It is a simple existence you live now, Obi-Wan. The small
desert house, the trade you do to keep food on your table, the
daily work--it's not all that unlike the years at Coruscant,
when you were my young Padawan.
Yes, I see the twitch of the muscles in your jaw as you
continue to ignore me. I told you that you would come to wish
me gone, but I find myself quite contented here, watching you
work each day, watching over your sleep.
That was an amazing dream you had last night, by the way; I
wouldn't have thought a man your age was still prone to erotic
dreams of such intensity, particularly one with such monastic
habits. Ah, I never have lost my ability to make you
blush--yes, you're quite right, that dream can be laid at my
door, Obi-Wan, I may not be able to touch you in the flesh, but
there are no hindrances in spirit. And I find I miss the flesh
more than I would have guessed, more than I had missed it
during the years you grew older.
Your vocabulary has grown, at least in terms of profanity,
Obi-Wan, I must say the Slggish impresses me, with all the
glottal stops, I would think it would be more difficult to
learn.
When you were fourteen, you used to shrug like that when you
were angry with me, pretending not to be angry, pretending you
were taking little notice. Isn't it interesting what habits a
man retains after half a lifetime.
Ah, you almost slipped there, I could feel the words, taste
them almost. Well, what has it been? Nearly one cycle of the
Tatooine moon, has it not? Let me ask you if you remember the
only time I struck you? It was on Arrak, do you recall? After
the rebels had killed the hostages just as you won through the
barricades.
You blamed yourself. I blamed the rebels, although I confess I
felt deeply grieved at the loss of lives. You blamed yourself,
you locked yourself up in your quarters and brooded ever more
on your lack of worth, of skill, of ability, and on what you
saw as blood guilt. I had to use Force to open the lock, and
you would listen to nothing of what I said.
You were eighteen. I finally had to steel myself, slapped you
hard across the face, you were so stunned, the brave facade
broke down, you stared at me with tears in your eyes, although
you didn't weep.
I can't slap you now.
However, my command of the Force that forms me has not
diminished. There is a spatula in your kitchen which might do
very nicely--ah, another near slip, you nearly looked directly
at me, Obi-Wan, don't try and deny it.
Another shrug, ah, how that takes me back to different times.
He calls himself Vader now.
I called this shape into being because of the force of his
hate, because of his hunger for your death. I faced him, the
phantom of a man he had once, in more innocent days, trusted
and helped. He wasn't expecting me, I think it's safe to say,
but he hid his terror well. Except for immediately contacting
his dark Master, the Emperor.
I dare say the Emperor reassured him somewhat, but at that
moment, every communications and navigation function on his
ship ceased to work. A petty trick, when one considers that I
could have done far worse, but those who follow him, while not
blameless, are not entirely to blame.
It's far easier to hold to noble ideals when you have nothing
to lose, and these have much to lose. Their families and their
lives, for example. Weak they may be, but evil....I suppose
evil is relative.
Compared to Palpatine, even Vader is smaller in stature. Vader
was seduced, Palpatine made the choice willingly himself.
Ah, I forgot, you had rather think that you were to blame.
Forgive me, Obi-Wan, I hadn't intended to rob you of your
guilt.
Throwing things in my direction makes no difference to me, I
should remind you--there, there is my Obi-Wan.
Face me. Throw my words back in my face, if you must, but yes,
you do see me, and there is no denying it.
Face to face. We are equals, remember? Both older men, the
difference in age subsumed by your life.
You do see me. I wonder, will you hear me?
Part Two: Unwelcome
It's a very strange wind that blows through my new home.
If one becomes careless enough, one can almost fancy a grating
voice running through it, rather like an awele against a bit of
stone. Scraping and chipping at one's nerves, when all one
wishes for is a bit of contemplative rest. A bit of
well-deserved solitude.
Ah, well. I suppose one must deal with a particularly
persistent wind as they do with all else. What is that saying?
Ah, yes. Grin ... and bear it.
I like my life here. Alone. Utterly and completely alone.
Working and meditating during the day and at night...
Well, well. If it isn't that wind again. Sounding a bit
taunting this time, taking credit for dreams unheeded. Of
course a man can't control his dreams, and I am still but a
man, and not quite dead yet. So, I have dreams. They are
shadows of things past, things imagined ... they are not real.
They never will be.
As ... enticing as they may be. Dreams are supposed to be
occasionally enticing. A function of the mind to reduce stress
and strain, so that one may face the day refreshed. However,
I'm not willing to give any ... wind ... credit for them yet.
No, I am more than happy to practice my trade and my Slggish.
