Sacred Lantern, Guiding Dawn (Aftermaths of Deception)
Losing himself was not the hardest part – Obi-Wan was no stranger to shadiness, not after Umbara. Not after Zygerria. The real trial, the most arduous struggle, after leaving Rako Hardeen behind, after coming back and trying to make amends – was to face himself.
Art by @sotwk for the new Thorin-centric story I wrote for Thorin's Spring Forge 2025 hosted by @thorinsspringforge .
A fic about overcoming prejudices, dealing with the aftermath of war, learning to trust once more, set three years after Azanulbizar, featuring Thorin and Dís trying to settle in Ered Luin, and introducing OFC Jóli - Dís' future husband :).
Thanks again to the wonderful TSF25 mod team: I too love you for your efforts, your kindness and all the time you put into this beautiful event.
Take care everyone, Meysun.
T.A. 2802.
Three years after the Battle of Azanulbizar, King Thráin II has decided to settle in the Blue Mountains (Ered Luin) with what is left of his kin and the Longbeards. War led to grievous losses among the Dwarves, and the long-fragile mind of the King does not seem entirely sound anymore, but his faithful adviser Balin and his daughter Dís are there to keep their settling smooth.
The Broadbeam and Firebeard Dwarves in Ered Luin are guarded in their welcoming: their toll has been heavy too, and King Thrór used to look down on them, deeming them as poor, uncouth and unlikely to serve him in war. King Thráin however does not seem to share this view: he led them in battle and has negotiated a fair blood price with Jónar son of Jarar, who speaks for the Ered Luin Dwarves.
Thráin’s now only remaining son Thorin, called Oakenshield since war, has just arrived in Ered Luin with his shield-brother Dwalin. Both have strived tirelessly, safe-guarding caravans of Men between Rohan, Dunland and Gondor to bring back coins for the now brought-low Longbeard Dwarves.
At only 56 years-old (almost 23 in Human equivalent), Thorin’s reputation precedes him: a fierce, closed-off warrior who has slain the Pale Orc Azog, but whose beard is cut close to the skin, warding-off questions. Making new friends and getting settled does not appear to be the young Prince’s priority. However, when a series of cave-ins threaten the iron-mines’ safety, Thorin seems eager to investigate.
It falls to Jóli, son of Jónar and young miner of 46 (around nineteen in Human equivalent), to take Thorin down the mines with his friend Bofur, and a few other Dwarves – a task he accepts reluctantly, thinking very little of battle-deeds, Kings and haughty, overbearing Princelings.
I know, I have been more active in the Star Wars fandom these past years, and rather silent for... two years, gosh. I am so sorry, and I hope you are all well out there.
I am so happy to announce that I *finally* managed to come back to my first beloved fanfiction-character, namely Thorin Oakenshield.
Ten years ago (oh dear...), I have undertaken to write his whole life in a series called The King Of Carven Stone.
The original story can be found here, but I reedited it and published the parts separately on A03 (first link above).
The last instalment is called A Thief's Promise and is set in Tharbad, where Thorin falls in love for the first time and goes through his first rift with his shieldbrother Dwalin.
If you are Thorin fans as well, this is for you, and I hope you will enjoy it. It is sooooo good to be back!!
Take care and all the best for the year to come, Meysun.
RULES: Share the last line you wrote for your WIP and tag as many people as there are words.
Not totally sure bc I write out of order, but here's what might have been my last line from Five Peggats Each:
Obi-Wan is running fingers through Anakin’s hair, and their bond in the Force is pulsing with hush’s and shh’s that peel the pain from Anakin’s nerves.
“Did you get it?” Anakin asks without opening his eyes.
No-pressure tagging @kcrabb88, @hellotemporaryuniverse, @bucketking, @geodax, @kckenobi, @star-byrd, @maiaspen, @strrne, @glitter-glitch13, @jenniferperry12, @tessiete, @ijustreallylovedaredevil, and anyone else who wants to! (There is no exception to "anyone else who wants to." Yes, I mean you. I love reading excerpts. ^_^)
The way I am so excited for the next chapter @kenobster YOU DO NOT KNOW!
RULES: Share the last line you wrote for your WIP and tag as many people as there are words.
Thank you for the tag. Shockingly, I am currently working on a little Korkie/Vader one shot. What is that? Vadie? Korder?
Anyway. Trust me. It'll work.
The cell they bring him to is small and cold. It is deep within the bowels of Vader’s ship. No light, not even the weak starlight of deep space, penetrates there. Korkie examines it with a raised brow and a tidy moue of disdain.
“Not even a bucket. My dear Lord Vader, have you truly no heart?”
Thank you @tessiete for tagging me and not giving up on me!
I am back in the StarWars fanfiction world, with the last chapter of my post-Deception fic called Sacred Lantern, Guiding Dawn, where Obi-Wan has to deal with the aftermath of faking his death.
Last sentence there belongs, for now, to Jocasta Nu.
