The atmosphere in the battle arena was kept pleasantly cool for the comfort of the spectators, but in the midst of battle, the air was oppressive, filled with sticky heat, making it more difficult for Qui-Gon to breathe as the skirmish went on. Grunting, he parried another attack from his opponent, a 12-year-old boy like himself, both of them trying desperately to win so they might catch the eye of one of the watching Masters.
It was unusual to have so many Masters coming to the Temple all at once to seek padawan learners; mostly they came one or two at a time, often with long months between them. Recently, however, a number of Jedi Knights had been elevated to Master status and had decided to claim an apprentice, and there were several Masters who’d been training their padawans elsewhere whose apprentices had graduated to the level of Jedi Knight. All in all, it was a prime opportunity for the expectant apprentices at the Temple, and they all felt the pressure of it keenly.
On the surface, Qui-Gon seemed to have an edge. He was tall for his age, and his build showed promise to be large and big-boned--once he grew into it. At the moment, he was all long legs, knees and elbows, a gangly youth who struggled to control his growing body, usually in vain. Not only was he teased for being the tallest among his peers, he was reputed to be one of the clumsiest, constantly tripping himself and others with his long feet or whacking someone with his sharp elbows.
It was a source of embarrassment to him and that, combined with all the normal pre-adolescent melodramatic tendencies and the anxiety stemming wanting to be chosen as someone’s padawan learner and fearing that he wouldn’t be had caused pockets of anger and resentment to bubble up in his usually calm, easy-going nature.
Mustering his strength for one last--and hopefully decisive--attack on the apprentice opposing him, Qui-Gon lunged, got tangled up in his own feet and collapsed in a graceless heap; the other apprentice barely refrained from smirking as he lightly touched the tip of his lightsaber to Qui-Gon’s shoulder.
“My victory,” he whispered, glancing expectantly up at the Masters in the crowd, and moments later, he dashed away, a delighted smile lighting up his face.
Qui-Gon lay huddled on the floor in a tight ball of misery, not daring to look. There wasn’t any point; he had felt no mind-call that indicated one of the Masters wished to speak with him further, perhaps tap him as their padawan.
It wasn’t fair... he thought, feeling tears prick his eyelids. Mace and Iain had been chosen earlier in the day; they were already off with their new Masters, perhaps beginning their training. They’d been friends for years, and he was genuinely happy for them, but at the same time, he didn’t want to be the one who was left behind.
When he finally mustered the courage to peek at the crowd from beneath his arm, he saw a few remaining Masters sitting on the front row, their expressions impassive.
So there were some who hadn’t made their choices...
Fortifying himself, he rose shakily to his feet, squaring his shoulders as he bowed respectfully to those who remained.
Some had not chosen, and some Masters had not yet arrived; he still had a chance. Today he had failed, but tomorrow...Well, perhaps tomorrow it would be his turn to be called.
Hopping off of his seat with surprising grace and agility for so hunched a figure, Yoda stumped across the Council chamber and stood in front of the only other occupant of the room; folding his hands on his chest, he waited for her to notice him, observing her closely as he did.
That her mind was not in the same place as her body was clearly evident; her pale blue eyes were unfocused and distant, and her expression was one of preoccupation; Yoda doubted she could even tell him what the last few matters the Council had discussed were.
“Know you that the meeting is adjourned?” he asked at last, poking her leg with one clawed finger, and she jumped, startled.
But despite the fact that he’d obviously interrupted her private reverie, she turned a tranquil smile on him as she leaned forward on her knees so that they could converse on a more equal level--and Master Yoda wouldn’t get a crick in his neck from peering up at her.
“Forgive me,” she replied, her voice low and pleasant. “I was thinking of other matters.”
Yoda chuckled and poked her leg again, playfully this time. “See this did I,” he teased. “What think you of the Senate’s decision?”
