Something Real
She was young when they gave her away, barely more than a little girl. Daddy's little girl. But even then, she was strong. She learned early on that having emotions and showing them were rather different things.
The other kids would tease her about it, among other things—why are you always so serious? Don't you ever smile? You're too quiet. Say something. Smile!
But she knew a smile wasn't worth a damn unless it was earned, unless it was genuine. It was either an expression or a gift, and she'd rather keep it as the latter, as something to be treasured, as something that was meaningful for everyone involved. As something real.
So she clung to that notion, and it became more and more difficult finding a moment special enough to let herself go. It was neither simple nor easy growing up at the enclave, but her classmates always found a reason, a way to break free of their troubles and chores. Yet, they could never rattle her resolve.
One reason to forget your truths, she said, weakens everything else you believe in. She was stubborn, and she refused to simplify herself. It was admirable and even a bit unsettling, for there weren't many who were that loyal to anything, much less themselves.
Years passed, wars came and went. The world grew older and she with it. But her heart was the same quiet centre it'd always been, untouched by the passage of time and free from the outside forces that wished to have it. Her face was older, true, but the eyes were still young and her lips clear.
Affection was also a thing to be earned, so it was unsurprising that the windows into her heart were as unchanged as the heart itself. Her mouth, of course, was still waiting for the perfect moment.
Those around her had eventually caught on and understood why the girl didn't just grin at every sunrise like so. She told them herself, Whether I feel it or not, I might not show it; but when I do show it, you'll know exactly how I'm feeling. They went along with that for a while before asking the old question,
Why so much control, why not show a bit more often then?
to which she would only shrug.
And on the summers, she drifted with the warm breeze across the fields, lying under the shade behind a grove of trees, not a care in the world. It was freedom in her own unique way, but while she was more alive and satisfied with her life than at any other time, something felt amiss. In the winters, she left the courtyard behind and visited the same familiar haunts again, though the chill never quite felt out of place.
Looking back a bit later on, she might've realized that what was missing was more than something she could find within herself—may it be warmth, a life, a memory, a time, a word, or…or a smile. She might've thought to herself that she wasn't simply searching for the perfect time and place anymore to bare herself to the world; she was looking for the right person too.
She might've, that is, had she not been swept away by the ever-changing currents of luck and chance. She was a heroine, a fighter and a soldier. She became the only hope across many worlds, the face of salvation and then damnation. She became a villain, a traitor, and the key to a war for survival. A friend was the last thing she wanted. And she was still so young.
It would be unrealistic to have expected her to emerge unscathed. And it was. She came back colder, her eyes hard and impenetrable, piercing and a little disturbing. Her heart was a private and irrepressible force that conquered, never shared. She wore a mask upon her features, revealing nothing and hiding everything.
She hadn't changed very much at all.
There was a wall between her and the world, and it was anyone's guess whether it kept the world out or her in. She still harbored thoughts of that perfect day when she'd let her shields down and embrace weakness for just one moment, because it was the right moment, the moment that she would be alive at last. When all the emotion she'd been saving up would finally come into play.
But the thoughts were confined safely in the back of her mind, where they had little hope of distracting her. After all, it was a dangerous game she played, flirting with light and dark so readily.
So it stayed hidden, that little preserved part of her past, until the war came to an end. And she lost.
She was dying then, when she finally remembered: all those many faces from years ago, the ones that always laughed and tried getting her to give what was hers alone. She remembered what she used to be, what she once held dear, her dreams and her own words proclaiming that everything was only inevitable. And it was.
She groped around inside herself for what may have been eternity but, in the end, she'd never felt so empty.
She was young, but she learned early on that
having emotions and showing them were rather different things.
As she fell in to the icy hug of the Force—so unlike how it usually was—Bastila Shan could only wonder
Which one am I?
END