The late summer wind graces your features and sweetens your lips. You wonder how the wind inherently knows that it is summer and gathers the smells and essences that ARE summer: hot, citrus, salt and sand. Various theories run through your mind, but it only remains that you don't care how, but simply that it does.

And its presence is a fitting crown to the royalty of the day.

Blue skies stretch as far as the eye can see, although given your current placement, hidden amongst high grass, seated next to a small waterfall, there is blessed little sky to see. Reeds bend overhead, and the musty, earthy scent of wet ground and grass gone to seed fills the air. With a sigh, you pick up your datapad and personal communication kit. You should make your way back to Grand House. There are duties you have to attend to, but summer will only last a little longer.

Bending, you grab your blanket.

"Tira?"

Your head snaps up, and your body follows suit. That voice sounds so very familiar.

"Tira…I know you are out here."

"Qui-Gon?"

Your voice carries only a short distance in your surroundings. Its quiet alto timber is lost in the blowing grass. His low baritone, however, carries quite far.

"Come on, Tira, they brought me here. You are here somewhere…I can feel it."

You reach out and move the reeds from in front of your face. The stalks are sharp, but you survive without a cut. There is a small rise and you scramble up its face, sliding, soiling your skirt. As you clear the top, you see the wide open meadow around you. There, near the trees, a tall figure stands. It is clad in a tan tunic and tan pants…no cloak. "Qui-Gon!"

His body turns slightly to see you and you know the moment he sees you by the way that he starts to walk across the meadow toward you. The figure that he presents has not changed from the last time. He is still tall, still athletically slender, still large and definitely still a Jedi. The only differences that you can see from this distance are the length of his hair – it is much longer - and the speed of his gait – it is much slower. You start across the open space to join him.

As you near, as the shade afforded by the trees begins to touch your skin, your gait quickens. Finally, you are close enough to see the new growth of hair on his face, a beard of sorts, and that the length of his hair is the same as the length of his padawan braid. "Welcome back, Jedi!" you call.

He smiles and stops his steps, holding his arms open. Although you know that decorum states otherwise, you let your parcels fall from your hands and run the remaining distance to embrace him. There is no embarrassment in the action on either yours or his part. No, it is only in what people might think seeing you like this. But this is a friend, a comrade, someone dear to you.

"It is good to see….oooff." Qui-Gon begins and stops as you collide with and embrace him. Your arms curl around his torso and his arms descend to land about your waist. He seems bigger, thicker than what he was….if not also a tad bit taller. "..you. And good to be back."

Your feet leave the ground as his arms tighten almost unbearably about your ribs. He tips his head forward so that his mouth is brushing against your shoulder. You laugh for a moment and listen to his growled chuckle. With a sigh, and after some minutes, he puts you down. You run your hands down the front of your dress to make sure that it is lying as it should. Squinting, you raise your face to glance at him and scolding, you say : "As I understood it, Qui-Gon, from your comlink two days ago, I was to retrieve you from the port in the morning."

"My transport got in this morning, Tira. I was a day early…the mission ended unexpectedly two days earlier than I expected. There were complications…"

As he steps back from you, you can see that he is wincing. You nod and bite your lip. "Your Master?"

"Will join me here in two days," he answers, tilting his head to the side. You reach up and run your hand down his cheek and rub at his chin. Qui-Gon smiles, his lips turning up into a grin that you have not seen in years. You lower your eyes from his though, to watch your hand caress the gold, blond and brown hair of the beard. It is rough, new growth…reminding you of your father's when you were very young and used to rub your hand against his face.

Your eyes fly from his chin to the rosy, tawny lips now hidden in the beard, to the length of his hair as it lays against his neck and shoulders. His padawan braid is still there, but now buried in the heavy, silken tresses that have strangely darkened in color…lessening blond to a true, dark brown. He holds it back in a ponytail. Finally, your eyes trace his broad shoulders, his thick neck and then center once again on his eyes. His heavenly clear, wonderfully blue eyes. "A beard? Qui-Gon…I thought it was against the code for a padawan to have facial hair…"

"And it is against the code for a Jedi to endanger his mission by shaving it off….it was needed for this last mission, Tira. Why? Don't you like it?" His voice rumbles, hoarse in the your ears.

"It will take some getting used to, Jedi. I always carry a mental image of you in my mind when I write to you and talk to you…this will change that image," you state, tilting your head to the side. A branch moves above you and allows a lacework pattern of light to play on him.

"So, will you scold me all day, Tira?" he asks and shakes his head. His arms, the thick muscles in them pronounced by the tight undertunic that he wears, fold across his chest. He raises his eyebrows and glances down at your dress. It is a hot day and you are clad in country clothes: a cotton blue skirt, white shirt and black vest that is drawn close to your body. His gaze lowers from your hair to your chest and down to your feet, climbing back up quickly. "Still playing in puddles I see."

"The skirt is that way only because you startled me and I climbed the creek side quicker than my feet could handle. I have given up my puddle playing days, Qui-Gon," you answer, brushing your hair back. "My position is such that I have to have some decorum."

"A blessed little, knowing you…and you could never give up playing out of doors…" he answers, rocking back on his heels. "If you did…you would not be you, Tira. Gods….it's good to see you."

"As it is to see you as well. I have missed you," you state, leaning in again to embrace his torso. He laughs and uncrosses his arms to allow you to slip under their strength. He is warm like the late summer sun in which he stands. "Beard and all."

With a sigh, he allows your hands to cross over one another around his midriff. "What has it been, Tira, dear? Two years?"

"Two years, one month and 14 standard days," you answer grinning into his chest.

"This is the last leave I can have before my trials begin next month," he answers, pulling back from you a little. You frown at the sharp way that he moves his torso under your hands. "Be thankful I was able to end my mission as quickly as I did."

You remove your hands and step back from him, lowering your hands to rub against your skirt. With a sigh you lean forward. "Where is your injury, Qui-Gon?"

"What are you talking about, Tira? I have no injury." He begins, turning and holding out his hand for you to take. After you gather and hold your items in one hand, your other hand falls into his easily. You feel as though you have not been separate from him at all. His letters have become more introspective, more personal, more…him, than previously and they have made you feel infinitely closer to him. And although you have not seen him in years, you confidently call him your closest friend, your confidant.

"Your injury, Qui-Gon, that makes you flinch when I embrace you. It is somewhere on your torso," you answer. "Apparently your last mission ended in a fight…"

"A disagreement, thank you. And I am quite fine," he answers testily, squeezing your hand. He slows his pace and you walk along side of him. His large black booted feet appear huge next to your smaller slippered feet. With a sigh, you tighten your hand reflexively.

"Don't lie to me, Jedi. I might not be able to read your mind…but I can tell when you are lying. Where is it? And have you had it cared for?" you ask, looking up at his face. You both enter the thicker part of the forest as it surrounds the Grand House and his face is painted in shadow. He glances down at you for a second and then snaps his eyes back to the path that you trod on. As he opens his mouth to argue, you squeeze his hand. "No arguments, Jedi."

"I am twenty, Tira. I can care for my own injuries."

"You admit…"

"I admit only that I am twenty," he smiles. He pulls you closer to him as you walk down the path. Silence permeates the air like a fine perfume and you inhale as if to taste it. What you encounter is the fresh smell of baking bread from the kitchens a short distance away, fruit trees in bloom and moonsickel on the breeze. You close your eyes as you both clear the thicket and enter into the sunshine. You can feel it dusting your features. Stepping closer to Qui-Gon, you disentangle your hand from his.

"You will stay at the Grand House? I am allowed a set of guest quarters."

"I will. And congratulations on attaining you r full position, and happy belated birthday." Qui-Gon says, lowly, almost as if he wants to keep the information secret from the breeze that blows around you.

"Both of which you have previously said in letters. But thank you again," you return, and suddenly press your hands against his right flank. The sharp intake of breath that you hear makes you nod. "I thought as much, Qui-Gon Jinn…and I know that you have not seen a healer about it."

"It is nothing," he grumbles, lowering his hand to press into the area.

"I will be the judge of that, Qui-Gon," you shake your head and then gently slip your arm about his waist. "Thank you for coming back to Alderaan."

"Sometimes I wonder if I will survive these trips," he murmurs, but lays his arm across your shoulders. You nestle into the area that is provided by his arm and flank.

"And yet you still come," you say, leaning against him, careful of his side.

"There is nowhere else I would rather be. I have missed you as well, Tira," he sighs and leads you with his arm about your shoulders. The sun is steadily sinking into the horizon and you can feel the chill of evening descending. But somehow, next to him, you feel strangely warm and totally protected.

**

"Tira…."

You face him in the low light provided by the evening lamps in the main room of your quarters. He stands there bare-chested, his tunic held in his hands. An angry purple welt extends from under his rubs to his right flank. You near him and kneel, putting your face near the wound. "Have you seen no one about this, Qui-Gon?"

"You are the first, although I must say that this is not necessary," he answers, looking down at you. In the golden light that is provided, his eyes appear more like sapphires than the pieces of summer sky that you know them to be.

