Before - Legends Saga - PT Saga - OT Before the Saga Saga - Legends Findswoman's Fragments & Miscellanea (assorted short stories)

Thank you both so much for reading and commenting!

Why thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed both of those very different stories; I find it's fun to change things up now and then. And of course it's great to see you back in general!

I quite like this story.[/quote]

Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed reading this story. I realize that "Graceful as Water" isn't for everyone, either, and I certainly didn't mean to traumatize anyone with it—but in a way I hope you don't mind if I take it as a compliment that it had a strong emotional effect.

Thank you. In both stories (though in different ways) I was trying to capture the way little day-to-day experiences and gestures have a certain beauty of their own that can be noticed and enjoyed, both by readers and by the characters within the story. (Again, in very different ways, of course!)

Ah, I indeed didn't know about that phrase! In this case I of course meant the metal bolts that are used to, well, bolt things together, but it's cool to know that there's a parallel out there, and I'm glad it resonated with you!

It is indeed a word (it's right here in the Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed., on my desk here at work), and it does indeed mean pretty much what you guessed: literally gooey and slimy, though of course it applies figuratively too.

She most certainly did note that comment, though of course Watto's worry is much more about losing (wo)manpower in his workshop than anything to do with Shmi's dignity.

Thanks again! They did indeed, and of course we know that new life will come of it, too.

A new story will be coming soon—once again I'll be bouncing from humorous back to serious, and returning to my Gand roots (hopefully in preparation for continuing work on BOG—fingers crossed). But more humorous stuff is on the way as well, so readers of all stripes may stay turned!

 

Author: Findswoman
Title: In Your Vault, In Your Mists, In Your Song
Era: Before—Legends; a little over 1000 years BBY
Characters: OCs: Trynfor (Gand male), addressing the deceased Isthien (Gand female)
Genre: Vignette/prose poem: introspection, mourning, angst, reminiscence
Summary: One of the great Findsmen of the past mourns and reflects on the untimely death of his wife—and on what the future might hold.
Notes: An unofficial contribution to the Celtic Songs Challenge, inspired by the song “I am Stretched on Your Grave,” several of whose themes and motifs it borrows. For lyrics and sample videos in this post, to which I would add this very nice rendition by Kate Rusby:

Spoiler

This story makes numerous references to The Book of Gand,so a bit of background is probably in order for those unfamiliar with that story—see spoiler tag directly below:

Spoiler: Further Author’s Notes

Trynfor the Holy Madman and Isthien the Sacred Healer are both renowned Findsfolk of ancient times who lived about 1000 years before The Book of Gand takes place (which is somewhere in the range of 15–20 BBY), hence the Before—Legends era tag.

The music box, the image on the inside of its lid, and the song it plays are all referenced in chapter 4, where the box is described in passing as “a courtship gift from the Holy Madman to the Findslady Isthien.” The same part of the song’s text is quoted there as well.

The “Treasure” mentioned here, and the prophecy associated with it, are both referenced in The Book of Gand. Trynfor’s Treasure is a mysterious artifact that used to belong to Trynfor and which at the time of that story is held in Trynfor’s Vault at the Great Temple of Gand. No one knows what Trynfor’s Treasure is except the Guardian of Trynfor’s Vault—who is always a descendant of the Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd mentioned here. According to the prophecy, Zukfel’s lineage will eventually produce the Uncanny One, and at that time Trynfor’s Treasure will be revealed to all Gand.

A note on the protagonist’s self-reference: he always refers to himself in the third person following established Gand custom for one who has not attained the honor of janwuine. In addition, the name he uses when referring to himself matters: his first name (Trynfor) is the default, but he demotes himself to his surname (Akhtáriyaan, which appears for the first time in this story) or even to “Gand” when he is particularly dejected or mortified.

Related works:
The Book of Gand
Box of Visions
The Chronomaker and the Findsman
Between the Porch and the Altar
Hoses, Masks, and Canisters

Many gracious thanks to @Kahara for beta-reading.

---

In Your Vault, In Your Mists, In Your Song

In the twilight, when Te’el-Viire-Gand sinks to its sleep in mists of red, purple, and gray, Trynfor goes down to your vault—Isthien, Flower of Gand, Sacred Healer.

The other Findsmen of this temple gaze on Trynfor in fear as they see him venture down the stone passage. They know where he is going. Trynfor can feel the facets of their eyes upon him, their fear and apprehension rippling the mists around him. You’re mad, Akhtáriyaan! Why do you persist in this? What intuition can you possibly gain from the fogs of death?

But Trynfor glares and gnashes—and the flagstones tremble, and the sconces go out. And the others scatter.