Obi-Wan smiled at her, then – a real, spontaneous smile that brought some light back into his eyes. And Jocasta quietly found her second joy of the evening, in that tiny spark causing his entire being and Force-signature to brighten.
In the Archives and in her mind, all was righted indeed.
It does not tell much, but Cody is coming in the next chapter :-).
I'm tagging @sirikenobi12 @pandora15 @kckenobi @stolen-pen-name23 @sandfordsmostwanted @calltomuster and everyone who feels like it.
Sacred Lantern, Guiding Dawn (Aftermaths of Deception)
Losing himself was not the hardest part – Obi-Wan was no stranger to shadiness, not after Umbara. Not after Zygerria. The real trial, the most arduous struggle, after leaving Rako Hardeen behind, after coming back and trying to make amends – was to face himself.
Sacred Lantern, Guiding Dawn (Aftermaths of Deception)
Losing himself was not the hardest part – Obi-Wan was no stranger to shadiness, not after Umbara. Not after Zygerria. The real trial, the most arduous struggle, after leaving Rako Hardeen behind, after coming back and trying to make amends – was to face himself.
Part 7 of Threading the Way - initially part of Jedi June 2021, now just a pretext to tell you I’m still there and still loving Obi-Wan and all the Jedi :).
54 BBY.
The child was quiet, sitting in the bathwater, watching the wooden boat, small hands resting beneath him, ready to push himself up. Ready to flee. Despite his stillness, Obi-Wan was always ready to flee. Ready to disappear.
Vokara smiled at him and Force-brushed the boat, allowing it to flow past Obi-Wan’s knee, past his thigh that was healing nicely. The fever was gone, as well, and the little boy was more alert now – grey eyes taking everything in, shields slammed shut so tightly that brushing against them felt like trying to crack a nut without breaking it.
The water was warm, but they had not got to wetting his hair. Obi-Wan had let her undress him, had let her put him in the bathtub without any sign of protest – yet Vokara was reluctant to pour water all over his face without a sign that he was ready. Ready to play, to relax, to be the three-year-old child he was.
Obi-Wan watched the boat bob against his knee. He had felt her Force-brush, she had known from the shiver going through his shields. And, after what seemed more that the few seconds it was, the boy lifted his hand and pushed the boat away from him. Softly, without using the Force. Not hardly enough for it to clash against the tub, or to make more than a splashing sound.
“The Force is welcome here”, Vokara told him gently. “It is allowed, Obi-Wan. We can play with it if you want.”
Splash. Obi-Wan’s hand went down in the water, cutting her speech. The droplets sprayed up high, wetting his face and hair.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
The little boy repeated the motion, without a word, shields quivering with what could only be described as grief, now that it was bursting forth.
No words. Owen. I want Owen. Not play. No words. No words.
He was so small. So mute, facing her with his now-damp hair and bright grey eyes, face scrunched up with everything he was holding in, trying to be brave yet forgetting, in those precious instants, that he was also trying to please. Vokara picked up the boat, fished it from the tube and placed it on the ground beneath them.
No words, Obi-Wan.
She placed her hand in the water and mimicked his gesture. Splashed at the injustice. At the heartbreak of a child who had left his non-Force-sensitive brother behind, who had been chased by his people because he lifted things and charmed animals – who could not comprehend yet why it was better for him, better for his brother Owen, that he was brought away from Stewjon to the Jedi Temple, where the Force was allowed and cherished.
You are not alone.
Water splashed on her robe and Obi-Wan’s eyes widened, but Vokara simply repeated the gesture, trying to convey to him that she understood. That she was there. That they would find a way.
Obi-Wan’s stillness broke, then, arms and legs flaying, spraying water high on the bathtub’s walls, throwing a silent storm – and there was a crack in his shields, a tiny opening letting emotions out, pouring between them and into the Force.
And when it was over, when all the bathtub harboured was a tiny, completely wet and somewhat exhausted boy, Vokara smiled at him, cupped her hand and poured warm water on his shoulder, experimentally.
“You’re a little fish, I see…”, she told him. “A very brave little fish.”
He smiled at her, then, shuddering slightly as the warm water met his skin, in that open, trusting, fully-in-the-moment way that was the privilege of childhood – and Vokara knew she was allowed now, and poured water across his hair.
Obi-Wan blinked, and then he sought her eyes and smacked his lips, almost soundlessly.
That’s how fishes say hello.
She laughed then, ladling shampoo on his hair and scrubbing it clean. He did not talk, not until the bath was finished, and Obi-Wan draped in a soft bathrobe, back on his bed in the Halls’ children’s ward. She was combing a hand through his wet strands of hair, arranging them nicely, and Obi-Wan’s eyelids were drooping.
“Fishes talk all the time”, he whispered, in that half-broken, half-chirping tone of his. “They like talking.”