You press your fingers gently into his thigh. He releases a powerful breath and shakes his head. You shake your head and rise, turning to approach the telecomm on the wall. With a grimace, you press the button and speak. "Colette, I need a injury kit with extra bindings and ointment."

The young woman's voice returns quickly, and slightly augmented by the electronics. "Yes, Tira….are you hurt?"

"No, my friend is. And he refuses a healer. Please bring the kit," you state and lower your hand. Without turning, you begin to address your friend. "I would rather do this, Qui-Gon. You are in pain…Jedi or not. And I don't want to see you in pain. It is no bother…"

There is silence for a moment and then the room fills with the sound of deep, male chuckling. "You are flustered, Tira, and are rambling. After all this time, and after all the letters, you are nervous around me?"

You turn to tell him that you are just tired. And stop.

His back is to the window, which is open. Curtains blow inwards from the evening breeze, but they serve as a gauzy film on which perfection is painted. When you were looking directly at his wound, you did not notice the golden skin. Or the way that his chest is well-formed, and muscular and so…broad. His hair is copper in the light, and falls to his wide, strong shoulders. You can see the slope of his neck, its thickness accentuated by the way that the cords at its side stand out. He is perfect. Strong and tall and broad and…as perfect as a formed statue. "I'm not nervous, Qui-Gon…"

"Good," he says earnestly and your gaze returns to his eyes. With a deep breath, you nod. His eyes grow serious as you hold his stare. You can see them turn down a little at the sides. He sighs and turns his face from yours, laying his tunic over the back of the nearest chair. "You will not be penalized for my presence here?"

"No, your presence here is-" your speech is interrupted by a short, curt knock at the door. "Enter!"

**

His breathing is calm and measured as you spread the ointment over his wound. "May I ask how?"

"Yes, you may, but I cannot insure an answer, Tira dear," he answers, holding his arms out to allow you the ability to tend to his wound. "I am not sure you would want to hear it."

The skin beneath your hands is hot. The summer aroma of mixed flowers, moonsickel and grass is replaced by the heavy odor of herbs and oil base that you spread over his wound. The surface of the floor bites into the skin of your knees, but you still remain as you are. You can feel the slick surface of his skin as it slides under your hands. The lack of friction and the heat make you feel strangely…as if you need to squirm. "Did you kill someone?"

"I know your feelings on the matter, Tira. I won't upset you…and I won't engage in a peace treatise with you. I think it is the only thing we will always argue about, you know. It is simply that Jedi and Alderaani define and celebrate peace differently…" he answers, his voice growing louder as his head tilts down to glance at you. "But, I will say that there was little choice in what did happen…it was the Force's will…"

"Any time you wish to avoid the weight of decision, Qui-Gon, you always invoke the name of the Force," you answer, sliding around to kneel in front of him. "Was it a laser gun?"

He grumbles and then answers you clearly. "Yes, it was a laser…"

"Then there was little external bleeding, I gather," you state, dipping your hands back into the ointment. Although many different technologically advanced methods exist for caring for wounds such as this one, this ointment still remains one of the better methods for relieving pain without dulling senses and is one of the few that non-healers are able to use. You raise your hands and rub into his upper abdominal muscles and back around his flank to overlap the last addition. "Do Jedi not carry injury kits?"

"I had to leave mine behind, Tira. There was no time…" he begins, and stops as you ease the waist of his leggings away from his body to cover the entire wound with ointment. The skin there is moist, warmer than the rest. His muscles twitch and you hear a harsh inhale above your head. You glance upward at him to see his face and neck tight. But it is his eyes that startle you. They blaze, spark and make you feel as though you will incinerate into ash. Your mouth drops open in shock at the difference in his eyes. At the difference in the way that he stands, that he holds himself.

Sound tunnels away. And the rest of the world seems to grow dark except for the exceptional flame that seems to burn within his eyes, within him. His eyes dart down to your mouth and hold there for only a second before returning to your eyes. Suddenly, even though the gauzy curtains still blow inward to grace your world with heavenly breeze, and your clothes are cool cotton, your breasts seem hot, and they grow tight. His eyes lower even further, as though seeing your body through your clothes. Then his eyes return to yours and the spell is broken. "There was no time," he states, quietly.

You nod and press your fingers into the hard muscles of his abdomen. Your eyes fall to watch your hands caress the melted metallic that his skin is. He continues quickly. "Thank you…although for a peace philosopher to be tending to an injury of war is…"

"Ironic?"

"Very," he sighs as you finish rubbing the ointment into his muscles. "What do you have on your agenda for the next few days?"

"Just a gala to attend tomorrow night. And I am seeing the local proprietor of land about that house…"

He nods. He lifts his hand over his head and presses against the wound to test its resilence. It is almost as if watching a God test a mortal shell. You shake your head at the image. This is Qui-Gon…not some man from mythology. You reach behind you and get the wrapping. "Keep your arms up, Qui-Gon, let me secure the bandages."

Qui-Gon continues on the last part of the conversation and keeps his arms extended out. "The house by the sea? In the dunes? It is still not occupied?"

"No. And I intend to have it," you answer as you reach around him. Your arms can barely span his waist.

"Gods forbid if anyone gets in your way if you have set your mind about something," he comments and lowers his arms as you step away from him. "Good as new, Tira."

"I highly doubt that, Qui-Gon. But I am glad to be of service," you answer, smiling, wiping your hands on your apron. Your feet are bare and you curl your toes into the cool marble.

He extends his hand and tilts your head back with a finger under your chin. You smile at the intense look in his eyes. You know what the next question will be, the issue that he has been avoiding. "And this Thomas?"

"You will meet him tomorrow, Jedi," you answer, allowing the heat from his hand to bleed into your skin. "But…"

"Yes, I should retire to my room; it is well after midnight." He sighs and lowers his hand, reaching for his tunic. He eases it on his body, slowly, almost painfully. "But I will see you in the morning."

"Without a doubt, dear friend."

"Then good night, dear Tira."

**

"I am fine," Qui-Gon states, grumpily and tugs on your hand. Your dress flutters as you begin to climb the stairs to the gala. "Do not worry yourself, Tira."

"I am not worried, Qui-Gon," you answer, reaching down with your free hand to hold your dress aloft, above the stairs as you climb them. The evening is warm and your dress, although floor length, is strapless and hugs your chest well. It swishes as you climb the stairs along side your friend. Warm air and cool silk mix against your skin as you step to the top of the stairs and feel as though you are surrounded in the summer breeze itself. "Just keep that side as immobile as you possibly can."

He sighs and slows to allow you to stand at his side. Ahead of you many other couples climb the stairs, but they appear ghostly in the moonlight. It is almost as if you are looking at a memory of the grand days of old. Silks and satins, cottons and leather, marble and stone, they are everywhere. Your steps slow as you see the vision and finally stop.

Qui-Gon stops with you and squeezes your hand. "It is like a haunting…glorious isn't it?"

"Absolutely, Qui-Gon," you breathe, squeezing his hand in return. "The moon washes out their colors. It is saying: 'the sun might give your color, but I have the power to take it away'."

He smiles and lets go of your hand, only to run his hand up to your elbow. "Your colors are never taken away," he says, his hand warm and oh so gentle against your skin.

You glance up at him and smile. "It is hard to have silver taken away, Qui-Gon, especially when it is the color of the moon." He widens his grin. In the dark, his beard is like night itself, dark and dangerous. It makes him seem older…and stronger. His eyes, however…his eyes remain your beacon in the night, blue and bright showing you the man inside.

"Irregardless, Tira, it wouldn't dare take your color away," he answers, ducking his head lower to you and his voice lowers as well. It rivals the rustling leaves in timbre and thunder in tone. You hold his eyes with yours. It is strange, the power you see hidden there. After a few seconds, he lowers his gaze from yours and he begins to lead you up the stairs again.

And for the rest of the trek to the inside of building, you don't feel the breeze, you don't feel anything but the warmth of his touch and the tingle that remains in your chest from his gaze.

**

The gala is in full swing by the time that the Baron makes his way to the podium. Where there had been loud, crystal-like chiming music, there was silence as many moved aside to allow him passage. His tall, imposing figure stops every few feet to shake someone's hand, or say a few words to another. You ease up on your toes to see over heads. Standing as you are, near the refreshment table with its small contained waterfall and plates of food, you cannot see him on the floor, but you will be able to see him when he climbs the stage. Still it frustrates you that you are unable to completely keep track of where he is.

"He is still there, Lovely."

"Thomas!" you spin on your toes and face him.

His face is split in a grin that extends from ear to ear. Blond hair, heavy from the evening moist air and with his brown eyes wide and inviting, Thomas appears as you have always known him to be: well-manicured and impeccable.

"Did you think I would not be here, Tira, darling? I did say I would meet you here."

