Saga An Everlasting Shelter-Obi-Wan Vignette-Part 2 of 2

An Everlasting Shelter

pg-13

disclaimer: All characters/planets/events that are recognizable belong to George Lucas.

summary: Obi-Wan is given time to reflect on the unlikely possession that brought him to the present--and will ensure him of his future.

*A companion piece will be up some time this week, showing events from a different perspective*


(_) - (_) - (_)

I suppose outsiders would imagine it to be a composition of bleeding, intense color, a melting meld of scarlet sweating into burnt orange and covered in a moist saffron sheen, all buzzing and restless in the agony of noontime, chasing the locals toward any remnant of shade.

And yes, as I walk along the dusty path, I guess such a prediction would be at least marginally accurate. For there are such hues drenching the Tatooine landscape, though not so deep and visibly sweltering. The sky has tinges of red and mandarin, streaking from the two suns, identical as though one is but a reflection cast by the other, radiating heat and pale, glowing circles of yellow. But the sky itself is a stretched canopy of almost powdered blue, without a single wisp of cloud-white to permeate the purity.

The inhabitants don't cower in the pools of shadow provided by the shop roofs, or most of them don't. They lumber down the dirt-flecked lane, wrapped in layers of tattered scarf and thick, wormy tunic. I've lived a good many years here ( though I'll never come to think of it as my home) and during that time I've seen only a small number of unmasked faces. Usually, noses and mouths, or whatever the alien equivalents may be, are concealed behind bands of brown and tan, protecting them from the threat of heat.

But eyes are never hidden. They peek out from the mounds of fabric, green or chestnut or glistening, coal black.

So I don't know the majority of the life forms that shoulder past me, going along in their dry stream of anonymity. Yet that which is most telling of the soul is exposed, slanting in the glare or blinking rapidly in a swirl of dust, or staring dully ahead. I think that sometimes, perhaps sometimes I recognize a crystal gaze, a set of faded jade eyes.

I would reach along the Force, with a transparent, faint touch, to confirm such suspicions.

But, if I must be a lonely, old man, I refuse to be a lonely, desperate old man, trying to cling to some pathetic fray of familiarity. Especially among those that are, in the end, just strangers.

A gust of wind picks up, and I thread my hands in my sleeves, feeling a little naked despite the folds of tunic and leggings. A ruddy brown cloak is slung over my forearm, held close to my chest, whipping in the sandblasted breeze.

I've never worn anything to shroud my face, even during the height of storms and blistering temperature. I knew a few who used to say, some jokingly, some not, that I'm too enamored of my own countenance to camouflage it. I respond now as I would then, with a knowing smirk.

The Order taught with rigor the idea that physical appearances were misleading, and above all, trivial. I followed that with almost total precision?I employ 'almost' because there are few in the Universe that can have their basic sensual instincts drilled out of them. I'm under no illusions, and never was, in that respect. My blood isn't cold--yet. I wasn't above sneaking a lustful glance or two. Hell, most of the time, my bashful adolescent efforts were rewarded with a reciprocating look from long-lashed eyes, maybe even a smile. I wouldn't be surprised if half the Jedi populace was aware of the furious fluttering in my chest afterward. I've been told (more often than not by a man of towering form and character) that no matter the strength of my mental shielding, some things just demanded projection, for innocent thoughts of infatuation, 'young love' with a wistful sigh, were a welcome change from the darker musings of those who wielded the Force. As I matured, I tried with increasing fervor to control such basely human impulses, but ultimately, I lost that battle. There'll a

 

This is great. I look forward to the next part.

 

[face_suspicious]I think I've seen this before...[/face_suspicious]

As wonderful as the first time through, LE. Lovely job and I'll look forward to part two.

Shaindl

 

It does seem familiar somehow. Beautiful and I can't wait to see the companion piece.

 

You already know I loved it and I will be looking forward to the companion piece.

 

I'm looking forward to part 2!!!

 

This was absolutely incredible. Just perfect and subdued and very human. I especially loved Obi-Wan's slight narcissism (which I've always suspected anyway). And the exchanges between Obi-Wan and Tirrah are great, really human. (Again, I use that word, but it's a really apt way to describe this story.)

On the contrary, the robe is considerably aged, with an aroma reminiscent of rich spice mixed with the light fragrance of the sea.

I like to think so, anyway, when the suns set, and I'm alone in a dusty room.

And, if you focus keenly, you can see countless marks where it was stitched, fused together again after numerous fractures.

But only if you're looking closely.

Few ever do.

This passage was particularly nice. Very subtle and well-written in its sadness. Oh I just want to give Obi-Wan a hug!

Write more!!

 

was this posted on the challenge thread? I loved this story, but it made me cry

 

Okay, here's the companion piece. Feels like I wrote it a little fast, but I hope it doesn't seem rushed. [face_shocked]

Crystal Thanks. Hope you like the next half.