She smacked her lips at him and he laughed, softly, like a little bell. And then he curled up, face searching for her palm, and closed his eyes, shields still up, but not tight anymore. She stroked his forehead, watching him fall asleep, sending gentle Force-currents towards him. And she promised the Force, wordlessly, that she would help that little fish to swim and laugh in its currents, without fear, learning to leave grief and anxiety behind.
Sacred Lantern, Guiding Dawn (Aftermaths of Deception)
Losing himself was not the hardest part – Obi-Wan was no stranger to shadiness, not after Umbara. Not after Zygerria. The real trial, the most arduous struggle, after leaving Rako Hardeen behind, after coming back and trying to make amends – was to face himself.
I’ve been seeing a lot of amazing posts lately thanking fanfic writers for that good, good content that we’re all disappearing into right now. And I love these posts, and FUCK YES, the healing power of art during these rough times, it can’t be said enough. But I feel like there’s something missing from these posts, and that’s the readers.
A lovely friend of mine recently shared something with the caveat that they “contribute basically nothing to fandom” and I was fucking floored. Like. This person has made playlists for fic, and shared art, and reached out to me to talk about my stories and other stories and like - that is the Work. They made me feel like my shitty writing was good enough to share, and that made me write more, and connected me with more people, and that sort of contribution doesn’t get acknowledged enough. I don’t write fiction because I have to, or for the likes or hits or whatever; I write it because I have a story I want to tell. On the days when my brain is cooperating, writing is a pleasure. On the days when my brain isn’t cooperating, comments from readers make my words feel meaningful anyway. This isn’t a one-way street, a producer/consumer situation. Or at least, it doesn’t feel like that to me. And my best writing has been done when people are holding me accountable, or are pushing me to do better and I’m so grateful for that. And so grateful for you.
So. To the readers who comment on every chapter. To the readers who leave thoughtful essays in the comments and the readers who leave 😭❤️😱 or keysmashes. To the readers who are inspired for the first time to make art or write something themselves. To the readers who leave kudos. To the readers too anxious to comment (I’ve been there, sat in a space where I had no idea how to express how a story made me feel) and the fandom ghosts who dip in and read and vanish.
To readers who like or reblog or share or rec or send messages or don’t do any of these things.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for building this community.
Singer Aled Jones who sang the boy’s voice in The Snowman made a duet with his younger self. Such a perfect way to show us how the adult in us can still meet the child - adding maturity, remembrance and knowledge to innocence and hope :).
Even symbolic support is not meaningless; with every such gesture you are preventing the claim that no one cares, no one opposes, no one disagrees, no one minds.
Part 6 of Threading The Way - a super late contribution to Jedi June, dedicated to @tessiete who loves Obitine and writes them like no other.
20 BBY.
“I am not besotted with you.”
Satine’s words broke the soft, contented silence of the room with the preciseness of a stylet. It was dim around them, dim but not dark, since she had kept a small lamp lit because she loved to see him, whenever she was with him.
And so it was that Obi-Wan’s somewhat mystified expression was not lost on her. He had lain there below her, on the verge of falling asleep, hair mussed and cheeks still somewhat flushed – but now he pushed himself up on his elbows.
“I… had no doubts about that, I guess?”
He was almost smiling, but she could sense a hint of insecurity in the way he was searching her face. Trying to read her, in that Jetii way of his – but she had the upper hand here. Always had the upper hand with him, somehow.
“I’m not lost without you.”
She was speaking very calmly, sitting cross-legged on the silken sheets, and Obi-Wan – Obi-Wan reached out for his inner tunic and wrapped it around himself, wordlessly, waiting for her to elaborate.
“I don’t think you are the sun around which my world revolves.”
Her hand smoothened the sheets, silently. Just once.
“I don’t need you.”
He had been watching her attentively, and at those words she saw something change in the grey depths of his eyes. Emotion surged, very briefly, brightening them with sadness, with longing, but when Obi-Wan looked up, there was no unrest in his features. No anger, no pain.
“I know. I have always known”, he said softly. “Of course you do not need me.”
“People think, you know. They think I need a consort. They think Mandalore would be stronger with me marrying. But there was no partner, no consort at my side when I rebuilt Mandalore. There is no partner, no consort at my side when I sign treaties, make decisions for my people, when I take advice from my council. I am as whole as any ruler, with or without a consort.”
“You are.”
“I am not the kind of woman who needs someone to worship her. I am not worshipping you. I am not going to throw myself into fits of passion or jealousy because of you. First because I am worthier than that. Second because it would be ridiculous.”
“I concur.”
“Are you mocking me, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
Her eyes flashed, for a while, and his crinkled as he smiled, finally.
“No. You simply bring me joy.”
This silenced her, effectively, and she stared down at him who had sit up, sheets pooling around his waist, leaning against the headboard. He looked so intimate. So familiar. And he was. And he was not.
“I do not want you to need me. To be obsessed with me. To think you cannot live without me. To think I am the sun of your life, that you are lost and in the darkness without me.”
He extended his hand towards hers, gently entwined their fingers.
“I used to think I was. After that year together… when we parted.”
