The Pen

by Sithstrukk

After Tahl's death, Qui-Gon picks up a possession of hers. He reflects on its value, and the value of all things. Inspired by Romeo and Juliet- so it's angsty. I can't tell you more than that, except for the fact that I actually tried with this fic.

I never intended to post this. It was something I wrote when I had all these negative emotions; it was an awful day I could go ranting on and on about, but I won't waste an author's note on that. Anywho, that same day we had rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet. That's a depressing play, if you didn't know. Afterwards, as I went home to suffer with writer's block, I seized my emotions and forced them out onto two pieces of paper. I take said paper to school the next day, and my three friends say it's really good. One is speechless. One is sad. So here I am, gloating. And sharing it with you. Hope you like it.

Oh, and it's written a little like a poem would. Why? 'Cause I felt like it.

Slowly,

Scarcely breathing,

He picked up,

The Pen.

Yes; The Pen.

But it wasn't just a pen. It was Tahl's.

Or it had been.

It had been before that demon Balog had taken her life like the corrupted, fearful, twisted being he was.

He cradled the pen, his giant hands burning into it. He had what had been hers, but he didn't have her.

She was all he had wanted. All he still wanted.

He wanted her back. He didn't want some remnant of her; a futile pen that she had once used.

It wasn't her.

And even this pen had been with her more than he. With this pen she was able to draw lines only her soft hands could make; even when she was blind. She knew the pen and she knew the motions. She could write.

His heart was seeping with fury.

The fury coiled around his bones and turned the tips of his fingers cold.

It wove in deep red tendrils until it consumed his mind.

Fury was parasitic; it fed on raw thoughts.

And then, with the delicacy of a surgeon, he broke the pen.

Lush, black ink pooled in his palm and slipped through the cracks of his fingers.

It dripped on his robes and onto the floor.

It was messy and pointless.

Just like Tahl's murder.

Pointless.

His frustration curbing his anger, he clenched his fist a final time and splintered the cheap material.

That too was messy and pointless. The shards soundlessly fell to the floor as he released his stone grip.

It was just a pen.

It had no meaning.

The galaxy had proven better.

Tahl's death had no meaning; no one else had been shattered by it.

Maybe existence itself was pointless, too.

I was told it had to be longer. What do you think? Am I any good at writing angst, or was it just a piece of crud? Reviews are always appreciated.