“Put the varactyl down, Qui-Gon. We’re here to settle a political dispute, not bond with the local reptavians.”
“But Master, her leg—”
“Don’t dither, Padawan. The senator is waiting.”
“Yes, Master. Sorry, Boga.”
“...Qui-Gon. What have I told you about naming strays?”
“That it encourages me to form unnecessary emotional attachments to them. But... I suppose I thought naming Boga couldn’t hurt, since I’d already formed an attachment before I named her.”
“Perhaps you had formed one, but I had not. Ah, well. It can’t be helped now. Come along, Boga. Maybe one of the farmers will want you, hm?”
Doodle and a drabble for the @jedijune prompt: compassion
[pentadrabble I wrote like 3 years ago and never got around to posting. Padawans Dooku & Jocasta Nu, 500 words]
“Why didn’t you read the text we were assigned?” Jocasta demanded, casting a disapproving look upon her fellow Padawan.
Dooku shrugged. “I tried reading it,” he said. “But it’s incredibly dull. It puts me to sleep the moment I look at it.”
“Maybe you need someone to read it to you,” Jocasta offered. “A living voice always brings these old texts to life.”
“Perhaps for you,” Dooku said, with another shrug. “I think I would fall asleep regardless.”
Jocasta huffed. “I’ll make you a bet, then,” she said. “I will read it to you myself, and if you still manage to fall asleep, you can have my desserts for the rest of the week.”
The desserts provided at latemeal by the Padawan refectory were often traded as currency among the Temple’s student occupants. Dooku eagerly accepted the bet; the loser would pay in their share of sweets, and he was serenely confident in his ability to fall asleep to the droning sound of any assigned reading. He was an experienced practitioner of the art.
Jocasta met him later that day in one of the quiet study rooms, datapad in hand, the document already loaded on the screen. Dooku wore an expression of supreme boredom and said he’d rather be sparring.
“There is more to being a Jedi than lightsaber training,” Jocasta lectured. “Knowledge is just as valuable as combat skills.”
“Perhaps we should be a team,” he suggested dryly. “You can quote history at people, while I keep them from killing you.”
“Right now, it’s all I can do to keep you from failing your classes,” Jocasta muttered.
She began reading aloud from the text of their assignment. Within minutes, Dooku had laid his head on the table, determined to doze off and win the bet as quickly as possible. Jocasta kicked him with a booted foot. Dooku’s head shot up. “Ow!” he exclaimed. “What was that?”
“I’m reading to you,” she said. “And it’s in my best interest for you to stay awake. Yours, too, if you want to pass this course.”
Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we are reading a passage on the tendency of conflicting entities to exploit loopholes in treaties and trade agreements,” Jocasta said, turning the datapad around so he could see the information on the screen. “It’s hardly my fault that you refuse to learn from your own studies.”
“I want a re-negotiation,” Dooku declared.
“A deal’s a deal,” Jocasta said primly, and went back to reading. Dooku tried pulling his hood over his head, but found that the only way to avoid severely bruised shins was to remain seated upright with his eyes open, maintaining a general appearance of attentiveness.
In the end, Jocasta proved a sympathetic adversary, and only demanded half of his week’s dessert allotment. Dooku promptly regained the lost half in an—admittedly loophole-ridden—bet with Sifo-Dyas, who had also made the fatal mistake of not bothering with the reading.
Kix had heard tell of healers in faraway, long ago places, that swore to do no harm. It seemed a luxurious sort of promise. The kind of oath you took when the blaster at your side did not save as many lives as the medpack on your back. Any healer who swore it must never have been ordered to leave his wounded brothers behind on an overtaken battlefield, never have delivered mercy on the wings of a blue blaster bolt—the ultimate painkiller, when no other could reach them. Such a healer had never called a peacekeeper General, nor a child Commander, and so he could live without calling himself Soldier. Killer.
But in this world of things that never should have been, do no harm belonged only to idealists and dead men. Oh, Kix would have liked to swear it—but the enemy would have to swear it first.
