What Makes a Jedi

This is my first attempt at fan fiction! I really hope you like it, and it turned out much better than I expected. I'm an aspiring author, and I'm experimenting with different styles to try and find one that fits my preferences. The title has multiple meanings, by the way. Enjoy!



Qui-Gon Jinn lived the ways of the Force.

That didn’t merely imply that he was a Jedi, although he was supremely dedicated to the of the balance of the Force. That didn’t just suggest that he knew what it was to wield a lightsaber, although his own master had regarded him the most skilled swordmaster he had ever trained. That didn’t justly insinuate that he adhered to the Code of the Jedi with his every action, for Qui-Gon Jinn knew no code of direction but his heart.

And he listened to the Force.

The Force was flowing freely within him now. He heard it, felt it, quickening his heart, bringing renewed energy to his tired limbs, whispering softly through his soul.

Qui-Gon nervously paced the hall of the Room of a Thousand Fountains. His mind was troubled, although none of his hidden apprehension was betrayed by his tranquil features, nor by the mild, deliberately neutral aura he projected through the Force. The sounds of his boots resounding through the soft, pale blue of the floor was determined and sure, and his sharp, piercing blue eyes confidently penetrated his surroundings.

Instinctively seeking to quiet his mind, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and slowly permitted the Force to reveal to him his immediate surroundings. Through the multifaceted strands of the Force, he felt the slight, simply elegant tendrils of exotic plant life that surrounded the largest of the fountains, each of their tiniest of molecules both brilliantly effortless and strangely complex. The nourishing sweetness of the water gently begged to purify the harder stems of the Force.

His attention piqued, Qui-Gon allowed his heightened awareness to extend to the quiet confines of the Jedi Temple. The peaceful, dispassionate well of Force energy was sporadically punctuated by excitement, or tension, of dreams unanswered, or of destinies unfolding through themselves. The lively calm of a Jedi Master in deep meditation. The uneasy energies of a padawan about to embark on a mission.

And the Jedi Temple slept.

Qui-Gon remained perfectly still, his broad chest hardly rising and falling, caught in the embrace of the Force. He began to search for familiar presences that the Force chose to reveal to him. There was the sharp, precise presence of Master Yoda, as unbending and as filled with rigid certainty in sleep as he was in verbal debate. There was the sweet presence of his young padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, young and kind, idealistically caring, untouched by the evils of the galaxy. Qui-Gon felt his padawan stir slightly in the Force, his consciousness brushed by his master’s touch, but his aura relaxed completely, and returned a brief, warm reassurance.

A smile slowly played across Master Qui-Gon’s lips as he permitted the Force to guide him further away from the Temple. His eyes fluttered from behind hooded lids as he sensed a small shuttle, which had just touched ground near the edge of the Temple grounds. Three presences exited the shuttle, all brimming with energy and strong in the Force. An older Jedi, probably a master, a younger padawan, his excitement barely concealed by his exhaustion, and a female presence, strong and gentle, yet oddly memorable--

Qui-Gon’s eyes snapped open. Tahl. Of course. He had been so deeply engrossed in meditation that he hadn’t sensed her immediately. But it had to be Tahl. No other presence shone so brightly in the Force. No other presence resonated so deeply in his heart.
She’ll notice immediately. I can’t hide anything from her. Not even a matter of vanity--

I’m not vain. It’s more than that. It’s…

Qui-Gon’s mind clouded as Tahl’s presence grew near. Hesitantly, he sat on a cold, stone bench near one of the smaller fountains, willing his tattered senses to be distracted by the almost physical clamor of rushing water. He breathed in the cloying aroma of the gold Ty’renn flower, its sweetness undimmed in the gray darkness.

“Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon started, his composure suddenly ruffled by Tahl’s entrance. But only briefly.
She danced across the room and into his arms, resting her head on his broad shoulder and stroking his hair. Her soft cheek brushed against the thick fullness of his beard, and he pressed her closer, feeling her fit perfectly against his body. He reached down and took her hand into his. It was calloused from years of lightsaber training, but warm, and he closed his large, war-scarred fist tightly over hers.

Tightening her grip on his back, she leaned in and kissed him on his lips, full and sweet as she remembered. His Force aura enflamed, Qui-Gon breathed in the pleasant pureness of her hair, gently stroking it until she slowly pulled away.

“There’s something different about you.”

Oh no. Here it goes.

He forced a laugh. “What could that be, my sweet?”

“You broke it,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Broke it?” he asked, forming a shaky smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She laughed, a soft, melodious sound that warmed his heart. “Oh, Qui-Gon. You needn’t be so embarrassed, you know. It looks…becoming.”

“Becoming?” he asked, willing his face not to flush.

“Yes,” she whispered, pulling closer to him, and kissing him lightly on the nose. “It’s very becoming.”

