Archive: M_A, my page
(http://glimfics.homestead.com/index.html), anywhere else,
sure, just ask please!
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon
Category: Vignette, Angst, POV
Rating: PG
Warning: for TPM
Spoilers: none
Feedback: Sure!! jediglim@aol.com
Disclaimer: All of Star Wars belongs to George Lucas.
Yep.
Summary: Third in the 'Because' series. Obi-Wan musing on
Qui-Gon. (Post-TPM)
a/n: The previous two Because 'ficlets, (Corran Horn/Tycho
Celchu, Luke/Wedge), can be found on my webpage. All three can
be read alone, but were written as variations on a theme.
I don't want him.
The line runs through my mind again, it's become familiar due
to its frequency. I repeat the phrase to myself at times like
this, as I stare into a half-empty teacup and my mind wanders.
Well, perhaps wander is not the correct word. It knows exactly
where it's going. My thoughts spin and swirl like the leaves in
my cup, eventually coming to rest at the center.
I don't want him. I can't.
My master, Qui-Gon.
The Temple is quiet now, it's still very early in the morning.
A soft rain falls outside, but I cannot see or hear it; a heavy
fog muffles both light and sound. If I didn't already know it
was daybreak, I would assume it was still night. Dark, quiet,
still. I can only hear the slosh of tea in my cup and the
clatter as I place it down on the table.
Sometimes I still look up and expect to see him there. The
early morning was a time we spent together, if circumstances
allowed. I don't remember it being so painfully quiet then.
I do, however, remember his touch. The way he would rest one
hand atop mine or play with the sleeve of my sleep tunic. Warm
and light, his touch felt natural, as if there was nothing more
real than sitting and drinking tea with my master, his hand on
my wrist. His hands were strong, graceful, loving. I used to
think I'd never seem them shake with age or grow weak as the
years passed.
How achingly true that turned out to be.
And I can still remember his eyes. How clear and bright they
were upon first waking, how they smiled even when he tried to
keep a straight face. Some mornings we would talk, but most of
time we kept silent. An easy, comfortable silence that meant as
much to me as the many conversations we had. I can remember
that silence well.
He would touch my hand and I would look up to meet his eyes. In
my heart I felt the thousands of words he never said to me, the
thousands of ways he never touched me. It was like having light
course through your veins. Warm, fluid, clear light that gave
you the confidence only those in love would understand. And I
was in love. In love with life, light, the Force, and Qui-Gon.
My own hands feel cold now and my eyes hurt; I should sleep
more, I suppose. I dream about him sometimes. I feel his touch,
see his eyes, again. But in my dreams I cannot remind myself
that it's not real. I cannot convince myself that I cannot have
him. I am not able to tell myself that I don't want him.
I don't want. I don't. I. Don't. Want. Him.
I don't want to feels his hands on my body, fingers stroking my
hair, palms sliding down the front of my chest. I don't want
him to hold me, comfort me, to be my strength in illness or
pain. I don't want his hand on my shoulder. I don't want his
arm around me as we sleep. I don't want his fingers tangled
with mine as we walk through the corridors or watch the sunset.
I don't want to see his eyes before I fall asleep. I don't want
the reassurance, the love, the trust that shone in them. I
don't want the weight of his gaze on me as I approach our bed
at night or leave it in the morning. I don't want to see myself
reflected in his eyes, knowing his image is in mine.
I don't want to feel or see him ever again.
I don't want him. Force, help me. Make me believe it.
For I remember the last time I looked into his eyes and felt
his touch. I saw the brightness fade and felt the warmth
disappear.
And I never, ever wanted that. I never wanted to see his eyes
grow dim or feel his hands grow cold. But the Force granted me
that which I did not want.
If I can convince myself that I do not want him, perhaps I can
convince the Force, too.
I pick up my teacup and find that even that has grown too cold
to warm my hands. Watching the tea leaves tumble and swirl once
more, I dismiss all thought of Qui-Gon from my mind, I need to
get on with my day. Before the leaves can settle at the bottom
of my cup, I swallow done the cold, strong tea. One large,
bitter mouthful. A dry, acrid taste that I can't get rid of
remains at the back of my throat. Like the thought that always
lingers in the back of my mind, like a choking sob that I can't
let out.
Archive 