Not My Intention

LuvEwan

^^^^^^^^^^

The wind swirls, the frosty breaths of nature blowing fiercely. Snow clings to every surface, in some attempt to escape the warmth of the earth below. The night is glazed in cold dew, a moisture that seems to have settled in glistening drops upon his eyelashes.

He stands on the balcony while the air whips his robe around his body. His arms are protected by sleeves, semi-long stretches of brown, coarse fabric that billows at the ends, where pale fingers grip. A hood, something others would kill for, and probably have in the past, in the poverty stricken streets that populated the downtown areas, rests unnoticed at his shoulder blades.

The posture is slumped, though the unprotected head is upturned toward the dark, starless sky. Tiny, clear shards of ice collect in the closely cropped ginger spikes, and catch the light of a far off moon.

His lips, sealed to a painful tightness, are tinged blue. An exhale escapes them, slowly, and the frigidity swallows it up at once, turning it to a white cloud that promptly dissipates.

A red flush has bloomed some time ago in his cheeks and nose.

I move before him, and from this utterly close proximity I can study the faint tremors in the form. It is far too harsh in this unforgiving climate, how I long to guide him back to the safety of the apartment.

Yet I stay.

I see his eyes now, what I once avoided by averting my own. They are the same cerulean hue, but there is something…still…in them now. I could always detect an unsettled stirring in those breathtaking orbs before. At this moment, they are motionless. They are carved from glacial crystal.

I watch his hands fall. They too are draining of healthy pallor, giving way to the temperature and his mood.

I observe him intently. He is oblivious to my presence.

I suppose it is a bitter poetic justice, for I chose to ignore this exquisite spirit…once. I reveled in my self-made, chilly haven, where my shelter was erected of wariness. Betrayal was slowing my heart in the ice now killing his eyes.

He reached for me with bare truth: he spoke of destiny.

I shoved him away, I was leery of the open beliefs he expressed.

I could not be linked to this wild, roguish youth.

But I can, today, understand that his aura was a placid sea, gentle waves never thinking to drown me.

Indeed, he wished only to release a sweet torrent of love into the parched depths of my being. His comprehension of that bruised mind was astounding as he tried to cleanse it will all the kindness he possessed, an amount I cannot begin to estimate.

And, I had wanted that compassionate well dried. Even attempted to trickle away every precious drop. He did not raise a protesting hand, would not hinder my destructive powers.

When I placed wrongful blame upon his weary shoulders, he would willingly carry the burden, if it meant my load was any lighter.

As others attacked me, he comforted me. Yes, he would not lay idly if I were to be enduring pain. He would leap into my path and take the assault.

Would wake, often, alone.

I suspected shadows creeping inside the purest essence the Universe shall know.

He coped.

I prided myself in my distant attitude. He would never get close enough to harm already damaged emotions. He would stand as a single, well-trained force.

He would not know love.

Or its crippling weaknesses.

He would turn a fever bright gaze upon me, seeking the comfort that could be a soothing balm. I would return a stern expression and sleep suggestion, pressing my callused palm to a blazing forehead.

He recovered.

He would rush to our shared quarters, clutching a perfect exam paper. I regarded his grin with indifference, searching for traces of conceit in one who did not have such wicked capabilities.

And he would disappear into his small room.

Birthdays and special occasions would fall. He spent hours crafting unique, beautiful gifts, scraping together his scant credits to purchase supplies. I overlooked meticulous detail and thoughtfulness. I piled them in my closet.

For all he knew, I could have simply discarded them.

Years passed when I contemplated doing just that.

His presents, beside the river rock, included a few dactaries sealed in an envelope, with his name scribbled on it. As was my manner, I discreetly left them on the kitchen table, to be opened after I was already busied by other things.

His mastering of the katas, which was remarkable for one so young and reputedly clumsy, was never complimented. A positive comment, save 'That is competent' or 'Passable' was impossible for him to receive. I think, after awhile, he stopped hoping.

He did his duties, that which he had to myself and the Order.

No, he surpassed what was expected of him. He completed extra assignments, researched missions well in advance. He no longer accompanied his lifelong friends on those high-spirited outings they so enjoyed. He stayed closed inside the apartment, cooking, cleaning, and seeing to his own physical training.

He meditated while I brooded over his imperfections.

Fabricated blemishes, since he attained perfection on the highest level any apprentice, or man, could possibly accomplish.

Sometimes I would pass him late at night in the living area. He would be dozing on the couch, eyes already reduced to drooping slits, when he would jerk himself awake and retreat groggily to his room. Knowing that if he surrendered to slumber, he would experience a cold stay on the couch. Because I would never drape a blanket, or even the small quilt hung on the plush arm, over him.

I let him live in the coolness of my disregard. Like today, he was frozen in a frost-laden atmosphere.

Until the moment I believed him to be dead.

I rounded a corner, sweat pouring down my face and blurring my vision. The shots were deafening, and my heart was seized by a nameless dread. I have since identified the title: The fear of losing him. It erupted inside of me, tearing through the shields I had carefully built, until all that remained was the secret love. The unspoken affection.

He was sprawled on the cement. If not for the smoking holes in his chest, it would have appeared he was merely sleeping. No blood was spread on the gray ground.

I ran to him in a daze. I would not accept what lay at my feet. He, a mere seventeen years, with innocent eyes and a tenacious spirit, could not just depart from this world. Or my life.

I gathered his still form in my arms. His lashes fluttered open, and a watery gaze fixed on me. The mask he wore, one of ambassadorial coolness, to please me, fell away. He had looked, simply, and terribly, like a child. Tears were streaking down his face. His lips were slightly parted. "I love you…I…"

But I could not hear him after the first faint declaration. The bolts were imbedded, and they had succeeded in collecting his strength within their smoldering grasp. His mouth had continued to move, in little twitches, trying to repeat himself. Get his message across.

The paramedics were rushing toward us. The Force was a black fog in that instance, and I could not have known for certain if that was to be our final moment. I gingerly lifted his head to my shoulder. My breath gushed toward his neck, and I hoped it warmed the skin some, as I spoke. "I love you, too. So much. Hold on. I love you. I'm here…"

Miraculously, a hand that should have been limp clutched my back, and that injured boy pressed his cheek against mine. I was shocked as an initial reaction, but then tightened my hold, never letting go until a medical team eased him from me.

And he lived.

Our link, that great tapestry woven in the Force, was strengthened. He resided in my heart, his home from the beginning. There was no need for him to question my devotion after that day.

Until I was compelled to slay his soul, with the sharpened arrow of betrayal.

I shoved the gentle, loving presence to make room.

For a slave boy.

That will, upon an oozing pit of red-hot lava, betray us all.

So I watch him now, his fingers searching the tunic folds for his smooth rock. Then, he visibly recalls it no longer belongs to him. Like most everything else, he gave it to Anakin.

My apprentice gasps, and for that horrible moment, I think he senses what will become of this unsuspecting universe.

I reach out, wanting to brush a few ice shards from his hair.

My touch is as insubstantial as a wraith's. The frost remains.

It will always remain.

Not my intention, but the destiny I have sculpted for him just the same.