Master Apprentice
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Quatrain
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Title: Quatrain
Author: Gail Riordan (wander@rathriordan.org)
Fandom - Pairing: Star Wars Prequels - Q/O
Rating: not explicit
Genre: Prose-poem, drama, angst
Archive: Master-Apprentice
Notes: Inspired, oddly enough, by The Lord of the Rings. Originally published in 'Constricted by Plot'
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no not at all. The poem is mine, though. (c)2005
I had forgotten, what it is to love a wizard, a Jedi, one of the high ones. One of the great ones, though of course there are those who call me wizard, and high, and master.
He is but a fledgling, untested if not untried, still learning his wings, but oh, he will fly high; will be great; is great even now. A wiser man than I. He will be far greater than I.
He calls me wise, and master. His eyes smile and he believes his truth. In truth I am his master, but wise? No. For I love him, and oh, it is not wise.
I had thought myself too old for fire, too old and worn and weathered to know this burning green growth, the sharp points of new leaves pushing at my heart -- a heart I thought safe sodded in cold clay. Too dessicated, too withered by hard winter and harsh drought for water's kiss, the tumult of snowmelt scouring away the rime of years, the busy rain swelling roots long dormant and siphoning away the poison of bitterness, feeding in trickles of laughter....
He is a wizard, bringing life to that barren land. I do not turn from it, the bright pain, the hot insistence, the nourishing, agonizing rush of water in parched places, for that would be true Dark. That would harm far more than myself, or him, and that I will not do. Would never do. Grey I may be, or no-color, granite and ice and iron, but not without light. To turn from that life would be death indeed, and besides, it would go against what I am far too stubborn and old to change.
He is a wizard, dangerous and perceptive and powerful and terribly beautiful in his strength. It is not wise to love him, but I do. And I learn again what I had forgotten.
It hurts. Fire burns, water drowns, earth pummels, air buffets. Oh, it hurts.
O hold the soul in silence, let air part
And speed the weary flesh to earthen rest
What water might refresh now bears a dart
Forged in the oldest fire: love confessed.
Alas, those of the wizard kind ought not to love. We are too few, and children come not of our unions. Life does not come forth from our bodies, only from our minds, our hearts, our spirits and the work of our hands. Love demands life.
But of a certainty we do love. Life demands love. It is both our sorrow and our joy to be so filled, so potent, so aware of life that it shapes us wholly. We may not bring forth life - new life - of ourselves, but in all other aspects we have an abundance of life, even an over-abundance: years beyond ordinary reckoning, strength and skill that do not fade but grow with time, knowledge increasing, sight unceasing.
Yet, we can fail, and do. Fall, and will. We are not immortal, not all-knowing. There is so much that none of us can see. We are few in number, and the Darkness grows.
What is love against that?
Everything.