WANDERINGS
By LuvEwan
I started out knowing exactly what this would be. It was going to be a one-shot vignette, and it was going to be much shorter. But I didn't end up having the handle on it that I did at first. That seems like a trend with me nowadays—along the lines of 'Stoned'. I still have a vague idea where it's headed, but I can't promise it will be make sense, or be that good.
PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing and receive no profit.
Major Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi
Obi-Wan is granted unexpected freedom, but has more than his share of trouble accepting and taking advantage of it.
Part One
He opened his eyes. As always, he was ushered gently into consciousness, for the sun was still a pale specter on Coruscant's manufactured horizon. The light was muted mandarin, coming in a shaft from the slender space between the shade and window pane, chasing the darkness to the fringes of the room.
Warm remnants of a dream left a faint smile on his face, and he was pleasantly surprised, if a little rueful.
It wasn't often Obi-Wan remembered the nightly fruits of his ever-working mind. He had been taught that the vivid images could masquerade as portentous fragments of a future otherwise unrealized. There were too many fools running the streets, spouting the details of the Universe's end, all because they had taken too much stock in a wine-clouded thought from a sleeping mind.
Perhaps his Master's views were rooted in personal experience. Qui-Gon Jinn had never been quick to trust much of anything. Obi-Wan knew that well enough. Just the same, he was grateful for the residual traces of sentiment the man had left from his part in the sweet unreality of the dream.
He turned from his side to his back, the sheets rustling softly and pulling down around his bare midsection. The silvery cityscape was framed by a wide window, and made faint by the near-translucent covering.
With the shade in place, Obi-Wan reflected, the buildings did not appear so severe, the lines were not as sharply drawn.
Intimidation. That was a fitting word to describe this nexus of the galaxy. An offworlder, even one from a considerably high-tech society, was wide-eyed and grabbing their jaw from the floor when they drank in the sight of skyscrapers and towering, impressive architecture.
Obi-Wan smiled again, as he allowed recollection of a certain foreigner's first encounter with Coruscant to surface. He wished there had been a more elegant term than 'wizard' to employ, but you didn't expect much beyond that from a nine year-old.
It had taken awhile for the awe to dissipate in Anakin's bright gaze, from little sparks of lightning to buried iridescence but eventually, he became accustomed to the bustling surroundings of the Temple. The young Knight suspected, however, that the child's pure delight at the various transports and ships that populated the airways would never begin to ebb.
Today, Anakin was on a training trip with fellow Padawans. Obi-Wan hoped the boy would chisel away a few of the stubborn layers that separated him from his agemates in the process. It hurt Obi-Wan to watch the rejection dealt to Anakin from Jedi students, those either frightened or cynical or, more likely, jealousy of his gifts.
Intimidation. Yes, that word applied to so many situations.
He hoped that it did not pertain to his own relationship with his apprentice.
Obi-Wan wiped at his eyes with the heel of a hand. It was quite early, a mere half hour past dawn.
Without his Padawan to occupy his time, he had the entire day to stew here, under the crisp sheets and pillow, in the dusk of his room.
That observation had Obi-Wan rising almost at once. He didn't chafe at the idea of heavy amounts of thinking, but he would much rather be productive while doing it.
After undergoing his usual morning stretches, he padded across the floor to the attached lavatory.
He showered quickly, as he always did, summarizing yesterday's events in his head, while hot jets of water cleansed his body and pearly suds ran down his legs.
Early in his career as Anakin's Master, he had reached to carefully shampoo the braid that started behind his right ear, only to have his fingers clasp at air, and be reminded of its abrupt removal.
Now Obi-Wan was a bit weathered, a bit smarter. The bristles of a beard had halted that painful error almost immediately. Maybe he wasn't enamored of the style, the way it could hide his expressions…but as easily as it could be considered a negative, it was a strength.
He didn't appreciate being mistaken for Anakin's brother. Or worse, among the younger initiates, a Padawan.
So the scales tipped in favor of the beard. And if some considered it to be a ginger veil drawn around him, then let them believe it. Until they were in his position, they could never understand the necessity.
He rinsed, then tied a towel around his waist and stepped out onto the bathmat. Steam eclipsed his reflection in the mirror and he didn't wait for it to clear before returning to his quarters.
Without thinking, he pulled out a clean uniform set, cream and tan, similar to that of his Master's. He looped the layers of softly worn cloth around his torso, tied his sash and tucked his leggings into knee-high, mahogany boots.
A scuff marked the heel of one, and he rubbed it away with his thumb.
He found that the short span of time had been enough to evaporate the dense air from the washroom. Obi-Wan removed his personal effects from the small cabinet, then laid them out on the counter.
Once his mouth was freshened and his hair was in place, he looked at the twin visage staring out at him.
He did not look long.
The halls and common area were dim until he strode through, a calm wave of his palm lifting the shades.
