Post by Ani-Chay Pinn on Sept 18, 2005 13:13:20 GMT -5
POSSESSIONS
by Anne Davenport
Going strictly by the Jedi Code, possessions were forbidden to a Jedi.
This was, of course, completely impractical.
No one denied that Jedi possessed their own lightsabers and that no one outside the Order would try to take them away. At least not without resistance. Practically speaking, they owned their clothes and boots and equipment. And small mementos acquired over the years. But nothing more than what one could on one’s person They were assigned their own rooms at the Jedi Temple, each a single, plain, utilitarian cell, but it still amounted to an assigned territory, respected by others.
In theory, each Jedi possessed nothing, living unburdened within the Order. In reality, they owned what they carried, on their persons and within their souls. And only the direst circumstances would lead the Jedi Council to strip a Jedi of what little they had, making the ‘no possessions’ edict true. And paradoxically cancelling their vows and status in the Order, and freeing them from that rule entirely.
Master Qui-Gon Jinn sighed as he contemplated this on the way from the nearest public transportation stop and trudged up the many steps to the massive Jedi Temple on Coruscant. His backpack weighed heavy with his new possession. He and his young apprentice reached the top and entered, the huge double doors parting before them.
Other Jedi passed them in the vast hall. Some glanced with sympathy at the disheveled pair; others swiftly avoided them. Their simple mission as peace negotiators had cascaded into new problems full of irritating people with issues scattered all over a series of outer-rim worlds. Qui-Gon’s long, brown hair was loose, dirty and stingy, hanging about his face. His robe had been sacrificed three planets ago. His boots were scuffed and he’d been unable to get all of the hardened poswat excrement out from under the straps and fittings on the calves.
Walking next to him, his padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, still had his robe though the hem of it was shredded from a run through a field of iron-spined berry bushes. The extended, multi-part mission had taken so long that his young apprentice had grown a couple of centimeters in that time; his stained and torn tunic and pants now looked a bit short on him. And his hair was still green, though brown roots showed under the dye; at least the thin braid behind his left ear had been spared and was its normal color.
And Obi-Wan also needed a shave. His new height had brought another sign of maturity that had taken Qui-Gon by surprise. But Qui-Gon hadn’t shaved his own beard in years, so there was nothing to be done about his padawan’s darkening chin. They’d been too busy being ferried between minor disasters to petty catastrophes to find something to do about it. And it was not a good idea to experiment with other species’ hygiene implements if you didn’t have to. It wasn’t growing very fast for now, but it promised to be a full, thick beard when it did. Qui-Gon hadn’t said anything, but he was privately pleased by the prospect. But Obi-Wan was uncomfortable and he kept rubbing his chin, probing this unaccustomed change.
Neither one of them had their tabards or obis under their belts. They’d been used for bandages after a traffic accident with a food cart and a transport full of caged feather-eared kittens with needle sharp little claws.
At the base of a grand staircase, Jedi Master Uln Hosk waited for them, his long, thick gray beard reached down to his arms crossed and tucked into the sleeves of his dark brown robe. Master Hosk often assigned minor missions for the Council. And initially, this had been a minor mission, before it had become a planet-hopping string of minor crises.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed deeply to Master Hosk whose expression betrayed a little bit of surprise at their appearance. Reports and holograms never truly conveyed the tangible reality of a situation. Or the smell.
“Master Qui-Gon,” Hosk began. “I’m looking forward to hearing more about these complications you’ve been experiencing...”
Qui-Gon folded his arms before him and the husks of some shriveled, many-legged vermin fell out from his sleeves. Both he and Obi-Wan had been properly de-loused at their last stop, but the remains still tended to cling to their clothes. And it had caused a sneezing fit for Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon’s blue eyes stared back with that cool Jedi calm that said, ‘So you think that you’ve got something more important than us getting cleaned up first?’ Next to him, Obi-Wan sniffled.
“...after you’ve had time to rest and refresh yourselves,” Hosk acknowledged the reality before him. Qui-Gon politely inclined his head as he thanked Hosk and excused himself and his padawan. They headed out of the great hall, passing through an archway to a lift tube. They had the car to themselves as they descended to a lower level of the Temple.