His thumb brushed her knuckles, softly.
“I was so in love with you. I wanted to give you my everything. Give up the Jedi Order for you. Be at your side forever. Worship you, mind and body. And you…”
He smiled, almost sadly.
“You had grasped everything. You let me go. You had Mandalore to rebuilt, your people to be there for. You did not need me, not really. You could have had me. But you knew me. You saw me. Better than I saw and knew myself, at the time. And you did not say the word. You let me go. And… all the people, Satine, all the people who have loved me most, whom I have loved most – they all let me go.”
She felt something burn, at the corner of her eyes. Her fingers clasped his, and Obi-Wan brushed her skin again.
“To know you do not need me – it makes being with you unique. It frees me, instead of binding me. It makes things… flow. Makes them easier than they should be. It makes me love you more. Because I see you as the whole, wonderful woman you are, because of you, and no other.”
“But…”
She watched a tear fall on the sheets. Realised it was hers. That she felt lighter that she had in years, even with that strange longing gripping her chest.
“Don’t you think it is strange? To feel that way? To be that way? To want it that way?”
His other hand found her cheek. Brushed another tear away.
“I do not think so.”
He paused for a while, gathering his thoughts, as she so well knew. He loved to spar with words, and she had learned during their year together which to employ to draw him ballistic, and out of his shell. But to the core, Obi-Wan was a private, reflective man who treasured silence as a room for his thoughts.
“I think it is rare. And precious. We are adults, Satine. Not teenagers on the run.”
He smiled at her.
“You have an entire planet to rule. And I… I am a Jedi. You have Korkie. And I have Anakin and Ahsoka. You are the leader of the Council of Neutral System. And I am a High General of the GAR. Of course you do not need me.”
“Do you need me? Are there moments where… you need me?”
He did not answer for some time. And so it was her turn to extend her hand, and to lift his face towards her.
“There are moments”, he whispered, finally. “Moments where… I am not a Jedi. Not a General. Just a… just a man. When the Force feels too flimsy, when it does not make sense. When I miss closeness. When I am confused. When I just need.”
He fell silent again.
“And what do you do then, Obi?”, she asked, heart heavy for him.
And for herself, because she knew what he was speaking of.
“I imagine myself talking to you. Hearing your views about it. Wrinkling your nose about that needless violence and that war and everything.”
He laughed, silently, but she knew him.
“I think of poetry and fine words and gestures and moments where you painted me, in the Force, where you defined me. Like a constellation, as others before you, as others after you. So that I know where I am. Who I am. Find myself again.”
“Not just me?”
“Not just you”, Obi-Wan answered, quietly. “Sometimes I… Sometimes I let others close. I let them hold me. And I hold them.”
Silence fell again between them. The light painted golden shadows on his hair, on his face, on those long, capable fingers still entwined with hers.
He did not give her names. He did not need to. It was not important. She did not need to know who held him, if it was in brotherhood or in friendship, in desire or in fear – it all amounted to love in the end.
“I am glad you do.”, she answered, and then she leaned towards him, let their lips meet, her hands leave his to find his chest again, wrapping herself around him.
“I love you, Obi-Wan Kenobi”, she whispered in the darkness, because he had switched off the light with a flick of the wrist, cradling her against him, kissing her back.
“And I you, Satine Kryze, who thank the Force does not need me.”
She laughed aloud, then. And he silenced her with a kiss, smiling into her very lips, because those words were both ridicule and true. Because they were adults. And because their constellation kept moving yet stayed the same somehow, sometimes shrouded, sometimes sparkling – a landmark in their skies.
Art by @rrrainbo and part 5 of ‘Threading the Way’, set just after S05E01 ‘Reviving’.
20 BBY.
Dusk was setting in, wedging itself through the Coruscanti neon, but it was the stillness, in the Force, above the Senate and around them - this eerie quiet that told Mace the silent offerings gathering on the hems of his robe, like perfect stardust, were snowflakes and not rain.
They were all silent, but none of them was truly still, each of their signatures like beacons in the Force. Skywalker was peering at the invisible clouds above them, looking every bit the boy he still was – vibrant and ever-spinning, yet spellbound by the falling snow. Yoda was leaning against his stick, ember eyes lost in thought. And Obi-Wan – their young, steady friend was fiddling with his vambraces, arms gathered against his chest.
“We should go”, Skywalker said, finally. “Nothing much left to do here.”
“Plans you have, in the Temple, my great-grand-Padawan, hm?”
Yoda gently tapped the boy behind the knees and Skywalker smiled, before glancing towards Obi-Wan and becoming serious again, face tinged with something like concern.
“Let’s go, Master.”
His tone was unusually soft, because Obi-Wan was still tinkering with his armguards, in an odd reminder of Skywalker’s usual fidgeting. Their young friend’s shields were tight as ever, but this was something so distinctly not him that Mace gently laid a hand on his elbow.