Tahl stepped back lightly as Qui-Gon rubbed his nose, self-consciously remembering the day he returned from the mission to Yrrrl V with Obi-Wan.


“Master?” Obi-Wan asked, tentatively entering the Med Clinic.

“Come in, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, sitting erect on a blue sleep couch, barely large enough to contain his massive frame. Med droids silently buzzed around the couch and the adjoining bacta tanks, ministering to the needs of the clinic’s various patients.

That, of course, included Qui-Gon.

“Does it hurt, Master?” Obi-Wan asked, his small brow furrowed in concern. Qui-Gon’s padawan was nearly fifteen at the time, and somewhat small for his age. But he was quick, and agile, and extremely intelligent. And his heart contained such kindness that he could hardly suppress it. Nor did he have any desire to hamper this unusual care and sensitivity.

“A little, my young padawan, but it is better than yesterday.”

Obi-Wan struggled to tear his eyes away from the thick bacta patch attached to his master’s permanently misshapen nose. Yrrrl V was very far from Coruscant, and it had taken far too long for Obi-Wan and his master to reach the Jedi Temple, undetected by their attackers, as ordered. There had been numerous opportunities to stop at a nearby system and use a bacta tank, but Qui-Gon had refused to compromise the mission, deciding instead to rely upon Force healing and the Jedi’s standard issue of bacta patches. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough. Qui-Gon’s nose had simply been…smashed. Irrevocably, it seemed.

But as Obi-Wan glanced Qui-Gon’s nose, he couldn’t help but cock a slight smile, remembering his master’s exact words upon realizing that the Gamorrean had succeeded in smashing his meaty elbow into Qui-Gon’s ruggedly handsome features. He hadn’t realized it until after the rush of adrenaline and blinding sight of the Force had washed over him, and he turned to check on his apprentice.

Seeing the blood all over his master’s face, Obi-Wan had asked him what happened, and he had replied, “I boke by node!”

Obi-Wan laughed, forgetting where he was.

“And what is so funny, my young apprentice?” Qui-Gon asked.

Embarrassed, Obi-Wan was forced abruptly into the present.

“Ummm, nothing, Master. I was just thinking how well your nose goes with your…other attributes.”

“Other attributes, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon pressed. “Such as?”

“Your hair, for example, Master. I’m sort of glad you didn’t cut it.”

“I thought you considered it…oh, what was the word you used?…dysfunctional, Obi-Wan?”

“No, Master. I find the streaks of less-than-brown are probably most appealing.”

“Less-than-brown?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, and shut it, just as rapidly, wondering why in the name of this Force-forsaken galaxy he had said that.

“Well, what I mean is, err, gray, Master,” Obi-Wan replied bravely.

“Gray?”

“Ummmm, more like silver, I suppose.”

“Silver?” Qui-Gon asked, cocking his head to one side.

Obi-Wan turned red.

“You know, Master, when things start, um, changing--”

“Changing?” Qui-Gon’s voice suddenly deepened as he arched his left eyebrow. “No, I don’t know, Obi-Wan. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“I mean, Master, you know, when things start to slow down--”

“Slow down, Obi-Wan? Perhaps we should take a trip to the training rooms later today, so we can see if this Jedi Master has slowed down.”

“No, Master, I don’t think--”



Qui-Gon grinned as he considered this, thinking suddenly of Tahl.

His eyes brushed over her uncertainly, taking in her slim, muscular form, her gentle beauty. The slightness of her features and thick, fullness of her hair was most attractive, and comfortably familiar.

Most becoming.

She chuckled.

“Taking inventory?” she asked, placing her hand firmly against his chest and shoving lightly.

“Ha, not so thoroughly this time, my love,” he teased. “I was wondering if you were alright. How was the mission?”

“Oh, Qui-Gon,” she said loudly, shoving him, this time more forcefully. “Why do you think of the Order at a time like this?”

“I once thought that the Order was my life,” he said, suddenly all business. His brow furrowed deeply as he began pacing the supple, reflective floor. “But I now know that my duty is to the Force, itself, not to any physical entity.”

“So the Force is your life,” Tahl replied flatly.

“Not tonight, my love,” he moved closer to her once more, and she was instantly in his arms. Tahl reached up, her thin arm lithe against his muscular form, and traced along the edge of his strong jaw. Her smooth finger followed the confines of his face, outlining his high, regal forehead, and resting on the tip of his twisted nose.

“You know, the nose doesn’t make the Jedi,” she laughed, swiftly pulling her hand away from his face. He caught it mechanically, reflexes enhanced by the Force, and kissed her index finger lightly.

“Of course not. The Force does,” he replied, blue eyes twinkling.

“No, you silly. Not the Force!”

His forehead crinkled in mock puzzlement.

