09 Jun 1999







After Qui-Gon's funeral, Anakin and I went back to the quarters Amidala

had given us in the palace.  "We'll move your things into my room,

Padawan," I said to him.  As he left my side to go gather his

belongings, I touched his shoulder.  "Ani, are you sure you want this?

It...isn't easy.  The bond between master and student is more intense

than you can imagine."



He smiled at me, his blue eyes shining.  "I'm sure."



When he returned, I was waiting for him. "Padawan?" 



"Master?"



I met his gaze calmly, covering the aching loss in my chest.  "Are you

ready?" 

 

"Ready for what, Master?"



"I need you to witness this for me, since my own Master is dead.  And

then...well, you'll see."



"I'll witness," he said.



I picked up the silver-handled scissors Qui-Gon had bought when I was

not quite thirteen.  The ones he'd used to cut my hair.  The ones I was

about to use to cut Anakin's...and to take off my own braid.



I reached up and snipped through the braid, felt its small weight

leave me.  By all rights, it should have been Qui-Gon who cut it from

me, who caught it as it fell.



If there was any justice in the universe, his hands would have been on

my shoulders and his mouth on mine in a solemn kiss of congratulations.



Instead, Anakin watched gravely as the braid slid down the front of my

robe and curled into my lap.  I reached for him, drew him close to me,

and lifted the scissors to his hair.



As I snipped, running my fingers through the fine strands and collecting 

the cut hair in my lap, I thought of how it felt when Qui-Gon had done

this to me.  His hands had been so gentle, and the scissors had made a

rasping sound in their newness.  I had been not quite thirteen, and the

feel of his hands in my hair had been intimate and seductive without

being sexual.  I had never felt so close to anyone as I did then.



The scissors did not rasp now, but snipped smoothly.  For twelve years,

Qui-Gon cut my hair with them, every two months, regular as clockwork.

Even when we were on a difficult mission, he always found the time to

sit me in front of him and run his hands and the scissors through my

hair.  Once, when I was seventeen, I leaned back against him, pressing

into his hands, craving his touch.  Gently, so gently, he'd wrapped his

arms around me and held me close. 



I brushed the fallen hair away from Anakin's shoulders and took my braid 

out of my lap.  I cut the unbraided tail off and began weaving my hair

into the lock of his I'd left behind his ear.  Qui-Gon had done this,

too: woven his hair into mine as he wove us into Master and Padawan,

adding bits of my own cut hair to the braid until it passed my

shoulder.



Oh, Master, I am not ready for this task.  I am only just a Jedi Knight, 

only just past the trials.  I should not have an apprentice, not yet.



Oh, Master, why did you leave me?



With an affectionate pat on the shoulder, I sent Anakin to wash the hair 

from his body.  I swept the cuttings from the floor and made up Anakin's 

bed, adding extra blankets so he wouldn't be cold.



Then I took my braid, eighteen inches long without the tail--the tail

that was now part of Anakin's braid--and pulled out my lightsaber repair

kit.  I affixed metal loops to the ends and tied the braid around my neck.

The scraps of my Master's hair in it are all I have left of his physical 

self, all I have left of his caring for me, of the touch of his hands

and the warmth of his arms around me.



Anakin came back into the room, water shining on his eyelashes and the

tips of his newly-spiky hair.  "Master?"



"Yes, Padawan?"



"I love you, Master."



"And I you, Padawan.  That is as it should be."



He came to stand beside me and laid his head on my shoulder, his small

fingers playing with the sleeve of my robe. "I miss Qui-Gon," he

whispered.



I lifted my arm and held him against me, felt his face press into my

neck and the tears start.  "So do I, young Anakin, so do I."