
Anakin came back into the room, water shining on his eyelashes and the tips of his newly-spiky hair. "Master?"
"Yes, Padawan?"
"I love you, Master."
"And I you, Padawan. That is as it should be."
He came to stand beside me and laid his head on my shoulder, his small fingers playing with the sleeve of my robe. "I miss Qui-Gon," he whispered.
I lifted my arm and held him against me, felt his face press into my neck and the tears start. "So do I, young Anakin, so do I."