"Yes, you did," you agree, still smiling. You hold out your hands and he gives you a quick kiss. The kiss the same as always, warm and quick…Thomas does not like to kiss in public. Although you have been courted by him for six months, that has never changed. He does not release your hands and stands there holding them wide so that he can see your dress. You smile at his look, but your consciousness is wrapped around the feel of his hands. They are not as big and warm as Qui-Gon's you think suddenly, and you try to overcome the feeling by talking. "I'm glad too, Thomas, I have a friend I want you to meet."

"The elusive Qui-Gon Jinn, I take it?" he asks, nodding and holding onto your hands. "He is here?"

"He is…" you turn again, your eyes skirting the Baron as he still pushes his way to the podium. You look to another table, situated by the open doors to the patio. Your lips turn up in a wide smile as you recall the last time that you and Qui-Gon had stood out on its smooth cool surface and watched the moon. By the table, you see the tall, imposing figure of Qui-Gon. He is retrieving two drinks, one for him and one for you. His face breaks into the smile that you have dubbed his 'negotiator grin', and he turns.

The crystal glasses appear small in his hands, even at this distance; they appear like a man's hand holding a doll's toy. His step is sure and quick as he returns toward you, across the floor, quite easily side-stepping those that fall in his path. The glasses remain perfectly upright, not a drop is spilled. Quite a difference from the time you met him, you think, again smiling widely.

"Is that him, Tira? A tall bloke, isn't he?" Thomas is facing the approaching Jedi as you are. You turn away from Qui-Gon's nearing figure and glance at your beau. His dark eyes are narrowed, almost as if he is sizing up the Apprentice before he reaches the two of you.

"Yes…and yes, he is very tall, but funny, I never thought of him as such," you comment, turning to watch your friend hold a glass over head as many people press into him.

"You never notice things like that, Lovely…your brain is too distracted otherwise," Thomas smiles and glances at you.

You shake your head and lift your face to smile at Qui-Gon as he comes to a stop in front of you. Thomas is still holding your hand, and you disengage it to take the offered glass. The cool crystal is a stunning, but welcome, contrast from the warmth of Thomas' hand. "Thank you, Qui-Gon."

"My pleasure as always, Tira…." Qui-Gon smiles and then turns his head to the side and extends his hand to Thomas. "You are Thomas…?"

"I am," Thomas extends his hand and shakes Qui-Gon's proffered one. "A pleasure to meet you, Qui-Gon Jinn…Tira had told me I would meet you here. And believe me, I have heard a great deal about you."

"As I have of you, sir," Qui-Gon lowers his hand. You lift the glass to sip at the wine and as its fruity essence rolls over your tongue, you sigh. Everything this night, as been so heavenly, so wonderful. Over the faceted surface of the glass, you see Qui-Gon's face. The expression on it is not one that you have seen often…he looks like he is glaring at Thomas. It is a minute change, just in the tilt of his eyes and in the turn of his mouth…and probably another could not see it, but you can.

Lowering your glass, you raise your eyebrows at Qui-Gon. He turns and intercepts your eyes and you see that their color has muted to a dull gray…something has touched his soul with sadness, you think. You open your mouth to ask of him what the problem is, when you hear the test of an intercom system. The Baron has finally made it to the podium.

You bow slightly to both men and move off to the side of the room where the rest of the employees are standing. You are required to stand with them at announcements such as this one, and you easily fall into rank with those you serve with. You settle, your back against the open door to the balcony. The cooling evening breeze wafts across your shoulders and you suppress a shiver. It will only be for a few minutes, you think and then you can go back to the men in your life. The men which are currently both watching you and exchanging low words. You can see their mouths moving.

"Good evening-"

As you turn to face the Baron, you gasp. The Baron stops speaking as masked humanoids spring from behind the stage and appear out of nowhere. You can't draw a breath as you see laser guns produced…and find that your chest hurts….

Your vision tunnels…shouts sound from your right…security personnel…running….the sound of boots on marble loud in your ears…gasps and cries from the crowd. You don't feel the breeze anymore…

Slowly, as if time is standing still, you turn to see Qui-Gon running through the crowd. He barrels through people, his long hair flying behind him…he is holding a cylinder in his hand…pulling it…it ignites…his lightsaber. People are pressed out of his way…the Force you guess…He extends his hand…two laser guns are pulled from the hands of would-be assassins. With a leap, he jumps….flips….he is joining the security personnel on the stage…he IS tall…imposing…you think…

Those around you try to run, try to exit out the open door behind you…you feel the press….you should go as well…

And then….

A pair of gloved hands land on your shoulders. The two women next to you are also grabbed. The hands encased in the gloves are like vices, tight….making you ache, making your shoulders feel like they will be crushed. There is no dress there and the leather of the gloves is ice cold. You lean forward, lift your leg backward to kick…who is this man…this person? You feel a growl and a yell forming in your throat.

"Silence!"

The word is hissed in your ear. Although your leg makes contact, the grip is not lessened. The hand slides from your shoulder to grasp at your throat…gasping, you raise your hand to try and lessen the grip. So strong…powerful…

Out of the corner of your eye, you see both women dragged backward towards the open door behind you. An older man, dressed in silk finery, is also pulled out the door. You struggle, leaning forward again, but the grip at your neck is so tight that tears spring forth in your eyes. Their salt stings, and you blink and gasp, trying to get away… "No…if they protect their Baron, let's see how they protect their women and old men…"

You open your mouth to scream. But are pulled roughly backward out the door…your feet scrabble on the marble, trying to find a hold…anything that would be of use. Anything to stop this…

Qui-Gon, you think…

The pressure at your throat increases and you feel blackness encroaching, night nearing as oxygen is starved off….

Thomas, you mentally scream…

Before the shadows capture your eyes completely and the cool of the night envelops your body, you see Qui-Gon spinning on the stage, turning, searching for you. His lightsabre is still lit, held aloft in his hand. His face, even with the distance and the loss of oxygen, you can see that his face is tight. Tira you hear roared in your head.

And then you are blissfully under the spell of blackness and all feeling drifts away.

**

<<The times when I truly see you are in the sunrise and sunset. Each one different and each one equally beautiful and each one a conglomeration of color that expresses itself like I think a paint and brush would if only left alone by the artist. And so, I am watching another sunrise. And thinking of you. Good morning, Tira.>>

It is funny, you think as you shift your hips, that your mind thinks of Qui-Gon's letters when given time to itself. You can feel the silk of your dress snagging on the rough stone wall behind your back and the coldness of the floor against your legs. The others and you sit on the floor in a small room. The only view that you are allowed is through a small window in the door…but even that is through plexiglass. You can see that it is daylight. The brilliance has not increased nor decreased; the room has an eastern exposure you think.

With a sigh, you lean your head back against the wall. The closeness in your throat has finally gone, although you know that you have bruises there. The others with you were less manhandled; they did not resist.

It is cold and fairly dark. Dank and horrible. Those are the only things that your mind will allow you to think.

Are they negotiating? You know that security forces are often not sent into situations like this. The Baron would have to negotiate for your release. Alderaani do not fight. They negotiate. They protect peace at all cost by exerting it at all times. You are a cultured civilization. They would have to negotiate for your release. Qui-Gon would negotiate for your release.

Suddenly the door creaks open. The room is flooded with light and you scrabble to your feet, your hand over your eyes. The light is painful. All you can see is a pair of boots in the bottom of the doorway. Next to you, you feel the older man have problems standing and you reach over to help him up. The silk under your hands is cold, much colder than it should be.

"Which one of you is Tira Kimdral?"

Your mouth goes dry. For some reason, you do not want to answer him. This does not bode well. You shiver uncontrollably from the cold air and even colder stone against your skin.

"Speak up! Or the lot of you will be held accountable."

"I am," you say, quietly, hopefully peacefully.

"Then you will be staying with us, Miss Kimdral. Apparently, you are the peace philosopher of the Baron…and can be of use. The rest of you are being released to show our willingness to negotiate."

"I refuse to be held here," you state. "It is against the Treaty of Mina section 34 that you do so…"

"Be quiet, teacher."

You groan and shake your head. "I have rights…"

"You have no rights inside this room."

Several bodies push into the room and grab the others. The two women moan and stand. The older man is having a hard time walking. You try to walk with them to the door, but are stopped by a pair of large hands on your shoulders.

"Do not tempt me into hurting you, Miss Kimdral. We are holding you because it is irony and will make a statement that we hold the peace philosopher here. If I were to hurt you…it would be of no matter."

You are pushed back, nearly thrown, and you hit the wall with a crack, your head slamming against the stone. For a moment, you are drowned by a wave of pain and then you feel yourself sliding down the wall to land in a heap of silver silk at the bottom of the stones. As the door slips shut, plunging you into darkness again, you realize that that didn't work.

Somehow you have got to find a way out. Negotiation or not, you will not be held here.

There is a soft commotion out in the hall. Your eyes widen, and you claw up the wall to stand. The silk pulls across your skin, cool and restraining. One hand falls to the stone, your nails digging into the surface, loosening the quartz….some sticks under your nails. You reach down with your other hand and grab one of your shoes. It has a point. After the episode earlier, you do not wish to allow your captors a chance to harm you again. You will not charge them, but you will protect yourself if need be.

