So Fleeting

A Vignette by LuvEwan

Rated G, a thoroughly boring and mushy G.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Qui-Gon reflects on his Padawan.

O

He doesn't sleep well. At least, not anymore.

When he was younger, he could doze off anywhere, under any condition. In adulthood, the solace of slumber is rare for him, even when surrounded in the soft darkness of his quarters, beneath thick, familiar blankets.

I know he struggles. I know he will never tell me of it.

But I can sense it through our connection; I see it in the shadows that cling to the skin beneath his eyes.

He's sleeping now, as the moon and I play dual sentinels, as the air drifts a subtle breeze. He's lying on his side, turned away from me. His skin appears strained in the cast of sallow, midnight light.

Shadows are everywhere, pooling in the creases of the curtains, staining all they touch.

Yet, his luminosity is untainted. He is Light, always. This, he will understand, when he releases the self-doubt. He will understand, and it is then that he will become incredible.

I'm sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him. I wish I could etch the details into my mind, to have it with me, to go to it in the lonely days when I no longer have a pupil to guide. I will be an old man, the best of my life gone into war-torn fields and drafty conference chambers. It will happen soon. And memories such as these, of watching him sleep, will be the pages curled by countless turnings. The tomes will be stacked around me, once he walks, tall and alone, onto the same hearth of duty.

He sighs, falling slowly onto his back, and kicks at the covers.

I reach out with tentative fingers, to still him, to restore the flawless tableau.

And his eyes are suddenly open. There is cerulean shining through the late hour's pall. A gentle suggestion of a smile, for he is traipsing through the fog between sleep and awareness, and is oblivious enough to find no reason to question my audience to his waking.

I reflect that smile.

He clears his throat and wipes at his face. "Was I snoring?" He wonders in a heavily garbled tone.

I laugh. "No. But you were making plenty of noise in my head."

"Noise?" His forehead crinkles, then smoothes as embarrassed clarity reaches his gaze. "I'm…I'm sorry. I've been dreaming, I think." He compresses his lips. "I can't see much and it doesn't…it doesn't last very long. But then, it lingers. Like a bad taste, or a film on my skin."

I frown, and lay my palm on the curve of his temple. Obi-Wan isn't prone to fantasy, and he certainly doesn't brood over it. His eyes are fixed on me, waiting for acknowledgement. Acceptance. "Dreams pass in time," I say at last, and straighten the braid trailing down his chest.

He doesn't respond to that, and we exist in companionable silence for awhile.

"Master?" He whispers.

"Yes?"

"Are they always…" He pauses, and his eyes drop from mine, "Just dreams?"

"I suppose they're never just dreams, Padawan. Under examination, they always have some value, something to do with our deeper thoughts." I study the troubled lines that compose his visage, "Why? What have you been dreaming about?"

He only shakes his head.

I flatten a hand against the side of his face and he leans into it, eyelids sinking shut.

I am struck by my concurrent loyalty and hatred of the Jedi. They have given me this single, overwhelming joy—but they will take it away. And I have to question if anyone is meant for such a cruel thing. The Order forbids attachment, but its very foundation relies on relationships. Master and apprentice.

But perhaps others are able to let go easier.

I see him, and I am compelled to hold on.

I want to hold on.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Hmmm?" He breathes.

Don't leave me. You're all I have. Don't ever leave me. "Rest well," I say instead, and stroke the silken hair as he fades to sleep once more.

Tonight, I will not grasp to solace anywhere, save this place. Because I too, have dreamed.

And I don't like what I see.

The End