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It begins, interestingly enough, with Feemor.
Obi-Wan is newly re-instated within the Order, within Qui-Gon’s quarters, and he is barely settled into his relief and slow healing when his master opens his door to a compact, smooth-faced man with hair as short as any initiate’s.
Obi-Wan assumes this is a new knight, delivering information or a message or a summons, and he barely gives the unremarkable figure a glance before turning his attention back to the text at hand.
Only to hear an equally unremarkable voice exclaim, “Master,” with so much warmth he almost gives himself a crick in the neck looking up again.
His undemonstrative master has a hand on the young man’s shoulder and then, much to Obi-Wan’s wide-eyed wonder, embraces him.
Jedi, as a general rule, do not hug.
Emotion is to be treated with care, and if it needs to be expressed, it is conveyed in words and tones of voice. It is indulged in action and understanding. Rarely in physical contact as far as Obi-Wan has known it, most of which infringes on personal space and personal dignity.
The unremarkable man, however, just grins happily and pats his master on the shoulder.
“Come in,” Qui-Gon says, and sounds positively affectionate, “You should have told me you were coming.”
“My transport was… unreliable,” the visitor says delicately.
And this time Obi-Wan almost falls off his chair as his master laughs.
True, it isn’t more than a few huffs of sound, almost inaudible, but the room is quiet and small and the lines beside those blue eyes are crinkled with pleasure.
Not thought, not frustration, not disappointment, not even amusement – pleasure.
Obi-Wan shuts his mouth with a snap.
Too late, sadly.
Brown eyes catch sight of him where he sits on the worn chair by the window. They look him over, examine his face, glance at his right ear, and then the thin mouth stretches into a wider smile.
“I see I am interrupting,” the man says.
And sounds almost gleeful.
Qui-Gon smiles back and says, “Feemor, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi; Obi-Wan, Feemor Stahl.”
Which answers only one question, and sadly not the most pressing one.
“Hello,” Obi-Wan says politely.
“Hello, Obi-Wan,” Feemor replies.
And then neither of them have anything else to say.
Obi-Wan sighs internally. “I can make tea?” he suggests hesitantly.
And steels himself to see the look of faint reluctance cross Qui-Gon’s face.
His master is not an unkind man – and in many ways is infinitely patient – but Obi-Wan hasn’t quite mastered the process, not to mention the depth of flavour and heat that suits both their palates. Qui-Gon usually drinks the results without complaint, even if he can’t possibly be grateful for the bitter, lukewarm brew potent enough to strip varnish.
But it isn’t his master who steps in. Feemor shakes his head.
“Allow me, please,” he says, and somehow makes it sound genuine, “It would be my honour.”
Obi-Wan looks at Qui-Gon, who only nods, still smiling.
And that seems to be that.
Except that it isn’t. This strange apparition vanishes into their kitchen and Obi-Wan waits for the smooth slide of compartments opening and closing in the quest to find the proper equipment.
He hears precisely four small clicks and the beep of the heating unit. All these sounds are quiet and confident.
And then there is silence.
Qui-Gon, on the other hand, sits down and waits patiently. He seems to be listening as well but what he can hear seems to be what he expects to hear.
He is still smiling, still affectionate, and Obi-Wan has had enough.
He gets up abruptly and goes into the kitchen.
The man looks up at his arrival, standing perfectly still and perfectly composed, hands tucked into his sleeves in a very familiar way.
“Hello, Obi-Wan,” he says again.
“You know where everything is,” Obi-Wan observes.
Brows rise.
“Ah,” Feemor says quietly, “I see that surprises you.”
“You are a friend of Master Qui-Gon’s,” Obi-Wan says awkwardly, “I’m not surprised. I just wanted to make sure.”
All of a sudden he notices how shrewd those brown eyes are.
Feemor nods. “A friend, yes,” he agrees calmly, “And a former Padawan. Qui-Gon Jinn was my master.”
Obi-Wan feels the muscles in his back stiffen in shock. He frowns. “But after Xanatos…”
And any doubts he has about the authority or capability of this seemingly gentle man are immediately put straight.
Feemor lowers his hands to his sides. His unremarkable face does not shift expression but something in it hardens. For just a moment, Obi-Wan is instantly reminded that this man is still a Jedi Knight. No matter what else he may be.