The scuffling increases in sound. You take off the other shoe and finally you feel the cold against your feet. But where there is cold against your feet, there is power in your hand.

The door swings open. At the same time that the cooler air from the hallway washes across your face and legs, you lift your arms, shoes enclosed in your hands.

"Tira."

Your name is hissed, called in a tight, deep voice that you know like your own. "Qui-Gon?"

Before you have time to answer him, to completely digest the information that it is Qui-Gon, you are caught up in his arms. Their strength wraps around you and you are lifted, pulled, crushed to his chest. Your feet leave the cold stone. You drop your shoes and your hands are free to wrap around his neck, your hands bury in the long silky strands of his hair. He has not held you like this before, but you welcome it. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other slips under your buttocks at the top of your thighs. Your face nestles in the crook of his neck and shoulder, his hair tickling your nose and lips. "Qui-Gon," you whisper.

You slide down his chest, your arms unwinding from his neck. The silk of your dress bunches in between the two of you, its cold touch is liquid moonbeams against you. And his arms….

…they raise, encircling, touching, conveying their metallic strength.

His hands, warm, callused and large cup your cheeks. Their rough palms hold your chin, and his fingers bury in your hair. "Thank the Force…" he whispers and you can feel the words spoken against your lips. His voice shakes you on a basal level, making you want to press into his body, into that voice.

"How long have I been here…." you begin to ask only to have his finger press into your lips. You can feel the roughness of a finger worn by years of saber practice and fights against the tender skin. There is an incredible urge to bestow a kiss on the warm, male skin you feel there, but you stop. The finger trails for a moment, across your skin, like flames licking at a piece of wood, until the hand again cups your cheek. "Three days, Tira…we need to leave…"

Your shoes are not in your hand, and you realize that you threw them down, aside when Qui-Gon embraced you. With a grunt, you nod into his hand. "My shoes…"

"You are better without them. They would make too much noise…" he hisses again and then you feel his body move away from yours, his heat drifting away as if carried on a breeze. But his right hand slides down your arm to hold your hand, to encompass it completely. As you near the door, led by him, light from the moon outside makes his form easier to see…but it is in a study of grays. His hair and beard are charcoal; his skin silver, his clothes gray and white. He is slim and tall, strong…and wonderful…one of the best sights you have ever seen. You can see that his black boots are gone and his bare feet make no sound as they fall against the stone.

Your dress scrapes against the stone, and in your own ears, it sounds loud. There is no other sound around you…just breaths and heartbeats. As you turn to enter the hallway, he pulls you completely into his side. Your hand lands on his hip to steady yourself. Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss to your nose and you can see his smile. The touch of his lips is hot, but as they leave your skin, their absence makes you cold. As he speaks, you can almost taste his skin, his face is so near. Spice and warmth, and caring…

"Stay close to me and you'll be safe."

You sigh and reach down to hoist up your now dragging dress. Without your heels, it drags on the floor. "Will you fight out, Jedi?"

"On Alderaan?" he whispers back, as if making a private joke. "Hush and trust me, dear Tira."

You nod and allow him to lead you down the hall. You feel out of your head…clear thinking, but that you are another person and you simply watch. Qui-Gon walks quickly down one corridor and then practically runs down another. You are pulled behind him, your shorter legs working twice as hard to cover the distance. "Guards?" you ask as you are pressed against a wall corner. His body is flush against the wall next to yours.

"I took care of the one at your door," he comments. "There are others around. There is no way out on the first floor."

"Then?"

"We have to leave the way I came in."

Your voices sound as if they are far away and are disembodied, hanging in the air, expelled by auras, spirits…

"Which…"

Qui-Gon pushes away from the wall and runs, his hand pulling you behind him. As you progress down the hall, the walls get lighter….and then you see the floor to ceiling window…and the brilliant moon beyond it. The stones underfoot become more silver, the walls more ivory…until it appears you run down an ice cavern. Your Jedi stops at the window ledge and he grunts as he pushes up on the window to open it. As it slides open, more cool air flows in the crack. Soon the window is open two feet.

He leans down and nods to the window. "Out we go, Tira. There is a ledge out there. Get yourself out on the ledge and I'll deal with the rest…."

"How far are we from the gr-"

There is a commotion down the hall as a door bangs open. Scuffling and running feet are heard, loudly….

"The hostage…"

Qui-Gon turns his back to you. "Out, Tira!"

Before you can think or act, an emerald beam jumps to life next to you. His face becomes clear in that second. You can see his face, now a play of silver and green…his lips are not smiling, and his eyes are cold, determined. "Out, Tira; I'm right behind you, go!"

Turning, you drop your dress and grab for the sill of the window. Its cold wood surface almost burns your hand, but you bend and press yourself against the wood. After some wiggling, your legs are out and you find that there is indeed a ledge about a foot below the window. The air is even colder here. Flesh immediately rises, as your skin is open to the air. The moon is bright, the world is crystal once again….and you see that you are at least a story or more off the ground. Other buildings are around…unfamiliar to you…and even painted in silver from the moon, they still look unfriendly. And the wind…the wind…it is not a breeze, it is wind and it whips your dress against your legs and plasters the bodice against your chest.

Cold and lonely…alone…until Qui-Gon appears, sliding out the window and almost flipping to a stance on the ledge alongside of you.

"Did you kill them," you yell, your hands pressed against the wall.

"No, but they will not follow us…" he calls back. With a nod, he indicates that the next step is down. You open your mouth to argue.

"I'll catch you, love," he answers, leaning over and kissing your nose again. The barren cold air is replaced by warmed, apple-spiced aura..and then suddenly he is gone, vaulting over the side of the ledge…and falling…falling…

His tunic flaps, behind him, his hair flies upward as his arms stretch to the side. He looks like a great hunting bird, searching in the night led by the moon.

Then….

He lands and turns.

<<Trust me>> you hear in your head. <<Jump, love>>

And you push forward without another thought.

Air rushes against your face, licking like ice. Your dress flaps, loud as if you have sprouted wings. The silk is cold, the air is frigid…your head whirls and your arms fly to the side…balance…wondering about living…about landing…about Qui-Gon…about…..love. Free…you fall free….this is how birds feel…

Your body is jarred as two bands of iron hit your back and legs. You bounce slightly and then you are pressed to a solid mass…a chest…his chest. Your face is pressed into his neck and your arm lands across his shoulders. He is nothing but solid, nothing but muscle…hard and big. Silk and iron. Smooth but oh so strong. He holds you there for a moment and then lets your legs down, and cuddles you to his chest. Whether it was the excitement, the frigid air, or the press of a hot, hard body, your breasts tighten.

You can feel a smile on his face as he buries it in your hair at the crown. "Are you all right?"

Still winded, air is tight in your chest, you can only nod into his chest. You do not want to know what was done in the house, you do not want anything but the safety that his arms afford. "We still have far to go, Tira…answer me, are you all right?"

"Yes," you whisper, barely heard above the wind, but it is enough.

**

"Where are we?"

You tucked under Qui-Gon's arm; he holds you against his side. Your arm is wrapped about his waist, and your grip would anchor you if his arm was not tethering you to him. Despite it obviously being late at night, there are many people out in this town that you walk through, and you and he are struggling to remain inconspicuous. It is hard, however. Your silver dress and his tunics are very different from the other clothes you see on the women and men around you.

Smells of spice drug smoke, liquor and close bodies also fill the air….it is a stark difference from the barren cold that has filled your nostrils for the last two days, but it is not any more welcomed.

"A pleasure settlement near the polar cap," Qui-Gon answers back, his head bent low to convey his words without letting it carry far.

"Good gods. That is…."

"A very long trip," Qui-Gon finishes for you. With a grin that is misplaced in the situation, he hugs you to his body. "And not somewhere I would expect to find you, teacher. Which, of course, is why they chose here to hide you and the other hostages."

"But why…."

He stops to allow the press of a throng around you and keeps you shielded from most of the jostling. "Why this situation…why not negotiation?" you complete your question, your face pressed into his chest.

"I would rather not talk about that, Tira…not now….when we are completely out of danger…maybe." He states and presses away from the wall to look around him. "We need transport. The method that got me here is definitely not available to us now…"

You push away from the wall and join him in looking down the alley. You are pushed back into his chest by a large man who stops for a moment and gazes down at your dress. He appears to want to approach you more, but Qui-Gon glowers at him from over your right shoulder and the man moves away. You raise your arms, crossing them over you chest. You feel unsure….unsettled with the gaze you have received.

"…and you definitely need new clothes." Qui-Gon comments as he lowers his hand to take yours again. Stepping out of the alley and into the street, he heads toward several establishments.

The moon was never so large in the sky, you think, as you see it hanging over the tops of the buildings lining the street. Its great pale beams cover the landscape, but instead of crystal and ice, they create shadows and darkness. You are unused to this…to you nature is beauty…is wondrous, not a place to fear or worry…but your worry is palpable here. Likewise, you always enjoy fresh air, no matter the temperature…but the icy air that surrounds you now…eeks into your soul. "Strange here…."