Qui-Gon had to admit that Hosk had every reason to inquire; they were more than a bit overdue. He wondered if the mission might have been shortened if they’d had their own ship and not been picked up by the Vertaad government. But Qui-Gon didn’t think that this would have cut off the tangle of events that they’d been caught up in. A ship would simply have allowed them to get to and from each disaster faster. Their final transport to Coruscant had been with an untidy family sympathetic to them, but its members had no concept of managing their personal squabbles. They’d tried their best to stay away from the domestic fracas (difficult even for Jedi in the confines of a spaceship), but he’d been unable to avoid the family’s soggy, drippy infant who would not stop howling unless Qui-Gon held her. Qui-Gon still had baby spew stains on the shoulders of his tunic.
They exited into a plain, brightly list anteroom. Three Jedi and a cluster of younger students stood around a blocky, gray-metal supply droid. One of the children saw them first and soon all eyes stared at them for a moment. Everyone quickly stepped aside and more droids were summoned.
He and Obi-Wan separated to go to private rooms. Qui-Gon happily removed all of his clothes, to be incinerated he hoped. His belt and equipment would be repaired and what was missing would be replaced. His boots would be properly cleaned and mended; a Jedi did not give up a good pair of boots that fit unless they were absolutely falling apart. In the meantime, the pale gray and yellow patterned plasti-stone floor of the small room was slightly warm and not uncomfortable under his bare feet as he used the facilities.
But he could not let one thing from his pack out of his possession. And it was, in truth and in a legally binding way, his possession. Wrapped in a layer of textured plastic and plush cloth under that, the Icon of Ylcur was not fragile at all. Over the millennia, it had been through wars, pestilence, political marriages, small children, carnivorous pets, several floods and now a complicated excursion through nearly the whole Vertaad Union. Its intricate, silvery and translucent surfaces were hardly scratched. It also massed about 4 kilograms including its wrappings and Qui-Gon was quite tired of carrying it around all the time.
He left the Icon still wrapped up on a stand with his lightsaber while he cleaned his teeth and then washed. Qui-Gon tend to wounds as well as dirt; aside from not having been able to bathe properly for too long, he had numerous scratches and bruises. He used the lightly scented soaps, oils and bacta. Sweat, stale perfume, compost residue and Twalak saliva all dissolved and washed away. He dabbed at the tiny, half-healed scratches on his arms made by the angry Keepers of Ylcur who had objected to their leaders’ decision. It was amazing how sharp those feathers had been.
Qui-Gon selected the proper instruments from a collection meant to accommodate many species and trimmed his hair and beard using a wall-mounted mirror. By the time he’d finished the droid had brought him a new set of clothes. Everything else was still being mended. He picked up the cream-colored pair of under-shorts from the neatly folded stack. Pale, long-sleeved undershirt, dark brown pants in plain, comfortable fabrics came next. Qui-Gon had asked for exactly the same thing that he’d had before. The Temple droids had all his measurements and he hadn’t changed size since the last time he’d had to get new clothes. He didn’t see any reason to change it.
Qui-Gon slipped the outer tunic on, wrapping and tying the front in place. Jedi did not indulge in sensual pleasures, but he did take a moment to appreciate the fresh smell of the fabric along with the lack of holes, frayed edges and stiffened, discolored splotches. After laying the tabards over his shoulders, he evened out how they hung down past the hem of his tunic, front and back, and then he wrapped the obi around his waist, tying everything in place. His gaze fell on the Icon, still sitting on the stand.
To the entire Vertaad Union, Qui-Gon Jinn was not just the custodian of the Icon, he “owned” it along with all its status and privileges. But he didn’t feel like it belonged to him any more than the clothes he’d just put on. They were “his” because of convenience; the clothes because no one else wanted them; the Icon because it removed an object of ire and revenge from the midst of the factions that wanted it.
Of course, the Vertaad leaders had known that the complicated reasons for strife on their worlds went deeper that the mere possession of an ancient and revered sacred object. But taking the Icon from Vertaad space had removed some of the excuses for it. The Vertaad advisors had surprised Qui-Gon with their proposal; they had at first seemed to him to be merely a body of entrenched politicos with not a scrud of imagination among them.
