Series: Ninth (and last) in the "Colours" series, after "Blue",
"Red", "Green", "Yellow", "Purple", "Orange", "Indigo", and
"Black".
Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at:
http://www.geocities.com/soho/studios/1126/
Rating: NC-17.
Warning: Somewhat explicit slash (m/m) content and
post-character death, so if what is implied could squick you,
don't read this; you won't miss anything. This, like the rest
of the series, is dark and angry (unlike the author, who is a
really nice person).
Archive: Yes to StarWarsfic, M_A, or anyone else who might want
it.
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault
and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for
emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted
down and killed.
Spoilers: Oh, yeah, for the end of TPM.
Summary: Obi-Wan seeks answers.
{Last one. Happy, am I. I should have mentioned before how
helpful Bush X's cd "Razorblade Suitcase" was to this series.
Do *you* feel the way you hate, or hate the way you feel?}
"White"
by MonaR.
monaram@yahoo.com
I'm afraid to remove my mouth. As long as I keep it over yours,
I can pretend that we are both breathing, instead of me alone.
Your chest rises and falls with my breath, my Master, but you
are so still, and your cheeks are wet with my tears. Did you
know that I would weep over your body? You didn't teach me how
to lose you, you know; you thought I'd be happy. I am, and
still I weep.
I thought I would be free, my Master, but I am not. You have
made sure of that, with my legacy. The boy is mine now, and you
know that I will live up to my promise to you, and to him. We
are bound in blood, in love, in death. Perhaps we will be made
to leave the Jedi - ah, but that is faint hope to hold on to.
You will be a hero in their eyes. *I* will make sure of that.
But I will know your secrets, first. The floor is cool in here;
there is air blowing in from somewhere I cannot see. I know it
will take them time to find us; I have time. I shiver even
fully dressed, but strip away my clothing, boots - everything -
until I am completely bare. It is only right that I kneel naked
before you, my Master, one last time. Let me make a pillow for
you of my tunic and trousers.
Your body is so heavy, my Master; I have never held you before,
not like this. There is blood on your tunic that is still warm.
If I touch it, perhaps I can pretend.
May I lie on your body? I never asked permission before. I
stretch over top of you, holding my arms out wide against
yours, feeling how small I am. When you were alive, I could
always pretend to be a child, small and frightened. I rub my
hard body against yours, and my cock, but even with my eyes
closed, I know that you will not wake to my touch. I wonder how
you survived all of the times that I raped you with my eyes,
and my need, without ever touching your body; I wondered how
you suffered my touch without pushing me away. I was always so
greedy for you, and you bore my lust so patiently. Could I have
loved you more than I did?
I want to rest, but there is so little time, and I want to
*know* more.
Your tunic is wet, my Master. Let me help you with it.
It isn't until I wipe away my blinding tears that I realize the
blood is on *my* hands. It stings my eyes, my Master. I taste
it, and know you, just a little, then wipe my hands on your
tunic, wetting them anew.
Oh, your body, my Master. Your body. I am ashamed to kneel
naked beside you. You are so beautiful. I want to know what it
was that made you hate your body the way that you did. Or
perhaps you were simply greedy; perhaps you knew your beauty
was so great that you could not bear to share it with me.
Always before, when I rested on top of you, I could feel your
chest rise and fall with your breath, and hear your heart beat.
Kneeling beside you, I place my hands over your heart, but you
are so still, my Master. I will not leave you alone in this
darkness. I will open your eyes, my Master, and let you see the
light.
Can you see me, my Master? Is there anything left of you inside
this beautiful, hated body? I kiss your slack lips, again and
again, thrusting my tongue inside your mouth. I want to burrow
myself in your arms, but you will not hold me. I am all alone
in this cold place. There is nothing to comfort me. Your body
is telling me no secrets; it is only telling me stories about
death, and I will not listen.
