**Thanks to those that reviewed. ;) I really appreciate it. -LuvEwan
That Lonely Field
By LuvEwan
PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: An intimate witness reflects on the shrouded soul of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Companion piece to 'An Everlasting Shelter'.
(_) - (_) - (_)
The sound of the door shutting feels hollow, so far from me it's almost surreal, a fabricated echo, and I stand in the same spot, mid-step, staring at the dusty thing, as if at any moment it will be revealed as a cruel hoax.
And he'll be here again, the cloak gone from around his shoulders, the heaviness shed like shadow chased away by dawning light.
He'll be here. For the first time…wholly, completely.
His body, with its grace and coppery skin, has stood within this hovel often. In that way, he's been a frequent guest, sitting in a rickety chair or waiting on his feet, his back mere inches from brushing against the wall. But it never touches.
Just as when I lay my hand on his shoulder, and I search with desperate, unmoving fingers, only to discover, as I always do, that it's quite impossible to feel a ghost's form.
I see it, clear and strong before me, with shining eyes and feathery hair.
Yet--it's a mirage, a memory that cannot fade, a spirit doomed to faux existence.
He's the din of the closing door. I can detect him, but he falls in the blurred chasm between reality and oblivion--for he was a man of sentience, once, someone who did more than function…a soldier among his troop.
Now he's cast from whatever compatriots he had, wandering in the sunburned landscape of his own battlefield, weapon near and helmet secured.
The blaster wound bleeds slowly, continuously.
And gods I want to know who pressed their finger down on the trigger.
Sometimes I think I have an idea, pausing in my sewing, gazing beyond the crumbled brick constraints of the shop.
But…But if he wielded the weapon, if he alone imbedded the bullet…why would he choose to let it fester…instead of…
I blink. Hard. So hard there's a brief flash of pain beneath my lids, and I weave my arms together, walking back to my desk.
There's a goodly sized pile of work there to greet me; my hands flex almost involuntarily, predicting the ache that will surface when I'm forced to quit for the night.
Then I'll lay in my bed, in the room connected to this one, and curl my fingers in, then out. I'll repeat it over and over until I slip off to sleep.
The pain will still be there.
I don't know if it ever becomes manageable. Stars, I can't say it's ever even tolerable.
It's there.
And that's the most I can say.
I fish through the stack, looking for a fairly simple fix-up to start with. My hands smooth along the fabric surfaces, the coarse, the worn…
I think of that drape of reddish-brown, so soft and--
How old does a woman have to be before her mind stops veering off course like some giggling, half-wit schoolgirl?
I blink--again, for god's sake!--and realize my eyes were unfocused.
It's a habit of his, too, so I guess flights of fancy aren't limited to any specific gender--though I'm betting his thoughts are nowhere near related to mine.
I've lived on Tatooine from the day of my birth. Certainly there've been changes around the place since then. More Hutts have slithered in, with their parade of followers, the greedy nitwits and brainless, bodyguard muscle, a steady stream of fresh flesh in the slave market upped the illegal activity (and profits), but some things are set in stone:
The suns are blisteringly hot…very similar to the look in a man's eyes when he's taken by lust.
Yes, I've been a resident of this lovely planet from day one, and have walked the same streets as….I don't want to count how many junkies, criminals and dealers, of every kind.
I know what that distinct gleam is. Depending on the man, it can be dark, a pool of black , a sample of terror to come…
Or, it can be gentle, a glittering projection of their heart.
The former, of course, is mostly what I've encountered.
Neither are what I've found when I glimpse in the eyes of Ben Kenobi. They're blue, beautiful blue, sparked with green, on a canvas of gray. Breathtaking, and that's putting it lightly. I could fill up pages trying to describe them. But I don't have the time…and if I want to overcome this…infatuation, it's in my best interests not to anyway.
We've held each other's attention before, a moment passing between us when words aren't spoken, and I allow him to see the extent of my care.
But I'll never receive reciprocation. It's not that those eyes are insipid, the 'pretty but lifeless' problem of the emotionally detached. I discover realms of feeling in his gaze. It's just that none of it belongs to me, or is inspired by me.
There's a sinking in my chest each time I remind myself, identical to the slouching lump there now.