"Very. Quite a difference from the Grand House and that meadow of yours…" he answers.

Qui-Gon grunts as you shiver and he pulls you completely against his body once more. He knows that your reaction is more to the surroundings…to the vibration of…feeling around you…than from being cold. After two large steps, he pushes on a door and it swings wide for the both of you. The blast of warm air, heavy with smoke hits your face and you inhale from body shock.

The lights are low, and although they are not much brighter than the moonlight outside, you find that your eyes need to adjust. Darkness moves within, mirrored in the shadows and in the flickering of various flame lights. Music plays lowly in the background, a hum to your head, a nuisance to your ears. It is a thrumming bass and a harsh almost shrill string harmony. Bodies move, glide over the floor in time to the beat. As the haze of adjustment passes from your eyes, you notice that the bodies…the sliding shadows are couples….couples pressed into each other. Arms, legs, chests, thighs…all become one entity….

You squeeze Qui-Gon's hand as he descends and stops one step in front of you. His shoulders are now just mere centimeters higher than yours and his head is close to yours. Whether it is the cold night now so different than the others that you have witnessed, or the interior of the dwelling that exudes the essence of lust and carnal male/female difference, you see his dark hair and brilliant gaze and see power, maleness…ache. It is so different from what you know of him…but just as welcomed. His hair is as black as his beard…you raise your hand to trace down his cheek. His eyes are bright, but full of emotion…they are not the shrouded eyes that you have seen in him in recent years.

"Jedi?" you ask, quiet…the words are lost in the beat of the music. "Qui-Gon?"

He gazes down at your dress for a moment, keeping his eyes from making contact with any one portion of your body before they raise and scan the room. "We need to get you other clothes, Tira."

You inhale and look over his shoulder to the other women in the room. Very few are in dresses, and even fewer in clothes that are decent. At the far bar there is a woman leaning, and her eyes are trained on the Jedi you are with, and by default, you. You can see that her eyes physically caress Qui-Gon. Chewing on your lip and tasting the cold skin there, you make a decision quickly. "I have a plan, Qui-Gon…"

He grins for a moment, turning around to face you again. "Why do I have a feeling I am not going to like this plan."

"It will serve us perfectly well…but you have to play along…" you answer, sweeping to the side of him to descend the steps, hoisting up your dress with one hand. He grabs your free hand and holds it firmly, stilling your trek.

"Beware, Tira…"

"Qui-Gon, I teach diplomats…"

"None of which are here, be wary," he answers, his blue eyes serious and dark. "We do need to be inconspicuous to leave this settlement…but…not at the cost of your immediate safety… I would prefer if you remained here…"

"You may scold me, Jedi, when we are away from here then…and I will try and teach you peace philosophy once more…" you answer, squeezing his hand. "Now let me…"

He leans down from his step stance and presses a kiss to your forehead. You gaze up at him, at the towering presence that he offers instinctively and you feel the protective nature that he naturally exudes. He is worried for you…that much is written in the furrowing of his fine brow and the sharp bright points of his eyes. To alleviate the tightness in his features, you raise your fingers to your mouth, press a kiss to the ends of your cold fingers and press them, afterwards, to his lips. The coarse hairs of his beard, still unshorn from his features, tickle your digits. Letting you proceed is against his judgment, that much is clear. But still, you go, and as you step to the floor and between the undulating bodies and drinking people, you feel the weight of his stare on you. You know, as sure as you know that the sun will rise, if there is even a whisper of threat to you…he will end that threat quickly.

With that thought, you move ahead to the bar and the woman who still watches your friend, and notes your approaching figure with interest.

**

You tighten the belt about your hips and face the mirror again. Turning completely around, you glance over your shoulder to stare at your hips and buttocks. They are visible through the tight, cold material of your pants. The material shines in the lamplight of the lounge and you wonder if it will do so out on the club floor. Turning around again, you face your image in the cold impersonal glass and sigh.

The pants are skin tight and you feel constrained; it is a different feeling from your usual loose, cotton skirt. The white shirt you wear is standard and you have no trouble wearing it. The vest…a bustier of sorts, however, is made of the same material as the pants and curves under your breasts, effectively cupping them….presenting them. Yes, you think, as you tilt your head to the side, presenting is the only word you can use to describe them. Your breasts are tilted upward, almost offered to whoever wants to look at them. The ensemble is quite unsettling, but it is the common dress from what you have seen here. But common or not, you don't like this outfit.

It has only taken you fifteen minutes to procure and don the outfit. You know, however, that those fifteen minutes are more than likely perceived by Qui-Gon as being an eternity. With a sigh, you run your hands down your hips and walk to the door. To obtain this outfit, you bartered your friend's time and company to the woman for a short period. Now it is time to see what your barter created.

Pushing the door wide to the interior room, you enter. Your feet are still bare…that cannot be helped and you struggle to keep your feet from being stepped on. The floor is cool, smooth to the feel. You avoid two dancing bodies and twist to turn around another pair. You left him and the woman at the bar…and you approach it, glancing about, turning to see him. At first, there is nothing but a sea of moving bodies, and then you see his shining brown hair. It hangs long…and a lone pale hand you can see buried in its length. The woman is on his lap.

With a grimace, you sidestep another couple and round the bar. Although the time specified for this barter was not given, it is time to end it…you have to leave this settlement and soon. You bump into a man and skitter wide to give him berth. You can see Qui-Gon's face now and can see that the woman's lips are attached to his neck…

And his eyes…are on you.

**

Animal skin clothing is known for its ability to mimic human skin. It lets in air and lets out heat. Your pants are made of such material, but as you stand there, surrounded in a haze of drug heavy vapors, smoke, spilled alcohol and people, you feel the heat build. Your thighs smolder in their encasement, your torso burns….and your breasts lift, and harden. The feeling is…so wonderful and yet…painful…

A flush begins across your skin; you can feel the blush spread from your hairline to your chest…all of your exposed skin is aflame. Kindled, fanned and aided by the gaze of your friend, your savior…

Your Qui-Gon.

His eyes are on your hips. You can see the lift in his brows as his eyes follow your swivel and step. They climb to your torso, no doubt watching the tightness of the fabric; it shines as it pulls across your body. The woman moves hair out of the way on his neck and her mouth climbs along the tendon that exists, strong at the side of his neck…along the line where his beard now borders. The ice blue eyes rise to your breasts and watch them as you skirt yet another couple. You can feel their gentle bounce against their support. And finally, as you pass the last people between you and he, his eyes find yours and lock.

Without hearing his voice, you know that he awaits your arrival. You know that his mind is not on the action of the woman, but on you.

The attention makes you shiver. Qui-Gon is intense, but never has he been as intense as he is now…his gaze is penetrating, owning…

You

He acknowledges your arrival by rising and setting the woman down on the ground. She protests, sliding her hand deeper in his hair, holding onto his neck. He reaches up and removes the hand gently, lowering it to her side and he smiles gently at her. "Thank you, Il, it was pleasurable," he says quietly.

"But…"

He smiles and turns, and strides to you. Tilting your head back, you look up at him, at his gorgeous blue eyes. "Qui-Gon…."

His eyes flash and he reaches out to enclose your arm in his right hand. "You are…changed…I see," he murmurs. He holds your eyes gently with his gaze almost as if he physically supported them, and then his stare falls to your shoulders, then to your breasts…they hold there and then continue down your body. You shake under the weight of his stare. "Comfortable…?"

"You know differently, Jedi…" you turn to look at the people around you…the bar…anything but his eyes. "But I can blend in and use whatever you have for transport…"

"Yes, you can certainly blend in here…" he answers, stepping to stand against your side. "We should leave quickly….they will be looking for you…" His hand is warm and dry; you can feel it through your sleeve. A couple pushes into him from behind and he comes up hard against your body. His hand is trapped between your bodies; his thigh is against your upper thigh and hip, his chest to your shoulder….and he is hard muscle, solid….

His hand releases your arm and falls to hold your opposite hip. "I think we should leave the floor…before our young friend you bartered with decides to come back…"

"Afraid of women, Qui-Gon?" you ask, turning fully to face away from him. You lean back and wait for another couple to walk in front of you. Qui-Gon's other hand falls to the other hip to steady you and lead you.

"No…she is not one that I want, however…" he answers and you can feel the rumble of his chest through your shoulder. His hands are so large that they cover the entire hip each, his fingers fan down over your abdomen. As you walk, the fingers tighten and release in time with the swaying of your hips. "I have procured a method of transport, Tira…"

"Is what kind, another question that I should not ask, Jedi?" you ask leaning back away from another couple as they spin and dance by you. To keep your balance, you lower your hands to cover his at your hips. You see the steps and move as quickly as you can toward them. As you reach them and begin to climb, he comes along side you, his left hand remaining on your left hip. His arm lays against your back, helping to support you to climb the distance.

You see the smile on his face when you finish ascending the steps. "You can ask anything of me, Tira…what you receive in return might not be the answer that you want…."

