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Summary: Obi-Wan flies. Qui-Gon watches.
Disclaimers: Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan aren't mine, blah, blah,
blah.
Webpage: http://adult.dencity.com/rosalita1
My padawan loves to fly. He soars from level to level on a
series of catwalks, bars, and ropes suspended high in the air.
He is beautiful in flight. Poetry in motion, if I may use a
cliche that seems coined especially for him. His strong body
flips, spins, and twists, using the Force to float on the air.
I don't understand where this comes from. I was never
acrobatic, even in my younger days. But Obi-Wan is always
cartwheeling and whirling, even in battle. Save the tricks for
competition, I have told him more than once. I worry that his
penchant for acrobatics might get him injured or killed.
Perhaps, he always counters in that rich voice, my acrobatics
will save my life someday.
Obi-Wan has never been in awe of me. Most padawans acquiesce to
their masters' wishes without an argument. I taught my
apprentice to be independent. To question, to think for
himself. And by the Force, he does. Perhaps too much. But I
wouldn't have it any other way.
I watch him for some time before he notices I am in the room.
He somersaults over my head and lands gracefully in front of
me. "You have need of me, my Master?" he asks.
Always. I always have need of you.
Shall I tell him? Tell him that I dream of spending the night
in his arms? That it makes me happy to share my life with him?
That I grow fearful of the day when he will leave me? That
having him at my back in battle makes me infinitely stronger?
And what would he say if I did?
He is eyeing me patiently, awaiting my bidding. "No, Padawan, I
merely wished to watch you fly."
That earns me a lifted eyebrow and a impudently upturned mouth.
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