the last rose of a boiling, churning, scorching summer
the last bloom, wilting prematurely, dying, in the wake of a swarm that was never meant to be
the three tears that fell were salty with sweat and tasted of iron and singed hair
one for her
one for him
and one for them.
a soft cry pealed through the air thick with death, followed by the artificially soothing burble of the birthing droid.
the whispered names hung, strangely light and heavy simultaneously, in the air.
the tears disappeared into his charred beard as the droid's shovel-shaped appendages gently deposited the tiny beings into his arms.
the one with dark hair kicked fiercely. the smaller one smacked his lips and nestled his scrunched pink face into his chest.
obi wan stood, carefully, slowly, gently. it seemed as if the weight of the entire outer layer of coruscant was pressing down on his shoulders. for a moment, he swayed dangerously, the droid and the room and the birthing table swirling together in a nauseating spiral of overwhelmed.
the smaller one, the boy, suddenly grabbed a handful of his tabards. the force surged bright, blinding, humming. obi wan felt his heart swell, inexplicably, wonderfully, and abruptly throw off the city-planet's weight.
outside, yoda stirred and settled himself firmly against his gimer stick.
bail pressed his shaking hands to the room's transparisteel viewing window. something breathed to life inside of him, and suddenly he understood a little clearer.
the last rose of summer had passed. her hair fell loosely against the stark white sheets. her eyelashes were closed against hollow cheeks. lips were parted in an untaken breath.
the last rose of summer had withered.
but in her place, twin seeds, the first of a distant spring, to be nurtured by separate suns and soils, began to grow.