"You never change, Qui-Gon," you say, holding onto his hand at your hip.

"I should hope not." With a few quick strides, he arrives at the exit door for the club. With a vicious tug, he pulls it open and you are hit with an avalanche of cold air. Immediately your nipples tighten and flesh rises. You gasp and the sound, harsh and loud, in the sudden silence after the door shuts makes his eyes whip back to you.

You close your eyes to blink them, acclimating them to the air. The iced air makes your chest hurt as you inhale. The smell of nightlife…drink, smoke and sweaty bodies is gone…replaced by frigid air once more. Before you can take another step to move further away from the door…before your bare feet can push you further along the ground, you feel his arms loop about your waist and draw you into his chest.

The leather is cold, even colder as it is pressed into your skin by his mass…you feel wrapped in a blanket of ice. "Tira…you are freezing…"

Your eyes open to see the ecru of his tunic in front of your face. Your hands are folded in between your bodies. Turning them flush against the muscles of his chest, you nod for only a minute. "Please tell me that your transport is not far…"

"It is around the corner of the building…although now I fear for the choice I made," he mutters. His chin rubs at your crown. "If you are cold like this, love, you will be an iced cube when we travel." He releases your waist to grab your hand and lead you around the corner of the building. Underfoot, you feel the uneven stone and brick of the path. You lift your eyes to see, when you clear the building, a sole hover bike. It is totally unfamiliar except for the brown cloak that lays across the seat.

"Oh no…"

"Tira…" he sighs. "It was one of the few options that I had."

"I'm not complaining about it…"

"You could have fooled me…"

You frown up at Qui-Gon. "I've never ridden one…."

His face breaks into a smile. "I'm sure you will do just fine. And I WILL keep you warm, love."

"I never had a doubt…"

"That was not what you write in your letters…"

You laugh quietly, enjoying the banter with him. But you quickly sober and move toward the bike. "How far of a journey do we have?"

"A day…" he strides to stand next to you. "But we can't afford to get a formal transport; its too conspicuous. My Master is waiting for our return at Islea. We should be there in about 14 standard hours if we leave now."

You nod. He reaches and squeezes your hip again and then swings his leg wide to straddle the bike. The black felt seat that he sits on contrasts his tan leggings. And those tan leggings are drawn tight across his muscles…stretched… He settles and holds out his hand. "Sit in front of me, Tira. Straddle the seat and sit between my legs…"

"Wouldn't it be better for me to be behind you?" you ask, putting your hands down on the cool smooth seat.

"I can keep you warm this way…and still drive," he answers as you place your smaller, paler hand in his. He leads you to straddle the bike and sighs as you settle in the seat. His rock hard thighs frame you, and his arms extend next to yours. "Hold on to the controls, Tira…put your arms to the inside of mine. They will be warmer like that." As you do so, he lowers one of his hands to grab at the cloak behind him. He slips it over his shoulders and then lowers his hand to press your hips back into his body. The cloak falls wide about you. His bare feet raise and tuck your feet to the inside of the bike. His neck bends forward as his hand presses your body again. "Stay against me, Tira, dear, and hold on…the trip will be long…"

The words as whispered like a warm zephyr across the skin of your cheek and his lips graze your ear.

Your head contacts the solid muscle just short of his shoulder and you answer, just as quietly. "And will you tell me why you did not negotiate, Jedi?"

"If you will promise not to lecture me, teacher," he answers, smiling and nodding. Then he turns serious and raises his hand away from your body. With a couple of switches flipped, a roar occurs under you, vibrating your body. The bike lifts about a half a meter off the ground.

As wind begins to pummel your face, you close your eyes. It is like ice daggers. His hair blows wildly and sweeps across your brow and mingles with your hair. His beard rubs your temple. "Are we still in danger?"

"Yes."

It is all he says as he turns the bike down the alley and into the major thoroughway. You grip the handles and let him guide you to safety.

**

Once you clear the settlement, Qui-Gon steers the hover bike over the open countryside. The speed is incredible and you feel pushed back into his bulk behind you. The moon is bright, shining down on the landscape…but the great silver orb nears the horizon. With a sigh, you let him take your weight…you are weary.

"Are you tired, Tira?" he asks as quietly as he can over the roar of the wind and the vibration of the bike.

"Not too tired to ask you…."

"…about the negotiation? The answer can wait until we stop the bike…" he says, slowing the bike a little and slipping one hand from the grips to lay it around your waist. "Warm?"

You turn your head slightly, rubbing your cheek into his chest muscles. Nodding, you sigh. "As warm as I can be…"

His hand splays across your ribs, his thumb rubbing the material. The touch is gentle and…constant…making you even more tired, more relaxed…but more….aroused. An inhale brings in the aroma of male and ice….warmth and cold. He kisses at your temple, holding his lips there. You know that one of his eyes is on the space ahead and you still feel safe. "Qui-Gon?"

"Hmmm?"

You shift and turn your face more fully into his muscles. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't leave you there," he answers, slowing the bike again. The pressure of the air on your face is less. "I couldn't leave you there."

Your hand tightens on the handle as his hand presses into your ribs and keeps you flush, molded to his body.

<<Last night I had a dream, Tira. I saw you standing on a dune, facing out to sea. Mist kisses you, flows over your skin, obscuring you from me and then revealing you to me again. The dress you wore was dark, almost black, and you wore jewels in your hair, making your strands twinkle. The wind blew it over your shoulder. You were dressed like that for me, wore that dress, wore those jewels…

I don't know why…but it was beautiful. But you looked lonely…until you turned…and then your eyes…those wonderful deep eyes of yours lit up….smiled at me…as if you want me to join you. And I climbed the dune…the sea was angry…capped with white surf. The wind was high. And I held your hand and faced the sea.

Disjointed, I know. But it is a vision that I want to remember. And as I sit here, on a mission, cold and wet, I think of it, Tira…and suddenly I am warm.>>

You rub absentmindedly against his chest. He mumbles something and lowers his chin to sweep against your brow. He is warm, like home and hearth. You can feel your hair being pulled by the short bristles of his beard. "Why didn't you negotiate?"

He sighs and then tightens his hand. His chin moves quicker against your head for a moment. The wind waves against your head…he is warmth on one side, there is ice on the other. "We did, Tira. The names of those who were being held were released prematurely to the hostage takers. When they found out that you were among them, the released the others and kept you to 'make a point'…"

"They told me that much….irony of a peace philosopher held for the purposes of war, I suppose…" you answer, your lips brushing against his tunic.

"Yes…and you know the policy of Alderaan on negotiating for political prisoners of war…" he nods and continues. "No negotiation at all…when they released their plans….the exact reason why you were held, your house could not negotiate for your release. They asked for the help of a Jedi…"

"You…"

"I was already ready to leave, Tira." He answers, holding you tighter. "I would not have left you there. Either they would have asked my help, I would have offered my help, or I would have gone without permission, but you would not have been there another night…"

With a sigh, you bury your nose in his collar. "That does not sound like the soon to be Jedi Knight…following the dictates of his order…"

His sigh shakes your body. The rough material of his tunic is felt through your thin shirt…the texture profound and arousing. "I have told you what I think of dictates devoid of the direction of the Living Force, Tira. There was no call for leaving you there…nothing to be gained…and…everything to be…."

He stops speaking and kisses your temple. With another sigh, he slows and stops the bike. "You are cold, Tira. Turn a little…"

You slip your hands down off of the now cold grips and lay them in your lap. "Don't we have to make more distance, Qui-Gon?"

"We do…" he says and lowers his other hand to loop about your waist to join its mate. "And don't argue, Tira…turn…"

You lift your eyebrows and turn to lift your chin to glance at him. "Maybe you do sound more like a soon to be Jedi Knight…."

His eyes light up with contained humor. That asymmetrical mouth that you have grown to know, although now partially hidden in his beard, crumples wonderfully. And his eyes…this close his eyes seem like conglomerations of blue hues…not any one color…a massing of all the possible hues of the sky. One is larger than the other, and it makes his face flawed, but oh so perfect. "Tira…" the word is whispered, stated…as if the one word is the end to all arguments.

You stare at him, at the way that the right side of his lips dip slightly as his eyes bore into yours. "It is not an order, Tira…it’s a request…"

Raising an eyebrow, you rise up and swing one of your legs around.

"Keep turning, Tira…"

"How …?" you begin to ask and watch as he twirls his finger to illustrate the movement he wishes you to finish.

"Face me. Come on…we don't have a lot of time to waste…they know that you are making your way back to the Grand House of the family that you serve…they might be able to intercept us. Turn."

You lift an eyebrow and rise up to stand next to the bike. "How will you be able to drive? And how will I be able to sit, Qui-Gon?"

"Driving will not be a problem…as you so often point out…I am a Jedi," he smiles widely as he sees you begin to argue. "And as for sitting…Tira…you said that these pants would allow you to use any method of transport. You will be warmer, I can wrap my cloak about more of you…"

You straddle the bike and face him. His eyes are bright, but they have a depth of sadness in them that even the rising sun can't dismiss. You stand there, wondering at the physics of what he has asked. "My legs will not bend backwards, Qui…"

"Wrap them around my waist, Tira."