Her eyes widened slightly, and a sheepish smile curved her lips. “I must confess, Master Yoda, I don’t even know what decision you’re talking about. My mind--wasn’t on the meeting today.”
Nodding, Yoda’s expression and tone turned serious. “On the Council your mind has not been for some time. What troubles you, Yaniko?”
“Troubles?” She lifted one eyebrow at him, then sighed and turned her gaze out the window to the bustle of Coruscant beyond.
Shuttles zoomed past; lights flickered on as the sun slowly sank on the horizon; life continued at its frantic pace outside, and yet inside the chamber all felt quiet and peaceful as if Time crept at a slower pace there than everywhere else. Such was the nature of Jedi serenity, Yoda thought. Only Yaniko’s unrest caused little ripples to disturb the still atmosphere.
“I wouldn’t say anything is troubling me, really,” she continued, her voice sounding distracted. “It’s more...discontent, I suppose.”
“Unhappy with your position on the Council, are you?” Yoda asked pointedly. He didn’t even need to do a low-level probe; it was an educated guess based on long-standing friendship, and he knew his chances of being right were high.
“If you say ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to tweak your pointy little ears,” she retorted, tossing him a mock-threatening look.
“Told you I did,” he replied smugly, dancing backwards out of reach when she lunged at him, aiming for his ear.
Laughing, she shook her head. “I know, I know. I thought it was an honor, and I thought I was tired of slogging around on endless missions--and I really thought I was tired of trying to train snot-nosed, bratty padawans,” she added with a grin.
“Now bored are you.” It was a statement rather than a question, but she answered him anyway.
“Out of my skull.” Closing her eyes, she leaned back, rolling her head against the back of the chair. “Endless meetings, trivial beaurocracy, haggling with the Senate--it’s all so tedious! I don’t know how you stand it, I really don’t.”
“Word games with Brantis play I.”
“You never.”
He chuckled again. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But content am I to deal with such tedious matters. Your path lies elsewhere. A good teacher are you.”
Laughing softly, she rose gracefully to her feet and walked side-by-side with Yoda out of the chamber. “I’m ready for a change, yes, but an apprentice...? They do take it out of a person, and I’m not as young as I used to be,” she said ruefully, tucking a loose strand of grey hair behind her ear.
“Many apprentices have we who lack a Master. Sent elsewhere will they be unless chosen they are.” Yoda stopped in his tracks and sent a piercing look up at her. “A shame would it be to lose them.”
“I’m being hinted at, aren’t I?” She smiled knowingly, tucking her hands into her sleeves as they began to walk again.
“Hint?” Yoda’s tone was scornful. “Pah! Subtle I am not--telling you outright I am!”
They walked along in companionable silence for a while, and then Yoda’s ears perked up when he heard her release a quiet, “Hhm...”
“I’ll think about it,” Yaniko said at last. “Who knows? Maybe this time I’ll actually listen to your advice.”
“A first it would be.”
“Oh, do shut up.”
Qui-Gon knelt next to his narrow cot in an attitude of meditation, but his mind whirled, racing this way and that, mostly taunting him with memories of his humiliation at the Battle Arena that day. He tried to figure out exactly what he did wrong, but it all boiled down to his lack of control over his rapidly changing body--and by the time he stopped growing and mastered his new form, it would be far too late for him to be chosen as a padawan!
If only he weren’t so tall and lanky. If only he weren’t so clumsy. If only...
A hand dropping on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he glanced up, scowling in irritation at whoever had interrupted him only to see the concerned faces of his two closest friends.
“We heard what happened,” Mace told him, his voice laden with sympathy.
“Yeah, we’re real sorry, Qui-Gon,” Iain chimed in. “But there’re other Masters who’ll be at the Arena tomorrow, and you’ll do better then!”
