DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
“Mace…”
Mace Windu’s face fills the vid screen in front of you. There is a glare from the overhead lights that he stands under and you momentarily blink to bring his face into clarity. He looks tired, bone weary and sad. Understandable, you think, as you dry your hands on your waist tied smock.
“Tira…good to see you.”
“And I you, Mace…how is the situation there…”you ask, hanging your head. The only news that you have of Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan is through the sole man talking to you on the vid screen. A long and lonely month has passed since Mace had escorted you to the ship and you had lifted off into the heavens.
“Obi-Wan has almost completely recovered…his breathing capacity is nearly normal and he has full range of motion in all limbs. His sabre practice standing is rapidly climbing the ranks again. A definite improvement from when you were here…” Mace’s head inclines as if he is looking at his hands and you grimace.
“He was conscious and the prognosis was good. I had to leave. Qui-Gon and I both expressed the wish that he would not know his parentage. So long as he was stable…I did more good by leaving then staying…you know that…”you sigh and tug at your smock trying to ease out the creases in the fabric. “If I had remained, Qui-Gon would have remained aloof from the situation…”
“And Obi-Wan needed support from his Master.” Mace finishes for you, looking you in the eye again. “Qui-Gon has indeed thrown himself into the task. He lives by that boy.”
You nod, knowing at your heart that what he says is true. Qui-Gon’s last words to you, spoken almost a week after the confrontation in his quarters more or less told you this. His eyes had been shadowed, sunken and swollen from days of vigil by Obi-Wan’s bed and nights of restless sleep. His beard was a little unkempt and his hair had had tangles in its ends. He looked as if he was falling apart, but his voice had remained as calm and concise as always. “I will watch over him, Tira…with my life. He is my son, and I can do no less.”
And he apparently has done no less. You know that he has harnessed all that he feels- felt for you, and has thrown it into caring for his son.
“I know, Mace. I know. Does he dote on him?” You raise your head again, and tilt it to the side to try and keep the stray rays peaking through the curtains from interrupting your line of sight. It was your greatest fear that Qui-Gon would treat him differently now.
“Quite the opposite…he is driving him hard. Always after Obi-Wan with readings, physical workouts and lessons. He is not overextending the boy, and he is very careful of his mental and physical state, but he is demanding quite a bit.”
“As he has before with his other apprentices and as he will again,” you answer, smiling gently at Mace. It is good to hear that Qui-Gon has maintained the status quo for the training of his son.
Mace is silent for a moment and seems to contemplate your face. “You have not asked if Qui-Gon has…”
Your hand shoots up and you can feel the complaints of your overtaxed muscles. “I know he has not, Mace, and I would prefer not to reinforce that knowledge from hearing that fact from you.” Even now, a month after leaving Coruscant and returning home, you feel the weight of tears in your throat.
“He will not listen, Tira. Even Yoda has tried to get him to speak of it to Healers or to seek you out to clarify issues to no avail. There is a loss of total emotion…”
“Just complete calm?” you ask, wiping the hair from your eyes.
“Complete calm.” Mace answers back, sadness in his voice.
Silence descends between the two of you. The only noise that you hear is the rolling of waves on the sand and wind through the trees. You stand there for a moment and then nod, animation coming back into your limbs once again. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping me abreast of his situation, Mace and for all you have done…”
A sharp bark of a laugh rolls from his lips and there is a slight twinkle in his eyes. “This is not goodbye, Tira…don’t make it sound that way. I will keep in touch – let you know how things go.” His eyes dull momentarily and his mouth turns down. “I hope the two of you work this out…for the good of both of you and for my sanity.”
You sigh and shrug a shoulder. “I did wrong him. I understand his need for distance, and I love him enough to give it to him. That is all there is. When he is ready…I have confidence that I will hear from him again. Force be with you, Master Windu.”
“And with you, Tira…if you have need of anything….”
“I will call….” You finish and watch as he leans forward. At the last minute he nods and then the screen goes blank. You stand there momentarily and then press the button on your end also. The dull gray on the surface turns black and you sigh. Mace is good to you to keep you up to date with Obi-Wan’s recovery and his relationship with his father.
