A short little fic that I concocted on the spur-of-the-moment, something that often happens. I couldn't really find a genre that fitted well, much to my annoyance.

Oh, yes, and you might recognize the painter's last name if you've done any sort of dabbling in SW EU. Relation intended, though without any connections. I just did it to establish a better idea of the character's…erm…capabilities.

Hope you enjoy.

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The Painting

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It was a blistering day. The Alderaanian summer sun beat down on the line of sentients, causing perspiration from those who were able to, and heavy panting on the collective part of those who had no sweat pores to speak of. Unfortunately, the sentients who were able to perspire got no relief from the humid air. Still, the hushed tones of curious conversation murmured in everyone's ears as they anticipated their turn for the event that would lie inside. The occasional cool breeze sprang from the west, stirring the long grass in the field that swept majestically from the base of the cliff upon which the path rode, the sentients queued near the opening of a building from the imagination of a late architectural genius that had melded the design with a natural cave in the rock face.

While Bail Organa might have been the Viceroy of Alderaan, and while he might have been waiting in the hot sun with his little escort for nigh on two hours already, he was not inclined to pull rank. He stood close to the front of the line, a few families ahead of him, dressed in what he considered to be casual, but still relatively more formal than that of the surrounding populace.

Leia stood by his side, her small nine-year-old hand tucked away inside his gentle grasp expectantly. "Are we any farther, Daddy?"

"We'll be there soon enough," he assured her. "Be patient. Everyone else is just as excited about it as you are."

She sighed. "I know, but we have to hurry!"

Bail couldn't resist a smile. "This picture's stayed in your mind all these years, Leia. How could it be gone in another hour?"

She stared out to the fields, watching the wind play with the grass paintings. "I hope he's as good at this as everyone says he is."

"I'm sure he is."

Leia's thoughtful brown eyes darted across the familiar landscape distractedly. "How will he know what the picture in my mind looks like?"

Bail could only lift his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I'm not sure, dear. He says he has a gift that helps him see the pictures of the past in other people's minds. That notwithstanding, I've seen his work before. He's an excellent artist."

"But," Leia said pointedly, "you've never seen him paint from somebody's mind before."

"No, I haven't. That's why we're here, to test it out," he teased her.

She released another frustrated sigh. "Why does it take so long?"

"Be patient, Leia. Sometimes it takes a while to create something of beauty."

***

"Hmm."

The lone noise resonated through the grand hall, a low pensive hum from the withered-looking man perched atop a spindly wooden stool, the four legs so thin and twisted from their earlier growth that it seemed impossible the seat would have been able to support a feather. But the shriveled man looked as if his mass would be hardly more; a pair of skeletal arms moved with a speed and sure steadiness that appeared infeasible for a human of his age, darting over the canvas, shaping the man's medium.

"Hmm…"

The middle-aged widow that stood restlessly in the center of the hall watched him at his work, trying to keep the image of her late husband at the front of her mind while wondering how accurate his representation would turn out to be.

It had been quite a long wait for her, but finally the man made of slender twigs and paper skin straightened and drew back in his seat, eyeing his artistic depiction critically while shifting an occasional glance to the woman with bird-bright eyes. "I believe I'm, ahh, finished."

Her eyebrows lifted, her face shifting from cautiously anticipative to openly eager. "May I see?"

Furrowing his wrinkled brow, the man swept one last gaze over the completed painting, nodded, and deftly picked it up, letting it spiral on its own in his hands, so it seemed.

The widow's face lit up in an expression he never tired of; bright tears shone, clinging to the rims of her eyes as she walked up. "It's…perfect. Looks just like my Juran. Thank you so much, sir…I can't believe how real he looks and all…"

The man nodded, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. "Hmm… He's yours, ma'am. Keep it out of direct sunlight and it'll last decades longer."

"Yes…thank you…" She walked off hurriedly, carefully clutching the precious painting as the vivid key it was to past happy memory.