“Before Xanatos,” Feemor corrects, and then softens again.
Obi-Wan examines him in his turn and absorbs the information carefully.
“I didn’t know,” he says honestly, “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Feemor shakes his head and then, unexpectedly, reaches out to ruffle his hair. “Qui-Gon doesn’t like to talk about his Padawans and I am rarely in the Temple. I’m not offended, Obi-Wan.”
Then he turns away to pour hot water into the pot, swirls it around, tips it out, and pours again.
Obi-Wan watches the neat, sure movements with fascination.
He also notices that there are three cups on the tray, squeezed in somehow, and he follows in a sort of hesitant daze when Feemor wordlessly indicates the door.
Qui-Gon has, at least, stopped smiling, and the watchful gaze he levels at both of them is far more familiar to Obi-Wan.
“I doubt Obi-Wan knows who you are, Feemor,” he says drily.
And Obi-Wan flushes, half-convinced that this is a gentle censor before Feemor snorts. An entirely crude sound.
“Naturally not,” he says, “If you’ve told him nothing of your history before Xanatos. Does he even know who your own master was?”
Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan is surprised to note a hint of conspiring camaraderie on his master’s face, as though Qui-Gon believes they’re both on the same side in this.
“We have had such an eventful beginning to Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship,” Qui-Gon returns smoothly, “The subject has never come up.”
Feemor bows in acknowledgement and sips from his cup.
Obi-Wan sips as well, and feels his shoulders droop.
The tea isn’t bitter, isn’t lukewarm, and it doesn’t taste like solvent.
His master, in fact, looks almost pathetically grateful.
And happy.
And Obi-Wan sighs internally again.
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But this isn’t truly how it begins.
It begins when a new knight agrees to complete the training of a Padawan whose master is gravely injured.
The Padawan in question is quiet and unremarkable, and traumatised, and Qui-Gon is young. His goodwill is not yet tempered by cynicism and his empathy has always been marked.
His own master, Dooku, spent much of their time together honing his instinctive ability to form quick, accurate judgements of character and situation, and to look beyond a surface to the driving Force below.
As luck would have it, it is Dooku who draws Feemor to his attention.
“Tell me, Qui-Gon, what do you see?” Dooku asks.
Qui-Gon dutifully watches the ongoing duel for a few minutes before he answers – “He’s slow in a fight, and he drops his guard too often.”
“Anything else?”
He watches the duel end and both opponents bow to each other. He watches the young man linger on the sidelines to watch the others, and say nothing.
“He seems quiet.”
“He is,” Dooku says, “I have watched him for several days and I can tell you this – he listens.”
Qui-Gon waits to hear more but it seems his former master considers this the most newsworthy observation.
“That is a worthy quality in an initiate,” Qui-Gon eventually responds.
Dooku’s glance sideways is sharp but fond. “Some might say the most important quality, my former Padawan.”
And Qui-Gon suppresses a smile.
Dooku turns serious again. “As you are no doubt aware, listening is not the same as hearing. We hear much, but many of us fail to realise what has truly been said. Or in many cases, what hasn’t been said. That young man can listen. Even a being of average intelligence can do great things with such a gift. And then there is his presence.”
Qui-Gon gazes doubtfully at the subject of the discussion. “He seems to be lacking any,” he says, and winces at his own unkindness.
Dooku does not. Merely frowns in mild enquiry. “And why should that not be an advantage? A man of average intelligence, with the gift to listen unnoticed, to hear what others might not want a powerful Jedi Knight to know – I can think of several situations where such a skill would be useful.”
Qui-Gon is silent, turning this over in his mind.
He is aware that his former master is unusual. Dooku is a man of vision, who took a Padawan with a strong adherence to the Living Force and turned him into a political negotiator. Qui-Gon is well aware of the scepticism Dooku faced, as he was that Padawan and still struggles between his desire to live in the moment and his duty to work for the future.
And now here is another of Dooku’s unlikely candidates.
“I can tell you one more thing, Qui-Gon,” Dooku says, “That young man’s master is dying.”
And Qui-Gon’s eyes widen slightly, his compassion instantly aroused.