[Excerpt from tomorrow's update for my current Jedi Apprentice AU fic (the rest of it is here) because I'm editing, and this part is a particular favorite of mine]
The moonlight disappeared, obscured by another passing cloud, and Obi-Wan’s form faded into a different silhouette. Qui-Gon saw the boy that he had taught with such eagerness, the boy he had wrapped in his cloak on many a cold night, and loved and cared for as his own child. The boy Qui-Gon would never see again, except in memory.
Xanatos was gone, but his face remained, a flicker of blue eyes and dark hair and an unforgettable scar in the shape of a broken circle. Qui-Gon wondered what would have happened if he had never chosen Xanatos. If he might have been sent to one of the Service Corps, and perhaps to wiser teachers and a better fate.
Obi-Wan had once hoped that Qui-Gon would choose to be his teacher, and show him the ways of the Force—but that part of Qui-Gon had gone away along with Xanatos and never returned.
The Jedi in the AgriCorps would teach Obi-Wan instead. He would be in better hands, there. He would have a chance to find a place in hearts that did not bear so many scars. The boy was easy to love. Obi-Wan did not need Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon did not need Obi-Wan.
It made no difference that Qui-Gon could feel Obi-Wan’s relief through the Force as the boy pulled the warm cloak around himself, or feel him drift quietly off into sleep at last. Obi-Wan was young. His mental shields were weaker than the more experienced Knights and Masters Qui-Gon was accustomed to interacting with. It meant nothing.
Qui-Gon stretched out on his sleep-couch and attempted to quiet his mind, pushing away the unwelcome memory of Xanatos’ icy gaze, and the knowledge that he could feel it the moment Obi-Wan began to dream.
[Padawans Qui-Gon and Tahl. Double-drabble I hastily wrote ages ago. 200 words. I promise I'm still alive and hopefully someday I'll write something new]
“You have to see this,” Qui-Gon declared, dropping to his knees in front of Tahl and digging through his pack.
Tahl craned her neck, eager to see what new treasure he had brought back from his recent mission with Dooku. Judging by the quivering excitement in his voice, it must be something extraordinary. She held her breath as he smiled and slowly withdrew his hand from the bag, dramatically unfolding his fingers to reveal—
“A rock?” Tahl asked.
He nodded.
“You brought back a rock?”
“Hold out your hand,” he said simply. Tahl did, despite her confusion. He set the smooth stone in her palm. Delicate lines of red traced patterns over its glossy black surface, but it was otherwise exactly what it appeared to be: a rock.
“It's... pretty,” she said, holding it up for closer inspection.
“Well, yes,” Qui-Gon smiled. “That too.”
“What?”
He reached out and placed his hand over hers, pressing the stone between their two palms. Tahl felt it warm as it hummed beneath his touch.
Qui-Gon drew his hand away, but the rock remained warm. Tahl ran her fingers over its surface, eyes slowly widening. “It’s Force-sensitive,” she realized.
[random double-drabble I dug out of my old work, 200 words]
Obi-Wan offered Qui-Gon his hand, helping him off the floor. The older Jedi was covered in dirt and sweat after his fight with... whatever it had been. Although Qui-Gon was still out of breath, Obi-Wan was at least relieved to see that he appeared unhurt.
Anakin followed after them. “Mister Qui-Gon, sir?” he chirped. “Can I ask you a question?”
Qui-Gon stopped walking and turned to smile at him. “Of course, Ani. What is it?”
“It’s about your laser sword.” Anakin fidgeted with his tunic sleeves. “Is it... alive?”
Qui-Gon chuckled. “What makes you think it is?”
Anakin frowned thoughtfully. “I thought I felt something, when you used it earlier. Sort of like it was... awake. Like a person.”
“It is not alive—not exactly. But it does have a heart of sorts.” Qui-Gon unhooked the lightsaber from his belt and held it out for Anakin to see. Obi-Wan felt his Master call on the Force. Slowly, the hilt separated into several floating parts, suspended above Qui-Gon’s palm. In the center hung the singular green crystal that powered the blade. It glowed faintly, and Anakin's eyes shone with wonder.
Since I’ve been losing the battle with writer’s block lately, here’s a random 300-word ficlet I dug out of my WIPs from several months ago:
The Force aided its users in precision and coordination, skills of the utmost importance when one's hands held a humming lightsaber at a critical moment. The hands of the younglings of Kybuck clan, however, clutched not weapons, but colorsticks, as they eagerly honed their skills by drawing circles on pieces of flimsi scattered across the table.
