Jarkai Fiction and Graphics (jarkai) wrote, @ 2008-05-27 11:37:00
4745 (Obi-Wan / Qui-Gon, PG-13) Title: 4745 (by jarkai on IJ, jarkai_fic on LJ) Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn Challenge: Inspired by tpm100's "Anniversary" prompt, but well over a 100 words. Rating: PG-13
A year has passed, and I cannot commemorate it. The most fitting gift I can think of sickens in the climate-controlled air of Coruscant. Nothing else will do, and so I have to wait. So will you.
I suspect waiting doesn't bother you quite as much as it does me.
***
A year has become five.
In his own eyes, my apprentice is now a young man. How he reminds me of myself at that age! Of course I won't tell Anakin that--he doesn't need the encouragement.
Can it really have been five years? My feelings haven't mellowed with time.
I've yet to find your gift.
***
He has become a knight, this apprentice of mine. Anakin truly is a man now, another five years older and hopefully wiser as well. There are moments when I am not so sure. Sometimes I can hardly recognize the boy I knew on Tattooine.
I feel the decade since we met him, but you never change. Your eyes are just as bright as the first time I held you. My thoughts linger on your hands every moment we are apart.
This year I became certain of where I could acquire your gift. Still, I made no move to claim it. I have begun to wonder if your present will no longer be good enough as soon as I cup it in my hands. Nothing could ever sum up how I feel after ten years, not in the end.
***
Some cultures have great superstitions concerning the number thirteen. In the past I did not believe them.
How could Anakin sweep aside all the days we shared so easily? Why can't I erase the years of distance between you and I with as little effort? Thirteen years, Obi-Wan, but I have never forgotten. I chose not to listen. He is dangerous you said, and you spoke the truth.
Gods. I can smell the Temple burning.
I never found a memory moth for you. Thirteen years have passed years since you lay in my arms, your eyes glazed with pain, your own blood thick on your hands. Four thousand, seven hundred and forty-five days. I have uttered your name on every one of them, whispered it into the wind myself. I know you would have wanted it otherwise, but I couldn't bear giving such beautiful syllables over to an insect. I tried to make my longing into a mantra instead. It remained the prayer of half a man.
I have never stopped missing you. Maul killed you, and I took his life for it, but he had already killed me, too. It simply took me this long to realize it. I know at last what I am praying for.