“Will you take him?” he asks bluntly.
“I?” Dooku sounds surprised, “I leave shortly for a scholar’s sabbatical that may keep me away for far longer than Feemor Stahl deserves. You, however, are available, should you be inclined to offer.”
And so Qui-Gon does.
He is not surprised to find that Dooku is right – the young man listens, and is frequently underestimated.
He is pleasantly surprised to find that Feemor has far more than average intelligence. That he is soft-spoken and deferential, and remarkably loyal.
Feemor also rejects his offer of training gently, and stays with his dying master until the end.
The boy does accept an offer of friendship, and by the time he has grieved through the funeral rites, Qui-Gon is ready to grieve alongside him at a personal loss rather than the Order’s professional one.
Within ten standard days, though, Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn formally offers an apprenticeship to Padawan Feemor Stahl, and once it has been as formally accepted by his Padawan, it is gratefully celebrated by his friend.
----------------------------------------------
Yet this is also not how the tradition starts.
It starts before Feemor is even born, when Dooku arrives on a cold planet in the Outer Rim and spends days negotiating boundary laws.
The planet has been wracked by civil disputes and pirates. It has a decimated economy and decimated cities, and its population is at the end of its tether, worn down by starvation and cold and disease.
Dooku is aware of the urgency of bringing stability back to this region of the galaxy but he has a duty to the diplomatic future of the planet. The warring factions are in the middle of an uneasy ceasefire but he holds little hope for that. Political tension promises that war hangs in the atmosphere like a toxin.
In many ways, this is an atmosphere in which he thrives.
There is something satisfying in bringing all his focus and finesse to bear in such tension to make order out of the chaos. To test his nerves and his wit against those who are so caught up in their wants that they don’t always realise what’s best for them.
“They’re hungry,” his new Padawan observes.
Dooku glances sideways as they sit in the transport.
Qui-Gon is a tall child at twelve, and has the look of a boy who has more nose and elbow and knee than he knows what to do with. He is uncannily quiet, and Dooku has been waiting for some sort of voluntary comment for quite some time.
The boy is startlingly strong in the Living Force. As such, this will be a most confronting mission.
It is also his first as a new Padawan.
“There is a food shortage in many of the cities on this world,” Dooku acknowledges.
Qui-Gon’s brow furrows. “No,” he says, and his voice is almost awed, “This is more than that. They’re desperate, Master. Is this normal?”
Dooku looks around and spots what his Padawan is no doubt looking at – the old couple in the threadbare clothes, gaunt faces marked with suffering.
“Yes,” he says, and wonders what Qui-Gon will say when he sees what prolonged starvation looks like – the undignified obscenity of bodies turned into walking skeletons.
Silence descends between them again.
And then – “We were given more food than we needed this morning.”
“Indeed we were. As was our right as representatives of the Senate,” Dooku says calmly.
“As Jedi, we could suggest they give some of it to those who need it more?” Qui-Gon suggests.
Dooku shakes his head immediately. “You will do nothing of the kind. We are not here to lecture the government on food distribution, Padawan.”
Qui-Gon obeys.
But he does not approve. This is abundantly clear in the unhappy glances he casts around them on their journey to the opulent mansions in the Leaders Circle.
Dooku ignores him except to admonish him sharply to stand up straight and stop slouching. To be civil, at least, if he cannot be a Jedi.
Qui-Gon flushes but does as directed.
Dooku turns back to the political discourse at hand and talks of contracts and traditions, of raising revenue and business concerns. He talks of legends and the semantics of Senate law while all around him the Senators of this world sit in their fine clothes and pristine luxury, debating the merits of an imaginary line of ownership across land that no one cares for except a handful of small villages that scrape out crops from the rocky soil.
This is the way of the galaxy as he knows it, and he sees nothing to remark on in the fact.
His Padawan, however, is young and idealistic, impulsive and fatally empathetic. Moreover, Qui-Gon has never left the sheltered confines of the Temple until this mission.
His unhappiness shifts to anger, which shifts to impatience, which shifts to defeated sadness by the time they finish the political discussion for the day.
His master does not look at him as he says, “I have a mind to buy a new cloak.”
