The Sting

It all started with the talk of a Valentines Day challenge at TFN. We were supposed to pair two characters up and write a love story -- serious, humorous, canon, non-canon...whatever we wanted. Immediately I thought of Qui-Gon and Tahl, of course, but my thoughts then went to Yoda and Yaddle. They could be the subject to many jabs that I could really work with.
But soon, after much toying with the idea, during one of the low points of my critical thinking class, I scrawled out the words "She was haunting him." in my notebook. And, before I knew it, what I had intended to be a short, funny, quick fic about Yoda and Yaddle turned into something huge and incredibly vibrant. I call it "The Sting," and it's designed to twist and turn and pace itself just as the movie does. But, if you haven't seen the movie, it should work just fine.
Since I didn't have time to post a Valentines Day blog because of homework, I'm posting the first two parts of this grand tale. It'll be updated again tomorrow.
I'm Robert Osborn, and I'm proud to present The Sting. (Sorry, couldn't resist the TCM reference.)

Sometime Before

She was haunting him.

Sitting lightly upon a gray, hollowed bench, eyes half-lidded in enigmatic contemplation, her supple form and fair complexion shining pleasantly in the dim glaze of evening, then dark eyes widening in succulent surprise that tickled the back of his throat as she turned to see him and he darted around a corner, just in time…

Her regal stature, subtle but apparent, frozen wordlessly, but framed so neatly, by a chair of dark, royal violet, seized and held in a glance so fleeting, but forever etched in his mind; that rare moment of silent contemplation, glancing up with a knowing smile playing across her gracious lips as he bowed away, just before she could see…

The pale, soft smoothness of her skin, a passing but unforgettable gaze, the gleaming currents of chestnut hair rippling down her back…

She was there, lingering just beyond his gaze, tormenting him, shaming him, and never, ever relenting, torturing even his final refuge from the miseries of existence – his own mind – berating him, belittling him…

She was haunting him.

And yet…

…he loved her.


The Problem

Master Yoda seldom looked pleased. It was often stated, with a certain degree of reverence, that he was, and would forever remain, one of the wisest, most powerful, and greatly accomplished of all the Jedi. But Qui-Gon tended to believe probability would dictate that your chances of accomplishing something in nearly a thousand years were, at the very least, fairly good.

Regardless of this fact, the Jedi Order looked upon its so-named Grand Master with something markedly similar to admiration, and that, if anything, demanded a standard that was almost hopelessly extreme. So, it was not surprising that Master Yoda seldom looked pleased. Excellence was as stressful as it was impossible.

And it didn’t help, the way he paced in irritable solitude, alone down there beneath your knees, but, at the same time, alone up there above your thoughts, tapping that gnarled gimer stick, as outwardly worn and tattered as the ancient Jedi Master, against the damp reflections on the floor. The image was delicately deceiving; both Master Yoda and the gimer stick were intensely and inherently focused, and terribly, fearfully strong. But that didn’t make either of them any less annoying.

“Master Qui-Gon? Listening are you? Hmmm?”

“Yes, Master,” Qui-Gon sighed, biting back his ready-made sardonic response.

“Good. Because summoned you here in light of a very important issue, I have,” croaked Yoda, pounding the gimer stick against the polished floor with every other word.

“May I ask what that might be, my Master?” Qui-Gon ventured, his outer veneer of detachment betraying none of his impatience.

“Patience you still have not, Master Qui-Gon? Hmmm?”

Well, perhaps he didn’t look as detached as he would’ve preferred.

“With respect, Master Yoda, my Padawan has been out by the East Lake for about,” raising his arm, he checked the small chrono strapped to his muscular wrist, “twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

“Hmm? And training by the lake is he, Master Qui-Gon?” asked the Jedi Master, his large ears as elevated as his interest.

“Yes, Master, he is.”

Yoda paused for the briefest of moments to count the dots on the ceiling. Satisfied that there were none, and that, if there were any, they wouldn’t aid his confusion in the least, Yoda turned toward Qui-Gon’s kneeling form once again.

“Then…hmmm…worried about your Padawan are you, Master Qui-Gon?” he hazarded cautiously.

“No, Master.”

As Yoda turned away, a small smile tugged lightly at the corner of Qui-Gon’s lips while he regarded the irritation that was pouring from the diminutive Jedi Master, and the speed at which he struggled to staunch it.

“Master Qui-Gon? Care to explain, do you?”

“Of course, Master,” Qui-Gon said, nodding helpfully and stifling a gentle chuckle. “He’s going to fall in.”

The vacant stare that leapt to Yoda’s face could’ve held its own against any of the statues in the Jedi Archives.

“Your Padawan?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes. I sent Obi-Wan on a task to acquire something in a specific location on the Temple grounds. I told him that it would take no more than twenty standard minutes to accomplish, but if he could do it in less than fifteen, it would be most remarkable, indeed. If he could accomplish the task in no greater than twenty, he would be about average. But if he took longer than twenty minutes to acquire the object, then…well…no Jedi, even a Padawan, takes over twenty minutes to do such a thing.”

