Author's Notes: This was my first SW fanfiction. It languished in some remote corner of my hard drive until I gathered the courage to dust it off and post it.
If you intend on leaving a review, please be hard on me so that I can improve. Thanks!
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm.
FATHER
Fire.
Red flames vivid in the darkened room.
Soon they'll be gone. Warmth and light reduced to white ash. Will it be dark then? Dark and cold. I wonder…Is there a parallel…in my life?
The figures of Masters Koth, Yoda and Windu blur together with those of Queen Amidala and Chancellor Palpatine, smudges of brown on black. I tell myself it's merely the smoke…It's irritating my eyes…Playing tricks on them…
…Oh, who am I trying to fool?
Perhaps, somewhere, a child cries for his father. I don't know.
Perhaps I'm alone.
Wonderful Jedi I'll make, I'm sure. Can't even see properly through all this smoke. You'll be very proud of me, I s'pose…Do I want this to be over or not?…Or not, I think…Either way, it'll soon be over. I cough, pass a hand over my eyes to clear the smoke and squint a little.
Still smoke, is it? Kenobi, you're stubborn…
The violent play of light and dark reflects on that lean, slack-muscled face. That crooked hawk profile. That pair of passionate, hurting, fierce eyes…Those eyes, shuttered forever. It lends an ethereal golden luminosity to the cold skin in the pallor and stillness of…Death. There. I just said it.
I won't cry in front of the boy.
I remember how, in anguish next to the reactor pit, I fervently recited the healers' prayer. By the Force which aids you, by the Liberated who go before you, by the Jedi who stand beside you—And then, abandoning the ritual words—by the Padawan who needs you, come back…Master…Then it hit me that not even my love for you could bring you back to me, because if you could, you would, no matter the cost…You would never do anything to hurt me and this numbness hurts more than anything else I've ever felt…
This smoke is getting worse.
Would it hurt worse later if I pretend that it doesn't now? Years ago, after our failed mission to Ryloth, we were going home, battered and injured. I told you that I was going to be fine, that you shouldn't worry about me. You sat on my sleepcouch, cradled my head in your lap—What kind of father would I be if I didn't worry about my son? Touched my face, so gently. So gently…Like you did a few hours ago…Only our positions were reversed then…
Sith take this damned smoke!
If it was someone else lying on that pyre, you'd be here with me. Cracking a bad joke about the old green troll standing a few feet away…That's how I want to remember you.
Goodbye…Father…