**********
My bare foot brushes something surprisingly warm. I reach for
it, blindly; I cannot stop my tears, although I keep wiping
them away with my stinging hands.
The handle is still warm, my Master; it still remembers the
death of the Sith. I have not held your weapon in my hands in
so many years, not since I built my second 'saber, the one
patterned after yours. That was your first overt assertion of
your complete control over my life, when you took the childish
blade I had lovingly crafted away from my hands, and gave me
yours, instead. 'This is what a man's sword is meant to be,'
you said, and I followed the model of your destruction. My
weapon is lost now, my Master, but I still have yours.
I light it, unthinking. It cannot offer me any warmth, unless -
The random thought startles me, opens my eyes and makes me
smile.
Should I follow you, my Master?
This flame in my hands tempts me; I hate, but I do not know if
I am strong enough to defy you even now. I have burned my body
in your name before, and it drew us closer than I could have
imagined; could I annihilate myself with your sword if it meant
that I lost you forever? Even when I close my eyes, I can see
the light burning before me, bright white flashes against my
eyelids.
I think of my promise to you: The boy, the boy. Now I am meant
to give my life to him, as I gave it to you so many years ago.
Is it never to be my own, my Master? I am a young man, and yet
I see the pattern set out before me: a life of unceasing
servitude to a cause that means to destroy what I am. We win
battles and lose wars, and I am *alone*.
Am I allowed to hate you for leaving me, or must I love you
forever, without question?
If I follow you, will you finally answer me?
**********
My eyes are burning, although my tears have stopped. I have
learned nothing from you, my Master, and I am so tired. My body
is leaden, heavy, and I can no longer hold this sword steady in
my hands. I fear that I will only hurt myself when I mean to
kill, and I do not have your taste for pain without pleasure.
You know that I will not use it; not yet. I will hide it away
among my things; I want nothing else that you have touched.
Perhaps I will take it out, from time to time, just to tempt
myself with a release from this life I am bound to in strict
servitude. Perhaps one day the light will cut through my body,
too, and I will know what you have learned from it, and the
Sith.
It is time for me to leave you, my Master. I can hear them,
finally; they are coming close. Soon they will find us here,
together. They will wonder why I do not mourn; my eyes are dry,
and I have to bite back the smile from my lips. I must remember
to show them what they want to see from me.
I am shivering from the cold which has suffused my body; my
fingers drop your weapon with a metallic clatter to the floor,
and fumble with the fastenings on my clothes. I will find
someone on this distant planet tonight, my Master, someone
sympathetic to my mourning, someone to give me comfort and warm
my body the only way I know how. I will let him taste me, feel
me, arouse me, and then I will fuck him until he screams for
mercy. When I bite into the soft hollow between his neck and
shoulder and come, my teeth will muffle the fact that it is
once again your name on my lips, as it always has been.
Soon, my Master, your coldness will disappear, as well. I will
see you consumed by those flames which will warm you forever.
I replace my tunic with yours, so that your head will not touch
the floor, and close your eyes. I cannot bear you looking at me
any longer, my Master, with your dead eyes. You are nothing to
me anymore; already, I am beginning to forget you. Perhaps
there will come a day when I shall never speak your name again,
and forget that you were ever my Master; perhaps I will sift
carefully through my memories and remove you from all of them.
Or perhaps I will give you to the boy, and let him be the
keeper of your legacy.
Oh yes, the boy. I am beginning to see what I must do with the
boy. I will be the teacher to him that you have been to me, my
Master. I will see him rise up as the Chosen One, even if it
kills me.
Even if it kills all of us.
Good-bye, my Master; I can kiss you without feeling, without
tears. I will have to remember to hide back this smile which
twitches the corners of my mouth, when they come. I replace
your weapon on my belt, turn my back, and wait. Their footsteps
are drawing near. I rub my hands over my face, and see the dark
red splashes of your blood. I have had enough of blood, and
death. I want to live.
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