“I doubt it,” Qui-Gon replied morosely, feeling despair closing around his heart. “I’ll probably just make a fool of myself again.” He released a long, resigned breath, letting his shoulders slump in dejection. “Maybe I shouldn’t even bother. I’m just humiliating myself. Maybe I should just give up and join the Agri-Corp or the Medics--”
“No!” Mace cried, gripping Qui-Gon’s shoulder more tightly. “You can’t do that!”
“Why not?” Qui-Gon snarled, shrugging off his friend’s hand impatiently. “You know what’ll happen if I go out there tomorrow! I’ll fall or trip or do something stupid and lose the fight--just like I did today.”
“Qui-Gon...” Mace knelt down next to him, not touching him, just peering at him anxiously. “You can’t talk like this. You’ve wanted to be a Jedi for years. You can’t give up now.”
“Wanting something and being able to have it are two different things,” Qui-Gon sighed, feeling his anger drain away; he was too heart-weary to sustain any strong emotion at the moment. “I haven’t been able to win a fight in months. Maybe I don’t deserve to be a Jedi.”
“Of course you do!” Iain protested. “Mace and I don’t win every time either, but we still got chosen.”
“Maybe we could practice with you tonight,” Mace suggested, scrambling to his feet and extending his hand to Qui-Gon, who regarded it warily. “C’mon--we’ll help you. Maybe with all three of us working together, we can find a way to compensate for your clu--um--your problems.”
Qui-Gon looked up at Mace, who was gazing down at him with a typically serious, intense expression, and then over at Iain who was smiling hopefully and nodding encouragement. As much as he felt the inherent futility in wasting any time practicing--if he hadn’t managed to work out his “problems” before this, what difference was one night going to make?--he found himself sliding his hand into Mace’s and standing up, reaching for his lightsaber, which was on his bed where he’d thrown it. It might not do any good, but it couldn’t hurt either, and he didn’t have the heart to reject his friends when they were only trying to help him.
“All right,” he said, mustering a smile. “Let’s give this a try.”
Hours later, Qui-Gon collapsed backwards on the practice mat, panting. Mace stood over him, frowning slightly as he deactivated his lightsaber.
“Well, that didn’t work.” Mace stated matter-of-factly.
“No.” Qui-Gon reached up and brushed back a strand of light brown hair that had escaped from his ponytail and was now clinging to his sweat-covered face. “It didn’t.”
Iain had suggested on concentrating on trying to formulate offensive and defensive maneuvers that consisted of as little movement as possible, but that wasn’t practical, and even when they tried it, Qui-Gon had lost--again and again and again.
Deactivating his lightsaber, he lay back and closed his eyes, feeling a burning resentment deep inside. It wasn’t fair. There was more to being a Jedi than fighting. It wasn’t fair that most of the emphasis of being chosen was placed on a tournament rather than the apprentice’s other qualifications...
Opening his eyes, he peered up at his two friends. There was Mace, whose dark-skinned face was calm, but whose eyes betrayed the pain he felt on Qui-Gon’s behalf. And there was Iain, whose normally cheerful features were scrunched with worry, and he kept running his hands over his newly-shorn hair, obviously still not comfortable with the padawan cut since his jet black hair had once been as long as Qui-Gon’s own.
Both of them were also wearing the light colored tunic and leggings that made up the basis of the padawan uniform. And Qui-Gon envied them for it. Their place in the Temple was assured unless they turned to the Dark side, and he couldn’t foresee either of them doing that. Mace possessed too much self-control, and Iain was--well, Iain was just too blasted good-natured.
All three of them had wanted nothing more than to be chosen as padawans; they had visions of themselves as Jedi knights, roaming the galaxy together, fighting evil, defending the weak, administering justice and keeping the peace. Now it seemed only Mace and Iain would fulfill their dream. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad...
Extending both hands, Qui-gon let them pull him upright, and then he began methodically gathering up his things, ready to head back to the apprentice dormitory.
“Don’t you want to practice some more?” Iain asked hesitantly.