Trynfor descends the endless dank, cracked steps, heedless of the lung-piercing cold, of the miasmic subterranean vapors that smother his antennae, of the vermin of the dark that swarm about his boots. He wends his way through the dark, narrow catacomb-corridors, his hand stretched out before him; his only guides are the cold phosphorescent glow of the walls and the wandering Mists on which he has called in his Ritual of Wayseeking.

Finally he arrives at your vault—and the darkness becomes as noonday sunlight, the vapors as dawn mists, and the underground stench as the fragrance of a lulan tree in full bloom. Your stone image towers over him. Oh, Akhtáriyaan cannot face it: why is unyielding stone all that remains of that grace, that brightness? He prostrates himself.

Trynfor takes the box—you know which one, the gift of endearment that has come back to him as a memento of you—from the pocket of his robe and places it at your stone feet. Its spring has already been wound; Trynfor opens it. It sings in its silvery voice the song of the peerless hunter, the resplendent zaviir, the fierce beloved whose strike is healing—the song that is you, and only you, O radiant one! Trynfor sits enrapt, heart and lungs open. In the sparkle of its tones your mist-currents envelop him and fill him—and oh, it is like the joy of his joining with you! Perhaps They shall give Trynfor a glimmer of revelation at last, perhaps answer his questions, his prayers—perhaps even comfort him.

Meanwhile Trynfor sings in rapture to Them as he once did to you: Strike and wound and heal, O fierce beloved! / Clap this heart in binders, and then it shall be—

Trynfor notices the finely limned image on the inside of the lacquered lid: a Findsman trampling his foe. Robes whirling and eyes flashing, he has just forced his captive to submission with the point of his shockstaff. That is, of course, what your love has done to the miserable Gand who now crouches at your grave; it is also what the Tórganswani raider did to you. Akhtáriyaan lowers his eyes: why could he not have done the same to those who struck you down, who made you the victim of their rage?

Meanwhile, the song slows and dies before its appointed end—just as you did, Isthien most beloved, just as you did. Along with it the mist-currents dwindle and depart, leaving only fog. Cold now strikes Akhtáriyaan; he wraps his cloak about himself and shivers. For how can the glow of revelation warm him when you, Flower of the Mists, are sealed in cold stone? How could Akhtáriyaan have thought it would?

Gand’s head is bowed. He dares not look up, either at your image or at the image in the box. The cold continues to grip him; he is numb and worn, and the dampness of underground is soaking slowly into him. Gand tries to calm his Inner Mists and enter Stillness of the Fog, but it is of no use. Trembling seizes him; tears well up; and they fall, staining and etching the stone below—your stone. Upon it this Gand shall lie hunched, cold, and fogbound always . . .

Wait, though—what is that spark of warmth pressing into Trynfor’s breast? It is the Treasure that he has carried with him since the day of your death, which you charged Trynfor in your last cries that he should guard forever. Akhtáriyaan shudders at the memory of how he procured it (or, rather, extracted it): Sacred Mists, the horror of those moments is forever burned into Gand’s consciousness! But he shall keep the promise he made to you and to the Mists to safeguard it always—until the appointed time that you and Trynfor both foresaw, when its power and radiance shall at last be revealed to all Gand at the hand of an unknown one—an Uncanny One. Trynfor presses it closer . . .

A presence rustles the surrounding Mists. Trynfor recognizes it at once: it is Zukfel Ng’xvi-Ta’al-Lhúd, tarnuur, boon friend. He walks softly, his steps muffled by Sneaking Mist. He is trying not to disturb this poor, dejected Akhtáriyaan—as if Trynfor would not immediately sense his mist-currents? His robes and boots brush past Trynfor’s eyes. There is a tiny ratcheting sound, and then again the song—he has rewound the box. Then, slowly, quietly, Zukfel comes over and crouches at Trynfor’s side, speaking his name.

“Zukfel?” Trynfor looks up to see his friend’s eyes—bright, lively, silver—level with his own . . .

It is then that revelation blazes forth from those eyes like a pillar of light. Visions of a possible future shimmer into view: Zukfel beside Trynfor in his last moments (for soon he must join his Isthien in the Mists Beyond)—Zukfel’s hands outstretched as Trynfor places his Treasure into them—the legions of his descendants who will guard that Treasure and its secret—

—and then everything flickers and disappears, leaving only those eyes—and Trynfor’s intuition whispers to him: these are the eyes of the Uncanny One.

What does it mean? Is Zukfel himself the Uncanny One? No, that could not be; the Mists had just shown Trynfor years, generations, centuries passing. A scion of his, perhaps? Perhaps . . .

Trynfor probes the Mists, but They disperse and show him no more.

“May Zukfel be of assistance?”

Zukfel’s gentle voice brings Trynfor back to himself. Trynfor blinks his nictitating membranes and reaccustoms himself to the dim subterranean light. Shall Trynfor tell the tarnuur what has just been shown him?