The Chairman of the Council bows immediately. “I have an excellent seamstress. I will have her sent to your quarters, sir.”
“No, no,” Dooku says, waving a hand, “I will not put you to the trouble. I am,” and here he smiles thinly, “A critical man. I must weigh many factors in my decision.”
The Chairman’s smile is wide and toothy. “A selection of cloaks, then. I will have them sent to you.”
“Truly, it will be no trouble to walk to the city stores,” Dooku returns calmly.
“I must insist,” the Chairman says.
Dooku bows. “Then I will be most grateful.”
The Chairman is as good as his word – he has thirty cloaks set aside for Dooku and his Padawan and delivered to the mansion.
Dooku looks over the cloth and the stitching, explains calmly that his intention was to buy warmer cloth for cold temperatures and returns all of them.
Qui-Gon watches with a frown creasing his brow.
“Is this a part of your political strategy, Master?” he asks.
Dooku does not look up from his datapad. “No. That will involve some research into the historical records of the pre-Senate laws of land ownership as they pertain to tribal custom and matriarchal inheritance.”
A second selection of cloaks is brought to them in the morning, and Dooku looks over them cursorily before announcing that he unfortunately has little time to choose in the moment but if the cloaks could be left in residence, he will make his choice in the evening on his return.
Of course, what he does in the evening is to pack ten. He delivers four into his apprentice’s arms and takes six himself.
“Now we will test ourselves on stealth,” he says, and proceeds to slip out of the mansion without alerting the guards.
Qui-Gon scrambles after him and they return to the city, making their way to the poorer quarters.
“The goal is to leave these without the occupants’ knowledge. We will meet here when we are done,” Dooku orders.
“Yes, Master,” Qui-Gon says, eyes bright with the adventure and shock and delight at this turn of events.
They work quickly and quietly, and then return to the mansion, slipping in through the back door without anyone being the wiser.
“We will continue our training exercises tomorrow evening, Padawan.”
And they do.
For three evenings, they distribute the thirty cloaks to homes with broken walls and windows, no heating and no fires and half-starved people who huddle into their rags for warmth.
On the second evening, Dooku visits a refugee camp to ascertain local information on boundary landmarks. The hour is late by the time he has finished interviewing those he needs to speak with.
“Perhaps we can join you for the evening meal,” he says.
The appointed spokesperson for the refugees shares a desperate look with her sister. “We do not have much, Master Dooku,” she says hesitantly, “But what we have you are welcome to.”
“A sentiment my Padawan and I share,” Dooku says promptly, and summons the guard who has accompanied him to this place. “Perhaps, Captain, you can have the cooks in our quarters bring the food here.”
The guard almost has an apoplexy but Qui-Gon watches with ever-dawning realisation of just what it is his Master has accomplished.
The food they have brought is not much, but on Dooku’s unsmiling comment that it should be given to the children and the invalids, the refugees promptly comply before they can change their minds.
They accomplish the same feat in an orphanage the next evening, ostensibly there to follow up on the reports of children who may be Force-sensitive but untested.
As for the cloaks, before they leave, Dooku remarks blandly that he was unable to choose from such a fine selection.
As the Chairman has received reports of an anonymous donor distributing warm clothing to those in need, he simply smiles and says nothing.
“He must know a Jedi would never have asked for such a thing,” Qui-Gon protests, “We are forbidden to accept gifts.”
“I believe the Chairman is the sort of man who would have taken a far more expensive gift,” Dooku says acerbically, “He is willing to believe that the Jedi can be equally corrupt for their own purposes.”
He watches Qui-Gon turn the thought over in his head.
“Are we?” his Padawan finally asks.
“No,” Dooku says.
“But we broke the rules.”
“You will find, Qui-Gon, that sometimes the rules get in the way.”
Qui-Gon will learn, Dooku hopes, to maintain an air of inscrutability but for now, the child shows every emotion he feels. And he seems to feel very many.
A risk, then, to his future as a political negotiator. The Living Force is not conducive to some of the more chilling calculations Qui-Gon will be asked to make in his life but if it is harnessed correctly, Dooku suspects that it will be a strength unlike anything he could offer the galaxy.
