I, uh, actually forgot to post this at this site. It was written a few weeks ago. J I have another post nearly completed, so it shouldn't be long until the next update. -LuvEwan
Three: My Enemy
The extent of my failure sometimes astounds me.
For I cannot so much as fulfill a promise made to myself.
Not even for one night.
The thick book held his attention for hours, and I often stole glances at him, watching him run his fingers along the ridge of uneven, gold-edged pages as he read.
Occasionally, he'd mouth the words, so completely engrossed by whatever battle account or controversial betrothal described on the aged parchment.
I thought then, at that moment, that the volume, regardless of all the use it had prior to that night, belonged to Obi-Wan.
He was meant to have it.
The two who owned it before…
I guess you'd say were keeping it warm for whom it was ultimately intended.
He's asleep now, face turned toward the sofa and an arm hanging off the side, fingers brushing on a corner of the book.
Before, I would've switched off the lights, covered him with a blanket, then headed to my room.
A lot of things were done differently--before.
When certain worries were present, but bearably distant, and my door didn't resemble that of a jail cell, steel and deadlocked, sealing me off…
A sharp tingle in my chest, and I press my hand there fleetingly.
Well, at the very least there's a change of scenery. Instead of tan loops of carpet, shadow pooled in the folds of drapes and the fading red paint of a long ago-assembled model starship, my eyes are transfixed by the various trinkets that decorate the main room.
Holocubes scattered around, a half-melted candle, an embroidered pillow from a thankful (and very obstinate) storekeeper, who wouldn't accept my refusal of the gift after I intercepted a burglar, a few plaques commemorating various achievements.
And then there's the small painting that adorns the space above the alcove. Too high and far for my taste, but placed there at the insistence of the artist himself.
It's a landscape piece, composed of quick brushes in pastel hues, and depicts a thick forest at sunset.
He labored at it as a much younger student, only fourteen with a less practiced hand. He hates it with a passion.
But I can see past the occasional misplaced stroke. The raised lines of paint create an amazing texture, and I often couldn't resist touching the dapples of blurred ivy or shroud of dark evergreen.
It's beautiful, and the fact that it contains elements of a novice only enhances that beauty, and endears it to me.
But something I can't love about it is the streaking of violet and diluted orange in a charcoal sky.
Night is coming upon the fictitious land. And as silly as it sounds, I'm disturbed by the thought. Shadows will descend, the crystal brook will become murky, a darkness concealing whatever hides below the waves.
Coruscant is a controlled environment, but nothing can direct the flow of hours. Day gives way to night.
I can't stop that.
He sighs sleepily, rolling onto his back, drawing me from the tormenting reverie.
He looks innocent now, softly colored lashes swept downward, mouth slightly open.
I can almost masquerade the truth once more, with this tender scene to help me, convince myself there are years to come.
But my thoughts are distracted by that painting, the twilight created by his fingers.
Maybe he realized, in his quick, bright way, what I am just learning, and wanted the inadvertent reminder far from sight.
In so many ways, night is the enemy.
It is the uncertainty, the phantom, a shelter for evil.
It is the end.