Tatooine isn't his homeworld. That much I could tell as soon as I saw his face. Not exactly pale, but flushed with pink, as though he were lost and deeply ashamed by it.
Standing in the doorframe, wrapped in a dark, voluminous cloak that billowed over his arms and concealed much of his countenance, I wondered if he was being pinned there by some unseen force.
It was as close as I've ever been to witnessing true timidity. His lips were pursed and his chin puffed out a bit with the captured air.
I was behind my desk, as usual. His entrance surprised me (not something easily accomplished) and I felt the needle prick my finger. No blood-after awhile, the pads become tough like callused leather-but there was a fleeting instance of pain.
I prefer it when a visitor knocks, so I can gather what's out of sorts, but he was an outsider. How was he to know the ways here? He'd learn quickly-that was a given.
I set my work aside while the words were all but wrenched from his mouth.
"Are you…the seamstress?"
I smiled and gestured loosely at my stitching. "How could y'tell?"
He smiled, but there was very little mirth in it. His posture was effortlessly regal, more like he was on the golden threshold of a palace rather than a hot, stuffy, makeshift shop.
My first instinct would have been distrust, but there wasn't a trace of haughtiness in him. I might've been a queen, or say, a bedraggled seamstress, his demeanor wouldn't alter in either case.
I suddenly felt chagrined for leaving him there, almost floundering in the half-glare of the sun. "Come in. There's, um, no air circulator, so you might want t' take that off." I pointed to the robe.
He moved lithely into the room. "Actually," He cleared his throat, "I needed it to be mended."
"Oh. Well then, you'll definitely have to take it off."
This time, I earned a soft chuckle from him, and I was stupefied by the mellifluous notes contained in such a simple reaction. His voice was cultured, a dulcet tone that convinced me he didn't belong among the turmoil and poverty here.
I stood and started toward him, a figure dressed in tan leggings, a layer of deep brown at his neck and a thick, sandy tunic covering the rest, banded at the waist by a wide, brown belt. The clothes hinted at a pleasant form with subtle definition, but my eyes couldn't linger too long. I waited for him to remove the cloak.
I think it would've been less painful if he were having a limb amputated.
A wince crossed over his shaded features, bordering on imperceptible. He withdrew the cowl--
And I saw a face that matched the quiet, natural dignity of his form. His eyes were…well, they were just as elusive to definition then as they are today. Bags were beneath them, but told more of weariness than age. His brows were heavy, and in the separating space was a thin, deep crease. His nose was a favorable length, not too long or stunted, solid and spread wide at the end. A trim moustache bristled over his top lip, leading down to a short beard. His bottom lip was cupped by a pronounced chin, which was covered in groomed auburn strands. His hair was parted a little severely to the right, the front piece falling across his high, rounded forehead. Faint whips of gray were invading the ginger color, pale around his ears and patches of his jaw.
I smirked inwardly, thinking that my gray appeared at the roots first. Before being doused by a semi-permanent dye, that is.
Still, despite the evident maturity and exhaustion in that face, I saw…I don't know, something very young then.
And I learned it was the vulnerable tremble of the soldier surviving his first hours tramping that lonely field.
I took the cloak, the helmet, in my hands. "Okay, where's the damage?"
He cleared his throat for the second time, as if it weren't accustomed to long strings of speech and had settled already into a dry dormancy. "Uh, the hood. It was ripped on this side…"
And he showed me with slender ivory fingers the tear that breached half the cowl from the cloak, frayed at the unnatural ends. "There." He added, softly.
I scanned the laceration, pleased to find no material was missing. It would be a clean repair, and I told him so, looking up a considerable length at his face. He wasn't especially tall, but I'm especially short. Just the same, it wasn't too much of a strain on my neck--and I could gaze well into the rain-washed eyes.
He folded his hands behind him. "Thank you…I'm glad it won't be too much trouble."
I smiled, exhaling, a faint, happy sound escaping with the breath. Usually, one wouldn't think of such meager small talk as a source of elation. "No trouble at all…"
"Um, Ben." He responded to my indirect probe. "Ben Kenobi."
I held out my hand, an exact opposite of his, tan and coarse, with very deep lines at the knuckles and bends of the fingers.
Mine was warm, his cold, as he slipped it against my palm, as our fingers entwined for that brief second.
