Disclaimer: The Star Wars universe belongs to George Lucas. I merely
play with it when he's not looking.
Author's note: Consider this a tribute, if you will. A tribute to all
those great actors who make the Big Screen come alive. A tribute to all
those who fight to make the world a better and safer place. A tribute to
all old heroes: may they never be forgotten.
To find out where the title of this story comes from, read John Donne's
'Devotions upon Emergent Occasions XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt,
Morieris.' Earnest Hemmingway also took a title from the same piece:
'For Whom the Bell Tolls'.
All Our Scattered Leaves
*** *** ********* ******
Part One:
It was not a great disturbance in the Force. It was a quiet sigh as a
tired spirit let go of the frail physical matter that confined it, and
melded with the Light. The gentle ripples barely touched the star-filled
reaches of space, an almost imperceptible breath of calm flowing through
the chaos and energy of the living as it fled towards peace.
Even in the cool, open plaza of the Jedi Temple, where Jedi sat and
walked in contemplation or quiet conversation, only one man marked the
passing of a life on a distant world. The old Jedi Master lifted his
head from where it had sunk upon his chest- either in meditation or in
sleep, none had the disrespect to ask which. He whispered only two
words, so softly that none guessed the hollow depth of knowledge with
which they were spoken:
"She's gone."
The old Master rose to his feet and padded slowly out of the plaza.
Other Jedi bowed as he passed, but he ignored them. It was his habit to
stop and talk, but if he chose to remain silent on this occasion that
was his privilege. None questioned his actions or his destination.
Only a few years earlier the lack of the old Master's presence would
have been noticed immediately. Now his duties had largely been given to
others, and his personal attention to daily matters was seldom required.
The Force was strong with him, but even the Force could not sustain a
body forever. The Master had wished others to take his place while he
still had the strength to advise and instruct them in their role. The
reins of knowledge had been passed so smoothly that now the Master was
able to slip away unnoticed.
It was a long time before the old Jedi Master was seen at the Temple
again.
******
"Ya want her _stored_?" The scruffy spaceport official scratched his
head and scowled thoughtfully at the battered, outdated hulk of a
freighter. She looked gaunt and unwanted at the edge of the ship park,
the floodlights around the fence cruelly emphesising the scars on her
worn metal hide. "I dunno. She'd be worth more as scrap than she would
as a ship, y'know."
"I don't want to sell her." The brown-cloaked old man gestured with one
thin, knobbled hand. "I want her stored."
"Ya want her stored, I know, I heard ya the first time. Well, she'll be
safe enough there. I'll keep an eye on her, but it's not as if anyone
would want to steal her and go joyriding. Hell, she couldn't outfly a
passenger liner."
The old man nodded sadly and walked away.
"Hey!" The spaceport official called after him. "How long have I got
this heap of bolts anyway?"
The old man didn't reply. Perhaps he hadn't heard.
******
Givree leaned on the bar, polishing a glass, and watched the old man
carefully. The man did not look like a typical heavy drinker, yet he had
downed enough liquor to knock out a Bantha and he was still upright and
coherent.
"Old Senator Organa died, then," Givree ventured. The old man glanced
up, the eyes within his dark hood so full of pain that the barman winced
in sympathy.
"Yeah," the old man said, and downed another shot.
"Dropped dead right in the middle of a speech, they say. Newsnet got it
all on holo."
"They've all gone," the old man said hoarsely. "All the heroes. Akbar,
Mothma, Antilles, Solo..."
"Ah well. Youngsters have got their own heroes these days," Givree
suggested. "People have short memories."
"But I remember," the old man said, picking up his glass and finding it
empty.
"_We_ remember," Givree assured him, accepting another credit chip. He'd
remember whatever the old guy wanted, as long as the credits kept
coming. He paused as the old man waved away a bottle of his previous
choice.
"Y'got any Old Corellian?"
Givree pulled out another bottle. "This stuff isn't cheap," he said, and
found another chip pushed his way. "That should cover it," he agreed,
and poured out a large slug of the golden brew.
The old man gestured the barman to pour a second glass, then raised his
own in a toast. "To old heroes," he said. He took a reverent sip, then
set down the glass with a saddened expression. "It doesn't even taste
the same way it used to."
"Old Corellian, you said." Givree took a sip of his own drink, and
nodded. "That's the stuff alright. Hey, you didn't finish your drink..."
The old man was making his way to the exit, unsteady on his feet but
still managing to avoid the furniture and the other patrons of the
cantina. Another old war veteran. They weren't as common as they used to
be. Givree shrugged and cleared the empty glasses. Once the credits
stopped arriving he figured it stopped being his business.
If his senses hadn't been numbed by the drink the old man might have
been more suspicious of the three figures who lounged at the entrance to
the alley beside the cantina. The liquor had dulled his reactions as
well as the emptiness and the hollow pain of loss. The old man was
bundled out of sight before he could respond to the attack. He tried and
failed to avoid the blow aimed at his skull.
