A/N: This story is the companion piece to a story a friend of mine has written. I read it before she put it on and I just had to add my own thoughts to it.
I guess to really understand this one, you need to read "Leaving Coruscant" by Robin Baby beforehand which I can only recommend as it's very good!
Disclaimer: Well, still don't own the characters. What a pity. Guess I must marry George to achieve that. (Runs off to seek him……)
The River of Time
A Companion
Years had passed. Slowly, so agonizingly slowly.
The universe had become older. Only a tiny fraction, compared to its age.
Its inhabitants hat become older, too. And to them it mattered more than to the planets.
And there was one to whom it mattered even more. Seasons passing, the light in his eyes dimming, he was old now. His back bent, though he was still tall. His hair gray, though it was still long.
His eyes, however, were still clear, though they had seen so much and though the years had not been kind to the one they belonged to.
For twenty-seven years he had had to live in a world that was so profoundly different than the one he had grown up, mature, – and yes, already old – in. And this change had occurred so fast, so quickly that now it appeared to him as if it had taken only the time a heart needs between one beat and the next.
Yet he knew that it had taken longer. Not much, no. A mere five months. Although if he were honest, he might have to admit to himself that it had been five months and ten years. If only he had not been so blind and foolish.
And foolish was a hard word for someone who had already seen fifty-eight winters when the huge shadow that was clouding his thoughts every day now, had first begun stirring – far away in a lone corner of the universe, but so easily conceivable for everyone but him.
Master Yoda had seen it. Master Windu had seen it. The whole Council had. AndObi-Wan had seen it, too.
They had warned him, but he had not heeded their advice. Blind and foolish.
And now, all these years later, he still wondered why. There was no answer – no real answer, at least. Of course, there were excuses – excuses he had used when talking to comrades, to friends, and all these others that had at one point confronted him with the single – simple – question why. And although Obi-Wan – Obi-Wan of all people! – had tried to explain his own failure to him, he still used these excuses even when he nowadays found himself talking to himself every now and then – a habit of the old, he supposed.
Although he did not have many of his age to learn from. To seek advice from – advice how to still live with this enormous amount of mistakes everyone commits in his lifetime.
Hardly any Jedi lived to become old, and sometimes he wondered why it had to be him who was chosen – damned? – to survive all these fights in all those years.
He, who had failed so often that it was difficult for him to remember a time in his life at which he had been simply, utterly happy.
There were only a few and all but one had flown down the river of time so long ago that surely they had reached the sea by now.
The one that had not made his heart ache so badly that sometimes he wished he could simply tear it out of his chest.
Not even now – thirty-seven years later – could he think of the years Obi-Wan had been his padawan. Remembering the boy, the young man with his encompassing smile touched a deep, hidden spot within his chest. And the pain did not lessen – instead it grew worse with every passing year. He knew why. There was nothing that he could do to bring these times back. Despite all of his might – and that was rather enormous considering he was a ninety-five-year-old Jedi-Master – the river of time would never start flowing backwards.
Memories were all he had. And certain ones hurt so much that he sometimes – very un-Jedi-like, he knew – wished to die. Only to escape.
But that relief would not be granted. And so he found himself settling into a routine, trying to live with the things that had happened.
Some months after that terrible, terrible day when the change that had been going on for so long already had reached its cruel completion, he had started taking missions again. Going on was important for the Jedi – people do not die, after all, they become one with the Force – and so he had followed the Council's call for an experienced swords-man that could handle the troubles on Honoghr. The mission had been successful, as had been most of the others that came after that first one.
And yet he had sensed a certain restlessness within himself, along with a growing feeling of dissatisfaction. Over the years – five, ten, fifteen – everything began to appear the same to him, the differences between the planets, the people, the problems had faded. Oh, he had still been good, he had to admit that. Maybe even better than before, because he had used to concentrate so fully on the task at hand that he could – for moments – forget everything that lay behind him, but on the other hand he had always felt oddly separated from the world around him. The burning enthusiasm that had fuelled him all the decades before, that had driven him to dedicate the core of his being to bringing peace, had simply – and inexorably – vanished.