It's a wonderfully useful language and I've learned some
amazing words in it. Of course, a Slggish mother would no doubt
wash my mouth out with a large batch of sass root upon hearing
these words, but I think they serve that irritating wind back
in equal measure.
But, in truth ... I couldn't care less.
And as for when I was fourteen, you damned....
Well, look at me. Almost speaking to a breeze. Almost turning
on and berating a big, annoying windbag full of hot air.
You must be losing your mind, Ben Kenobi, you old coot, you.
And yes, I've made my mistakes. Too many of them. Between my
own mistakes and the erroneous blame I've taken for the actions
of others, I am as deeply flawed man as any other. But let no
one be fooled into thinking that I am punishing myself for
those trivial things ... no, they should think better of me
than that.
Think better of me than some bitter, old loser in a high stakes
game of chance.
How often have I been taught by my old Master, so long ago,
that there is no chance, no luck ... there is only Fate and The
Force. And that by living the way that I do at this moment, I
am fulfilling that Fate, that Destiny that's been laid at my
door from before the day I was made a Knight.
And that I am also keeping my Word ... the only bit of honor
that may be left in this wretched, corrupt galaxy.
But, who am I speaking to. No one is here, there is just myself
and the wind and I will not listen to it anymore, I will force
it back into its proper perspective and forget it as I have
sworn myself to do.
Not matter how it intends to plague me. Or claims to give me
dreams of happiness unbounded.
Dreams of spending the rest of my life wrapped in the arms of
my beloved.
Part Three: Torment
Good morning, Obi-Wan, you look a little tired today. The
dreams? Odd, I find them quite enjoyable, even in my present
state. You're still amazingly lovely, despite your currently
chronic bad temper, particularly when aroused.
Do you remember the night we spent under the stars on Symmeta?
I don't recall quite what had me in such a randy mood, but I
kept you on the edge of orgasm for what seemed hours, until you
were all but begging for release. So primal, so lovely, hot and
aroused and all but writhing for me.
Ah, you really ought to have another cup of tea, Obi-Wan, the
morning grows hot, and remember what I taught you, water does
more good within than without. And don't forget your hat. Your
skin is still fair, and as much as it pains me to admit it,
your hair is rather fine and beginning to thin a bit at the
crown.
Ah, you started a bit just then, dare I hope that I'm finally
beginning to manage the art of touch, despite my incorporeal
self? Well, forgive me, it was a bit rude, but I'm afraid I was
always rather enchanted with the way you moved those hips and
that delectable backside.
One of these days, you're going to get tired of ignoring me and
pretending that all these twitches and mutterings are simply
the sign of increasing age and mental enfeeblement; at least I
should hope you do, I'd certainly never have claimed such at
your age. What are you now? Six and forty?
Slamming the door does no good, but if it eases your bad
temper, I'm perfectly willing to let it pass, Obi-Wan. Your
chardik needs watering, there. It should rain in the next few
days, I think, if the currents I'm feeling hold true, but
chardik is a pig for water. It was always one of your favorite
vegetables, I do believe, unless death has enfeebled my
mental abilities.
You always hated weeding, even as a small boy. If I recall,
Master Yoda would send you to weed the Temple gardens when
you'd done something particularly willful, back in your creche
days. Who was I to change a tradition? It was good for your
flexibility.
I dutifully note, watching you, that you have not only retained
flexibility, but that very delectable backside. Oh, sorry, did
I startle you? Good. I begin to feel hope that somehow, I may
actually make physical contact with you. It's odd, isn't it?
The dead are widely supposed to have no desires. Memory and
desire, however, appear to be all I still possess.
What will I touch first, I wonder? The spot I used to kiss,
right between your shoulder blades? The curve of your cheek. A
nipple? The cleft of your chin or the cleft of your ass? You're
blushing again, there's something truly sweet about seeing a
hard bitten cynic like yourself blush.
I've been applying Force to that Jellata tree, you needn't look
at it askance. A little shade in this area will do wonders for
you and the chardik. Really, I understand your
bitterness, Obi-Wan, but choosing the most hellish spot on this
Force-forsaken planet--was that really necessary? You do
plan to live until that infant is a young man, am I correct?
There's an artesian spring under that large rock at the west
corner of this hovel, by the way. If you think you can come up
with the pipe, I think we can manage to do without hiring any
of the Hutt to come out and drill for you.
I'm not sure, Obi-Wan, that your color is entirely healthy,
considering this heat, and no, I'm not going to stop. I told
you, you'd come to wish me scattered on the solar wind, did I
not? Whatever my failings, you know I never broke a promise to
you.
I never promised to live forever.
And frankly, I have suspected for some time that I was such a
creature of the flesh that eternity without you is entirely too
dull, so here I am.