The old man's scrutiny turned to his next clientele, his searching eyes coming to rest on Leia.

Bail watched the elderly features lift, making the face appear a decade younger, and smiled himself. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon…ahh…" The man frowned, narrowing his right eye. "Viceroy Organa?"

Bail's smile widened. "Yes. My daughter Leia has come with a request for you."

Easily was the old man's attention brought back to the little girl standing by the viceroy's side. Something about her…

Leia stared boldly back at him with wide brandy eyes. "I need you to paint the person in my head, sir. Please," she added quickly, noticing Bail's head incline to look at her.

An irresistible grin deepened the intricate networkings of lines that crisscrossed the man's face. "Hmm. Welcome, young princess. My name's Rhyss Solusar, and before we get started I need to know about this, ahh, person of yours. First of all, when was the last time you saw this individual?"

Leia wrinkled her nose. "I don't remember. But I can see him really clearly, if that's what you mean."

Rhyss winked at Bail. "Clever child." He turned solemnly back to Leia, but not before looking through the hall to make sure not a one looked on. "Now, young princess, I'll tell you a secret. I see this man in your mind as clearly as you do, which is, ahh, something I'm not able to do with a lot of other sentients."

Bail's guard rose. "What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly.

Solusar's eyes twinkled. "Ahh, no harm intended, Viceroy, but I think you know what's special about your little girl."

Leia observed him with open curiosity. "What is?"

Before Bail could put a word in, Rhyss leaned forward in his seat. "You've got an exceptional memory for an image so far back in your life. Eh?" he said, winking at Bail again.

"Yes, she seems to," said Bail, relieved that old Solusar had adequate sense to leave good enough alone. It seemed the ancient artist was Force-sensitive, then. How he had managed to avoid the attention of the Empire thus far, Bail could not know. It was brass enough for Solusar to come to a Core world and employ his talented services, to be sure.

Rhyss chuckled. "Now, young princess, you must give me some, ahh, descriptions of his personality. That'll help me make him look more life-like. If he wasn't a stuffy character, anyhow, hmm?"

Leia shook her head. "He wasn't stuffy. He was quiet, I think, and nice. I used to think he was my uncle, but Daddy doesn't know who I'm talking about when I tell him."

"Hmm. Good. Now bring the picture of this man to the front of your mind, as if someone could, ahh, look right through your forehead and see him there, first."

Leia shut her eyes obediently, clutching Bail's hand with one of her own while conjuring up the gentle face in front of her mind's eye.

Rhyss' eyes took on a glazed look as he searched the image. "Yes," he murmured, "it's very clear."

Bail heard a series of quiet pops as the artisan thumbed the caps off of his tiny paint containers, mixing some on a tiny plate in small dots of blended pigment.

"Hmm, good. Focus on the face. Remember how it moved. Does he smile? Does he frown? Recall how his eyes looked. Bright? Dim? Large? Small? Find the shape of his nose, the thickness of his lips. The better you remember, the better I paint."

Pop, pop, pop.

Leia's eyes were squeezed shut, her eyebrows drawn together as the face came together in her mind.

Already Rhyss concealed himself behind the fresh canvas, the flicking swishes of his brushstrokes carrying to Bail's ears. "Yes, excellent. Hmm. Make the image dance in your mind, young one."

***

The night was cold, but that was not what made him shiver, a sudden vibration that passed silently from head to foot.

Someone was watching him.

He rose from his cot, careful not to create a single sound that might betray his movements. It was only a short way to his door and he passed through the little hovel quickly, bare feet mincing across the floor, hardly feeling the trailed-inside sand through the leathery calluses.

The window was beside the door; he peered out cautiously, probing this feeling of a hovering watcher. I don't think this party intends me harm…and strange enough, I can't sense a thing nearby.

Mystified but secure once again, the recluse returned to his bed.

***

"Very good," came the low mumble from the other side of the canvas.