“Hmm…Master Qui-Gon…not certain of this concept you are teaching your Padawan, am I. Speed matters not over accuracy, competition matters not, especially among Jedi, and detrimental, pride can be.”

“I know, Master. And soon, my Padawan will know as well.”

“Tell me then, Master Qui-Gon, what is this object that seek your Padawan does?”

“The stone of Larsoon,” he replied evenly.

“Larsoon’s stone, you would have him acquire, hmmm? Then, accomplish it he cannot.”

“Master, Obi-Wan’s focus has rested entirely too much upon the opinions of others and he has neglected his fundamental purpose as a Jedi. Had he concentrated on the words behind my words, rather than the words themselves, he would not be near the East Lake at the moment.

“If he had sufficient patience and foresight to research the area where the stone is concealed, he would have known that he must either cross the Lake to retrieve it, or go around it. To go around it would take considerably greater than twenty minutes. To cross it would easily take around ten minutes for a Jedi Knight, and for a Padawan, perhaps, much longer.”

“And the stone?” prompted Yoda, delighted that he now understood.

“Well over 250 kilos. He could never retrieve it even if he did manage to reach its location in less than twenty minutes.”

“Hmm…then learn this lesson well, he must. And be quick about this business we must be,” Yoda muttered, grounding his stick into the floor with emphasis.

“I agree. For what business did you summon me here? And without the Council’s knowledge?”

“Big ears do you have, Master Qui-Gon. Grown they have, since you were a Padawan.”

“I certainly hope so, Master,” Qui-Gon chuckled.

“But care about the Council you do not. Ask this question out of curiosity you do. It matters not,” he added swiftly as Qui-Gon moved to interrupt, “especially once you hear what I must relay.”

Clearing his throat, Master Yoda paced the length of the room once…twice…three times, before cocking his head toward Qui-Gon. Once again, he cleared his throat, which Qui-Gon believed sounded much more painful than it was worth, shook his head, and spoke in a voice oddly touched with something undeniably distant.

“A problem I have, Master Qui-Gon,” he whispered.

“A problem?” Qui-Gon asked, cocking an eyebrow. “A…personal problem, Master?”

“Hmmm, yes. A…personal problem,” he uttered the words as if they had never before touched his tongue. “With a…with another…with…”

“Ooh,” Qui-Gon gasped, rocking slightly on his heels and moving from a kneeling position to a more comfortable posture with his long legs crossed beneath him. “You mean…a woman,” he said with finality.

When Yoda said nothing Qui-Gon laughed, long and hard, tears streaming down his cheeks and collecting in droplets upon his dark beard.

“Why, Master Yoda! You’re in love!”

Master Yoda continued his downtrodden silence, eyes attaching themselves firmly to the floor.

“Well, then, who’s the lucky girl?”

“Master Qui-Gon,” he began again, “much knowledge you are said to have in these matters. After all, captured a few hearts you have since your childhood, hmmm?”

Qui-Gon nodded solemnly as Yoda continued.

“Ask for your help in this one matter I do. Know this, I do, that attachment is forbidden for a Jedi. But just one day and one single wish do I have. Above…above everything…just…happy I wish to make her. For one day.”

Gesturing vaguely, Qui-Gon absorbed the information with the air of a certified connoisseur, his deep eyes set with absolute, unbending determination.

“I will help you. But you must tell me who she is.”

“She is,” his voice broke, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move – how she haunted him! He tried to utter those fatal words, finally managing to squeeze out, in single syllables, “Master Yaddle.”

“Force forsake us!” Qui-Gon shrieked, rising nearly instantly from his position on the floor.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” Yoda spat, motioning slowly and deliberately with the gimer stick, “how dare you—“

“No, not you, Master,” Qui-Gon said indifferently, “It’s Obi-Wan. He’s drowning, and he’s worse off than I anticipated. I’m afraid I shall have to speak to you sometime later.”

“There is no time!” Yoda barked, prodding Qui-Gon sharply in the leg with his gimer stick. “Meeting her tomorrow, I am, at Dexter’s Diner. Ready will you be?”

“Dex’s Diner,” Qui-Gon mused, stroking his beard softly. “It will take some time and much preparation, but I think I will be ready by tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, Master Qui-Gon,” Yoda said, tapping his stick heavily upon the floor. “And may the Force be with you—and your Padawan.”

“May the Force be with you, too, Master,” Qui-Gon countered, bowing slightly at the waist and striding from Yoda’s modest quarters out into the lavish hallways of the Jedi Temple, his robe brown streaming majestically behind him.

“May the Force be with me,” Yoda muttered. “Or doomed I am.”

And, with that, he padded softly toward his small hover-chair. He wanted to cry out in terror, he wanted to leap with joy, he wanted to bury his head in his hands and will himself away from that which stole so much from him, and yet, he breathed deeply, he lifted his head, he meditated shortly…

…and he moved on.