Title:The Merry Jedi Part 3
Author:Storm
Rating:PG
Feedback:be gentle... [email protected]
Category:crossover Star Wars/humor
Disclaimer:It's George's world, I'm only playing for a while.
"A true knight Qui-Gon is. Forever on his own quest."
from Cloak of Deception

"attend and listen gentlemen
that be of freeborn blood
I shall tell you of a good yeman
His name was Robyn Hode"

opening lines of "A Gest of Robyn Hode"

~*~

Darth Vader, recently elected Sheriff of Nottingham, stared out the window glumly. His sponsor, Prince John of Palpatine, had coerced him into entering the fencing competition against his will. I haven't fenced in years, the Dark Knight thought. And he puts me up against some young turk from the desert.

The door behind him opened and the Captain of the Guard entered with a brisk stride.

Vader turned with a false cheerfulness, trying to hide his depression. "Tarkin! Good to see you! Where have you been?"

G. Moff Tarkin, Captain, slapped the Dark Knight heartily on the back. "On the Prince's work, my old friend. Putting fear into the hearts of the regional governors. And, incidentally, finding out some information for you. About your opponent, the unknown Sir Luke."

The Sheriff sat down heavily. "What did you find out?" He dreaded the answer, knowing that his skills were no longer up to a match with a young, skillful, agile opponent.

Tarkin frowned. "Not much actually. He's an orphan, apparently, adopted by a couple named Lars. They needed someone to help them with the harvest so they purchased the boy from an old wizard, along with a couple of droids."

"Droids?" Vader leaned forward with interest. "What are droids?"

"I'm not really sure, but I think it has something to do with Watto the junk peddler. I'm having him rounded up for questioning. But enough about that. Are you ready for your match?"

Vader grimaced. "I think so. But could you help me my armor? I always have trouble getting my undertunic zipped up the back."

"No problem, old friend. But let's do it down in the tournament field. Remember the last time you tried to go down this staircase in full armor? You tripped over your own feet, bounced your way down two flights, and rolled right out the front door."

Captain Tarkin laughed heartily as he led the way, and the Sheriff of Nottingham followed, blushing furiously.

~*~

Under the willow trees, Luke of Tatooine parried the blade in front of him awkwardly. He was still dressed in his squire's uniform of dirty white breeches and dirty white tunic, and his hair was badly in need of a trim. He was practicing against Mace-A-Dale, and definately getting the worst of it. Of course, that could be because of the blindfold Sir Ben had tied around his eyes. A lady's silk scarf, and from the odor, one who hadn't bathed too often. Luke sneezed, and Mace slapped the back of legs with his sword. Luke yelped in indignation.

"How am I supposed to see anything with this blindfold on?"

"Reach out with your feelings," Sir Ben began, but Qui-Gon of Locksley interrupted him.

"Use your instincts, Luke. Think, don't feel." He paused suddenly. "Or is it, 'feel, don't think'? Damn, I always get that mixed up." Qui-Gon shook his head, confused. This day was not going the way he'd intended. First this group of...of...of scruffy looking nerf herders, then he'd had to send Little Obi on a needless and completely fictional errand for a reason Yoda wouldn't even explain to him. Qui-Gon felt bereft without his apprentice, which may have been why he kept interfering with the old man's training.

That, and the fact that the old man didn't seem to know one end of the Force from another. If he had truly been a Jedi in some obscure past, whoever had trained him had some explaining to do.

~*~

At the squire's dugout, Tarkin and Vader grunted and struggled to get the armor on correctly. The Sheriff frowned suddenly, his hand on his chest. Tarkin looked at him in concern. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure. I feel something. Something I've not felt since..." His voice trailed off, and Tarkin shook his head.

"Dammit, Darth, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, do not eat Italian food the night before a tournament!"

The trumpets sounded then, and the two men hurried to finish. As Tarkin tugged the heavy black helmet over his friend's head, he paused in consternation.

"If this is a fencing match, why are you wearing full armor?"

"Because without it, I look like a old man."

"Oh, right."

TBC

~*~