In that fleeting pulse of time, I grinned, slightly unsure whether or not the heat in my face was caused by the sizzling Tatooine temperature. "I'm Tirrah."
His expression was patience, waiting for what he presumed to be next, what would finish our little traversal from strangers to acquaintances.
It was then, when I knew that I couldn't satisfy him with an answer, that I was also quite certain the sun couldn't possibly be to blame for the blood beating in my face. "I just go by Tirrah." I explained with a gust of nervous laughter. "It's simpler that way. Heck, I don't think I even remember the rest of it."
He smiled, glints of light catching in his eyes. "Then forget about Kenobi. I'll just go by Ben, if that's alright."
And I thought in that instance that no one in their right mind could forget Kenobi or Ben. "Okay, Ben, I'll get started on your robe."
I walked to my desk, wanting to feel those eyes on me (what did I say about foolish old women?) and chose a fairly new needle from my tidy line-up, beside the spools and beaten thimbles.
I wasn't given enough time to sit before he was bounding toward me, frenzied, grabbing the robe.
I backed up a few steps, flabbergasted. "What's---"
"I'm sorry." He breathed, and had the demeanor of someone breaking up through the waves after a minute too long underneath them. (You don't need to leave the desert to understand what drowning is. Not really). "I'm sorry, I thought I could…"
My stomach was tight, cold and churning. Was his exterior an expertly-created disguise, concealing a crazed pervert, a flesh trader, a lunatic who got his kicks by startling lonely seamstresses…"What?"
He pressed his lips together, his eyes sealing, then opening. I could see the panic draining slowly from them. "I can't. I can't let it be mended yet. I'm…." Another clearing of the throat. "I'm, um, not sure I want it to be."
Inexplicably, my muscles began to relax, as he regained his crisp composure, that unique cast of a man standing unbiased in a palace or a shack. "It won't be any trouble at all, Ben. And I've never wrecked a stitch of fabric yet."
His fingers curled around the robe. "No, it isn't that. I was told you were wonderful…I believe it…But I…" He shook his head, and I took a step closer, afraid he would fall dead away to the ground. "This might not be worth it…Not worth mending, I mean."
And I didn't question him, though the inquiries were leaping and multiplying through my mind.
He brought the cloak around his body, disappearing into its folds and draping the hood over his head. Buckling the strap of his battered helmet. "I think I should go. I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you, Tirrah."
Early into our relationship, Ben Kenobi knew how to lift my heart--then drag it down again. All without being aware of it. I smiled, my mouth closed. "Not at all, Ben." And maybe my disappointment trickled into my voice then. "I hope you decide to keep it. It's really a lovely cloak."
He sketched a shallow, thoroughly charming bow. "It was good to meet you, Tirrah."
And he was departing, going to the door. I followed, my heart pounding and vibrating in every space it could. "If you do keep it, I'd be more than happy to mend it."
"Thank you." He said, glancing down before meeting my eyes. "I might…"
The words trailed off, left stillborn in the resulting silence when he closed the door behind him, floating in a void, in the strange falsity of sound that would occur, that always occurs, whenever he leaves.
I found my way back to my desk…
And stared for awhile past the dirt-caked walls, even beyond the stale nothingness that was the norm around here...
Looking deep, as I am now.
Today, he relinquished that robe, if even for just a moment.
I always thought, when he would stop in to have a torn tunic repaired, or something along those lines, that the cloak was the thing that held him down, that slumped his shoulders slightly, sheathed his face in shadow, prevented the light from hitting him totally.
Now…in the past few minutes, I realized that the soldier must have his helmet, must if he is to wade through the tall grasses and thick bogs, with all the hidden, foreign dangers. But it can only protect so much. The blaster bolts can sink into the belly, the neck--the heart.
Still, if the solider has any hope for survival, he wears that helmet.
He doesn't take it off, can't take it off…
I take a needle between my fingers, thinking of those war stories of the men, living by day and dying by night, wishing for the next stray bullet to kiss their skin--but never speaking a word of it.
I finish my day's tasks, then collapse in the lumpy center of my bed. Ben Kenobi is certainly oblivious of what he can do to my heart, the jump and the plummet…
He is unaware that, tonight, there is no jump.
Maybe there will never be one again.