The sheet of flimsi held by Master Ali-Alann displayed several perfect circles, and the younglings eyed it jealously as they attempted to recreate the shapes on their own flimsi, with mixed success; the older children were more coordinated than their younger peers. Qui-Gon smiled at the scene. He remembered similar ‘training’ tasks from his own days in the crèche.
“I did it!” cheered one of the youngest children, proudly holding up a wobbly blue circle for Qui-Gon to admire.
“Well done, Obi-Wan.” Ali-Alann gave an approving nod from across the table, but the child's gaze remained fixed solely on Qui-Gon.
“Do you like it?” he asked, blue eyes brimming with hope and excitement.
“It's very impressive,” Qui-Gon told him.
The boy beamed. “Here you go,” he said, and pushed the flimsi into Qui-Gon’s hands, before turning back to the table and beginning a new drawing, this time with a green colorstick.
* * *
Tahl found the drawing sitting on Qui-Gon’s desk when she stopped by his quarters for a cup of tea later that afternoon. “What’s this? she asked, raising an amused eyebrow at the lone, lopsided circle in the center of the flimsi sheet.
“A gift from one of the Initiates,” Qui-Gon replied. “I had an errand to the crèche; one of the children gave it to me. I didn’t know how to decline.”
Tahl held it up to the light as if admiring a piece of distinguished artwork.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
[Qui-Gon & Obi-Wan]
500 words to prove I haven’t vanished off the face of the Earth
(Also, compiling these on AO3 now)
Each careful step was an intense exercise in concentration. Burning determination struggled to outvie the burning sensation in his lungs, which screamed at him to give in to the temptation of a deep inhalation. He was Jedi. The Force would sustain him.
Must sustain him.
Obi-Wan's next step became a stumble. He was inexperienced, unprepared. He needed to breathe. And yet he must not. The Force.
Noxious white fog drifted carelessly past in small eddies. Better to go without oxygen than to inhale this misty doom. Better… without…
He sought his Master in the Force, pleading for strength, for guidance in this desperate, breathless journey—but Qui-Gon remained silent beside him, unwilling to render the aid his Padawan so desperately needed to complete the last steps of their task.
There is no… no breath. There is the Force.
Every thought was a conscious decision not to breathe. The Force. The Force. But the Force could not fill his lungs. He had reached the end of his reserves. His head drooped. He swayed, staggered into his next step. Half-obscured by the mist, Qui-Gon glanced over in silent concern.
Defeated, Obi-Wan opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath of the forbidden atmosphere, wincing at the strange tingling sensation that crawled its way into his lungs. The air was acrid, and strangely cold. He coughed it up, inhaled more, coughed and shook his head.
The mist was everywhere—in his lungs, in his vision, in his thoughts. It choked him.
“Purge it,” Qui-Gon’s voice ordered, close to his ear, far away.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Can’t…” he wheezed. “Too late…”
“You must try.”
“Master…” He lost his ability to speak along with his ability to stand. The floor twisted sideways, rushing to greet him. The swirling clouds overtook his vision. Everything turned into the dreaded white mist.
It was far too late.
Through his last shreds of consciousness, Obi-Wan felt the steadying embrace of Qui-Gon’s arms folding around him. With a defeated groan, he gave in and slumped against his Master’s chest.
Obi-Wan woke to the residual sting of a hypospray in his neck. He was lying on a mat on the floor of a training room. Qui-Gon was bending over him. The scene felt strangely familiar. Perhaps a dream…
No. Not a dream. A previous lesson. A previous failure. He had failed this exercise before, succumbing to the sleep-inducing gas before completing the challenge course.
Obi-Wan pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to rub away the residual dizziness that made the ceiling spin. “How did I do?” he asked hoarsely, when the blurry figure of his Master had materialized into a sharper image.
“Better,” Qui-Gon said. “You made it nearly halfway this time.”
Obi-Wan groaned.
“We learn more from our failures than our successes,” Qui-Gon reminded him.
“And,” said Padawan Vos, appearing in the corner of Obi-Wan’s vision and brandishing a blurry object, “if you need a refresher on this particular failure, I have it all on holovid.”