After all, why not remember that somewhere in the laws and boundaries and histories of great worlds are ordinary people who want to live in peace and fairness?
“The Jedi Order will give you your duties and your missions,” Dooku tells him quietly, “And a good Jedi Knight will complete them to the best of his abilities. A true Jedi Knight, however, will always find himself doing more than his mandate.”
“I… don’t understand, Master.”
Dooku smiles. “Look around, Qui-Gon. You came to settle a boundary dispute. You have fed forty people, clothed thirty, and given hope in a time of crisis.”
Qui-Gon absorbs the concept like a sponge, soaking in the words like a revelation.
Dooku rests an elegant hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes comfort is a more important gift than wisdom, Qui-Gon. Never turn away from an opportunity to provide it.”
--------------------------------------------------------------
This is how a single act grows into a tradition.
The Council does not approve of Dooku’s actions during the mission. He is reprimanded, and serious questions are asked of him concerning his acceptance of gifts and favours.
“It is politics,” he answers implacably, “The whole system rests on barters and deals.”
They do not appreciate the blunt rejoinder.
Qui-Gon asks – “Is this my fault, Master?”
“No,” Dooku answers shortly.
And he knows it will not satisfy Qui-Gon but his Padawan is still an uncannily quiet child. So he waits patiently until the boy is ready to ask in more detail – “I wanted to do something to help those people. I don’t presume that you did it because of me but…”
“I will do what I must, Padawan,” Dooku explains, “As the Council will do what they must. We can only act in the present for the good of the future.”
By which he means they will need to be far more circumspect in their good deeds.
As the years pass, they develop a tradition. It isn’t something they indulge in on all missions, but when the times are darkest, they turn to the small conveniences of the ordinary people caught in difficult situations and they try to alleviate a small part of their suffering.
They undertake it in secrecy, and the first person Qui-Gon ever tells is Feemor, who turns the concept over in his mind and, quite to Qui-Gon’s surprise, agrees with it.
“It is good to remember sometimes that people need joy as much as hope,” Feemor says.
And Qui-Gon smiles, astonished at such a simple truth that he has missed in all these years.
Simple things have such meaning – a toy for a child, a lesson in basic defence combat for a youth, or returning to mend the roof of someone who has provided shelter. Small gestures made to bring joy, which in turn brings hope.
It is with Xanatos that the tradition becomes a game.
For Xanatos, the worth is in the exercise of his skill.
It is a challenge to return a stolen pendant to the apartment of a high rise building but Xanatos manages it.
It is a challenge to find a way to slip knowledge of a child’s safety into a grieving parent’s pocket.
Qui-Gon is always pleasantly surprised by Xanatos’ inventiveness and dexterity. He fails to see that Xanatos takes no notice of the people at the heart of these exercises. By the time he does, Xanatos has fallen and he is no longer blinded by glorious visions of Xanatos’ future.
----------------------------------------------------
This is how a tradition is revived.
“We do what we can, Obi-Wan,” Feemor tells him, “Not because we want praise or glory, or because we’re Jedi, but because sometimes it’s the smallest gestures that bring the most joy.”
“I think I understand,” Obi-Wan says cautiously, “The small kindnesses philosophy.”
“Exactly,” Feemor says, and then looks surprised, “Aren’t you a little young to be reading that?”
Obi-Wan looks down. “I had six months’ probation and no classes, and Master Qui-Gon wasn’t always able to train me so I spent some time in the Archives.”
“I see,” Feemor says easily, and lets it go, “I don’t think I could have understood the small kindnesses philosophy at your age, but my interests have never aligned with scholarship.”
Obi-Wan looks up. “Are you drawn to combat?” he asks eagerly.
Feemor rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m… not a very good duellist,” he says ruefully, “Though I am better than I used to be.”
Obi-Wan frowns in confusion.
Feemor sighs. “Obi-Wan, there are other uses for a Jedi knight in the Galaxy besides scholarship and combat.”
“A Knight may be called on for many types of missions,” Obi-Wan says carefully.
Feemor grins. “That is true. But that is not what I mean.”
The boy stares up at him warily, and Feemor wonders exactly how eventful the start of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship has been. It isn’t unusual for a Jedi Initiate to be thoughtful and careful but this level of caution speaks of unpleasant experience.
