SUMMARY: Obi-Wan laments the end of the Jedi. Not necessarily
spoilers, since we know what happens right before the original
Star Wars, but...
DISCLAIMER: The characters and universe herein are the property
of George Lucas and Lucasfilm. And maybe someone he'll own the
world, but then it'd be pretty damn beige and flannel-y. In the
meantime, here's fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Like I said, this is my first piece of SW fic,
and it's sort of just a vague little piece leading up to
something else I'm hoping to write rather soon.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, last of the Jedi Knights, stood in front of
the mirror, his shadow-rimmed dull eyes staring back at him.
There was no one left. Mace. Adi. Depi. Abeth. Parussa.
Everyone he knew, everyone he cared for, from the children he
knew during his training to the aged, wise council members.
They had been killed in the purges, struck down in the heat of
battle, betrayed by those they had respected and cared for.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the
coolness of the mirror, smooth against his heated face. His
face crumpled again and he sobbed for a few seconds, harsh,
bitter sobs of frustration, of helplessness, of mourning. Not
simply for the Jedi that had died within the past few months,
but for the ones that would never be, never born or never
realizing their potential.
For the two small children who would never know their
heritage.
For Anakin. For Amidala. For everyone he had failed.
For himself.
For Qui-Gon.
He slammed his fist against the mirror in rage, the glass
cracking. He looked up quickly, his eyes staring back at him
from the mirror, long hair falling in front of his face,
silvery cracks slicing through his image. He was something
else, something verging on evil, verging on Sith, the one thing
he could not be.
He was scared.
Master Yoda's voice, the other Jedi still alive after the
great purge, came back to him from long ago. "Fear leads to
anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side..."
He knew fear. He knew anger.
He could not know hate. He must never know hate.
Obi-Wan swore loudly under his breath, his hands scrabbling
across the counter in a rage. He felt the scissors in his hands
before he even recognized them for what they were. The scissors
slid against the first lock of hair, cutting cleanly.
The lock fell against the counter, a sacrifice for Mace Windu.
Another snip. Adi Gallia.
Another. Depi Bilaba.
Another. Ki Adi Mundi.
Another.
Another.
Another.
His hair laid on the counter, mourning sacrifices for his
past. When Qui-Gon had died, he burned his padawan braid in
mourning, the few years of love between them disappearing in a
thin curl of smoke.
He lit the small pile of hair on fire, watching as it burned,
smoke sliding against his face. He looked back up in the
mirror, his newly shorn scalp appearing naked, his eyes dark,
empty.
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