He picked up a pair of brown socks and first standing on one leg and then the other, put them on. Even if he’d known before he’d agreed to the scheme how long it would take to ferry the icon to the planets of the various leaders who could not attend the Grand Council, he still would have had to agree. The separation of the Icon from all parties had completely changed the level of negotiations in the Union; it seemed to make compromise, even between blood enemies, a reality. Unfortunately, too many Vertaad officials and minor royalty seemed to think that the Icon empowered the Jedi to solve all their other problems, too, no matter how strange or foolish. And there had been a few unfortunates who’d actually tried to take the Icon from Qui-Gon. Things had gone very badly for them.
The last thing left in the pile was a folded, dark brown robe. Qui-Gon picked it up, letting its full length hang down to the floor. After a moment of figuring out which side was the inside and which the outside, and where the sleeves were in the folds of coarse fabric, he tried it on.
He’d liked his old robe. It had been comfortable and worn in a way that new clothes could not imitate. But it had been left as a decoy when he and Obi-Wan had finally extricated themselves from their official escorts and commissioned their own transport back to Coruscant. Qui-Gon suspected that some of the Vertaad leaders had been having trouble letting go of the Icon and were adding things to their itinerary to keep them in the Union.
Qui-Gon adjusted the robe and pulled the hood out from under where it had gotten under the collar. The robe was too long. But that was expected; he could see that it would be just the right length with his boots on. He put the hood up. It smelled new, clean and maybe a little woody. He sighed and took it off. It was technically identical to his old robe, but it would be a little while before it felt the same.
He picked up his lightsaber and sat down on a pale yellow floor cushion to meditate, the weapon laid before him. It had only a few new scratches on its black and silver hilt and he would fix those later. He and Obi-Wan had kept their lightsabers clean and in good order, though with considerable effort. He’d never before had to clean a lightsaber of mites and cookie crumbs, or rescue it from the bodice of an oversized female with an ego even larger than her generous body proportions.
He cleared his mind, his gaze resting on the Icon. The Vertaad advisors had quite understood the Jedi Code and didn’t care. All they needed was an acceptable third party to remove the Icon from the negotiating table. One scholar had brushed Qui-Gon objections aside with the comment, “But nobody gets that here. People define themselves and their families by what they own.” Then a retired admiral had pointedly asked Qui-Gon why he would object to someone taking his boots and lightsaber away if he didn’t really ‘own’ them. The fact that Jedi were forbidden possessions didn’t matter because nobody would believe it.
by Anne Davenport
Going strictly by the Jedi Code, possessions were forbidden to a Jedi.
This was, of course, completely impractical.
No one denied that Jedi possessed their own lightsabers and that no one outside the Order would try to take them away. At least not without resistance. Practically speaking, they owned their clothes and boots and equipment. And small mementos acquired over the years. But nothing more than what one could on one’s person They were assigned their own rooms at the Jedi Temple, each a single, plain, utilitarian cell, but it still amounted to an assigned territory, respected by others.
In theory, each Jedi possessed nothing, living unburdened within the Order. In reality, they owned what they carried, on their persons and within their souls. And only the direst circumstances would lead the Jedi Council to strip a Jedi of what little they had, making the ‘no possessions’ edict true. And paradoxically cancelling their vows and status in the Order, and freeing them from that rule entirely.
Master Qui-Gon Jinn sighed as he contemplated this on the way from the nearest public transportation stop and trudged up the many steps to the massive Jedi Temple on Coruscant. His backpack weighed heavy with his new possession. He and his young apprentice reached the top and entered, the huge double doors parting before them.
Other Jedi passed them in the vast hall. Some glanced with sympathy at the disheveled pair; others swiftly avoided them. Their simple mission as peace negotiators had cascaded into new problems full of irritating people with issues scattered all over a series of outer-rim worlds. Qui-Gon’s long, brown hair was loose, dirty and stingy, hanging about his face. His robe had been sacrificed three planets ago. His boots were scuffed and he’d been unable to get all of the hardened poswat excrement out from under the straps and fittings on the calves.
Walking next to him, his padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, still had his robe though the hem of it was shredded from a run through a field of iron-spined berry bushes. The extended, multi-part mission had taken so long that his young apprentice had grown a couple of centimeters in that time; his stained and torn tunic and pants now looked a bit short on him. And his hair was still green, though brown roots showed under the dye; at least the thin braid behind his left ear had been spared and was its normal color.