Obi-Wan’s eyes were half-lidded, gazing inwards, and he never looked up, never paid attention to the flakes slowly wetting his hair and tabards. He was breathing quietly, fingers unbuckling his vambraces, features lax as if asleep – but the Force was cradling him, flowing deeply through him. Flooding him.
“Master?”
No answer from Obi-Wan. Just a quiet little sigh, as his forearms sled free from the armguards he gathered carefully against his chest.
“Is he…?”
Yoda gently tapped Anakin’s knee again.
Quiet, we all should be.
“Mistaken”, Obi-Wan let out, voice soft. “Stardust.”
He blinked, very slowly, and then he whispered: “Stirring. Mistaken.”
A stray flake was melting on his cheekbone, running quietly along his jaw, and then Mace saw a shudder going through him – and Obi-Wan straightened, blinking somewhat confusedly up at him, eyes travelling from Mace’s hand on his shoulder to the vambraces cradled against him.
“Are you with us, my friend?”, Mace asked quietly, and Obi-Wan nodded, fingers tightening against his chest.
“Forgive me, I…”
“Obi-Wan, how hard did you hit your head on Florrum?”, Anakin interrupted. “Can you see my fingers? How many am I holding up?”
“Two.”
Now that exasperated tone sounded like Obi-Wan again, and Mace gently pushed him towards their waiting airbus.
“What was that about, Master?”
“Let’s get back to the Temple”, Mace cut in. “We have lingered enough here.”
The airbus took off, and they all sat down, the snowflakes painting frozen rivers on the windows as they passed skyscrapers and speeders. Mace was closest to Obi-Wan, and after a while, he quietly shrugged out of his robe, wrapping it around his young friend, who was fading fast now that he was warmer, brow slowly tilting towards the window.
Obi-Wan straightened slightly, but did not open his eyes, Force-signature slowly unwinding as his forehead found the window once more.
“Something’s wrong with him”, Skywalker uttered, quietly, signature tightening and sharpening like a blade. “He doesn’t feel like himself.”
“Barely slept, Obi-Wan has, ever since he came back.”
Yoda’s voice was tinged with both sadness and concern.
“Brought Master Gallia back to us, he has. Stand vigil for her, despite his injuries, your Master has insisted to. Welcome her passing into the Force, an ordeal it has been, for all of us. A sun and guide, Master Adi Gallia was, to all of us, especially the younglings.”
“He should have gone with me”, Anakin muttered, frown deepening. “I don’t get why he didn’t take me…”
“Personal, it was already, for your Master. Even more personal to become, it did not need, Skywalker. Revenge, Maul is seeking. Forget this, you must not.”
“But…”
“But nothing”, Mace interrupted. “The Chancellor has been very clear, and we already discussed it. If Maul has indeed survived, we will wait for him to move, and strike back then.”
Insufferable as Skywalker could be, Obi-Wan’s still, sleeping form seemed to be a reason enough for him to back down.
“Obi-Wan said it was a mistake. You heard him.”
Or perhaps not. Mace simply lifted an eyebrow, and Skywalker raised both hands in mock surrender, making him snort despite himself.
Quiet now. Let him rest.
Oddly enough, Skywalker obeyed – not even smirking or commenting it when Obi-Wan stepped out of the airbus, bowed to them still half-asleep and left for his quarters wrapped in Mace’s robe.
“This is yours. I do not really see how I managed to forget it.”
It was barely a rotation later, and Mace was lingering in the Council room after their last meeting, making a few notes on his data-pad. Obi-Wan was standing a few feet aside, holding his freshly washed, pressed and neatly folded robe – and he looked better indeed, less pale and haunted, though still worn and definitely too thin.
“Same goes for this Council meeting.”
“You did not forget. I excused you.”
“Without telling me? Surely, Mace…”
“Surely, Obi-Wan, you cannot deny the benefits of a good night’s rest.”
It warmed Mace’s heart to see that these past years, they had grown close enough for Obi-Wan to allow himself to let annoyance seep through his shields.
“A tad, perhaps.”
“Now if you could also be brought to see the benefits of several hearty meals…”
“This is just patronizing.”
Mace was smiling at him, and after a while, Obi-Wan smiled back, handing him his robe, bowing slightly.
“A few years ago, I seem to remember a certain scrawny, sharp-witted Padawan who used to squirm whenever I used those precise words.”
“Make it decades, Mace. I’m no longer scared, nor scrawny…”
The words had started in jest, but the thoughts that burst unexpectedly from Obi-Wan’s lowered shields were anything but.
Nor that sharp-witted Padawan.
Grief. Pain - unbearable loss – no more – he rammed into her chest and stabbed her and I just stood there, I just stood there…
Obi-Wan’s shields slammed back shut - were it not for the brightness in his eyes and the absolute stillness in his posture, Mace would have thought he had imagined everything.
He had stood up to gather the robe from Obi-Wan’s hands. He gently placed it on the armrest, eyes never leaving his friend’s face.
“Obi-Wan, this is not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
“But it is.”