You feel a blush begin in your cheeks and the heat bleeds throughout your torso. It makes your hair feel as though it is standing out on end. His hands land on your waist and his thumbs rub there again…still. "It will help me to drive…if you hold onto me…I don't have to worry about your balance." His face is everything at that moment. Everything that is not his shoulders…so broad…and his arms…so strong…

"A logical argument for me straddling you, Qui-Gon Jinn…"

"If logic won't work, then…consider it necessary for me, Tira."

"What…"

His hands apply pressure until you bend your legs and sit on the seat facing him. His hands land on your thighs and trail down to your knees. The touch is incredible…your whole being centers on that touch on the trail that is blazed…that is forged…you are marked, you know it. His hands encircle…cover all of your knees. "When I saw you taken, Tira…it…I felt helpless…and THAT is not a feeling that I am used to feeling. Admonished, yes. Helpless, never. But…"

You realize that he is trying to be eloquent with his words, but that he is tripping over them. The meaning is convoluted, hidden…as if he is trying to describe something that he does not fully understand himself. You raise your hand to hold his on your knee. "What is it?"

"I need you close to me right now. I'm not used to asking for this, Tira…it has never been a need…a requirement. But right now…it is." His face is open…more open than you have ever seen it. Everything in his soul is written there…all the emotions…all the beauty he writes…exists there physically for you to see. "You ARE my family…not my order, Tira…my family. My friend. Someone who cares about me as me…not as a Jedi. To you that is secondary…so please…let me keep my dignity here? Face me. And put your legs around my waist…let me be close to you."

Without a word, and as awkward as it feels, you ease forward on the seat and lift your legs. With some agility, you fit them about his waist and bend them until they touch the seat in back of him. He eases his legs together a little on the seat to support your buttocks on the V of his thighs near his body. Your legs are enclosed in his cloak and your arms as they loop about his neck and shoulders loosely, tuck into his cloak collar, warming them as well. Your breasts press into his chest and in their raised and cupped position…your nipples are more sensitive and you feel them harden…in response to him.

The inside of your thighs is incredibly warm, almost humid from the heat generated by the two of you. And your hands, feel the heavy weight of his hair in them, and the roughness of his cloak and tunics. This position places your face near the juncture of his neck and shoulder and with a sigh, you nestle your face into the bearded cheek and the fringes of his silky hair. He lets you move around and then lowers his arm to make sure that you are pressed fully against him…

…and every rippled hidden muscle becomes clear…every nuance of his body…every rise and fall of his chest. Every sigh, every rumble…so different than the other times he has held you.

"Qui-Gon…"

"Comfortable?"

"As I can be with my body wrapped around my best friend, Qui-Gon."

"I'll take that as a yes," his voice rumbles and you feel him reach forward to start the bike again. Its vibration under you and the movement of ground under the transport falls away again.

After a moment, you whisper into the neck that is against your face. "The Jedi is your family, Qui-Gon…they are who you are…"

"But you believe me more than what my genetics…my midicholorian count has deemed me to be. It is true that being a Jedi defines who I am and what I am destined to be and gives me my purpose…but…" he sighs and ruffles your hair with his breath.

"Without them…"

"I don't want to be without them, Tira. But you make me realize that there is more. Just…more." He lowers one of his hands to touch your back. "Hold tight, Tira."

You tighten your arms about his neck and rub your chin into his shoulder. He continues, talking lowly, his lips near your left ear. "I never realized…that when I leave Alderaan, I never completely leave you. I never realized that until you were gone. Our friendship means that much to me, Tira, that I never feel…apart…"

You smile, nodding into his muscles. "I know…"

After a moment, you feel the momentum of the bike increase and you press into his body. Even part of your body is reacting to him…it is not the cold…you are quite warm; it is not the excitement, you can feel it falling out of your frame, from your bones…. It is him. And to feel it is strange and yet…

…oh so real and…normal. "I know…" you whisper.

He slows the bike almost immediately again, and you have to hold onto him to keep your balance. "What is it?" you ask.

The bike stops and you notice that it is under the cover of a clump of trees. The moon is readying to set in the pale dusk sky. His hands come up from behind you to cup your head and drag it away from his shoulder. They are warm…hot…like being enclosed, encased in sunbeams. His palms are against your cheeks; his thumbs stroke the side of your face. And it strikes you how with him you have not felt panic, only peace…even running…even fleeing. "What is it?"

"I…" he begins, looking at you. "Tira…"

"What?" His thumbs brush your neck, ruffling hair, touching…no…marking skin.

He leans in, holding your head. And you know…before he touches you, before his breath paints across your lips…you know what he wants. What it is that he needs. His head tilts to the side and he stops as his nose brushes along yours. There are no words, no reminders of missions, no memos to continue, no words, no messages…no pleas. No Jedi, no peace, no…just you and he. His mouth touches yours, gently, easily as if putting on a favorite cloak or a tunic made for his body.

And it is all contrasts…soft and hard, silk and stubble…After a moment his hand slides under your hair at your nape, drawing you with only a gentle insistence, into a more intimate caress. You can feel his chin…his mouth…his lips move, even before they do…the anticipation is more than you can take…you feel aroused from the very idea of touch. And the depth…although he only brushes your lips with his…the depth is infinite. Everything that he cannot say in letters, all the emotion that he buries or loses in his training…all the beauty that can never be written…all the thoughts…they bleed out of his lips and anoints yours.

And every breath is of him.

 **

"Wake up, Tira…"

His voice is warm cocoa, flowing, wonderful across your ears. Your arms are looped around the solid trunk of a neck and your nose is pressed against the skin at the hot juncture of his neck and shoulder. You inhale sharply, and you blink your eyes open. You are rewarded with the strong aroma of morning air and warm male. "Hmmm?"

"Wake up, love…"

You open your eyes completely seeing nothing but his skin and hair. Then you lean back slowly, brushing your cheek against his bearded one. You rest your forehead against his cheek and blink blearily at the landscape flying by. The wind that buffets you is still high, but now warmer. Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, and the heat from his thighs creeps up your body like a vine. It burns, but it is welcome. And you can feel the muscles in their bulk as he shifts them. "Where are we?"

"Home."

The word is stated quietly. You lean back further and look at his face. Although the word was said with peace and serenity, the look in his eyes is melancholy. They are squinted against the sun and are deep blue, like sapphire. A strand of cinnamon and blond hair is curled over his brow and in his perfect eyes. You reach and sweep the hair from his eyes. He smiles at the gesture. "Is it your home, Jedi?"

"As near to one as I will ever have," he says, his voice a shade louder than the wind and an inkling lower than thunder. You smile gently at his empathetic statement, although it was muttered quietly, you can see the depths of what he is saying.

Nodding, you tighten your hand about his thick neck. "Should we stop and I turn around…this is not exactly a lady-like position, Qui-Gon…"

"No, it isn't. But I like it."

"Does that mean we aren't stopping?" you ask, putting your forehead against his bearded chin. He kisses your brow gently and shakes his head, allowing his lips to trail across your skin.

"No. You should turn; you do still have a reputation to maintain, and I won't be the one to ruin it…" With the end of his comment, he slows the bike. When it settles against the ground, you unwrap your legs and lower them to the ground, but as you try to stand, your muscles rebel. With a grunt, you collapse against his body, your weight weighing more heavily on him than previously. Your groin rests completely on his.

His hands fly to hold you steady, to keep you from falling to the ground. Your breasts are pressed to his upper chest and your eyes are even with his. You are so close that you can see the swirls of gray in the blue of his eyes. "Sorry…"

"I'm not."

His hand steadies your head as he tilts his to the side. He stops when his mouth is just centimeters from your own. "I'm not sorry in the least, Tira."

"Sometimes, Qui-Gon Jinn…you confuse me…this can't be comfortable…" you whisper.

"It is very comfortable…"he mutters and then rubs his nose with yours. "And very convientent for kissing…"

Before you can say another word, he rubs his nose against yours one more time and claims your lips. Claim is the only word that you can use to describe the feeling…his hands press down on your hips, clasped around your waist to keep you anchored against his body. Your hands are on his shoulders, but they creep up to lodge in his silky, long hair. You find and finger the padawan braid hidden in the locks. Everything about him, you think, is confusing, conflicting…such soft hair on a man so hard….and his kiss…

His lips slant across yours, heated this time, as if all of his lifeblood is lodged in them. They gently tease you. As his hand presses down on your chin to open your lips to his, you gasp. Thomas has kissed you before, but never has he done this…you can feel the heat, the moist heat from Qui-Gon's mouth as it hits yours. It is almost as if you breathe him. His hand leaves your hip; one travels to cup your neck under your hair, the other leaves your chin to press against your cheek. It is hot…makes your toes curl, until his tongue enters your mouth and you gasp from the torturous heat that floods your bones.