And Obi-Wan also needed a shave. His new height had brought another sign of maturity that had taken Qui-Gon by surprise. But Qui-Gon hadn’t shaved his own beard in years, so there was nothing to be done about his padawan’s darkening chin. They’d been too busy being ferried between minor disasters to petty catastrophes to find something to do about it. And it was not a good idea to experiment with other species’ hygiene implements if you didn’t have to. It wasn’t growing very fast for now, but it promised to be a full, thick beard when it did. Qui-Gon hadn’t said anything, but he was privately pleased by the prospect. But Obi-Wan was uncomfortable and he kept rubbing his chin, probing this unaccustomed change.
Neither one of them had their tabards or obis under their belts. They’d been used for bandages after a traffic accident with a food cart and a transport full of caged feather-eared kittens with needle sharp little claws.
At the base of a grand staircase, Jedi Master Uln Hosk waited for them, his long, thick gray beard reached down to his arms crossed and tucked into the sleeves of his dark brown robe. Master Hosk often assigned minor missions for the Council. And initially, this had been a minor mission, before it had become a planet-hopping string of minor crises.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed deeply to Master Hosk whose expression betrayed a little bit of surprise at their appearance. Reports and holograms never truly conveyed the tangible reality of a situation. Or the smell.
“Master Qui-Gon,” Hosk began. “I’m looking forward to hearing more about these complications you’ve been experiencing...”
Qui-Gon folded his arms before him and the husks of some shriveled, many-legged vermin fell out from his sleeves. Both he and Obi-Wan had been properly de-loused at their last stop, but the remains still tended to cling to their clothes. And it had caused a sneezing fit for Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon’s blue eyes stared back with that cool Jedi calm that said, ‘So you think that you’ve got something more important than us getting cleaned up first?’ Next to him, Obi-Wan sniffled.
“...after you’ve had time to rest and refresh yourselves,” Hosk acknowledged the reality before him. Qui-Gon politely inclined his head as he thanked Hosk and excused himself and his padawan. They headed out of the great hall, passing through an archway to a lift tube. They had the car to themselves as they descended to a lower level of the Temple.
Qui-Gon had to admit that Hosk had every reason to inquire; they were more than a bit overdue. He wondered if the mission might have been shortened if they’d had their own ship and not been picked up by the Vertaad government. But Qui-Gon didn’t think that this would have cut off the tangle of events that they’d been caught up in. A ship would simply have allowed them to get to and from each disaster faster. Their final transport to Coruscant had been with an untidy family sympathetic to them, but its members had no concept of managing their personal squabbles. They’d tried their best to stay away from the domestic fracas (difficult even for Jedi in the confines of a spaceship), but he’d been unable to avoid the family’s soggy, drippy infant who would not stop howling unless Qui-Gon held her. Qui-Gon still had baby spew stains on the shoulders of his tunic.
They exited into a plain, brightly list anteroom. Three Jedi and a cluster of younger students stood around a blocky, gray-metal supply droid. One of the children saw them first and soon all eyes stared at them for a moment. Everyone quickly stepped aside and more droids were summoned.
He and Obi-Wan separated to go to private rooms. Qui-Gon happily removed all of his clothes, to be incinerated he hoped. His belt and equipment would be repaired and what was missing would be replaced. His boots would be properly cleaned and mended; a Jedi did not give up a good pair of boots that fit unless they were absolutely falling apart. In the meantime, the pale gray and yellow patterned plasti-stone floor of the small room was slightly warm and not uncomfortable under his bare feet as he used the facilities.
But he could not let one thing from his pack out of his possession. And it was, in truth and in a legally binding way, his possession. Wrapped in a layer of textured plastic and plush cloth under that, the Icon of Ylcur was not fragile at all. Over the millennia, it had been through wars, pestilence, political marriages, small children, carnivorous pets, several floods and now a complicated excursion through nearly the whole Vertaad Union. Its intricate, silvery and translucent surfaces were hardly scratched. It also massed about 4 kilograms including its wrappings and Qui-Gon was quite tired of carrying it around all the time.
He left the Icon still wrapped up on a stand with his lightsaber while he cleaned his teeth and then washed. Qui-Gon tend to wounds as well as dirt; aside from not having been able to bathe properly for too long, he had numerous scratches and bruises. He used the lightly scented soaps, oils and bacta. Sweat, stale perfume, compost residue and Twalak saliva all dissolved and washed away. He dabbed at the tiny, half-healed scratches on his arms made by the angry Keepers of Ylcur who had objected to their leaders’ decision. It was amazing how sharp those feathers had been.