“No, gracious thanks,” Trynfor responds after a few moments. Zukfel blesses Trynfor with a wave of his hand, wordlessly, then departs.

Yes, Trynfor shall not trouble the tarnuur with a passing vision. Perhaps someday the Mists shall transfigure that vision in the light of prophecy; perhaps not. For now, all Trynfor can do is remain here upon your stone, wrapped in your Mists and your song. Though the cold and damp still seep into him, the promise of the Treasure shall warm him. And till Te’el-Viire-Gand and its mists rise in blush-golden splendor, Trynfor shall rest calmly here within your vault—Sacred Healer, Flower of Gand, Isthien! ¶

---

Spoiler: Notes

Trynfor’s last name, Akhtáriyaan, is based loosely on the name Akhtariel (“I shall crown myself God”), one of the names given to visioned manifestations of God in medieval Jewish merkavah (“chariot”) mysticism.

Fanon
Stillness of the Fog, Ritual of Wayseeking, and Sneaking Mist are names of Findsmen’s meditative techniques that are described in my main Gand fanon post.

Te’el-Viire-Gand is Gand’s sun (see my main Gand fanon post).

The lulan is a flowering tree native to Gand; see my fanon entry “Flora and Fauna of Gand.”

Tórganswani: a Findsman sect name that so far doesn’t appear in any of my published stories, though most of the sect names used in my stories do also end in “-swani.”

Official (Wookieepedia links)
tarnuur: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Tarnuur
Gand shockstaff: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Gand_shockstaff
zaviir: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zaviir-juna

 

Time for some long overdue replies—thank you all!

Thank you so much—I appreciate that! Your comment just got me thinking that the ephemeral character of the mist fits well with the ephemeral character of song in general, and of course both are emblematic of the fleetingness of life—so thanks for that insight. (Again, this is why I love my readers! ) Plus of course the importance of the Mists in Gand culture is already established... hmm, does that mean that that species has a particularly good grasp on ephemerality in general? And yes, I had a feeling that music box would seem familiar! It won't be the last you see of it in my Gand stories...

Thanks so much for reading and commenting! Trynfor is in a bit of a state of flux between acceptance and nonacceptance of his grief, which may be part of why he comes off as "the mad." The reassurance of the prophecy is the beacon shining above his mental storm, though—and of course more about the prophecy is explained in The Book of Gand. (Which I will finish someday, I promise!)

Thanks as always for reading and for such a wonderfully insightful comment. In my ruminations on Gand fanon, I've always conceived of fogs as the destructive, darkening, obscuring counterpart to the mists, the bringers of vision and revelation (cf. the oath "befoggèd" used in BOG). So of course a corollary of that is that they're associated with death, too. As you note, this story was indeed intended a bit to be an origin story of the legendary figure whose name keeps cropping up in BOG, a glance into some of the grievous cricumstances that led to him being dubbed "the mad." Basing his surname on a Kabalistic name for God was kind of a way of balancing out the "mad" epithet—to emphasize that the elevated, visionary qualities are just as much part of his character as the "madness."

It was immense indeed. Life-changingly immense, even in death—again, a nexus where the dark grief and bright vision are constantly in flux.

Again, I figured that the box would seem familiar! As to whether it's the same exact artifact, well, you may find a slight hint in BOG chapter 4. Just as Trynfor says in the story, the image does indeed fit not only with what his love for her has done to him but also with what was done to her by her attackers—and that is definitely the kind of duality that can throw one on one's knees.

The time is simply not right for Zukfel to know—and it would indeed be pretty unsettling to him to know what it is that Trynfor is seeing in his face, so Trynfor's really doing him a favor in keeping it secret. (You might find that pair of eyes familiar too, incidentally. )

Well, thank you so much. Your encouragement means the world to me!

I appreciate those kind words so much, earlybird—thank you! So glad you enjoyed reading this and that these Gand stories of mine have spoken to you.

Thank you so much for reading and for your kind comment. Again, I have always thought of the fogs as the darker, more ominous counterpart to the mists: where the mists bring vision and revelation, they cloud the vision, and of course the ultimate clouding of vision is death. The grief and the visionary knowledge that he carries are part and parcel of each other and flow one into the other; one can't exist without the other, and both make him the extraordinary figure he is, the one history will remember.

Well, shucks, thanks so much—from such an expert world builder as you that is quite a compliment. Even though this wasn't the song I received in the roulette, it matched my mental background on this character so perfectly that I couldn't resist writing about him. (Indeed, the fact that we by now have so many unofficial, ad-hoc stories in this challenge, inspired by songs on the list, says so much about the quality of these songs as prompts! And I'm not trying to toot my own horn here: the songs were all chosen by my good colleague Pandora.)