Tears were brimming in his eyes, but Obi-Wan was not crying. Unlike the day he had stood before them, telling them about his fight against Maul and his first brush against true Darkness. His friend had worked hard towards balance, and overcome this trial.
“I unhinged him. And he is going to kill more people, to sow more hatred and destruction. Just like Dooku – who also escaped.”
“Obi-Wan…”
“There is a way to bear this”, Obi-Wan whispered. “I know there is. I know what you want to tell me, what you want me to hear and understand. I know this, Mace. I just…”
Earnest, grey eyes met his – without defiance, without anger. It was not in Obi-Wan’s nature, never had been. His friend had always been accepting, finding quiet happiness in watching others unfold, and even mirth when his plans were barred by his own Padawan. There was so much joy and humour, deep within his signature, yet Mace had watched them be buried further and further behind his very shields.
“It is not the right way. What we are doing. We do not have time to think, and plan, and assess the situation at hand. We keep running from one war to the other. And everything… everything we built, every careful result we achieved, it is crumbling away, for people like Maul to take and destroy.”
“You said we were mistaken.”
Mace’s voice was quiet. He was not touching Obi-Wan, but he was projecting gentle comfort and care towards his young friend.
“After the meeting. You said we were mistaken. And you spoke of stardust, as well.”
“Stardust?”
Obi-Wan looked genuinely confused, and then his shoulders slumped.
“I have no idea what that means.”
He was fiddling with the hem of his tunics, once more, and Mace felt his frustration, his annoyance at himself and the Force, at those visions and episodes of clairvoyance that always brought more questions than answers. His friend was radiating clear projections of what-do-you-want-with-me, and the Force was quietly swirling around him, wrapping gentle currents around his shoulders and chest.
“What I do know, however, is that we spent years and years in trying to map out the Crime syndicates, which are now free to grow unharmed. And I heard what Maul told me. I have plans, Kenobi. Those were his very words, Mace. So, despite what the Chancellor may think, I do not think we have closure. On the contrary. I think we are very close to facing another battle front. And I think our strength grows thin.”
“Do you think he may join Dooku?”
Mace’s voice was calm, and Obi-Wan seemed to find solace in it.
“No”, he said after a while, shaking his head. “I think… I do not think there is room for both of them.”
“Then, my dear friend, let us hope they will weaken one another. We can also try to look at it from another perspective: should Maul rise indeed, it is not just us he will threaten, but also Dooku and the Separatists. Not all the battles against him will be our own, Obi-Wan. As you said it – unlike us, Sith do not thrive in numbers.”
Obi-Wan’s hands twisted his tunics one last time, and then his young friend exhaled, letting his arms fall at his side, some of the mute anguish in his eyes fading away.
“We are not blind, then?”, he asked, softly, and Mace smiled at him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Duty, yet awareness, Obi-Wan. This is how I bear it, my friend.”
He was so young still. So quiet in his grief, and so unused to voicing his frustrations and fears – Mace was grateful for his trust, and for the way Obi-Wan accepted his silent comfort through the Force.
“I miss her too, Obi-Wan. I know she is around us, one with the Force. And I also know she passed knowing she did her duty, and confident you would do yours. After all, Obi-Wan, balance is something she mastered very early. And tried to pass on, from gym lessons to younglings, to the Jedi Council.”
His friend just nodded – grief was still muting most of his words. And yet… as dusk was setting in once more around the Temple’s spires, Mace found himself smiling, hearing the animated noises coming from one of the inner yards.
“Come on, Snips, let’s do it, faster!”
Ahsoka was spinning in the Force, turning cartwheel after cartwheel, chasing Skywalker through the courtyard. And Obi-Wan was holding very still, young Gungi standing up on his very shoulders, one hand braced against young Katooni’s ankle, who was holding a perfect handstand, palms buried in the snow.
“I will let go now, Katooni.”
“But Master Kenobi, I don’t think I…”
“I think you do, dearest. Close your eyes. Pay no attention to the coldness or the ground. Just find your body’s centre, and when you do… You will see yourself perfectly balanced.”
He smiled when he let go of her, and when the child stayed still in the Force, eyes closed and face unburdened. And later, he laughed, once Gungi had jumped from his shoulders, and when young Petro asked him to do a handstand himself.
“I’m not Master Vos”, he told them, eyes soft with fondness. “But I will try.”
No vambraces, on his friend’s forearms. Nothing showing he was not just a Jedi Master, but also a General. Obi-Wan’s forearms were bare, but the cold was nothing to him as he bent, gracefully, placing a palm against the snow and lifting his body until he was holding a perfect handstand.
“That’s nothing”, Skywalker piped in, handing snowballs to the amazed Initiates. “Try hitting him with these, and then we will talk about balance.”
The excited shrieks coming through the courtyard made Mace chuckle, then smile when he saw that Obi-Wan’s cherry boots were still perfectly upright, notwithstanding the storm of snowballs that were hurled at him.