Qui-Gon selected the proper instruments from a collection meant to accommodate many species and trimmed his hair and beard using a wall-mounted mirror. By the time he’d finished the droid had brought him a new set of clothes. Everything else was still being mended. He picked up the cream-colored pair of under-shorts from the neatly folded stack. Pale, long-sleeved undershirt, dark brown pants in plain, comfortable fabrics came next. Qui-Gon had asked for exactly the same thing that he’d had before. The Temple droids had all his measurements and he hadn’t changed size since the last time he’d had to get new clothes. He didn’t see any reason to change it.
Qui-Gon slipped the outer tunic on, wrapping and tying the front in place. Jedi did not indulge in sensual pleasures, but he did take a moment to appreciate the fresh smell of the fabric along with the lack of holes, frayed edges and stiffened, discolored splotches. After laying the tabards over his shoulders, he evened out how they hung down past the hem of his tunic, front and back, and then he wrapped the obi around his waist, tying everything in place. His gaze fell on the Icon, still sitting on the stand.
To the entire Vertaad Union, Qui-Gon Jinn was not just the custodian of the Icon, he “owned” it along with all its status and privileges. But he didn’t feel like it belonged to him any more than the clothes he’d just put on. They were “his” because of convenience; the clothes because no one else wanted them; the Icon because it removed an object of ire and revenge from the midst of the factions that wanted it.
Of course, the Vertaad leaders had known that the complicated reasons for strife on their worlds went deeper that the mere possession of an ancient and revered sacred object. But taking the Icon from Vertaad space had removed some of the excuses for it. The Vertaad advisors had surprised Qui-Gon with their proposal; they had at first seemed to him to be merely a body of entrenched politicos with not a scrud of imagination among them.
He picked up a pair of brown socks and first standing on one leg and then the other, put them on. Even if he’d known before he’d agreed to the scheme how long it would take to ferry the icon to the planets of the various leaders who could not attend the Grand Council, he still would have had to agree. The separation of the Icon from all parties had completely changed the level of negotiations in the Union; it seemed to make compromise, even between blood enemies, a reality. Unfortunately, too many Vertaad officials and minor royalty seemed to think that the Icon empowered the Jedi to solve all their other problems, too, no matter how strange or foolish. And there had been a few unfortunates who’d actually tried to take the Icon from Qui-Gon. Things had gone very badly for them.
The last thing left in the pile was a folded, dark brown robe. Qui-Gon picked it up, letting its full length hang down to the floor. After a moment of figuring out which side was the inside and which the outside, and where the sleeves were in the folds of coarse fabric, he tried it on.
He’d liked his old robe. It had been comfortable and worn in a way that new clothes could not imitate. But it had been left as a decoy when he and Obi-Wan had finally extricated themselves from their official escorts and commissioned their own transport back to Coruscant. Qui-Gon suspected that some of the Vertaad leaders had been having trouble letting go of the Icon and were adding things to their itinerary to keep them in the Union.
Qui-Gon adjusted the robe and pulled the hood out from under where it had gotten under the collar. The robe was too long. But that was expected; he could see that it would be just the right length with his boots on. He put the hood up. It smelled new, clean and maybe a little woody. He sighed and took it off. It was technically identical to his old robe, but it would be a little while before it felt the same.
He picked up his lightsaber and sat down on a pale yellow floor cushion to meditate, the weapon laid before him. It had only a few new scratches on its black and silver hilt and he would fix those later. He and Obi-Wan had kept their lightsabers clean and in good order, though with considerable effort. He’d never before had to clean a lightsaber of mites and cookie crumbs, or rescue it from the bodice of an oversized female with an ego even larger than her generous body proportions.
He cleared his mind, his gaze resting on the Icon. The Vertaad advisors had quite understood the Jedi Code and didn’t care. All they needed was an acceptable third party to remove the Icon from the negotiating table. One scholar had brushed Qui-Gon objections aside with the comment, “But nobody gets that here. People define themselves and their families by what they own.” Then a retired admiral had pointedly asked Qui-Gon why he would object to someone taking his boots and lightsaber away if he didn’t really ‘own’ them. The fact that Jedi were forbidden possessions didn’t matter because nobody would believe it.