Thanks so much for your wonderful comments! I have always loved the naming of characters too—definitely one of the most fun parts of story writing for me. All the lightsaber details were pure technobabble that I pretty much just pulled out of my ear, and you're absolutely right that Kanan's predicament of not being able to give too many details is a totally real one at this point in galactic history. As for the "Master Meiloorunbaum" whopper, well, once again, I couldn't resist putting in both a nod to an early Rebels episode (Zeb's attempted "Cmdr. Meiloorun" ruse in "Fighter Flight") and a bit of my own background—write about what you know, type thing.

Ain't it the truth, though!

Oh, absolutely. Best in most cases to put several rooms between yourself and the scene of the action. Then again, there's that morbid curiosity factor, which seems to have strict 4 out of 5 of Kanan's Ghostmates.

Well, thank you, as always, for your own role in making this version of Gand what it is—it's much richer for your encouragement and input. Beauty, mystery, and grief can mix together in some interesting and complex ways, and this story was an an attempt to explore that, in a way.

Wow, that's a cool way of looking at it that I hadn't thought of at all! Yes, Isthien was indeed Trynfor's "apple tree" and "brightness," and his "flower of Gand" too; the song's striking images fit the relationship even better than I thought, and it's all because you pointed it out. The Kate Rusby recording was by far my favorite of those I listened to; I knew even on my first listen-through that it would be the one to inspire this story.

Perhaps that's the very power of that convoluted Gand system of self-reference: the way it so specifically represents the speaker's interior states. It makes for a challenge for the writer, of course, but in the context of the particularly strong emotions with which Trynfor grapples here it was especially interesting to play around with. And you're right that the self-reference changes really say more about Trynfor's interior state than he himself could say with words.

"The priests and the friars behold me with dread" seemed to fit well with this character: he is of course one of those priest-like figures himself, surrounded by others, and the "madness" brought on by his grief must needs be unintelligible to them (at least at this stage).

A beautiful interpretation—I like that! And that agrees well with my premise that, to Trynfor, the grief of his wife's loss and the beauty of his continued love are one and the same, and it's at the point where both together are indeed necessary to his existence. Grief can be a beautiful and life-sustaining thing sometimes (perhaps it depends on how one responds to it).

Yep, I know which part of the song you mean (it's in all the versions I listened to), and it doesn't apply to this particular relationship: these two knew each other well and a long time, and were married—"joined" both mentally and physically. That makes the loss all the more grievous, of course.

Of course I knew you, of all people, would recognize the music box and its song! You're right to pick up on that continuity, of course; I will admit that I don't yet know what the final outcome will be for Zuckuss and Telfien in their story (and I know I need to get my shebs in gear on that), but I know for sure that that the thread of song, as well as the mixture of intense beauty and intense grief, will be there for them as well.

This fellow name nerd thanks you! Again, this is to emphasize that Trynfor, despite all his ghosts and inner darkness, still is full of the visionary and divine. (Note too the way the name "I shall crown myself God" is chock full of the same first-person pronoun whose use is so restricted in Gand society, and which Trynfor never once uses here.)

The next story should be up in not too long (depending on how my attempts to post on mobile go, since I'm still on vacation), and once again it's going to be "something completely different"—something more in the humorous vein. So thank you all once again for your readership and support, and keep watching this space!

 

Author: Findswoman
Title: Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup
Era: Saga—OT; Rebels, late season 2
Characters: Zeb, OC medical personnel, cameo by Ezra
Genre: Humor, medical fluff
Summary: Zeb goes in for his mandatory Rebel Alliance physical examination. I probably don’t need to say much more than that. Consider yourselves warned.
Notes: Written on a dare of sorts from Raissa Baiard, over two days while I was bored at work. She and Ewok Poet provided much-appreciated beta reading and feedback.

---

Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup

Zeb’s mood was one of uncharacteristic gloom as he sat on the edge of the examination table, clad in nothing but an uncomfortably undersized flimsiplast gown that tied in front. Once again that dreaded time had come: time for the crew of the Ghost to go in for the biannual physical examination the Rebel Alliance required of all its non-droid personnel. This, as far as Zeb could tell, was the single worst drawback to being part of a larger Rebellion. Back when the Ghost had been working on its own to fight the Empire, there had been none of this irksome business of being poked and prodded by medics on freezing-cold surfaces. Not to mention that not one of said medics knew the first thing about Lasat physiology.

At least, he thought, there was some small comfort in the fact that, somewhere in the infirmary complex of Chopper Base, that pesky Ezra, too, was sitting on an examination table wearing nothing a flimsiplast gown. Well, all of them were—but Ezra was the only one Zeb was actually gloating about, of course.

It was cold in the room. Zeb shifted uncomfortably on the table, and as he did his eyes fell on the hem of his own gown, which barely cleared mid-thigh. It was a pale sea-green color that clashed egregiously with his downy purple fur. Karabast, he thought to himself, about three Ezras could fit in this thing, but it barely covers me. I bet he’s not cold…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.