“Not the Force?” he asked. “No! Never,” she giggled.

“Then the Temple makes the Jedi. In the sense that it molds them into a being in service to the will of the Force.”

“No, Qui-Gon, not the Temple,” she stepped away from him, her light, golden-bronze hair shimmering in the dim light.

“Alright, then the success of the Jedi’s padawan,” Qui-Gon suggested, now genuinely confused.

“Oh, Qui-Gon,” Tahl said in fake exasperation. “Do you give up?”

“My love, you know very well that I never give up,” he laughed, a touch of sadness in his voice. Qui-Gon’s dedication to justice was unshakable.

“Then can I give you a hint?”

He grinned.

“Of course.”
“Master Fisto has a green one, Queen Breha doesn’t have one, you have a larger one, and Yoda rarely uses his.”

Now Qui-Gon was sincerely confused. His face must have betrayed his surprise, because Tahl laughed.

“Why, you silly, a lightsaber!”

Qui-Gon laughed, long and hard, until tears filled his eyes and brimmed over onto his cheeks. Then, taking Tahl in his arms, the two Jedi strode swiftly from the illuminated confines of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, laughing with carefree ease as they went.


Twenty-three years later, silence had fallen upon the Room of a Thousand Fountains once more. A solitary figure stood near the largest of the fountains, now extinguished, the room unnaturally quiet and filled with a surreal darkness.

The figure was of a slightly shorter-than-average height, his hair sandy and cut short in a practical style, his beard rugged and full. Although he was undoubtedly young, his hair was tinged with patches of gray, and his eyes brimmed with a sense of deep, incurable sorrow, unquestionably haunted by visions invisible to other men.

He sat down heavily on of the benches near one of the smaller fountains, slumped over slightly, as if weighed down by some incredible burden. The bench was cracked and its exquisite, unpolished gray electrum scorched by blaster fire. The fountains were all but destroyed, the ornately decorated, reddish brown pillars fallen and smashed. The ostentatious trim surrounding the rather small entrances to the room, which this young Jedi used to joke that his master would never fit through, were crumbling and lay in pieces on the scorched and decimated floor, dulled and scuffed. Suddenly unable to contain his grief, the young Jedi balled his hands into fists, clutching futilely at his chest, and let out a muffled cry, the pale blue of his eyes blurred by a rapid rush of tears.

“Obi-Wan.”

Abruptly, the Jedi lifted his head, his face stricken in a grimace of pain, wondering if his sorrow had finally driven him to madness. If so, he would welcome it.

But there was something there. His grief suddenly driven into another existence, the Jedi cleared his mind and opened his heart.

What he saw nearly broke it once more.

It was his old master, his face betraying the same sincere, rugged kindness and profound wisdom. Obi-Wan sobbed, this time with joy.

“Master! Oh, Master, I’ve missed you! You left me, Master, and I wasn’t ready, and Anakin,” he stopped, suddenly confused by his own words, “Master, Anakin…he wasn’t the Chosen One.”

Qui-Gon smiled, that same, caring, lopsided grin that his apprentice remembered, greeting him, admonishing him, praising him, teaching him.

“No, my young padawan.”

By the Force. Even his voice is the same.

“He is the Chosen One.”

“Master, I don’t understand. He slaughtered Jedi! He used the Force to choke his own wife! He--” Obi-Wan broke off, his voice choked with emotion, “He…he killed…younglings--”

“The Force will be brought into balance, Obi-Wan. You must listen to what I will teach you.”

“Teach me?!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, suddenly as exasperated with his master as he had been as a young boy. “Master, the galaxy has been plunged in darkness! Anakin is of the dark side now, and he is not the Chosen One.”

Qui-Gon sighed, turned his head to one side and raised his eyes, just as he had done a lifetime ago.

“I see you are as headstrong as always, my young padawan. And you still have much to learn. But I can help you. I can teach you. And, I promise you, the Force will be brought into balance.”

Obi-Wan prepared to retort once more, but there was something about the manner of his old master that stopped him. He was as stubborn as a bantha, as always, but there was something else, something more, and he could see it but not quite accept it.

Then he felt it. The enveloping currents of the Force rippled around him, and, rather than resisting, he opened himself, closing his eyes, feeling the undercurrents ebb and flow around him. The Force was vibrant, alive, intricate and beautiful in its scope, and it filled him with purpose and being.

Yes, the Force could be brought into balance. For even the tiniest of candles, alone in the darkness, can penetrate the shadows. The Force would be brought into balance. But not after much pain, and much sacrifice, and much sorrow. But Obi-Wan Kenobi was used to that, and he could endure. He would endure.

“I am ready to learn, Master.”

And Obi-Wan listened.

For, even in death, Qui-Gon Jinn lived the ways of the Force.

And he knew how to love.