A/N: Oneshot Sabewan, 10, 15 years out from TPM. Shamelessly mimicking Persuasion.
The Seeking
When Sabe arrived and made the appropriate motions to the touch-pad at the door, he had already left. The log by the door said that she was three hours too late. Glancing eastward she saw on the horizon the departing shadows of a thousand command ships from the Republicas' hangars. Her own employers had canceled their contract with the Galactic Republic from some unexplained misunderstanding with the Chancellor himself, or she might have gone with him.
She might have been there with him, Sabe thought, if not in the same capacity then at least near. The body had a field of its own, infinitely more powerful than just the imagination. But war had begun; and he would face it as he must, and she would wait, for whatever.
The sun was setting as Sabe walked out onto the balcony, their balcony, which looked the same as it ever did. The white tablecloth shone gold in the light, the thin-legged glasses sparkled clear. The wind was up, bringing with it the scent of sun and ozone, the faint tang of exhaust fuel. Sabe closed her eyes. Perhaps if he were here, she would know what to say. The right words came when he was near, and the peace that he brought descended over things, and she could see clearly what it was that she must do, must say, must face, and would feel her self equal to all of it. That little comfort, that intimate silence he wore about him like a second skin, that unraveled and filled the air between them, as if something too came from herself – that is what she wished for now. But he had gone. Words would be of no more use, spoken to the air.
The little robotic waiter made a whizzing sound as it came up behind her, one burgundy glass on its tray, and she was about to wave it away when she saw that the glass platter held something else.
For Sabe, read the spiky hand that she recognized only vaguely as Obi-wan's. So little was written by hand anymore but blurry notes one left for oneself on the nightstand. Somewhere before she had seen this – but she could not recall now. She took the letter into her hands, feeling the heft of the paper, it was strangely coarse under fingers used to the smoothness of metal, but warmed by the sun, rounded by virtue of its material. There was one sheet of paper, covered in the same scrawl. Obi-wan had either written in agitation or in a great hurry. She read
My Dearest Sabe –
There is not much time. Even now the Council calls and I am bound for Kamino. My feelings – my "knack", as you will – tell me that what must be revealed from that invisible planet will give us too many answers, and too little time, before that war that must come. But time has never been in abundance between us. Even now we pass each other in the same rooms, on the same sun-scoured balcony unseeing, for time separates us.
Let me only imagine you beside me then, perhaps by candlelight, or by the golden tint of twilight-
You see how I lag and make excuses, beg for a delay, afraid to come to a point (My Dearest, Your Royal Highness, Shiraya' daughter). But let that come to an end.
For I must speak, in such means that are within my reach.
I have loved none but you since that day, more than ten years ago. Can you failed to have seen this? I cannot believe that when your bright eyes turn so piercingly, so unerringly on me. I think that you must know.
Time and codes have stood between us, but to know, as I know, that splendid, overflowing joy that is merely the sight of you – it is to know that no man may count himself immune from the touch of passion. For passion is the lifeblood – and only through it, perhaps, might the heart be reconciled with peace.
I am afraid this parting will be for a long time. More than ever I wish to have spoken to you of my heart, but another, more cowardly part, wonders if I could have borne it, if you did not take my sentiments with welcome.
Sabe – If this confession is a burden, I apologize. It is a selfish act, of a man unsure of his future, and regretful of the past. But if welcome – though now I scarcely dare hope for it – if it be welcome, a look from you will be enough. For I will return to look upon you once again, in what form I am able. To speak to you again, in what word I can find.
And if, Force-willing, I survive this mission, and live through the war that follows, I will have lived for you. I remain
Yours.
Obi-wan
Such a letter was not to be easily recovered from. Her hands trembled, that the shadows of evening danced and made patterns on the white cloth. But what else could she do but laugh, as well - for how like them to be prudent in their youth, to cling to rules and codes. And now, on the brink of galactic war, in what some would consider their middle age, now, finally, to learn to speak of love.