“Yes?”

The door opened, and in shuffled a diminutive being with slender pointed ears, a long, mouselike snout, and slightly graying blue-green fur, wearing a white coat. Zeb wasn’t sure, but it looked as though the patch on one lapel of the coat read DEEBEENEEBEEDEE FLHASKHALHOOSA, M.D.

“Master… erm… Aurelius, I presume?” said the newcomer in a high-pitched, accented voice whose origins Zeb couldn’t quite place.

“Orrelios. Garazeb Orrelios.”

“I am Dr. Deebeeneebeedee Flhaskhalhoosa. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

You don’t say, Zeb thought wryly to himself. Tentatively he accepted the tiny, fur-covered hand proffered by the doctor, and tried not to bristle too visibly at the prickle of the tiny claws protruding from it.

“Likewise.”

“So yes, now, let’s see here.” Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa went over to the computer terminal on the wall of the room, tagged the key card that hung around his neck, and peered intently at the resulting records screen. “M’yes. Forty Standard years of age, nonsmoker, no use of mind-altering substances. Good, good. It looks as though you are scheduled for the routine Alliance physical today, Master Orrelios.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Good. Then let us begin. Please extend your left arm.”

Zeb did so, and for the longest ten seconds that he had ever experienced, Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa took his pulse with two minuscule clawed fingers while watching the wall chrono.

“52.” He entered it into the terminal on the wall. “A bit sedentary, but within normal range. You are, after all, rather—”

“Big. Yes, I know. No need to rub it in.”

“Now your blood pressure.” The doctor glanced at the slightly outdated sphygmomanometer apparatus that hung from the wall, then at Zeb’s arm. “Hmm. It looks as though we may need the size-double-dorn sleeve. One moment…”

Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa rummaged in a nearby cabinet before producing a sleeve that was easily three times the size of the one currently attached to the apparatus. He detached that one, replaced it with the new one, and slid it over the immense purple-striped arm before him; it was a slightly tight fit even before the machine started working. At least it did not take long to do its job, and in mere moments two numbers appeared on its readout.

“138 over 85. Hmm. Perhaps a touch high.”

Karabast, this again. It had happened at the last exam too. “I’ll have you know that’s perfectly normal for a Lasat male my age,” Zeb growled.

“I shall have to confirm that with my colleagues later. For now I shall make a note of it on your record.” The doctor tapped something into the computer terminal. “There. Now let us continue.” He took a disposable flimsiplast mask from a drawer and fitted it over his snout, then climbed onto a stepstool beside the exam table. “If you could please look straight ahead, open your mouth, and say ‘aaahh…’”

“AAAAAAAHHH.”

Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa staggered for a moment at the sudden blast, almost falling off the stepstool, but managed to regain his footing. He then proceeded to peer intently into Zeb’s mouth, then his nose, then his ears, each time with a different small, uncomfortable lighted device and each time making concerned little grunting noises. Next the uncanny little blue-green claws palpated Zeb’s neck and below his ears for swollen glands; it was all the Lasat could do not to reel and twitch at their ticklish touch. After that, the doctor checked his reflexes by hitting him in the knee with a small rubber mallet. The resulting kick threw the diminutive doctor against the wall, leading him to declare his patient’s reflexes “exceptional.”

“And now, if you would please untie your gown from the waist up, I shall listen to your heart, lungs, and intestines.”

Sheepishly, Zeb complied. The doctor placed an ice-cold stethoscope on the left side of his chest, looked baffled for a few moments, and then moved it the right side. (Further proof, Zeb considered grimly, that this furry little gremlin of an M.D. has no knowledge of Lasat physiology, or he would know that we have the heart on the right.) Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa then proceeded to place the stethoscope on each of Zeb’s underarms, then on his back, and then on his abdomen (where he held it for several extra seconds). Finally he went to the computer terminal and tapped in the results, all the while murmuring “Normal, normal, good, good…”

“So, is that all, then?” Zeb asked, his eyes wide with hope. It had better be…

“Weeeellll, let’s see here…” Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa squinted at the screen for several moments. Then, all of a sudden, something caught his eye. “Ah, yes! I almost forgot! Master Orrelios, since this is your first examination since your fortieth lifeday, it looks as though a hernia check is required as well.”

