Chapter Text
Your lightsaber is your life, his master tells him, early on in his apprenticeship. Your blade will be devoted to you, and so you must devote your life to your lightsaber in turn. Keep it close.
This is the first lesson Obi-Wan learns, sitting at his master’s feet and watching closely as Qui-Gon bends over his lightsaber.
“A lightsaber is not a tool, but a friend,” his master remarks, ruefully rubbing out a smudge by his saber’s emitter. “And friends require the utmost care.” Qui-Gon strokes the hilt with his thumb again, thoughtful, in a pensive mood that Obi-Wan has not yet learned to understand. Then, seeming to make a decision, he places the lightsaber on the low table and stands up, striding over to the shelves by the window.
Among the riot of potted plants and assorted treasures, there is a small box made from a soft green wood and carved with vines and leaves. Qui-Gon picks up the box and returns to the low table. He removes from the box a cube of wax and polishing cloth, and the miniature tools used for scouring dirt and sand from the ridges of a hilt.
Obi-Wan watches from off to the side, feeling out of place in his master’s private rooms. He has not yet seen his master’s lightsaber up close before, and the proceedings are of great interest to him. Qui-Gon polishes the hilt until the chromium gleams like the flashing silver scales of the ik’e fish that dart beneath the surface of the reflection pools in the Temple gardens. His master's hands touch his lightsaber with reverence, and something more besides: Fondness, an affection that is not out of place for a partnership of many years.
Qui-Gon notices him. This is not unexpected; his master notices everything. But Obi-Wan is startled when Qui-Gon sets the polishing cloth aside and says tolerantly, “Well, padawan, you might as well come and see.”
He kneels at Qui-Gon’s side to watch. Qui-Gon holds the saber out in his palm, then takes his hand away. The lightsaber remains in mid-air.
Slowly the pieces of the hilt draw apart. Components float in the air between them.
“Each piece fitting in place, just so,” Qui-Gon explains, “see there, padawan? There is no other place for this crystal than right here. See how it fits exactly.”
“Yes, master. I see.”
The remainder of the hilt floats apart and reveals the interior, wiring and plasma charges. And there is the heart of the saber itself, a kyber crystal, green as a conifer leaf.
“Just so,” Qui-Gon murmurs.
The kyber gleams at him with almost a conspiratorial wink. Obi-Wan glances at his master, but Qui-Gon’s face remains frustratingly impassive. He wishes suddenly to be able to touch the crystal, to check and see if it truly meant that glimmer of mischief. But he doesn’t dare reach out. A saber is such a personal thing, the one true possession most Jedi can call their own. Obi-Wan has no right to touch what does not belong to him.
“One’s kyber is not only a focus for the Force, to help you hear and understand the Force’s call. Your kyber will respond to you, your emotions and feelings, and be shaped accordingly. A harmonious relationship.”
Obi-Wan looks fixedly into his master’s face, the look of steady determination there, how his gaze focuses on the kyber that floats just above his palm. Then the components of the saber draw back together and reconnect. Qui-Gon reaches into the air and takes the lightsaber in his hand, balancing the hilt on his palm.
And what is in your heart, master? Obi-Wan wants to ask. Does your kyber know?
His master surprises him by smiling, almost all the way to his eyes—and unexpectedly places his lightsaber in his padawan’s hands.
“See for yourself,” his master suggests.
Obi-Wan examines the saber closely, turning it all around. There is the sleek chromium in patterns of crested waves along the hilt, the power cells stacked in rows along the grip. It is a unique look, one Obi-Wan has not seen before. The saber dwarfs his smaller hands, built for a grip much larger than his own. Yet the saber feels comfortable, solid, true.
And there is that hint of mischief again, seemingly out of place for the little that he knows about his master.
How does he truly feel about me? he wonders at the kyber. What is he like, do you know? Could you tell me?
His new master has been polite, accepting. He does not outwardly show displeasure or annoyance. But Obi-Wan cannot help but feel that he is an intruder in the solitary life Qui-Gon has carved out for himself: His single room, with no space for a padawan; his lonely travels through the galaxy on remote missions.
All he knows is that Qui-Gon had not asked for him.
The kyber seems pleased to be asked, responding eagerly to his inquiry. Obi-Wan offers a hesitant tendril of Force towards it, and it answers in return: Evergreen trees, always loyal, always true; rocks in a tidepool and the wind whipping around a corner; the scent of mint tea and damp soil.
“It’s you ,” he tells Qui-Gon, delighted. “It couldn’t be anyone else’s lightsaber—it belongs to you.”
His master looks at him strangely, and once more Obi-Wan worries that he has given the wrong answer. He returns the lightsaber, feeling a flush growing on his cheeks.
Can I ever learn to be what he wants? he wonders with a pang.