Obi-Wan Kenobi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
outduelling) wrote2023-02-28 07:52 pm
outduelling) wrote2023-02-28 07:52 pm
Entry tags:
thread: the logical conclusion
[ Under most circumstances, being back on Tatooine would hardly count as a blessing - for all intents and purposes, it's quite a dreary planet, the heat stifling and the Empire's presence near Bestine even more so. It's a dry, unforgiving world, he thinks, as he stands with his back to the main buildings, looking across the sand dunes stretching for countless miles around them. Arms crossed, he watches the dust drift in the air.
Unforgiving, yes. That's a word for it.
For the past two years, he's kept busy. Busy enough to keep his mind occupied at nearly all hours, busy enough to pass out from exhaustion (sometimes, rarely, even fortunate enough to get a few hours of dreamless sleep). Too busy to meditate properly, too busy to touch upon his own, inner mental landscape. It's been... sustainable. He could have gone many years like this, possibly wearing himself out along the way until, well. All things must pass into the Force and he'd be in good company, then, wouldn't he.
But of course, there is Claude. Claude, wearing that kyber crystal around his neck, Claude who used to love... who used to, yes, so he says, but finding someone else hasn't taken him too long, has it? How long does one grieve, anyway, before it becomes a chronic condition? Before it becomes something that doesn't remember or recall but devours, feelings that a man should be too good for, that he should release?
It's good to move on. It's good.
It's good and just.
He folds his arms across his chest and straightens his posture. The sands, in turn, are quiet. ]
Unforgiving, yes. That's a word for it.
For the past two years, he's kept busy. Busy enough to keep his mind occupied at nearly all hours, busy enough to pass out from exhaustion (sometimes, rarely, even fortunate enough to get a few hours of dreamless sleep). Too busy to meditate properly, too busy to touch upon his own, inner mental landscape. It's been... sustainable. He could have gone many years like this, possibly wearing himself out along the way until, well. All things must pass into the Force and he'd be in good company, then, wouldn't he.
But of course, there is Claude. Claude, wearing that kyber crystal around his neck, Claude who used to love... who used to, yes, so he says, but finding someone else hasn't taken him too long, has it? How long does one grieve, anyway, before it becomes a chronic condition? Before it becomes something that doesn't remember or recall but devours, feelings that a man should be too good for, that he should release?
It's good to move on. It's good.
It's good and just.
He folds his arms across his chest and straightens his posture. The sands, in turn, are quiet. ]
no subject
Sometimes, they find us.
His next intake of breath is ragged, stuck in his throat. He can feel his knees buckling and forces himself to remain upright, to simply listen and understand. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. Knowledge, then. Accept it. Accept it.
He's still alive. ]
I see.
[ He looks out across the desert. Lips parted on a breath that he can't quite seem to release, he reaches out impulsively, thinking Anakin, grasping desperately at what used to be there, so easily within reach. He holds his breath for all the seconds it takes before he feels it, the light, far away, duller than before, ragged and worn but there, regardless. There.
Within reach.
Lips trembling, he hangs his head and reaches up blindly, closing his fingers around Claude's palm and allowing himself just a moment to hold on. ]