Almost half an hour had passed; Bail's curiosity was at a level he rarely experienced. Leia and old Solusar were sharing the face of a man, a shadow from the little girl's memory. Or was it memory? Bail knew that when a young one visualized a story told to them, it could become rooted in memory and trick its bearer into thinking the memory came from their lifetime. It was strange how clear those mock memories could develop to be. He knew he had a few himself; one was a vivid portrayal of Bail taking his first steps as an infant from his father's point of view. His father had recounted it to him several times with exaggerated gestures, entertaining the boy's imagination. Bail knew his own memory never could have produced such a thing.

Leia heard him shift from one foot to the other, and knew he was becoming restless, an unusual occurrence. "You can't look till he's done, Daddy," she implored him, opening one eye to gaze up solemnly at him.

"She's right, you know," Rhyss remarked, leaning to the side enough to peer past the canvas' edge. "No one looks before I'm finished, or it won't turn out the same."

Bail smiled, catching Rhyss' grin before the old man disappeared again.

Leia scuffed her own feet; despite her reprimand, she was longing to take a good look of her own at the painter's progress.

"Hmm." Rhyss sniffed in contemplation, looking over his work critically. "Nearly dry."

Leia's eyes popped open. "Then you're done?" she asked expectantly.

A long pause swept through the room, ensued by a heavy sigh that swelled from the artist, a heavier sound than Bail thought possible from the frail old figure. "Yes. I don't think you'll be disappointed, young princess. Come and take a look, and bring your father with you."

"Come on, Daddy." Leia tugged at his hand, released it, and went skipping around to stand by Rhyss.

Bail took a more sedentary pace, surprised to find his pulse beating in anticipation. What am I expecting? he wondered, as he saw Leia's eyes widen in delight.

Her clear voice echoed through the hall. "That's him! It's just like him!"

"Like who…?" Bail's voice trailed off in astonishment as the painting, made of no more than canvas and skillfully placed pigment, fed him a rush of memory. Real memory. It was no story, nothing he had heard from anyone.

And, under his oath, nothing anyone would ever hear from him.

General Obi-Wan Kenobi gazed up at them in full regalia, his posture military-rigid.

"Oh…" Bail could utter nothing more.

Leia looked up at him and her smile faded away. "What's wrong, Daddy?"

"I…" He tried to think of an appropriate response. "I've never seen a painting anything like this," he said in perfect truth. It was exquisitely done.

Rhyss sighed again, a long exhalation. "Truth enough, your Highness. I've never been able to paint anything like this before."

"Leia," Bail said quietly, "would you mind going outside with Hemar for a moment?"

She stared up at him, half-accusingly. "You want to talk as adults."

"Yes, dear. It won't take long." He smiled encouragingly.

"All right." She blew a sigh and marched off to the waiting aide.

Bail watched them vanish out the door, and rounded on old Solusar.

Rhyss raised a feathery eyebrow before the viceroy could utter a word. "Oh, I know who he was, all right. More importantly, I know what he was. What he is."

It was confirmed for Bail then. "You're sensitive."

The old painter nodded. "Correct, your Highness. I was once a lad myself, and lived with the others in the grand old Temple. But there weren't enough Masters to go around, and I was sent off with the other poor crechélings that didn't make the cut. The fact I'm sensitive helped me with this career considerably, though, as you can see. If I'm not mistaken, he's an old friend of yours."

"You'll forgive me, of course," said Bail tightly, "if I refuse to speak about it."

"Understood, your Highness." Rhyss tapped the edge of the painting. "I suggest keeping this under lock and key, ideally away from any windows."

Along with all my other relics and secrets, Bail mused to himself, and gestured for an aide to bring Leia back in.

She was drawn to the painting again, and this time thought of something, tugging at her father's sleeve. "Daddy, if I remember him, you must've known him. What was his name?"

Bail took the small hand and looked down to the searching eyes, wide with childhood wonder yet holding an unfathomable depth as everything was absorbed into the rich brown depths. "His name was Ben."

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