DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
“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.