The sun's getting high, Obi-Wan, I think you should take a
break, drink some water. And don't twitch that shoulder at me,
Padawan, you know I'm quite right. You aren't getting any
younger, any more than I'm getting older.
Now there's an odd thought, of course. In just a few years, you
will continue getting older, and I will stay the same. I'm
actually unsettled by that, you'll be the elder.
I'm going to meditate on that, Obi-Wan; go and get a drink of
water and rest a bit, I'll be back.
Never fear.
Part Four: Incensed
The longer I dwell here, the more amazing this "wind" insists
on becoming.
No longer content to merely annoy, it now demands
acknowledgment in ways that most living creatures wouldn't
dare.
Tormenting me in my waking hours, tormenting me in my sleep.
Feigning care over me, while mocking me in the same breath. A
strange way to seek attention, but negative attention is better
than none I'd suppose.
It dares to speak to me of times past, of memories too long
held too dear. I remember those nights of which it speaks, all
too well. They held me captive for decades, painfully so, and
colored all my labors with a grayness no amount of time could
enlighten. What happiness could I have ever had in them, when
all they did was remind me of the joys I'd so foolishly taken
for granted; that soul's joy I'd never know again.
And what else of these times past, O Wind? Should memories
erase the shadow of darkness that surrounds us now? Evil is
loosened upon our universe, an Evil for which I am to blame.
The actions of the dead were never questioned when the Order
fell, it was the deeds of the living that were held up to the
glass, examined, then condemned in the minds of all right
thinking peoples.
No, he wasn't alone in his rage, his hatred. Even for
all his power, he could not have destroyed so many thousands of
years of civilization with a single fist. It had been simmering
just below the surface for years, and we in our damnable pride
never took the time or care to notice. We were too busy living
by our precious Code, too busy avoiding the Darkness at all
cost to realize that it was lurking just outside the doors of
our gilded, fragile palace ... waiting for its Chosen One to
come.
Ah, pride. Truly the destroyer of all things.
And I'd been the proudest one of us all.
But no more. I have learned my lesson well, and have made my
vow to live as a humbled man should. Holding my hopes within
those of a stronger creature, infant that he may be. And worry
not, Wind, I will live to see him grown, for wasting all
this stubbornness after all that's happened would be far too
great an irony, even for a "hard bitten cynic" such as myself.
So, prattle and promise and torment all you wish, Wind. I will
soon prove to you that this embittered soul is not as easily
swayed as you'd like to think, no matter how tired and beaten
it may seem. Time and tragedy has taught it resilience as well
as humility, and that is a combination that is unlikely to be
overcome.
Especially by a mere breeze that speaks at the whim of a fickle
and changeable Force.
Now, I think I will rip up this chardik tomorrow. I've decided
I no longer have any taste for it, along with so many other
things I once held in such high regard.
Such as the purveyor of a stubborn Wind that refuses to let me
know a moment's worth of peace.
Part Five: Dreams
When you're sleeping Obi-Wan, I can let go of the arch humour
and simply observe you. Your dreams are troubled with images of
slaughter, of loss, of death, and can you blame me for turning
them elsewhere? Your face is younger in sleep, less lined with
care and bitterness and grief, and the moonlight silvers you
completely, removing the distinction of grey from your hair. I
can almost imagine that you are still my Padawan, the young man
I once held in my arms.
To say that I had missed you would not be stark truth; formless
and drifting in the Force, I was distantly aware of events that
transpired in your reality until he fell and his desire
for your death reached me. That inchoate hatred did more to
rouse me to full conscious awareness of the Now than
anything--I could not allow my mistakes to cause your death.
You always looked younger when you slept. When you were
younger, you held the echo of the boy inside the man. Now, you
look no older than you did the last time you touched me.
I really am disappointed in the lack of omniscience. I find
myself just as thick-headed as I ever was in life. Two moon
cycles wasted thinking I could not touch you, when all the time
the answer was in front of me. Haven't I teased you before,
using Force? I can again, now, and while you lie there, your
face cleansed of sorrow, I plan to.
You're dreaming again, dreaming of your last face to face
encounter with him. That won't do. Dwelling on these
things will only lead to bitterness, bitterness leads to hate
and hate, well, we know where that leads.
Dream of love instead, beloved. Dream of what I'm going to do,
looking down on your sleeping face; your face may still be
boyish, but your body has broadened and strengthened over the
years. You're actually quite alluring, I must say, and isn't
that astonishing? After all, I have no flesh, no nerves to
thrum with suppressed desire and passion. Yet...carefully
guiding the Force, I touch you, circling one nipple lightly and
watching it welcome me.