“A… hernia check?” This doesn’t sound good…

“Yes. It is required of all male mammalian sentients age forty and over.” The doctor pulled a pair of plastex gloves from a box on the counter and snapped them onto his clawed hands. This really doesn’t sound good…

“It may feel slightly uncomfortable for a few moments,” continued Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa, “but it is brief. And now, Master Orrelios, if I might ask you to stand right over there… that’s good… On the count of three, I am going to ask you to turn your head and cough... one… two… three…”

Aw, karabast…

* * *

The exam was brief, as promised, but Zeb wanted to hole up in a nice cave and die. Not once in all his forty dust seasons had he ever felt such an uncomfortable and humiliating sensation. Those accursed little teeny tiny SCRATCHY CLAWED HANDS! Both of them! On his—

A shudder convulsed him. No. Mustn’t think of it.

At least everything had been declared normal, and he had been allowed to put his own clothing back on afterward. “So, is that all?” he asked again, hopefully, expectantly, once Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa reentered the room.

“There is just one more thing, Master Orrelios.”

And then, to Zeb’s absolute horror, the doctor handed him a small, transparent plastoid jar. It had a tight-fitting cap and a label that read ORRELIOS GARAZEB / LASAT / M, followed by a barcode.

“If you could please bring that to the lab when you are finished…”

* * *

“Karabast, karabast, karabast, KARABAST, KARABAST!!”

Zeb stood in one of the many hallways of the Chopper Base infirmary. In his hand was the small plastoid jar with the label and tight-fitting cap, now filled with yellowish-green liquid. Since exiting the ’fresher two minutes ago, he (and the jar) had made about five full circuits of the hallways on this level—with no sign whatsoever of the lab. In the meantime, he had received quizzical looks from several passing medical droids—none of whom, it seemed, were programmed to direct patients to other parts of the complex.

There weren’t enough karabasts in the entire Galaxy to express the sheer breadth and depth of the frustration he was feeling. First to be squeezed into undersized flimsiplast gowns and blood-pressure sleeves, then poked and prodded in sensitive spots by tiny claws and icy stethoscopes, and now lost in the halls of Chopper Base carrying a karking specimen jar, for crying out loud… was it possible, he wondered, as he reached the end of the hallway, for things get any worse?

And just then they did.

No sooner had he turned the corner than he came face to face with a familiar young Human with tousled blue-black hair and olive skin—who was also carrying a small, transparent plastoid jar.

“EZRA?!!”

“Um, hi, Zeb.”

Time seemed to stand still as the two of them stood there, frozen in utter mortified silence. When at last Zeb spoke, it was in hushed, grim tones.

“We shall never, ever, ever speak of this again. Understand?”

“Uh, deal,” came the barely audible reply.

“Good.” Zeb began to walk on, but Ezra gave him a timid tap on the arm.

“Say, Zeb—”

“What?!”

“If you’re, um, looking for the lab, um, I think—I think it might be on the second floor.”

And without another word, they made for the stairwell as quickly as they could. ¶

Spoiler: Notes

Deebeeneebeedee Flhaskhalhoosa, M.D., is an OC and a Squib.
The proliferation of flhs and lhs and similar in his name was inspired by a Squib name created by @Ewok Poet in entry 15 of her 2017 DDC, Doaba Ke’demii—The Diary of a Young Comradette: Flheesooslheesoo Poloomaantee. And why, you may ask, is he not using the wacky speech pattern and copious “you bets” that are established to be characteristic of his species? Well… because he’s a highly educated Squib who went to medical school, that’s why.

The placement of the Lasat heart on the right side is completely fanon. Of course, the fact that so little is known about their biology reflects the fact that, at this point in Galactic history, there are only very few of them left.

 

This was such a gem of a ficlet! Poor Zeb - I love how you took something so relatable as a annual physical and totally immersed it into the Star Wars world. The flimsy gowns, the uncomfortable sharing of personal space, and the specimens - we can all feel Zeb's pain ourselves, but combine that with a doctor who is quite literally taking guesses with your species (a somber reminder) and doing said examination with small scratchy claws . . . yes, my heart went out to Zeb the entire time, even as I found myself smiling for his aggravation.

I also, as always, have to commend you for your OCs! You do such a wonderful job with creating alien races and making them interesting and different with just a few words. This Doctor Flhaskhalhoosa is another such OC. I got a chuckle out of the Aurelius name mix-up too. It was a fun throw-in.

But the real comedic gold of this was meeting Ezra in the halls - their this never happened sentiment is completely understandable, but nonetheless hilarious for us as readers! Now I find myself wondering how the rest of the crew held up to the yearly physical. Something tells me that these doctors see and go through a lot at the Rebel base . . .

This was fantastic work, again! Thank you so much for sharing.

 

First of all, a Zeb-sized THANK YOU to all of you for coming by, reading, and commenting, as well as for your patience, given how long it’s taken me to properly respond to your wonderful comments. I really do appreciate it so much.

Now, since the most recent batch of comments covers not just the most recent story in this thread but also two others, here’s what I’m going to do. In this post, I’m going to respond just to those who commented on “Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup,” and in the next post I’ll respond to those who commented on the other two stories. (Mods, if you’re reading this, I hope that’s an OK use of double posting.)