He threw away the remainders of last night's meal, scrubbed a large sauce stain from Anakin's place at the table, then sat in the apartment's lone arm chair. It was time for him to catalogue the new day's schedule, so his thoughts would be sufficiently organized before undertaking any labor.
Yesterday he had finished the lengthy Tro'lia mission report.
He already handed in recommendations from the brief saber class he taught. A few Padawans displayed exceptional skill, so he passed on good words in their regard to their next instructor.
Hm.
Obi-Wan balanced his chin on the tip of his forefinger.
What else is there to do?
A sleek speeder cut a smooth path through the avenue outside the window, and his eyes followed the silvery object, until it disappeared from sight in a ribboned trail of flame.
He found that the small interval of time might have provided distraction, but had not given the inspiration his mind needed. The apartment surrounded him in restless silence. The walls creaked their boredom, the air vibrated until it projected a buzzing, rather maddening undertone.
Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, crossing his legs.
He remained in that position nearly a minute before he dropped his foot to the floor again and leaned his elbows on his knees.
This is ridiculous. Certainly there's plenty to be done.
But as the minutes wore on, a stunning realization hit him.
There was, in fact, nothing to be done.
It would have struck him as funny, that he prepared so diligently for a day's work that amounted to nil…but instead, Obi-Wan was irritated.
The rooms were empty, devoid of spirited talk or youthful dashing and jumping or, even, study.
He had no one to instruct, to be responsible for.
Nor did he have any appointments or meetings to attend.
On this extremely rare occasion, he was free from obligated engagements. His audience was not required. His lessons could not be imparted to an absent apprentice.
Obi-Wan drummed his fingers on the chair's beaten, plush arm.
He scanned the room for any items that were out of place, but everything was tidied, staring back at him with a pristine cleanliness.
Obi-Wan knew when the opposition could be defeated. For a considerate score of years, he was drilled to be in tune with his enemy. Most of all, he knew when to admit when he was overwhelmed.
Obi-Wan leaned his head back.
Today, he had lost.
Well, Master, you were always complaining I was too serious, too willing to devote every hour to some task or another.
What would you have me do now?
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was quite aware that he wouldn't be offered a response. But he had lived beside the man half his life, and a bit of facial hair could not completely disrupt the connection Obi-Wan had relied so heavily on. Even if it was now no more than a painful memory.
Qui-Gon would undoubtedly have filled a vacant day like this by now. He'd be off to the lower levels, to submerge himself in 'local color', and converse with the countless, often grimy friends he had made during his lifetime.
But Obi-Wan had never felt that same kinship his mentor had. The creatures were friendly enough (mostly), they treated Obi-Wan with respect, although he always suspected that had more than a little to do with their high opinion of Qui-Gon. But they weren't his chosen friends.
And when he thought about it, Obi-Wan discovered that when it came to casual companions, he had very few to speak of.
There was Bant, of course. His devoted confidant from crib to training sabers to knighting ceremonies. And Garen, his brother if not in blood, than in heart. The ravenously, perpetually hungry Reeft, but Obi-Wan barely saw him anymore.
He shouldn't have been surprised. Time never held still, his teachers had always liked to remind him, and adolescence gave quickly in to adulthood. Faster than anyone desired it to. And he, Obi-Wan, had been the first.
If not in maturity, than in station.
It was with that almost upsetting knowledge that he knew, if given the choice, he would spend these unclaimed hours with his apprentice, rather than seek out the vestiges of childhood camaraderie.
He was not the same person they had grown with. They had experienced a slower ascension to new rank than he had. His thoughts and time were consumed by the duties of a Master, the foibles and breakthroughs of a novice, while they explored the fresh, uncharted grounds of Knighthood.
Obi-Wan did not begrudge them their Force-given opportunities. But he couldn't deny the differences that separated them from him.
They would want to regale him with stories of adventure and gleaned wisdom. He didn't want to bore them with his own structured, uneventful tales.
The young Knight sighed, humming a nameless chorus.
He was still absently harmonizing when the sun began to burn with sizzling liquid brilliance, brightening the room and lighting his face.
It must be eighth chime. Obi-Wan deduced. After a beat, I suppose I could eat. In his apprenticeship, it was never required to remind him to consume his meals. His appetite was insatiable, it seemed, and he swallowed down multiple helpings regularly. Qui-Gon was unmoved, save a good-natured joke or two. He knew what Obi-Was was now realizing with Anakin: growing boys were food vacuums. Even a crumbling, stale biscuit wasn't safe if Anakin was in close proximity.
As he neared the end of his body's evolutions, Obi-Wan was not nearly as hungry. Morning meal was taken on schedule only because his apprentice wouldn't allow slack in that area. Left to his own devices, the Knight could thrive quite well without food until at least noontime.
But eating could erase at least half an hour from his day. That was more palatable than the food itself.
Obi-Wan stood, glanced with lazy disinterest at the kitchen, and headed for the Meal Hall.
More to come!