Summary: Qui-Gon presents a riddle to his apprentice
Feedback: Is a wonderous thing
Characters and setting are owned by George Lucas and this is
not meant to infringe.
The waning afternoon sunlight has deserted me, creeping father
and farther across the surface of the balcony as the shadows
fling forth fingers to cool the heated air. If I stretch one
leg forward I can just reach that last bastion of warmth, the
golden caress of it falling across instep and ankle.
The early evening breeze is welcome, banishing the slow, lazy
dreaminess of the heated afternoon. It cools the sweat that has
trickled down the path of my spine. I lean my head back,
shaking free hair that feels too heavy and hot from my
shoulders, feeling the warmth of that one lone pool of sunlight
slip, moment by moment, from my flesh until the shadows engulf
the entirety of the balcony.
The light is fading from gold to deep red, the gathering
darkness shot through with royal blue. I watch as the sun slips
below the cityscape, flaring in brilliance before subsiding.
One of the moons is already high upon the arch of the sky, a
crescent of silver amidst the bare handfuls of bright stars
that, even this close to the galactic core, can only dimly
outshine the lights of the great city.
The door to the balcony slides back with a near silent hiss,
bringing with it a rush of the warmer air from inside and the
scent of a meal cooking. His steps are silent, padded on feet
as bare as mine, his only concession to the gathering chill the
light tunic which I forsook in the heat of the afternoon. A
slender hand dips into my view, cradling the pale shape of a
steaming cup.
I reach up, the shock of the warm surface searing my
fingertips. I cup it between my palms, letting the heat soak
into skin and bone. The scent of qijh rises, thick and sweet,
to lay a damp sheen against my cheeks. Knowing he is watching,
I take a sip, rolling the taste across my tongue before letting
it trickle down my throat in a path of bright warmth.
Dropping down beside me, he tucks his bare feet beneath his
thighs, his own cup cradled against one knee. The dim light
picks out his features in contrasts of hard white and velvet
darkness like a face carved of bone. Only his eyes move,
following the flow of traffic below the balcony's edge. He
takes a breath, hesitates upon it, then speaks the words as
though he never intended differently. "The meal is almost
ready, Master."
"Thank you," I reply. "I'll come in when it is done."
He glances at me sidelong, puzzled, then out once more to the
city that is as familiar, this view of it, as we are to one
another. "What do you see?" he asks at last.
He does not see my eyes slide towards him, absorbing the shape
and curve of his profile, the silvery prickle of moonlit hair.
I hesitate a breath too long to reply, my voice catching in my
throat, but when he turns back I have looked away again, my
eyes once more harmlessly upon the horizon. "The sun," I say
quietly. I can feel him frown, looking out over the night
darkened sky, but he does not object. He assumes, rightly, that
some portion of my meaning escapes him. I hide my smile within
the safety of the cup, letting the steam dampen the eyelids
over my betraying eyes.
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