“No.” Qui-Gon stood up straight, a grimly determined look on his face. “It’d just be a waste of time. I know what I’m going to do tomorrow.”
Yaniko meandered aimlessly along the carefully tended paths of her favorite meditation garden--the irony that it was the one closest to the apprentices’ dormitory was not lost on her--and let her mind wander, hoping some train of thought would come along to help her decide what to do.
That she had stepped down from the Council was not something she could regret for many reasons, but it meant she was now adrift with no set task or goal to focus on. She wasn’t certain whether she wanted to return to accepting missions on her own or whether she wanted to take on a padawan learner. Both options had their bonuses and drawbacks, and they were almost equal. So far, nothing had tipped the balance on either side in her mind.
If she resumed accepting missions, she would have purpose, and she would be accomplishing things--as long as she was successful, she thought with a wry smile. But she would also be alone. Every mission would take her to new and different worlds where she would meet new people...and then leave them again. Her closest friends at the Temple were gone most of the time. Or dead.
If she chose a padawan, she would be able to resume teaching, which she enjoyed, but it also meant nurturing a young one through the troublesome adolescent years, and sometimes young girls could be so flighty--
Approaching footsteps jostled her out of her reverie, and without thinking, she slipped back into the shadows of the tall bushes lining the walkway, not only getting out of the way of whoever was approaching but also out of their sight. Multiple footsteps--perhaps three people, she thought, her old scouting habits kicking in without her realizing it.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” one of them was saying, his tone laden with concern. “What do you mean, you know what you’re going to do tomorrow?”
“Just what I said,” came the calm reply. “I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to fight in the Battle Arena tomorrow.”
“But Qui-Gon--” A third voice, higher pitched than the other two but still distinctly belonging to a young male, piped up. “If you don’t fight, you won’t be chosen!”
“Those are their rules,” the one who was apparently named Qui-Gon growled. “I choose to play a different game.”
Yaniko’s eyebrows nearly climbed into her hairline at that. An apprentice with enough gumption to challenge the system of choosing padawans? Well, well, well...
Just then the three young men came into view; two of them she saw were already padawans, probably just chosen in the last day or two. The one whom they flanked was still dressed in an apprentice’s uniform, his long hair flowing around his shoulders. Briefly she wondered if he were one of the apprentices Yoda had mentioned--one of those who might lose their chance to be a Jedi if they weren’t chosen.
Silently, she watched them go, and their back-and-forth debating slowly faded as they moved out of earshot. Narrowing her eyes speculatively, Yaniko tapped her chin with her forefinger.
Perhaps she would pay a visit to the Battle Arena the next day if only to see what the cheeky upstart planned to do. It ought to proved most interesting--if he had the courage to follow through with his bold words.
Yes, it should prove very interesting indeed...
“I will not fight in the Battle Arena today.”
Qui-Gon braced himself mentally and physically as his strident words rang out, amplified by the acoustics in the Arena; squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin and standing with his feet planted firmly on the sidelines of the combat area, he waited for the reaction to his staunch declaration.
Although he hadn’t spoken loudly, the echo of his words lingered, and a hush swept over the audience and participants alike; a few apprentices gasped at his boldness while others snickered and made jokes behind their hands about why he probably didn’t want to fight.
Ignoring everything except the row of seemingly impassive Jedi Masters seated in the front row, Qui-Gon stood, feeling like he was at his own execution. Upon reflection, this probably wasn’t the wisest thing he’d ever done; unless they chose to listen to his reasons and accept them, he’d be out on his ear, his chance of being chosen gone forever.
But then again, if he fought and lost--again--his chance was gone as well. He really didn’t have anything to lose.
“Fight you will not, hm?” Master Yoda, who always attended even though he had long since stopped taking on padawan learners, peered down at him, his ears flicking upward in apparent interest. “Why say you this?”