Also, I hope you won’t mind if I take things a bit out of order in my responses to “Turn Your Head and Cough,” i.e., reordering the responses and parts thereof thematically so that I can respond to similar points together. I’ll make sure each quote snippet is credited properly to its author. If anything’s unclear, feel free to let me know.

And without further ado, here goes:

Thank you all so much! It was a dare too priceless to pass up (and I don’t mind admitting that it added some much needed fun to a couple of boring days in the office). And what made it extra fun was the opportunity to draw on my own experiences and experiences I knew pretty much all my readers would recognize. Although I am not myself a male, striped purple giant, I’ve experienced all those same exam-day annoyances: badly fitting paper gowns, cold surfaces, invasive exams, and yes, most definitely name mispronunciations (arguably the worst—just teasing, just teasing ).

Thanks! Yes, you have all hit exactly on the other side of the issue. Everyone here has probably had these exams—but we’re at least all Human, and the doctors examining us are Human too and know Humans. The rarity of Zeb’s species definitely add another dimension, indeed a tragic one that perhaps counterbalances the humor of wacky medical stuff happening to a huge purple troll. Humor with a little of the serious thrown in is one of my favorite kinds of humor to write.

Oh yes, patients this size definitely present an extra challenge to doctors this size! That’s why there’s that stepladder in the exam room, I guess—all the necessary tools are on hand (and hey, his height makes it all the easier to perform the, um, exam that gives the story its title). I made him a member of an extra-small species on purpose particularly in order to have some fun with that size contrast, and when I brushed up on the standard procedure for a yearly physical and came across the reflex exam, I knew I had to get that in there somehow. EP, that Tom and Jerry sequence is new on me, but that is the same kind of humor I was going for here, indeed.

And I am so glad it didn’t! I honestly was a bit worried that this story might be considered pushing the TOS—but since you’re here, since you enjoyed it, and since I don’t see any purple text in the story post, I guess it must have been all right after all.

Ah ha, trust a reader who works in healthcare to notice details of that sort! Yes, absolutely agreed about stethoscopes, and a little warm water can do the trick too—though I was partly informed here by a few of my own experiences with non-pre-warmed stethoscopes and, er, other metal medical devices too. Thanks again, and I’m so glad you enjoyed this!

I’m so glad you enjoyed him! Again, I knew I wanted the doctor to be very teeny tiny and have very teeny tiny hands that felt very teeny tiny and uncomfortable. And making him a Squib seemed like the perfect thing to do, to thrown in an element of a comical “against type” sort of juxtaposition (plus they are indeed so fun to name, and I had a great model in that Squib name devised by you, EP). Dr. Flhaskhalhoosa was great fun to write, just as Gleebaloola was… and sure, he could indeed be a member of her clan, albeit one who thought he could become Big, Fancy Stuff by studying at a Coreworld medical school and talking all froufrou and hoity-toity.

The “Aurelius" mix-up was another one of those things I just couldn’t help adding. For one thing, I always thought the name Orrelios looked like it might have been inspired by the RL name Aurelius, and for another, I have an unusual name that has gotten mixed up, misunderstood, and mangled throughout my life more times than I care to recall.

Oh yes, I’m sure that friend’s influence played a role. Yes, poor Zeb; for a man of honor like him, there’s got to be almost nothing more mortifying than, well, having those little tiny scratchy mouse claws feeling all over your honor. Hearing that things are normal and he can change back into his own clothes probably gave him some momentary hope and reassurance, but then that little bitty jar comes out and, well, all bets are off for the poor dear.

And that made me realize one thing I forgot to add at that point…

Spoiler

...the individually wrapped, flushable, sterile cleaning wipe. But maybe there’s just a box of them in the Atollon Base infirmary fresher.

Intriguing observation—I like that! I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way (I’d done that just to “alien things up” a little), but I do like that interpretation, and I absolutely agree with those points, about Zeb himself and about the remaining Lasat out there. <3

Thank you all! I’m so glad this moment came off well; I knew I had to get That Pesky Ezra in there somewhere, because I just love the Rebels episodes that highlight the pesky-little-brother relationship he bears to Zeb (and wish there were more of them, because the ones that exist do such a fab job with that dynamic). And indeed, that pesky little Ezra had to endure all the same, exact poking and prodding and specimen gathering that his big, purle Space!Bro did—along with all the other Spectres! Well, minus the hernia exam and the gown size; Ezra likely had the opposite problem on that last count (which is the same problem I often have on that count).

I agree that the medical staff at Chopper Base must have nerves of steel for what they do, and I would wager that other Spectres were probably not the the easiest patients either (for some reason I can see Kanan Taking Especially Serious Issue with his doctor’s orders and instructions).