You turn and face the table once again. Despite your occupation that keeps you with the ruling elite of this planet, albeit in a lowly teaching position, you enjoy using your hands as much as your brain. The wooden surface is filled with leaves from the citrus trees, flowers from many of the shoreline planets and several blue roses. They are a collection in process of becoming an arrangement. The aroma is heavenly in the small space of the room. You inhale and close your eyes. The only problem with the odor is that it reminds you of other things…mainly Qui-Gon. He was the one that bought you the rose bush and planted it when you received your teaching position seventeen years ago. Just a twig then, it is a monster of a bush now, its bark arms extending into the bedroom. Nature embracing human. It was the first time that he had said the words…I love you.
And two years later, you had begun the sexual aspect of your relationship.
Skirting the table edge, you stalk into the bedroom. You glide past the open window, the rose bush and the bed to stop at the entrance to the bathroom. Bathtubs are rare on Alderaan, not from expense but simply from inconvenience- they are time consuming. But you have one. Standing by the heavy wooden door, you peek to where the white form sits nestled against the wall. The window is open there, allowing the filmy form of the curtain to billow over top of it like passing clouds in the sky. The image of him there in your mind, even now makes your knees weak. He had been hinting with you his whole vacation that time, that he wanted to begin an affair. And you had allowed him to hint and continued to run a small merry chase. Until the night that he laid in your tub, showing you all that you could have, all that he was willing to give, all that he could give in his youthful enthusiasm but without the words of commitment.
He was a Jedi; you were a teacher. He knew not what life would give him in time and space for love, and you knew not what to expect from your life either. All you both knew was that the other was perfect for you. And you both knew that you loved the other.
There were no regrets…even now. Obi-Wan, the years of pain, the years of waiting for him to return, to be allowed the time and space to come and be with you…none of it is regretted. To feel love, you must be open to feeling the pain that balances it.
Turning on your heel, you pace back to the kitchen and your job of putting together the arrangement. The only thing that causes you pain now is your decision to keep Obi-Wan a secret from his father. But it was the decision that you made, and you made it with love in your heart. As wrong as it seems now, it seemed right at the time and there is nothing to do for the past.
It is the present that you live in, and the future for which you live.
You sigh and bend to put the arrangement together.
The middle of the night brings a thunderstorm, a tempest. It is not unusual here on the coast, but it is not always welcome. You had hoped to venture outside to collect small bits of night blooming plants to add to the bower of plant life in the house, but the rains and winds exert their influence to keep you indoors. Several dissertations on peace and the mechanics of diplomacy that should be employed to maintain it lay around the bed on the floor. The datapad lays open on your lap, the laserpen in your hand. You had several ideas to record, but they are fleeting.
Your mind keeps traveling to the maelstrom outside. It travels to the sheer power that nature throws against your window. More storms like this one and the cottage will need to be weatherproofed once again. Oh what a job that will be. But you are thankful that the fury of nature is unleashed, and you can throw your thoughts to join it in a rush of relief. You want to lose yourself in it. Meld with it.
A clattering in the kitchen turns your head toward your door. The shutters on the front of the cottage must have cut loose again. With a sigh, you rise, your silk sleep pants and shirt glide against your skin. The rain is hitting this side of the house; it is simply wind that batters that side of the house. You should be able to slip outdoors and resecure them without dressing.
You reach the front door and throw it open, allowing the wind to blow it out of your hand. That was it! Sure enough, the shutter is loose and banging against the side of the cottage. You press forward, allowing the wind to blow your hair out of its knot and your silk clothes whip around your body. It is the work of the moment to secure the shutters so that they don’t punch a hole in the wall. The work is almost done as the wind suddenly changes direction and you are pummeled with rain. Its icy needles pound your skin and you gasp and hurry through your actions. The job is finished quickly and you go to run, your bare feet scrabbling on the now wet porch of your home. The cold puddles feel almost slimy to your skin.
You stop.
Turn.
And release a breath that you have been holding for a month.
He stands by a tree, only twenty or so paces from the porch. His hair is plastered to his face and neck. His eyes are black at this distance. His clothes are soaked and clinging to his chest and legs. He is without a cloak. But he is here.