Master Adi Gallia would have been proud. Mace knew she was.
“We shall bear it”, he said, softly, watching his friend break his handstand, standing soaked and smiling in front of the Initiates.
Obi-Wan extended his arms, and promptly had his hands full of a young Tolothian, a little boy, a tiny Nautolan and a small fierce Wookie.
And a wonderful holiday time to all of you, especially @sirikenobi12 @sandfordsmostwanted @mindmysimplesoul @calltomuster @stolen-pen-name23 @tessiete @lightasthesun @swbumblebee and @kckenobi !
Take care and till soon in the fanfic world I hope, Meysun.
Art by rrrainbo - the whole piece of art can be found here - and Part 3 of Threading The Way.
41 BBY.
Silence and stillness were not words Master Tholme associated often with his larky, brash and unpredictable Padawan. Quinlan burned hot, full of life and full of energy – turning their lives and mission into the warm chaos Tholme had grown to cherish. His Padawan was streetwise, strong and deceptively obvious about his feelings and needs – meaning he did the opposite, precisely when he needed him the most.
Because Quinlan was so streetwise, deceptive and wary he had already adopted Coruscant’s lower levels code as his own. Don’t tell them what you need and they won’t own you.
But he didn’t own him. And never would, Force help him.
Tholme placed his palm against the sensor and let the door glide open. It shut noiselessly behind him – as it should. Noise was the last thing Quin needed right now, huddled on the narrow cot, socked feet tucked under him, gloves on, heaving quietly in a bucket, shivers racking his lanky frame.
Go away. Leave me ‘lone.
The words were weak in the Force, Quin’s shields almost non-existent and Tholme felt it all – the helplessness, the anger, the despair and the shame, as well as the overwhelming sensation of too much, not-my-thoughts, not-my-feelings, whirled around, I-feel-sick.
Quin spat in the bucket, angry tears leaking out of eyes darker than the room, and Tholme sat down beside him, quietly, wrapping them both in a Force-bubble that silenced the ship around them.
“I can hold that”, he told his Padawan, voice not above a whisper. “I have the blanket.”
‘kay.
Quin’s voice was small in the Force, and Tholme released his own heartbreak right there, because the boy was sixteen and yet so young still. He removed the small vacuum-bag from his belt and unfolded the old, worn blanket that smelt of Quin and nothing else. And then he wrapped it around his Padawan, mindful not to touch his bare skin, and freed Quinlan’s icy hands from their death-grip around the bucket.
Quin instantly grabbed the blanket, shuddered and went absolutely still, matted locks plastered to his forehead, sweat and tears glistening on his tattoo as he heaved in breath after breath.
“S-someone used that bucked as… as a… h-helmet once.”
“Shh.”
“It’s t-true.”
“I know, mockingbird. Deep breaths.”
“Y-yeah.”
His Padawan was still shivering, but the heaving had stopped and Tholme could feel Quinlan begin to calm down, now that the sensory overload was reduced to a minimum and that all he was touching was his.
“Small sips, Padawan. You need to rehydrate.”
“Don’t w-want to.”
But Quin still accepted the bottle, wrapping shaky fingers around it and obediently swallowing a few sips. Tholme glanced at him, and then, very carefully, he wormed his arm between the wall and his Padawan, leaning the blanketed form against his side – carefully leading the Force-currents away from them.
“Ugh.”
His Padawan folded around the bucket, and expelled the sips of water and what seemed to be the last remaining drops in his body, judging from the way Quin sagged against him afterwards.
“No more”, Quin whispered, burying his face first in the blanket, and then into Tholme’s tabard. The Jedi Master levitated the bucket away and tucked the boy against him, breathing very quietly.
I don’t know how to be me anymore.
“Shh… You are here, mockingbird. Tucked against me.”
I don’t know how to be sure that it’s me feeling.
“Shh…”
It’s my blanket? I’m…
“Yes. It’s yours. Not washed. Not bleached. Quinlan Vos to the bone.”
A quiet huff that could have been a sob, because this was his Padawan – a maelstrom of jumbled contradictions that made such perfect sense, nonetheless.
“What did they say? What did everybody say?”
“Shh, Padawan. They don’t understand us, most of the time.”
“I’m sorry I lost my gloves.”
“And I’m sorry I forgot your spare ones, mockingbird.”
“Not your fault, Master.”
Quinlan felt somewhat steadier in the Force, face warm against his chest, shields slowly rising once more. Tholme carefully brushed Quin’s back and felt his Padawan huddle even more against him.
“Padawan, you know we need to talk about what happened, don’t you?”
Quin just sniffed, turning to stone against him, and Tholme allowed them both a few seconds of silence.
“He did that to several girls.”
Quin’s voice was shredded against him.
“He spiked their drinks. Brought them in that room. What he did… they were unconscious. Always. They always woke up in the street, confused and – hurting. I felt it… w-when I touched the bed. I f-felt… what he f-felt.”
