Archive: M_A, yes. Otherwise, ask.
Category: POV
Rating: PG
Warnings: Follows canon.
Spoilers: TPM.
Summary: Obi-Wan takes a few moments to grieve his Master's
death.
Feedback: Yes, please. I take anything.
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns everything; I just play in his
sandbox while he's not looking.
Notes: Thanks to Fox, Shadow, Mama, and Kerby for their
encouragement, and to hooly for the title.
Normally, the ache is bearable, forgettable. Normally, I am too
busy to feel more than a hollow emptiness in my heart and mind.
Too busy to notice that I am forever expecting my Master to be
by my side, that I am always on the verge of speaking to him
before I remember and the words die silent. Too busy to be
completely aware that when I rise in the morning or go to bed
at night, he is not there to offer quiet reassurances and
comforts, a word or a glance at at a time.
Normally.
But it is times like this, when I am alone with time and space
to myself, that I really feel it. Times like this when the ache
of loss pulses through me like blood, when grief dulls my mind
and I can do nothing but exist, and remember, and break down a
little more inside.
Miistan is a quiet, gentle planet. It is evening; the delegates
have ceased negotiations for the day, and I have time to stand
outside, alone with my thoughts. Where clouds streak across the
darkening sky, they glow silver-white with reflected lights
from the cities. Where they do not, the stars shine. Two stars,
forming a binary system near to Miistan's own, are brighter
than the others, a solemn pair of blue-shaded glimmers.
The wind rises, cool to the touch, whispering over my face and
neck and hands. It lingers and swirls around me, touching with
the gentle grace of a lover. With it comes the first hints of
rain. My cheeks are wet, and I think if I stood in the right
lighting my skin would dance with a thousand sparkles.
For a moment, I stand perfectly still, eyes half-closed, face
tilted up towards the rain that falls like tears, arms
outstretched to catch the wind. For a moment, it is not
Miistan; it is Qui-Gon, touching me, watching over me, weeping
the tears I could not shed.
And then the moment passes, and I laugh at my own foolishness.
Qui-Gon is dead; he is not with me, and never would be. Pulling
serenity around me like a false cloak, I go back to the city,
to the lights and the walls and the delegates and my own
Padawan. I can hear the wind still, crying with loneliness, but
I do not respond.
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