His tongue rubs against the roof of your mouth, making you whimper. What is he doing? What….all thought is cut off as you hear a rumbled growl emanate from his chest. You clench your hands in his hair and fight to control the feeling of complete abandon that you feel…and his lips….move….the heat, Gods….the heat…

Suddenly it ends and he pulls back to look at you. His head is tilted forward, and he looks at you through half-closed eyelids. His thumb strokes at your cheek; his other hand massages your neck. "Tira?"

You let your hands drift down to his shoulders and then to the chest so magnificently hidden in the rough material of his tunic. "Yes?"

"This is most definitely not a lady-like position."

You laugh and he chuckles with you, lowly, like a thunder strike at a distance. "I already told you that, Jedi."

He nods and sighs, his breath dusting your lips. "Let's get you turned…we only have another few kilometers to the house."

You stand again, and he helps, his hands holding your weight as you find that they are still weak. You swing around and face forward and notice that the evening mist has rolled in. It blankets the ground, like wisps of heaven…reaching out to embrace you and he. You whisper it to him, and feel his nod against your head. "I only disagree with one thing, Tira…."

"What is that, Qui-Gon…and only one thing? You are mellowing with age."

"Hush, Tira…and heaven is not reaching to embrace me; it already has."

For some reason, even in the warm air, you shiver and sigh. He reaches in front of you and starts the bike up again.

**

The door bangs open, even though you barely put pressure on its surface. Its paint is peeling from the grain, but it just makes it all look familiar….not in need of repainting. The door opens into a kitchen that is open and sunny. There is an old-fashioned cooking device against one wall and a processor next to the food storage box which stands next to a low sink and basin. All are old and they all face a comfortable looking table and chairs. There is a door to the right that leads into a small area with a vidlink and several chairs. That room faces the sea, the windows open to a landscape of sand and shells. You walk in and lean over to open one of the windows, and after you press the button, it silently retracts to let in the summer air.

The breeze makes the curtains billow in. Retreating, you pass back through the door and travel further down past the kitchen and into the hallway that adjoins it. It leads to a small circle of rooms…two bedrooms and a bathroom. The first bedroom faces the same set of dunes that the sitting room did. It is beautiful. There are two windows and an old bed, left by the previous owner. The bed is in the middle of the room, but it is such a cozy room that when you open the windows, their curtains billow in to almost touch the bed.

There is a door on the wall which, of course, leads into the bathroom. The room is of the same décor as the rest of the house….old. It holds a single bathtub, which is nestled, under a window. You glance at the contraption and instantly decide to keep it…it looks wonderful. Finally, you leave the room and glance at the room across the hall from the bathroom to see another bedroom much like the first. It is a small house, but a wonderful one…full of sunlight and fresh air. It is perfect for you, as you knew it would be.

Absolutely perfect.

With a sigh, you walk to the front door again and the wooden porch with its boards and wonderful railings.

He waits for you there. Qui-Gon's bulk is resting, comfortably, against the railing staring out at the sea. It is barely visible from the porch due to the height of the dunes, but he can see it. His eyes are slightly squinted and the wind blows his hair. "Does it suit you?"

You laugh and nod, lowering your hands to your apron…thanking the skies once again to be in familiar clothing. After your adventure three days ago, you will be glad if you never were another pair of pants again. But the shirt, Gods forbid, if it gets another glance out of Qui-Gon the way that it did, you will wear that shirt and bustier again. "How could it not…its heaven!"

"Its old and in need of repair."

"You, of all people, Qui-Gon…"

He finally turns to face you, smiling…his mouth full of his white teeth. "I understand, Tira…and I approve, Gods know…you suit it as much as it suits you. Look how close you are to the sea…"

"I'll never get over that…" you answer, leaning forward on the railing next to him. "Just to think, every morning I'll just need to roll over that there it will be." The wood feels very rough in your hands and you feel like scratching it to relieve the texture. The breeze picks up and sweeps your hair back from your face for you.

"And I like it too, Tira…"

You smile at his answer. "Making nice before you leave, Jedi?"

He denies the jest and shakes his head. "Will I be welcomed here as I was…."

You reach out and cover his hand with your own. You curl your fingers around the thick hand that lies beneath yours. "Don't even ask, Qui-Gon. You are welcomed here…you are welcomed wherever I am."

His hand tightens under yours and you smile at the reaction. He nods and sighs. Silence descends as the two of you bask in the late afternoon sun, now setting orange and gold. "I'm going to miss you, Tira."

"As I will you," you answer back.

"It is strange, isn't it?"

"You are the Jedi, Qui-Gon…strange is not supposed to be in your vocabulary. Aren't you supposed to be prepared for any eventuality?" You wait until after his chuckles die before you continue. "What is strange?"

"That all in total we have spent little more than a month in each others physical presence and yet you consider me your closest friend, and I consider you my one and only friend…"

"I can't be your only friend, Jinn."

"In the true nature of what friendship means, yes, Tira…you are my one and only friend. I have spent little or no time with other Jedi Padawans and it is doubtful that I will be often with my own kind long enough to forge a lasting friendship based on mutual…"

"Humor?"

"No, Tira…caring." He smiles and blinks against the wind. "We write our hearts into our letters…"

"And our souls…if the complete truth be known, Qui-Gon."

"Then I know you better than if I had spent years with you…" he answers, still looking forward.

"And I think I know you better than anyone else living…"you comment in return.

"That is the truth," he agrees.

Silence falls once again and you sigh as the sun extinguishes itself against the sea.

"The trials are to take place as soon as I leave here for Yavin 4."

The comment is made in his nonchalant tone. You turn and face him, your hip hurts as it lands on the railing. "Aren't your trials the most grueling thing that a Jedi has to endure?"

"Other than his master's cooking, yes."

"Oh stop with the ill-timed humor, Qui-Gon," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Don't be worried about me, Tira. My trials are simply a taste of what my life is going to be. I don't fear them."

"Sometimes I wonder if Jedi aren't serene, they're just stupid. How can you look forward to pain and suffering…"

"But it is my pain and suffering to prove that I can handle the life, Tira. Understand, please?"

"Understand what? That you are going to possibly be hurt?"

"I'll be fine. Trust me." He balks any further argument by turning and facing you completely and lowering his arms to encircle your waist. "And when it is over, will you come to my knighting?"

You sigh into the warmth of his tunic and nod into the muscles of his chest. The scent of clean male, woolen tunic and summer night brush your senses and you sigh. Somehow your hands have laced themselves around him to hold at his lower back. One of his hands rises and gently pets your hair. He is all muscle, all power, you decide, feeling his back flex in response to your touch. "Yes, I'll come to your knighting, Jinn, as if I would be anywhere else…"

"It will be on Yavin 4…"

"Then I suppose I will be traveling to Yavin 4. Just send me word, Qui-Gon."

He smiles as he tilts your head back with his thumb under your chin. You can feel the calluses on the end of the digit, but you welcome the roughness. He smiles, and you grin at the way that his eyes come alive with the act. "As if I would do anything else."

You laugh at his mimic of your words and return his embrace wholeheartedly. His chin rubs your brow for a minute in comfort before he asks: "Are you fine from your…."

"Adventure? Quite, Qui-Gon." You assure him.

"Then I should take my leave. But first I wanted to give you something…" he releases you and leans back to reach over the side of the railing. He grunts and then sighs, extending his hand. A bush that had been sitting on the ground rises to his hand.

"What is it?"

"It’s an Alderaani blue rose bush, Tira. It reminded me of you." There is a lone bud sitting at the apex of one of the branches and you lean forward to sniff at the flower. A heavenly aroma fills your senses and you sigh and smile.

"It's beautiful."

"It's for your completion of your internship and for your new house," he explains. "If you would like, I'll plant it for you. I think I found the perfect place for it."

"Please," you state and nod. "Thank you…."

He smiles and reaches out to take your hand with his free one. Turning he steps down the old, creaking stairs to step into the sand. You follow willingly, allowing the sand to creep over the top of your shoes and onto your feet. It is like a cool wave of relief…the small kernels of quartz. After a few steps he nods to a place directly below the front bedroom window. "Here."

"Why here?" you ask, still holding his hand.

"Because it is perfect."

He leans over and plants the bush. It takes only a few minutes and you love to watch him as the muscles in his shoulders and back work to complete the chore. You love the way that his long hair brushes against his back during the work. You love the way that his leggings stretch over his skin as he squats to lower the bush into the hole. "Eventually, Tira, it will grow into the bedroom. And I know you, nature in the bedroom is a given."

Finally the work is complete and in the last vestiges of the day, you step back with him to see his completed work. The bush, a stick really, sits in the indented ground. The lone bud leans in toward the house. A ripple of wind rustles the reeds near you. "Thank you, Qui-Gon," you say, slipping your arm around his waist to hold him.

He turns you and tilts your head up. Within seconds, his lips are on yours, pressing. His tongue is against yours rubbing like a kitten that wants to be petted. You oblige him and rub his tongue back with yours. For long minutes there is nothing but him and you and the wind and the sea and the crashing of the waves and the sky and the stars….

There is nothing but time.