His Padawan was clinging to him now, dark-faced, dark-locked, dark-eyed and yet fighting darkness with all he had in him.
“I n-never want to feel that again. I don’t want to b-be like that. I don’t w-want to turn into h-him.”
“You won’t. You never will.”
Tholme’s whisper was fierce and his embrace around his Padawan even fiercer.
“You convicted him, Padawan. We chased him, thanks to you, until that very room. And he will never harm anyone again.”
“What if… what if… it all mixes up? What if… it becomes blurred and I… I forget h-how to… That it’s n-not me… What if it changes me…?”
“Shh, mockingbird. Breathe. Breathe along with me, for a while.”
His Padawan was exhausted, and deeply shocked – Tholme made a mental note to take him to the mind-healers as soon as they would be home. And probably to introduce him to the Shadows-debriefing sessions, along with the Padawans that had also chosen that hard, ruthless yet essential path.
“You sift them, Quin. Those feelings and memories and behaviour-patterns. You sift them, like shells caught into a net your brain weaves around the Force-currents flowing through us all. Yes, you felt what he felt. Saw what he saw. Understood what his desires, motives, and thoughts were. And that way, you painted him crystal clear. You framed him. But you never became him.”
Another quiet sniff, against his very chest.
“I didn’t know people could be like that.”
“People can be driven by passions. It makes them do the worst. But it can also enable them to do impossibly brave and loving things.”
“I’m passionate.”
“Yes, mockingbird. You are”, Tholme said, voice warm, arms safely wrapped around his Padawan. “But I know you will learn how to sift through these passions. How to control them, and to be serene enough to know the world as it is, without feeling unbalanced.”
Quin stayed quiet for a moment, then heaved a big sigh, letting the blanket free his face and leaning his cheek against Tholme’s chest.
“I want to go home”, the boy said, quietly.
“I know, Padawan. Just half a rotation and we’ll be there.”
“Don’t… don’t tell them. Nara, Kit… and Obi. Promise me you won’t tell them.”
“Tell them what, Quinlan? How brave and resourceful you are?”
“Don’t tell them about the man.”
Quin’s voice had become awfully quiet.
“I don’t want them to know. Not yet. They are… I think they are too young. See what I mean, Master? I don’t want… I don’t want to be the one who makes them find out.”
Stillness, and quiet once more. But this time, they were bathed by something that was purely and only Quinlan, shining with fierce protectiveness and loyalty.
“Of course, Padawan. I won’t tell them.”
A small, last sniff.
“’kay.”
Quin nuzzled even more against him, and Tholme placed a hand against his shoulder-blade, squeezing it quietly.
“Master?”
Quin’s voice had taken another tone – the one when he knew Tholme couldn’t refuse him anything, like the rascal he also was.
“Can you scratch my back? Just for a little bit, I promise.”
Laughter bubbled deep within Tholme’s chest, because Quin was slowly becoming his true self again.
“Sure thing, mockingbird. I can scratch your back.”
And I’ll have your back as well, Padawan, he silently vowed. Until you won’t need me anymore, because you will know who you have become.
Jedi Master Tholme gently dimmed the Force-bubble, allowing the ship to come back to life around them, and scratched his Padawan’s back until he fell asleep against him, serene in his slumber like the child he was no more, and yet…
Okay I know I'm super late. I just came back from the cinema where I finally watched 'Dune'. And I'm reading it now - not being among the readers who knew the story long before its adaptations.
And I came out thinking that not only is this story powerful, shaking, terrible and the visual experience truly this - an experience. But also feeling that... hey. Hey. Major similarities with Star Wars here. And Dune was *prior*.
Arrakis and Tatooine, the Fremen and the Sand People, the Emperor, the Space Guild, Spices, Imperial Armies, even what Paul Atreides experiences as 'awakening' can be linked to something like the Force. And the sandworms?Come on.
Of course Star Wars expanded to its own universe with ramifications and characters and stories of their own. And it's fine.
But... so should Dune. It's less known, for now. And it will probably change.
It's just... I can't get over the feeling that much of Star Wars was inspired from Dune. Without acknowledging it - or perhaps I just missed it.
Anyway - the beautiful thing about stories is that they always merge and that inspiring characters will be loved no matter the universe. And fandoms expand like galaxies of their own :). So don't let it trouble you - but if you like Star Wars, check out Dune. You might be surprised.
Radical Face is wonderful musical art made by a man called Ben. No joke for the Star Wars fans out there.
I listened to Radical Face's music from my fifth to my ninth year as a medical trainee and even afterwards. 'The Family Tree' gave me joy, confort and the ability to cry and feel even during guards or difficult trainees.
I'm no student anymore and tomorrow, I'll say goodbye to university where I worked with students for four years.
It's 11:23 pm and I just found this. This quiet defiance towards routine and despair. The tenderness. The harmony. That voice, soft and always a bit etheral.
I'm crying. But I'm not sad. I feel... alive. I feel I just met myself again.