And yes, I figured that bit might be juuuust a tiny bit TMI, but you know me—never miss a chance to get a little fanon in.

Aw, thank you so much—thank you all so much, and I’m glad that this little story could bring you a laugh or two or three!

Finally, Zeb insisted on replying to this one personally:

DEAR RAISSA so you’re the one responsible for this I should have guessed Finds has told me what a bad influence you are 'course she was the one who went along with it the little blighter and I bet she was the one who came up with that blasted little bitty Dr Flah Fhal Fhlahahk aw karabast I’m not even gonna try you know who I mean the one with the blasted little bitty claws AND EZRA TOO but we won’t go there
So anyway yeah fine apology accepted and thanks in advance for the espresso just make sure it’s the VertuoLine capsules and not the OriginalLine ones because I have one of the new model Evoluos that won't take those
Yours sincerely G A ORRELIOS



Thanks and kudos once again to you all!

 

And now for the responses to the comments on the two other stories. Just so everyone knows—I won’t hold anything against anyone if they come here and comment on a story that’s not the latest one in the thread; all are welcome to comment on anything in the thread at any time.

And I’m very glad to see you back!

Well, thanks! I’m so glad those final images of the story caught your eye; I kind of had been imagining them in a cinematic way myself, and of course they’re indebted in part to Obi-Wan’s final moments in ANH (hence the fact that only the clothes are left of Wym in the end).

Yes and no to the last thing—it was some time ago that I wrote this story, of course, but I think what I was going for there was that he was deliberately “joining the Force” the way Obi-Wan was: “strike me down, and I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” He sees Vader approach, he knows the twilight of the Jedi order is at hand, and feels that he can ultimately help the remaining Jedi and Galaxy better by becoming one with the Force—adding to its strength. And he does not want to give Vader the satisfaction of yet another Jedi kill, either. I know that’s probably not as clear as it could be in this story—but hey, it was a relatively early effort in my fanfic career.

Thanks! That was mainly because I didn’t know about Myrkr myself—though I am glad to know now, because it does sound like a godsend for people who have to maintain finta sempli long-term. Another thing is that Nydringia is way on the Outer Rim, too, and getting from there to almost anywhere else would probably have taken Wym so long that he likely would have been caught by Vader or Inquisitors along the way anyway.

Thanks so much once again for visiting, reading, and weighing in; I appreciate it very much!

Thank you so much for coming by and reading, and I’m so glad you enjoyed this story and the worldbuilding behind it; that’s quite a compliment from someone as adept as you are at worldbuilding and creating an atmosphere! I definitely did what I could to get my fanon to harmonize well with the established lore, and I’m glad you felt that that worked. It has been a while since I’ve worked with my Gand fanon, but I very much enjoyed returning to it here, and from here I’ll certainly return to it again (of that everyone here may be sure—it’s my fanfic “roots,” after all ).

You’re right on all counts. Grief and loss is the “new normal” for Trynfor, just as it is for the speaker in the ballad. As @Kahara pointed out in her response above, it’s almost something Trynfor needs to survive at this point, and it’s closely tied in with the double quality of his madness and his visionary nature. And that is indeed where I diverged from the song—indeed, I had to in order to fit what I had already mentally established about these characters and their history. I also wanted to play around a bit with the notion of the physical, the spiritual, and the emotional all coming together in a single, transcendent moment—a notion that’s kind of becoming a favorite of mine writing-wise. Music can have that effect like nothing else can, though that moment of looking into Zukfel’s eyes and seeing that prophetic reflection is certainly that kind of moment too, in its way.

Yes, that was just what I was going for, per the established Legends lore, so I’m glad it came off well. And you are especially right to pick up on that particular change to Gand, and on what it might mean—I believe you are on the right track.

Thank you; I appreciate that, and I’m so glad that the piece added to your experience of reading the story.

You are most welcome, and it was my definite pleasure! It’s been a wonderful challenge, and I’ve greatly enjoyed working on it with you.

* * *​

So, now, I have one little announcement about this thread: from this point on, pursuant to some advice from friends, I am going to post future one-shot stories in their own threads, while reserving this thread for very short offerings (namely, those of about 1000 words or less, Edited! entries, etc.). My original thinking was to keep all my one-shots in one place, but the Prolific Writers’ Index already makes that possible anyway, and not just with one-shots. Besides, now that we have tags at our disposal, that is yet another means of easily finding stories—and a miscellaneous thread like this is going to max out on tags too quickly, of course. But the thread will remain open for reading and commenting on what's here, and it’ll still be linked in my signature.

Once again, many thanks to all of you who have taken the time to come by, read, and say a few words! It always is a joy.

 

Ah, see, now, I always used to think the opposite was true—hence starting this thread to begin with. But that is good to know, and I appreciate the feedback.