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Ttile: A Thousand Candles
by: Shana Nolan
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Rating/content: G / Obi angst
Comments: sure, and maybe some kleenex...
Disclaimers: its all George's fault. if they were my characters, this never woulda happened. the poem is mine, not George's, and he'll find himself in a hurt locker if he tries to claim it.
Um, well, this all started from the poem that I started on a whim and it went from there. This is definitely -not- smut, its probably the strongest angst I've done in fact. Strange thing that Muse.
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A thousand candles lit in love A thousand candles for the one The one who could not stay. A thousand candles to shine in the night A thousand candles to light the way The way he's yet to walk. A thousand candles for you, my love A thousand candles for those have died And for the ones that live. A thousand candles burning in the dark A thousand candles to keep us warm Warm from the cold within.
And like all things the light must end The thousandth candle must snuff out The daylight falls, the night begins And all the world decays. But for the thousand candles Their bright light that has gone out The children weep And the poets cry. But, alas-- The last candle has not gone out yet Fighting against all the odds It flickers in the dark of time Its small flame a final ray of hope.
A thousand candles lit in love A thousand candles for the one The one who can never truly die. A thousand candles to light the world A thousand candles to light the way The way for those that are left behind.
* * *
His life had changed on him. Turned on its head in the space of minutes, ripping him apart as surely as tissue paper is shredded by careless hands. He had screamed, a sound that rang in his ears even now, casting a shadow over his soul.
But the scream was nothing compared to what he felt now.
First, he had to get out. Make it back alive, and it had taken every ounce of strength and duty to do that. To not surrender himself to his sadness and weep bitterly.
His promise. A promise he wouldn't have made in any other circumstance, but when he gave his word in those horrible moments of time, he gave his word from his heart, his mind, his bones.
He would die to keep his word.
It was all he had left.
The funeral was even worse. He had been to the funerals of other Jedi, stood in the light of the fire, watching the smoke rising into the sky, but never before had it felt like part of him was being burnt away. Never before had he wanted to leap upon the pyre.
But now he had Anakin. Now he had his Knighthood. A few years back he would have rejoiced at the day he could cut off the long braid that had marked his status. A few years back he found the notion of having an apprentice ludicrous; he would never be ready, there was always something he had yet to learn.
But here it was, his life, his duty, his path.
And he hated it. It felt hollow and cold, the warmth drained away and forgotten.
Everyone had spoken kindly to him since, offering words of condolence and assistance, but he knew just as well as they did that no words could console him. They were just words, said out of some arcane need, borne of some societal need for sympathy.
But where were they when he had to clean out the quarters? Where were their words and compassion as he had reduced a great man's career to a stack of boxes in the corner?
It was so strange, that stack of boxes. It was as if there had never been a carefully laid out room, as if the occupant had never really been there, as if time had folded up on itself and left him tucked in the shadows, fighting his grief-made ghosts.
And yet they expected him to move on, to pick up where he left off and ignore the weight in his heart.
As if he could.
"Master?"
Obi-Wan looked up suddenly, his unfocused gaze having drifted out the window to stare out into the Coruscant night, expecting the voice of the man he had respected beyond words to respond. But, just as before, the title was addressed to him, and not the other, even though he wondered if he could ever come close to holding the same kind of honour the title denoted. "Yes, Anakin?"
"There's something you should see, Master, I think you'd like it." Anakin's eyes were wide, a hopeful smile on his youthful face as he waited for a response.
He sighed, touching a hand to his hair, his fingers running subconsciously to where the braid once resided. About to turn the boy down, to walk to the back of the quarters and tuck himself away, he bit his lip and shrugged. "Yes, alright, let's go."
The boy smiled again, and took the hand of his Master happily, pulling him out the door and into the hall. Obi-Wan was about to protest, to back out and return when a soft illumination spilled across the hall before them, creating lacy patterns of shadow and light. He inhaled sharply, enraptured by the sight, shocked at its beauty.
"Come on, Master, it's in here."
Acquiesing and following the boy around a corner, he looked at his surroundings. He was near the Temple's garden, walking around it actually, the hall weaving a path around its perimeter, the ceilings taller in this section because they helped support the duraglass ceiling panels of the garden.
Anakin stopped again, standing before the entrance to the garden, waiting. Walking by the boy and turning to set a foot on the stone pathway, Obi-Wan froze.
Before him, set along the blocks of opalescent white flagstones and raised planters of delicate flowers, laid around the bases of trees and hanging from braziers on outreaching branches, were candles. Hundreds and hundreds of them, the flames dancing on their wicks of their own accord, soft, radiant pools of light casting warmth over the flora. Many were small votives, set in accidental patterns of harmony along the path, a few were great pillars, their tall wax forms housing a tiny light within them.
Catching the lump in his throat, his eyes threatening to well up, he dropped to his knees, feeling as if he was falling in awe before the face of God itself. He looked at his hands, his flesh seeming to glow in the radiant light, the lines of his palm falling into swaying shadow. Closing his eyes, feeling his buried emotions trying to fight their way to the surface, he inhaled deeply, pulling sweet scented air into his lungs. Shivering, he opened his eyes as he felt the presence of Anakin before him again.
"Master, they saved this one for you."
"What?"
"It's the thousandth candle, the last one that can be lit. It's for you."
Obi-Wan bit his lip, extending his hands to accept the proffered candle. It was small, a votive made of beeswax, scented with the essential oil of Corellian jasmine.
Qui-Gon's favourite smell.
He inhaled the scent of the candle for a moment, burning it into his memory. A tear coursed down his cheek, singular and burning, dripping from the side of his chin to fall on the brazier holding the waxen tribute. When Anakin handed him one of the lit candles from which to start the wick, he did it slowly, making every movement of hand and eye careful and deliberate.
He rose quietly, the little flame in his hands dancing as he set feet down on the flagstone. His footsteps were slow, carefully made, the sound of his boot heels hardly registering as they came down on the hard stone. Without looking he guided himself to a corner of the garden where heavily leafed trees were growing, their branches drooping down by his knees. Setting back on his knees again next to the large of the three trees, the pale green leaves refracting the light of the candle, he set the brazier down atop a corner of one of the wooden planters.
Taking slow, steady breaths, halfway between abject tears and quiet reflection, he lowered his head. No words, spoken aloud or within the Force, came to him. He was surrounded by silence, but it was better than the darkness that had held him captive in mourning.
Finally, he rose, and worked his way back to the side of his young apprentice. Casting a final look to the thousand candles illuminating the garden, their radiance a physical manifestation of hope, he nodded to the boy and walked back into the hall to return to his quarters.
Maybe the promise wasn't all he had left.
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In the terms of endearment In the terms of the life that you love In the terms of the years that pass you by In the terms of the reasons why. -- Sarah McLachlan
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