It looks, he thinks, like Obi-Wan is preparing to protect himself.
“I mean,” he says calmly, “That we can be more than scholars or warriors. We can represent the best virtues of living beings, and what little we can give, can be given wholeheartedly. Not because it is our duty, but because we want to.”
Obi-Wan blinks.
Feemor shrugs. “There are enough beings in the galaxy who think only of themselves, Obi-Wan, who embody greed and hatred and selfishness. Why not remind them that this is not the only way? We’re already ambassadors of the Senate. We have time to be ambassadors for good.”
Obi-Wan considers this seriously, only to have Feemor reach out suddenly and tug at his braid.
“Be a force for good, young Padawan,” he grins, “And start with our Master. He’s so stiff-necked he’s liable to break in a strong wind.”
Obi-Wan splutters over a laugh and guilt at his own irreverence, but Feemor only smiles down at him before asking about his understanding of the small kindnesses philosophy.
And it turns out that Obi-Wan knows the tenets but doesn’t quite understand the nuances, which Feemor frankly admits he doesn’t quite understand himself.
He marches them both back to Qui-Gon’s living quarters and petitions his former master for a lesson on ethics, much to Qui-Gon’s bemusement. But when he delicately points out that the small kindnesses philosophy may have a more practical application through the coming years of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, Qui-Gon rests a sharp stare on his new Padawan before nodding.
“Then I suppose we will have much to discuss on this topic,” he says.
They talk, the three of them, until Obi-Wan is sent to bed, heavy-eyed and still somewhat startled by the quiet vibrancy of new ideas and thoughts and revelations.
If he smiles hesitantly as he bows respectfully to the both of them, they do not comment on the fact that there should be no hesitance at all in one so young. They do not comment, but they both observe, and both dwell briefly on it before accepting it with philosophical resolve.
And then Feemor turns his placid, unremarkable gaze on his former Master.
“He is not Xanatos,” he says bluntly.
Qui-Gon’s surprised joy has subsided through the last few days to a quiet warmth. “No,” he admits, “He’s not.”
“I have renewed hope for your ability to choose Padawans, then,” Feemor says.
Qui-Gon shakes his head with a twisted smile. “This time the Padawan chose me,” he says, and tells Feemor the story of Obi-Wan’s unlikely entry into apprenticeship.
And just as Dooku predicted all those years ago, Feemor listens.
He says nothing, he does nothing. His expression is honest and open and placid, his presence unassuming, but he leans forward as though to meet the words halfway, his brown eyes shrewd.
“A remarkable child,” he comments.
And Qui-Gon glances at the door through which Obi-Wan has exited. “All children are remarkable, in their own way.”
“That is true,” Feemor agrees.
They say nothing more on the topic, but the next day Feemor returns to Qui-Gon’s quarters and bows respectfully to his former Master. “My transport leaves in an hour,” he says.
Qui-Gon watches him, arms folded into his sleeves. “I know your dislike of goodbyes, my friend,” he says, “So I will only hope that the Force is with you on your journey.”
Feemor is almost out the door before Qui-Gon interjects – “Do you still practice our tradition?” he asks.
Feemor half-turns. “Why do you imagine I’m here?” he asks.
And Qui-Gon shakes his head. “I never imagined I would be one of your projects, Feemor.”
Feemor grins. “What else are friends for, Master?”
But before he leaves, he finds Obi-Wan in the training ring, completing a supervised duel against a Padawan two years older than he is. Feemor watches the give and take of strikes, notes the back and forth of movement and strategy. And he listens.
It’s what he doesn’t hear that eases the tension in his shoulders – the lack of taunts and jibes, or pained huffs of breath that signal body and mind pushed too far too fast. Obi-Wan’s breathing is quick and laboured but it is controlled, his movements fluid and neat, and he fights fairly.
It won’t be as useful a skill when he fights in true combat, Feemor thinks ruefully, but if Qui-Gon can keep the boy to that moment of truth, can enshrine it in his core nature, then the Order will have a Knight worthy of the name.
His transport leaves within the hour and he quits Coruscant without a backward glance.
There are millions of planets in the Galaxy, and he is no longer needed at the Temple.