"That was very, very stupid of me" he thought, and passed out.
play with it when he's not looking.
Author's note: Consider this a tribute, if you will. A tribute to all
those great actors who make the Big Screen come alive. A tribute to all
those who fight to make the world a better and safer place. A tribute to
all old heroes: may they never be forgotten.
To find out where the title of this story comes from, read John Donne's
'Devotions upon Emergent Occasions XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt,
Morieris.' Earnest Hemmingway also took a title from the same piece:
'For Whom the Bell Tolls'.
All Our Scattered Leaves
*** *** ********* ******
Part One:
It was not a great disturbance in the Force. It was a quiet sigh as a
tired spirit let go of the frail physical matter that confined it, and
melded with the Light. The gentle ripples barely touched the star-filled
reaches of space, an almost imperceptible breath of calm flowing through
the chaos and energy of the living as it fled towards peace.
Even in the cool, open plaza of the Jedi Temple, where Jedi sat and
walked in contemplation or quiet conversation, only one man marked the
passing of a life on a distant world. The old Jedi Master lifted his
head from where it had sunk upon his chest- either in meditation or in
sleep, none had the disrespect to ask which. He whispered only two
words, so softly that none guessed the hollow depth of knowledge with
which they were spoken:
"She's gone."
The old Master rose to his feet and padded slowly out of the plaza.
Other Jedi bowed as he passed, but he ignored them. It was his habit to
stop and talk, but if he chose to remain silent on this occasion that
was his privilege. None questioned his actions or his destination.
Only a few years earlier the lack of the old Master's presence would
have been noticed immediately. Now his duties had largely been given to
others, and his personal attention to daily matters was seldom required.
The Force was strong with him, but even the Force could not sustain a
body forever. The Master had wished others to take his place while he
still had the strength to advise and instruct them in their role. The
reins of knowledge had been passed so smoothly that now the Master was
able to slip away unnoticed.
It was a long time before the old Jedi Master was seen at the Temple
again.
******
"Ya want her _stored_?" The scruffy spaceport official scratched his
head and scowled thoughtfully at the battered, outdated hulk of a
freighter. She looked gaunt and unwanted at the edge of the ship park,
the floodlights around the fence cruelly emphesising the scars on her
worn metal hide. "I dunno. She'd be worth more as scrap than she would
as a ship, y'know."
"I don't want to sell her." The brown-cloaked old man gestured with one
thin, knobbled hand. "I want her stored."
"Ya want her stored, I know, I heard ya the first time. Well, she'll be
safe enough there. I'll keep an eye on her, but it's not as if anyone
would want to steal her and go joyriding. Hell, she couldn't outfly a
passenger liner."
The old man nodded sadly and walked away.
"Hey!" The spaceport official called after him. "How long have I got
this heap of bolts anyway?"
The old man didn't reply. Perhaps he hadn't heard.
******
Givree leaned on the bar, polishing a glass, and watched the old man
carefully. The man did not look like a typical heavy drinker, yet he had
downed enough liquor to knock out a Bantha and he was still upright and
coherent.
"Old Senator Organa died, then," Givree ventured. The old man glanced
up, the eyes within his dark hood so full of pain that the barman winced
in sympathy.
"Yeah," the old man said, and downed another shot.
"Dropped dead right in the middle of a speech, they say. Newsnet got it
all on holo."
"They've all gone," the old man said hoarsely. "All the heroes. Akbar,
Mothma, Antilles, Solo..."
"Ah well. Youngsters have got their own heroes these days," Givree
suggested. "People have short memories."
"But I remember," the old man said, picking up his glass and finding it
empty.
"_We_ remember," Givree assured him, accepting another credit chip. He'd
remember whatever the old guy wanted, as long as the credits kept
coming. He paused as the old man waved away a bottle of his previous
choice.
"Y'got any Old Corellian?"
Givree pulled out another bottle. "This stuff isn't cheap," he said, and
found another chip pushed his way. "That should cover it," he agreed,
and poured out a large slug of the golden brew.
The old man gestured the barman to pour a second glass, then raised his
own in a toast. "To old heroes," he said. He took a reverent sip, then
set down the glass with a saddened expression. "It doesn't even taste
the same way it used to."
"Old Corellian, you said." Givree took a sip of his own drink, and
nodded. "That's the stuff alright. Hey, you didn't finish your drink..."
The old man was making his way to the exit, unsteady on his feet but
still managing to avoid the furniture and the other patrons of the
cantina. Another old war veteran. They weren't as common as they used to
be. Givree shrugged and cleared the empty glasses. Once the credits
stopped arriving he figured it stopped being his business.
If his senses hadn't been numbed by the drink the old man might have
been more suspicious of the three figures who lounged at the entrance to
the alley beside the cantina. The liquor had dulled his reactions as
well as the emptiness and the hollow pain of loss. The old man was
bundled out of sight before he could respond to the attack. He tried and
failed to avoid the blow aimed at his skull.
"That was very, very stupid of me" he thought, and passed out.