Notes: Combination of seeing the movie tonight and hearing
this Fleetwood Mac song right after, and you have a
slash writer attempting some personal closure. . .
A thousand words, in case anyone wondered.
Pairing: Q/O
Posted: Posted May 22, 1999
Rating: PG
Series: Nope. Could be a "Twin Destinies" parallel
story, I suppose.
Spoilers: Post-"Phantom Menace", with spoilers for
the movie.
Summary: Obi-Wan's random thoughts.
Warnings: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my
fault and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck.
They are all watching me, still. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting, wanting to know what I am thinking, if what they think is actually true. The funeral pyre has burned down to ashes; the Queen has left, and so has almost everyone else, after paying their respects. I think Anakin went with Master Yoda; it is strange to see the two of them together, almost the same size, but with worlds of difference separating them. I'm glad that the Council has agreed to let me train the boy, but I meant what I said when I told Master Yoda that I would do it, no matter what the Council decided; my promise is all I have left of him, plus these ashes, and my memories.
All I can think of right now are his hands. Maybe it's because of the last touch that I had from him - I leant into those fingers on my cheek because I wanted them to stay. When they dropped away I knew that he was lost to me - not just one with the Force, but lost, to me, entirely. I haven't felt him at all since then. I don't want to think of what that means - I don't think I could bear it, right now, and I am only holding on to myself by the slenderest of threads. I just want to think of his hands.
Maybe it's because of every other time that he touched me; I don't know. It was startling about him, how large his hands were - not just them, but the entirety of his body, so large everywhere - and yet, how they could be capable of the smallest, most intimate tenderness. Wielding a lightsaber with the feather-light touch needed to be precise in a battle, lifting a child up, resting on my shoulder - a reassurance, a caress. He loved me with those enormous hands, holding me and touching my body in a way that no-one else ever has, or probably ever will. He was gentle, patient, wise - and stubborn, and rebellious, and defiant, and I loved him. I have never in my life lost anyone that I have loved before; if this is what love is, I don't think that I ever want to feel it again. And yet, if you were to ask me to give up the touch of those hands on my body just once to have him back, I doubt if I would be able to do it. I am greedy that way. I always have been.
I remember watching him when we first travelled together, wondering what it was that I was to learn from him, and how he would teach me what I needed to know. I wondered if being his Padawan meant that I was to become him, somehow, but that's not what it meant at all, to him. I was always Obi-Wan Kenobi, my own person; I think he liked it when I disagreed with him, and argued. I think he liked it when I thought for myself; he knew that meant that he had taught me well. I didn't always understand what he thought, but I could always feel what he felt, and that was enough. In that way, he allowed me to know him.
There was some sort of pinnacle in our relationship; we achieved it the first time that we made love. It was the closest that we were ever to be, when his hands, rough-callused and yet trailing soft against my skin, first made me gasp and sigh, and I took his fingers in my mouth, one at a time, like a suckling child. From that moment on, although we remained lovers to the last, we moved farther and farther apart, as destiny drew us to this moment in time. He always knew, but he pretended, for me. I wonder if the world would have come crashing down if he had stepped to the side when that final blow hit; I think I would have liked to have found out. But that is the wickedly cruel thing about destiny; there is no bargaining, no defiance. I am a Jedi Knight now, and that is my final lesson.
And yet, I can't help but think that it was supposed to be more than chance that took him away from me, more than a fight behind a laser-powered wall that separated us once and forever, and the sight of him falling that I will never forget. I will never allow myself to forget it. It could have been me, except for chance - I fell, he stayed; I survived, he did not. One day, I know, it will be me. It is my destiny. I have seen it, in him and in myself. It is only a matter of time.
I wonder if he was allowed that moment of clarity, at the end. I wonder if he remembered, as I did, how we argued over the boy, and if he was as glad that we had the chance to make peace. I wonder if it hurt him to realize, as it did me, that his hands could not do all that he wanted them to: they could not hold on longer than they were meant to. I wonder if he heard that echo in the room, as I cried out against his fate - if he heard the other there that I did, crying with me. I wonder if any of it really matters.
Now, I have taken my Master's place, and this boy's future is mine to shape; it is my hands on his shoulders, and yet the fit is not quite the same. Anakin Skywalker; can I possibly be to you what my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, was to me? I think I know the answer to that question already, but my promise is the only thing that I have left of him; that, and the memory of his hands.