“With respect, Master,” Qui-Gon began, trying to control the tremble in his voice. “I don’t believe this venue is a fair measure of an apprentice’s worthiness of being chosen as a padawan learner. To put such stock in combat skills is to ignore the other qualities an apprentice might have.”
Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Qui-Gon relaxed marginally. He’d gotten the words out at least and addressed them to Master Yoda, no less. If Master Yoda agreed with him, then perhaps he had a chance after all...
“Know you that every Master reads the record of every Apprentice who comes to the Battle Arena?” Yoda asked pointedly, and Qui-Gon felt his stomach plummet to his feet.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “No, Master. I didn’t know.”
“The last challenge this is,” Yoda added. “The only measure of worthiness it is not.”
Swallowing hard, Qui-Gon resisted the urge to hang his head and slink out of the Battle Arena; behind him, he could hear snickering, but worse, he saw pity in the faces of some of the Masters who watched the spectacle he’d caused.
“Now fight today will you?” Yoda’s green eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly as if listening intently for the answer.
He should say no. He should tell Master Yoda and everyone else that the entire thing was still unfair and he’d have no part of it. He ought to walk away now with some semblance of his pride intact, for even though he’d been made to look a fool by his own ignorance, he’d look a bigger fool if he backed down and promptly got trounced in combat.
He ought to say no.
But...
The one thing that his teachers in the Temple had drilled into him was the concept of personal honor, and something in his own nature clung to that idea. There was no shame in admitting defeat under adverse circumstances; the shame lay in not trying one’s best. Only then could a person say he had been defeated--by himself.
If he walked out now, he might have his pride, but he would not have honor, and he couldn’t live with that.
Drawing himself upright, he reached for his lightsaber, unhooked it from his belt, and ignited it, holding it upright in front of him in a form of salute to Master Yoda.
“Yes,” he said, proud of himself for managing a calm, clear tone. “I will fight today.”
Nodding, Master Yoda gestured for him to join the others, and he did, ignoring their sympathetic looks, their soft laughter, their jeers. Instead, he took his place among them and waited patiently for his turn to fight. He knew what the outcome would be. Only if some miracle occurred would he have any hope of winning, and by defying the accepted way of things, he’d probably messed up his chances of being chosen even more.
But he would mourn his loss later. For the moment, he had to prepare himself for the fight, content to know that he had at least won a small victory for himself.
Whether by chance or by design to punish him for his outburst, Qui-Gon was one of the last two apprentices called to fight before the Masters. Not only had he had more than enough time to stew and fret while waiting, but chances were that the Masters had already made their decisions and were merely sitting through the rest of the match as a formality before publicly announcing their choices.
Still, it wasn’t like he was going in expecting to be chosen anyway, he thought with a resolute sigh. The best he could hope for was not to be beaten too early.
As expected, his opponent bested him, using his clumsiness against him to keep him off-balance, and Qui-Gon accepted the defeat with patient resignation. Going through the motions of bowing to the Masters, he remained with the group of apprentices; their anticipatory chatter flowed around them, but he didn’t really hear it. He had no part to play in it, after all.
Then, in the stands, the Masters began to rise, some beckoning to their chosen padawan, some calling their name aloud, some issuing a mind-call. As expected, his name wasn’t called, and he simply stood, waiting for the sign from the officiators that those still remaining were dismissed. He wanted to go somewhere--anywhere--and deal with his grief away from prying eyes, but still the officiators didn’t give the signal. Fidgeting with impatience, he darted a glare at them as if that would make them release him from this hellish torment. He wanted to be alone--he needed to be alone--
“So anxious to depart when I haven’t had a chance to speak to you, young upstart?”
An unfamiliar voice jolted him out of his reverie, and he glanced around, startled to see one of the Masters who had been watching now standing near him, a tall, slender woman. For a moment, his heart leapt with hope--and then he realized who she was. Yaniko, a member of the Council. And everyone knew Council members were far too busy to have padawans. Likely, she was there to chastise him about his rebellious display.
