He dreams of Winter.
Winter's arrival came too quickly, perhaps, to a boy still used to the warmth of maternal embraces and the comfort of home. Whisked away from eternal summer and taken to a place with nothing of the warmth he had grown up knowing -- cold eyes, cold stares, cold regard.
He was a child of summer, unready for the trials of a Winter come too-soon -- his passions were fiery where they were expected to be cool, his hatreds strong and his loves stronger. The child's fires, though, were too hot for this place, this time, this season -- tame them, young one, tame them.
They taught him -- during Winter he learned all he needed to go about pursuing his destiny, the instructor's cool eye watching him practice his lightsaber, his diplomacy, his skills.
Cool. Calm. Stand tall, stand firm, be the rock even as the icy winds of the world whip past you, the glacial howling of snow and rain and elements arrayed against you -- stay steady, for, as Jedi, you will be their inspiration.
But ... you don't love the Chosen One, do you? You can train him, you can teach him, you can be in awe of his talents and his skill ... but you don't love him, the way one human being loves another, the way a father loves a son or a teacher loves a student. Maybe he's your hope for salvation, your hope for restoring the balance between light and dark -- all right. But do you love him?
His master, of course, was different. Not at first, but once the little boy -- Chosen One or not -- put his charms to work, the icy shield melted, and he, whose heart was still aching from the loss of his own master, let the boy past. He became the father, the friend, the teacher that the boy had never had before -- and loved him as a boy, treasured him as a person, not just worshipped him as Chosen.
But does it hurt more to know that, or less?
In his dreams, Winter comes to him -- ice-tinged eyes and flame-tinged hair, soft brown robe and cream-colored tunic. Soft-spoken words backed with durasteel, a touch of command behind the Jedi calm. Twinkling blue eyes that betrayed his amusement, though Winter always managed to keep the rest of his face composed -- he was only human, after all, and he was allowed that much, Jedi calm or not.
And, even in the dreams, his dream-self is never certain -- stars, what does he feel for this man? This man who was teacher, friend, father ... executioner?
Because Winter's duality has always puzzled him, hasn't it?
He remembers the Temple -- his dream-self, a little boy still and not knowing any better, entering the Temple for the first time. Wide blue eyes and an insidious fear -- where would he go? What would happen to him? What was he expected to do?
And a warm arm upon his. His dream-self looks up into the taller man's face and sees ... comfort, perhaps? The beginnings of love? Those first few years, he worked hard for Winter's approval, Winter's smile, the father he never had, but had always been searching for.
And stars.
That last time.
Lightsabers, icy blue and firey red, clashing above the lava. Dancing and whirling as they had done in practice so many times, but now locked in mortal combat where only one would walk away. Yelling, shouting, blocking, attacking. A face twisted with anguish, a hand reaching for his own.
Grasping, scrabbling, falling, burning ...
But Force. What would he give to have those days back again, when Winter was his master and his friend and his father and all was well in the galaxy. Because Winter still holds that title, in his heart, regardless of the dark one who he calls master now.
But the dreams, the dreams ... when he dreams of Winter, he can't help but recall the companionship, the trust, the easy affection between them ... and when he wakes, it is never enough.