Master Apprentice
Archive
Alone
|
|
|||
It's lonely here, in the desert.
I sit perfectly still and watch a mole rat, a sad, solitary creature like myself, at it tries to hide in the shadow of a rock, hoping to avoid detection, hiding from those who would harm it. That's exactly what I've been doing, of course, all these years - hiding.
Is he still looking for me, I wonder? Or is his former Master now so far down his list of concerns as to be no more than an occasional, passing thought? I'd let him find me, if it weren't for the twins. But I feel an obligation to them, to at least endure this life until they are brought together and headed on their own journey. Yes, I'd gladly let him find me and finish what he tried to do so many years ago. Then, at least I would be free, free from this solitude, this terrible aloneness.
Oh, how I miss him. No, not the boy that was thrust upon me, the boy whom I never wanted and never loved, the boy who ultimately turned, just as I'd feared he would. No, it is Qui-Gon that I miss, with every fiber of my being. Everyday, with every breath, with every heartbeat, I wish he were still with me.
And, if he were, what would I do?
Fall at his feet and ask forgiveness, for one thing. Forgiveness for never being good enough, smart enough, 'in the moment' enough. Forgiveness for failing him, for letting him fall to that tattooed nightmare.
Would he grant me that forgiveness, I wonder?
Probably. He was always a benevolent man. Hard, strong, stingy with his affection and praise at times, but benevolent, all the same.
But, there is more I would do, if he were somehow suddenly here. So much more.
Unable to bear the vast, empty desert for another moment, I make my way back into my tiny hovel, to the trunk where my few possessions are kept. I move aside my Jedi robe, my lightsaber and that of my fallen apprentice. Here it is, beneath them all. I draw it out, letting the fabric unfold as I pull it to my face.
It still smells of him, even after all this time. Probably something to do with the desert air, or perhaps merely wishful thinking. He didn't wear it long, this rough, ugly, homespun poncho, but it still holds his Force signature.
Though it is still early, the Tatooine sun just preparing to set, I kick off my boots and stretch out on my narrow cot. I clutch the worn fabric to me, wishing he were still in it.
"I love you, my Master," I'd tell him. "I love you with all of my heart and soul and being." Why could I never tell him that in life? Was it the difference in our ages? I shake my head, though there is no one here to see the gesture. The difference in our stations? Possibly, for it would have been unseemly for a Padawan to lust after his Master.
But, lust I did, nonetheless. And, now, he'll never know. At least, not until such time that I pass into the same Force that he is now part of. Will we have identities there? Will we know ourselves, and each other? Will I finally be able to touch him, to hold him, as I longed to before? Or will I find more of what I have here - loneliness?
I wrap my arms around the empty poncho as I do every night. "I miss you, my Master," I whisper to it, wishing it could answer me, just once, in his voice. Why did he never appear to me, as I've heard some who have passed on do? Was I so little to him, so unimportant, so easy to forget? It doesn't matter. I've learned to live without him.
I reach down and undo the fastenings at my crotch, exposing my swollen member to the dry desert air. Wishing it were his hand instead of mine, I stroke myself. Would his touch have been so light? Unconsciously, I tighten my grip, speed my rhythm. Soon, I feel the tightening in my balls that signals my release is eminent, and I quickly pull the poncho away. It would not do to soil it with the seed of my regret.
Exhausted, I don't bother cleaning up, just draw that beloved fabric closer to my face, inhaling the scent of him. After a long while, I fall asleep.
As the light begins to fade in the small house in the middle of the Tatooine desert, a hazy blue figure appears and floats toward the bed. One hand extends, wistfully stroking the sad, age-creased face.
"Oh, my Obi-Wan, how I love you . . . "
The End