After that dark day he had some time along the long, long way realized, he had never felt whole again. And so, year following upon year, although ironically having gained a reputation as the Jedi's best mediator, the nature of the missions had gradually become less tiresome and the intervals between one assignment and the next ever the longer.
Master Yoda had – again – been the first to notice his inner torment. The tiny master had been able to because in his eyes – that somehow always seemed to look a little sad – he could detect a muted reflection of his own pain. Both suffering for someone who had not wanted them to.
Therefore Yoda had been able to understand when he had – three years after that dark day – requested not to be sent on any further missions that would stretch well into the autumn. The wish had been granted, and from that year on he had always spent the time in the city when the few trees of Coruscant colored their leaves and lost them. When the sun gathered its strength for the last time before the planet sunk into the – relative – calm and darkness of winter. Winters that were not cold and icy, but rather rainy and dismal. Until two years ago he had fled during that season, though the weeks of staying had incessantly become longer and longer over the years, as he could not bear the thought of possibly not being here for the time the autumn sun tinted the gardens golden and red.
Now he simply stayed.
It was autumn again and he had not left Coruscant in the last year at all. He had become tired and weary, taking on less and less work. A heaviness was settling into his bones that had – despite his age – not been there the year before. Often now he spent his days wandering through the long temple corridors, crossing wide halls that nowadays – well, for twenty-seven years already – always seemed a little empty. As if something was missing that could not be replaced.
Even the Hall of Fountains, most beautiful among all the places of the temple, had lost that special appeal that had always made it unique to him. Now it was only the place where Obi-Wan had told him that he would die.
From that year on the sun had appeared as if it had lost a lot of its strength and warmth. The leaves were still green, and still changed to gold and red when autumn came, but it was no longer the same.
The colors had never been more beautiful than in the year Obi-Wan had died. Twenty-seven long years ago.
Since then everything had been dulled as if a fine layer of dust covered the trees, the bushes, the grass. The water even, because Obi-Wan had always loved the fountains and on numerous occasions had pointed out the sparkling spray to his master. Now nothing sparkled anymore.
Ah, there was the pain again. A quick, but unfailingly precise reminder of the happy years before that fated day on Tatooine.
He knew he should not think of them, and most of the year he managed quite well. Not in the autumn, when he felt so close to Obi-Wan – almost as if he had never died, and his body had never been burned in a late October night.
But it was still strange. The more years passed, the less long ago it seemed to be when everything had not yet been changed. The last two autumns had been inexplicably hard on him, because the pain had returned with all his might – and he had felt as if Obi-Wan had not yet been dead for more than two decades. Rather as if he had still lived two months ago. The pain had been so raw, so deep, so hurting.
At first he had tried to explain it by the fact that it was the sheer number of years that had horrified him so. Twenty-five years, the quarter of a century – such a long time. Then he had blamed his age. But when it had not become better in the next year he knew that none of this was the reason.
The very simple reason was longing.
He longed for Obi-Wan, his friend, his companion, his son. He wanted to have him by his side, if only to chat in front of the fire-place, if only to drink a cup of tea with him, if only to once look at him again and think, well, he's fine.
Obi-Wan would be sixty-two now, not too old for missions by far, but old enough to take things a little slower, to spend some time with his master who at ninety-five was not wise and strong any more, but only wise. Obi-Wan would not have minded. He had been a kind soul that had been able to look behind wrinkles and gray hair to see what someone was really made of.
A kind soul with a kind heart that was forced to give in to a cruel sickness, robbing him of so many years. But time had not stopped as it should have – the river was flowing along as fast as ever. The universe should have frozen that very moment, he had often mused, come to a stand-still because it should not have survived such a horrible death. Yet the years were coming and going and many had already forgotten Obi-Wan or even grown up without ever knowing him. Life had continued. It almost – but only almost – seemed impossible. Obi-Wan had gone to the sea for everyone but a few.