You murmur in your sleep, your dream interrupted, shifting to
something else, ah, much better. You're not angry at me in your
dreams, you welcome me into your arms and your bed; I press a
kiss to your throat and you make that murmuring sound again.
Lovely, lovely man, and you've denied yourself so much over the
years, my beloved, it isn't merely physical pleasure I seek to
give you, but a sense of comfort, of safety. A sense that I did
not abandon you, as you believed.
Drawing a line, butterfly light, down your chest and belly, I
see your sex stir, feel an echo within myself, despite the lack
of flesh, of nerves. I still feel desire. You are so beautiful
to me, you always were. Even as a child, though there was no
desire in my awareness then. That bright curiosity, the sense
of mischief that sometimes bled through your grave attention to
me, red-gold hair. Lithe and compact, moving with an almost
insolent grace as you gained years and confidence....yes, you
are beautiful to me still.
Strong body, and you shift in your bedding, the darkness of the
earlier dream forgotten, melting into my arms in the new. I let
myself exist in both places, in the Now and in the dream. "I
love you," I murmur, "Forgive me," I murmur, "You are my only
love," I murmur and you arch up under the Force I have used to
give an impression of weight and shape, whimpering in your
sleep.
The echo of your pleasure resonates within the energy
surrounding me, I feel it as if it were still my own, as if I
were still flesh and blood and bone and not merely a phantom
without solid form. In your dream you have forgiven me, your
mouth seals to mine, and I adjust Force to let you feel the
kiss, stroking into your mouth in an imitation of what our
bodies have done so many times, so long ago.
I can almost feel the heat of your skin, the dream and
the Now mesh and you are nearly awake, pressing your hips up
against the Force I have manipulated, I hear a small gasp torn
from you. You undulate like the sea, still not quite awake, not
quite asleep, but I speak again anyway. "I love you, forgive
me, I will never leave you again."
Another small gasp and a groan and your head falls back, I nip
at your throat, the manipulations of energy coming more easily
now, almost falling into place as if the universe had only been
waiting for me to take up what was mine. Another tweak and I
am, effectively, entering you, you cry out, and I know you are
awake now, that you cannot deny that I am here with you,
holding you, making love to you.
Surely, it's a good omen that you don't struggle to be free of
me; instead, you surrender and I touch you, or at least I use
the Force to touch you. And even though I have no body, no
flesh, no pulse, I can feel the resonance of desire and
memory and need, binding me to you, as if I were really alive
and not merely a ghost from the past.
You cry out wordlessly, a mixture of ecstasy and grief, arching
upward hard as you come, and I still feel your need, your
hunger, the power of that ecstasy, I gentle my 'touch', kiss
you as best a ghost can, your eyelids, your mouth. "Forgive
me," I whisper again, wrapping myself around you in my old
form.
You take sobbing breaths, I can't yet tell what your decision
will be. So much pain underlying the pleasure, the joy, and so
much of it to be laid at my door. The burden I laid on
you--forgive me, my beloved. I won't let go of you again, not
if we wait for generations together.
You are not alone. Even if it is merely the wind who whispers
in your ear, the wind that wraps around you in the night,
trying to offer comfort.
You are not alone. Close your eyes again, love, and sleep. Yes,
that's the way, no need for thought or decision in these small
hours of the new day. Just let yourself be comforted.
Even if it is only by the wind.
Part Six: Sunrise
Ah, Wind. I should call you cruel.
I was enjoying my anger and grief, you know. It had been
fueling me so well, for so long that your insistence on
stripping me of it and replacing it with joy was quite the
shock. I'd always assumed that anger was the only pleasure left
to me in this otherwise frozen life, but it seems that you have
taught me otherwise.
But then again, you always were the teacher, and I ever the
student, isn't that so, Wind.
So here I stand, after a night that should leave me infuriated
... outraged over the abuse of my helplessness in sleep, but
try as I might I cannot find an ounce of rage left. I suppose I
should feel the fool, a blind and stubborn one at that, but in
truth, do you know how I feel?
Blessed. Blessed with love and care. Taught the true meaning of
humility, and the honesty it requires to admit ones worst
flaws, even those our pride insists are our greatest virtues.
Such as abandoning all hope, when in truth, my life may have
just begun.
This morning, my Wind, you asked me to call you by name, to
acknowledge you as the man I once knew and loved. Dare I do
this and accept that perhaps you've grown tired of teaching a
old man who should, by now, know so much more than he does? Is
this the reason that your back is turned to me this morning, my
Wind? Have you changed your mind or must I prove that I am no
longer blind, that for the first time in so very, very long,
the sun has risen and I can finally see? If this is the case
... then so be it.
Archive 