Shaindl Oh shut up. I'm surprised you even remembered it, ya old wench.

obi_ew It wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for you and your great thread. And thanks for the nom.

Sheila Thank you.

diane Thank you for the nom. You know I feel the same about your work.

GuerreStellari Oh, you're just so sweet! Thank you.

PK **hands over tissure** Sorry.



That Lonely Field

By LuvEwan

PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: An intimate witness reflects on the shrouded soul of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Companion piece to 'An Everlasting Shelter'.

(_) - (_) - (_)

The sound of the door shutting feels hollow, so far from me it's almost surreal, a fabricated echo, and I stand in the same spot, mid-step, staring at the dusty thing, as if at any moment it will be revealed as a cruel hoax.

And he'll be here again, the cloak gone from around his shoulders, the heaviness shed like shadow chased away by dawning light.

He'll be here. For the first time?wholly, completely.

His body, with its grace and coppery skin, has stood within this hovel often. In that way, he's been a frequent guest, sitting in a rickety chair or waiting on his feet, his back mere inches from brushing against the wall. But it never touches.

Just as when I lay my hand on his shoulder, and I search with desperate, unmoving fingers, only to discover, as I always do, that it's quite impossible to feel a ghost's form.

I see it, clear and strong before me, with shining eyes and feathery hair.

Yet--it's a mirage, a memory that cannot fade, a spirit doomed to faux existence.

He's the din of the closing door. I can detect him, but he falls in the blurred chasm between reality and oblivion--for he was a man of sentience, once, someone who did more than function?a soldier among his troop.

Now he's cast from whatever compatriots he had, wandering in the sunburned landscape of his own battlefield, weapon near and helmet secured.

The blaster wound bleeds slowly, continuously.

And gods I want to know who pressed their finger down on the trigger.

Sometimes I think I have an idea, pausing in my sewing, gazing beyond the crumbled brick constraints of the shop.

But?But if he wielded the weapon, if he alone imbedded the bullet?why would he choose to let it fester?instead of?

I blink. Hard. So hard there's a brief flash of pain beneath my lids, and I weave my arms together, walking back to my desk.

There's a goodly sized pile of work there to greet me; my hands flex almost involuntarily, predicting the ache that will surface when I'm forced to quit for the night.

Then I'll lay in my bed, in the room connected to this one, and curl my fingers in, then out. I'll repeat it over and over until I slip off to sleep.

The pain will still be there.

I don't know if it ever becomes manageable. Stars, I can't say it's ever even tolerable.

It's there.

And that's the most I can say.

I fish through the stack, looking for a fairly simple fix-up to start with. My hands smooth along the fabric surfaces, the coarse, the worn?

I think of that drape of reddish-brown, so soft and--

How old does a woman have to be before her mind stops veering off course like some giggling, half-wit schoolgirl?

I blink--again, for god's sake!--and realize my eyes were unfocused.

It's a habit of his, too, so I guess flights of fancy aren't limited to any specific gender--though I'm betting his thoughts are nowhere near related to mine.

I've lived on Tatooine from the day of my birth. Certainly there've been changes around the place since then. More Hutts have slithered in, with their parade of followers, the greedy nitwits and brainless, bodyguard muscle, a steady stream of fresh flesh in the slave market upped th

 

WOW

Speechless

 

I don't know which I like better the original or the compainion piece, both are lovely

 

I think Obi-Wan needs to think about stuff in a vignette format. Perhaps a part 3 of 2?

 

I think CrystalKenobi already said it.

 

Wonderful way to express that even as he matures, he is able to leave most of us wide eyed with awe and reverence. Be still my heart. Beautifully eloquent as always my dear.

 

That was lovely. I especially liked that he wasn't sure if the cloak should be mended... much as his heart is not mended but falling into despair. Did he think that he wasn't worthy of repairing the cloak, that he should just let go?

Great job.

 

Now?in the past few minutes, I realized that the soldier must have his helmet, must if he is to wade through the tall grasses and thick bogs, with all the hidden, foreign dangers. But it can only protect so much. The blaster bolts can sink into the belly, the neck--the heart.

Still, if the solider has any hope for survival, he wears that helmet.

Beautiful as always LE.

 

Pretty good, for a young 'un.

Really, LE, you have such a way with the language. The emotion and images come flying off the screen in every paragraph. You've got incredible talent, sweetie - I hope you pursue it later on.

Great work, and can't wait to read more of your writing soon.

Shaindl

 

Crystal Thank you.

Seraphena Aw, thanks.

GuerreStellari Uh-oh. Don't start saying things like that..I might end up persuing it, with like, four other fics going...must resist...

Opal

o_e Be still my heart. That's usually what I'm thinkin' whenever I'm watching him.

diane Did he think that he wasn't worthy of repairing the cloak, that he should just let go? What do you think.

Sheila Thank you.

Shaindl You're so sweet. Better stop it or it'll start going to my head.