In only eight years he would be dead as long as he had lived. And he himself would then be almost thrice as old. He, who did not deserve to live so long – except if it were punishment – because even if he had not caused Obi-Wan to die – which was true, he knew, as he simply could not blame himself for him falling victim to leukemia, although he had tried, he had to admit – he had still made his death more painful than it should have been.
There was no one to care for Obi-Wan in the last months, weeks, and days of his life. His padawan had chosen to suffer alone and he had also chosen to die alone. Only for his sake. No, Obi-Wan had not said that, but he had felt it in those horrible weeks after Obi-Wan had left for that forsaken planet whose name still managed to make his blood run cold, although he had lived with the Jedi-Code for ninety-five years. This feeling was something he would most certainly take with him into his grave, he knew that.
The only thing he had been able to do for his padawan had been to take a speeder, hurry to said planet, and recover his body.
No one, no one and nothing, would have been able to stop him from that last duty. Which was not actually a duty as Obi-Wan had never mentioned such a wish, but it had felt as if it had been one.
Never would he forget that day when he had had to carry the frail, pale body back to his ship. The image was forever engrained in his mind and he still thought he could smell the foul air of the planet that was so successfully oppressing the sweet fragrance that should have surrounded Obi-Wan's body.
Sweet and fresh, because to him Obi-Wan had only been dead the moment the flames had begun licking at his body here in Coruscant.
He had stood in front of the pyre then, had even touched the first torch to the wood, and he had been watching for the whole time while the flames had been consuming that body that had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi – his padawan and so much more.
The pain had been so intense, so terrible to endure. To watch how the one that was dearest to your heart disappeared within the flames, leaving nothing behind but a handful of ashes. Gone.
Gone within a couple of hours, not even enough to let midnight pass, though it had already been dark by the time the first flame had sprung to life. Only to at once set Obi-Wan's tunic and robe afire. Only hours before he had wrapped the garments tightly about the body of his former apprentice, remembering how Obi-Wan had always disliked the coldness of the nights near year's end.
It had been so difficult to fulfill these last tasks for him. Not only undressing him, seeing the waxen skin that was so icy and lifeless, but also dressing him again, covering up the prominent ribcage, interlinking the delicate fingers. Slipping the river-stone into his hands that at least something of his master could be with him, when the man himself had deserted him so long ago already.
That was the moment he had almost broken down. Watching the flames souring into the starry sky, Obi-Wan's silhouette hardly visible behind the bright curtain of fire, and remembering all those long lost years between them. The pain had felt like an ancient sword tearing through his insides.
Barely had he managed to hold his composure and endure the rest of the ceremony with the outward appearance of typical Jedi-serenity. He had not broken down then, but only later, when he first went to the monument that was to remind the living of the dead, seeing Obi-Wan's name inscribed there along with thousands of others but strikingly new amongst the old names.
One day his name would be there, too. Not next to Obi-Wan's because too many Jedi had died in the meantime, but also not too far away as he felt so close to him that every distance in the universe would not have been far enough to really separate them.
And time, as he had experienced, seemed to do just the opposite. Each autumn made the years before dwindle, until – usually on a cold, frosty morning – no time seemed to have passed at all. Then he could re-live those long gone years, now more than twenty-seven autumns ago, being happy for some hours while kneeling in the Hall of Fountains, surrounded by golden leaves with droplets of dew sparkling in the early sun, his mind walking the garden paths with a young man by his side, gentle laughter ringing between them.
He could see him then.
Obi-Wan, still young and so very much alive.
A sight he hoped to find before his eyes when he once would become one with the Force.
After long years of darkness and loneliness.
A/N: Please leave a review, I'd very much appreciate that!