“You wish to speak to me, Lady?”
“I do indeed.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and he felt a flare of resentment. Was she laughing at him?
“No, I’m not mocking you,” she replied, giving him a reassuring smile. “On the contrary, I must commend your bravery. It’s not many who would challenge tradition as you did--much less when Yoda himself demanded an account for it.”
“I did what I felt was right,” he said, unable to keep the belligerence out of his voice.
“Even though it meant going against the established pattern?” She peered at him through narrow eyes much the same way Master Yoda had, and he felt as if he were being assessed once more.
“Sometimes,” he began, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully, “you have to follow your heart.”
“The heart can be a trickster. How do you know when it is right?” she countered, and again, he felt there was more to her line of questioning than he realized.
“When it’s weighed against your honor and your conscience, and all answer yes,” he answered. “We have instincts for a reason, Lady,” he blurted suddenly, wanting--hoping--she would understand. “Sometimes, they go against what tradition says we must do, and I think that’s right. We have rules, yes, but sometimes the rules don’t allow for--” Breaking off, he felt his face growing hot; he hadn’t meant to go off on a tirade, and he was surprised that she’d allowed him to ramble on like that.
“Sometimes the rules don’t allow for going where your heart leads?” she asked, her tone gentle. “Is that it?”
To his surprise, she moved closer and reached out to stroke his unbound hair, sifting it through her fingers as she pulled it over his shoulder.
“I admire your courage, little one.”
He blinked, startled that she’d called him “little,” but then, he wasn’t quite as tall as she was--yet.
“In the past,” she began to speak again, still playing with his hair, her tone conversational, “I’ve only trained young women. I’ve never felt a bond with a male apprentice before.”
Why was she telling him all this? And what was she doing with his hair?
“But you...” Yaniko smiled down at him affectionately. “You could almost pass for my son.”
For the first time, he paid attention to her--really looked at her--and he realized the truth of her words. They shared the same light brown hair although hers was going grey, the same blue eyes, and obviously a genetic tendency for height.
Suddenly, realization broke over him like an icy deluge: Yaniko wasn’t stroking his hair, she was braiding it.
He froze, feeling his eyes growing wide with shock. But--she was a member of the Council! She couldn’t take a padawan learner, could she?
“I stepped down from the Council,” she told him quietly. “And upon heeding some excellent advice, I’ve decided to take on a padawan--you, if the offer pleases you.”
He opened his mouth, wanting to speak--to shout his acceptance--but his throat had closed up tight, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to force words out. Instead, he nodded, and she finished off his padawan braid, smoothing it down the front of his chest and giving it a satisfied pat like a mother giving her approval to her child’s appearance.
Cupping his cheek in her palm, she smiled at him, a small, pleased smile. “Your first lesson, padawan: expect the unexpected. Come now, we’ve much to do before we can begin your training in earnest.”
She turned and strode out of the Battle Arena, expecting him to follow and not looking back to see if he were; his legs weren’t quite as long as hers, but he managed to keep up, hanging back just a little out of deference since he had no idea how much informality she would allow him. As they passed out of the Arena, motion on the sidelines attracted his attention, and he saw Mace and Iain standing there, silently cheering for him. Both of them were grinning, their faces suffused with delight as they waved at him, and he couldn’t keep a broad smile from curving his own lips as he waved back.
Later, he would find them--or they would find him--and he would tell them how it happened, but for now, he trotted along behind his new Master, still half in a daze and wondering if he were dreaming it all.
But the braid slapping against his chest was very real, and he glanced down at it, seeing it for the first time not as merely part of the uniform but also as a badge of pride. To him, it was a symbol--he’d taken a risk, and he’d won.
Now he would dedicate his life to proving to Yaniko--and more importantly to himself--that he was worthy of the chance he had been given. It was the best gift he could have possibly received, and he would never forget that.
Not now, not ever.
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