Sparks of Hope (A Star-Wars Advent Calendar)

By Meysun

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14. Tears of Iron (Satine Kryze)

20 BBY

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Rain was falling on the streets, drenching the Coruscanti pavement, hushing Satine's steps as she was hurrying towards the theatre, face hidden under her garnet cloak.

She had learned to navigate the city, to enjoy the bittersweet secrecy in walking those streets alone, unseen and unknown – that city where she should have been closest to him but was only missing him more. Painfully and exquisitely.

Coruscant was his home, and the core of the war she fought against. The city where she defended neutrality, and where his Order resided, symbol of the Jedi and everything he embodied.

On Sundari, she could think of him. Here, it always felt like she was remembering him. Who he once was, and who he was now. What they had both chosen to be for each other.

A small harbour in a storm of iron and steel.

Satine knew she loved him, because she cherished even that – the unique feeling of loss and mourning for what could never be only he was able to stir. Refining her heart. Her mind. Her very soul.

Satine nodded to the Twi'lek scanning her ticket, and entered the performance hall, finding her seat and sitting down on the soft, worn velvet. She took off her cloak, folding it on the backrest, running a hand through her damp curls.

No eyeliner, no blush, no elaborate hair-dressing – Satine Kryze was no Duchess that night. She was just a woman, come to that somewhat out-dated, nostalgic Coruscanti hall, to listen to Old Twi'lek poetry. She had found the tract by accident, lying on the floor next to one of the Senate's dustbins, and had decided she would go.

Because Ryloth had suffered – had lost homes and people to this war. And though the planet had chosen its side, only poets seemed to remember that some losses could not be replaced. A tiny voice in the storm Satine felt compelled to hear.

The room was small, but the seats were almost filled. Soon the lights went out, shadows throwing long lines on the walls, bathing the scene in soft, almost tender rays.

A grey-skinned, elder Twi'lek was sitting on a piano stool – and there was something in his eyes that instantly reminded Satine of her father. It was the same love for what was truly beautiful. For words. For what was right.

She was breathing out and choking at the same time, she was sitting here on Coruscant, and remembering storms on Sundari, where she had lost everything and rebuilt everything.

"And you walked smiling –

Artless –

Delighted –

Dripping wet in the rain -"

The Twi'lek was speaking the words softly, fingers caressing the keys, and Satine allowed tears to spring, falling silently on the ticket she was still holding.

"Remember that, my dear –

And don't be angry if I talk to you –

I talk to all those I love –

Even if I've seen them only once –

I talk to all those who love –

Even if I don't know them…"

She cried for the people who could have said these words. For those who had protected poets, musicians and warriors alike. She cried for the love in those lines, for the ideal it embodied – that exquisite sense of loss that crushed and hurt and cleansed and honed.

"Oh my dear –

What a senseless war –

What has happened to you now –

In this rain of iron – of fire of steel of blood –

And the one who held you in his arms –

Tightly, lovingly –

Is he dead, vanished, or maybe still alive…"

She wept for Obi-Wan, who was still alive, whose arms still sheltered her in rare, precious moments – because he had been dead, had vanished only to return, telling her it was a lie, a ruse, another Jedi mission. Because the boy she had fallen in love with and who could have written these words was a warrior now. Willingly and despite himself – and she missed him.

"Oh my dear –

It is raining endlessly, like it rained before –

But it is not the same and everything is ruined –

It is a rain of mourning, terrible and desolate –

It is not even a storm anymore, of iron, of steel, of blood –

Just simple clouds that die like dogs –

Dogs that disappear, along the water -

And will decay, far away, far, far away from here –

Where there is nothing left."

Satine did not rise, when the song ended. She just sat, silent tears falling one after the other, on a ruined concert-ticket, and clapped her hands until her hands hurt. And the elderly, grey skinned Twi'lek kept singing, seemingly just for her, until Satine had no tears anymore.

Until she was breathing without choking, once more.

Because she could mourn and remember, yet move on and stand tall. As long as there were poets, and singers, and memories and rain.

She stayed seated even after the last applause, long after the lights returned, fingers tracing the edges of her ticket where the print had blurred. She stayed seated even when she heard soft footsteps behind her – because she was afraid to break that tiny link with the past.

With mourning and remembering.

She did look up, though, when gentle hands wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, when memories seemed to blur with the present, because he was standing just here, grey-eyed and auburn-haired. Crouching before her, and brushing a damp curl from her wet cheek in a tender gesture she recalled.

"You are not there", she whispered, yet his fingers traced her cheekbones, and they were warm, and alive, with calluses she remembered and were so very him.

"But I am", Obi-Wan answered – and it was his voice, it was his very smell, the warmth of his chest and the soft, tender skin of his neck under her fingers.

He let her bury her face against his heart, and she could feel it beating, could smell the plain Jedi-temple soap mingling with tea-leaves and him. He who was there, on leave or on a mission, Satine did not care, as long as he was there.

"I thought I was the only one sentimental enough to brave the storm for Old Twi'lek poetry, and yet…"

"Did you know I was there?"

She needed to know. Needed to know if he had seen her cry, sensed her sadness. Had been there all along, hiding once more.

"I was thinking of you", Obi-Wan answered, quietly. "So I did not understand, at first. I thought the words had evoked you."

"How long are you here…?", Satine asked, voice broken, and Obi-Wan circled her back with his arms, drawing her against him.

"Long enough to see you home", he answered, chin brushing against her hair.

Satine breathed out, for a few heartbeats more. And then she drew back, throwing a trembling smile at him, not caring for the trace of fallen tears.

"In the rain?", she both quoted and asked.

And Obi-Wan brushed her cheeks and answered:

"Dripping water."

She was smiling for real now, getting up, Obi-Wan raising with her in a fluid move, still holding her against him.

"Delighted.", Satine whispered.

And Obi-Wan adjusted her cloak around her, and took her hand, leading her out of the room.

"But not artless", he told her, softly.

Lovingly. Back in the Coruscanti streets, where the rain had stopped.

A/N: My dears, please forgive me for this, I confess I am crying myself.

The one responsible for my tears is the French Poet Jacques Prévert, who wrote the poem 'Barbara'. The lyrics the Twi'lek sings here are almost exactly the poem's, but it is a translation, and if you truly want to cry, you need to listen to the way the singer Serge Reggiani reads it on piano music on Youtube. It is simply perfect - and I guess I just wanted to share this gem with you. Because a lot of writers use 'La Vie En Rose' in their fics, but... as much as this song is part of our heritage, there are those that are not so well known but still deserve to be. So, if you like to sing 'Quand il me prend dans ses bras / Il me parle tout bas...', then I give you 'Rappelle-toi Barbara, il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là / et tu marchais souriante, épanouie, ravie, ruisselante sous la pluie'. And all the rest of Prévert's words that marked my childhood.

To come back to Star Wars and its galaxy far, far away, from here, where everything is left (OK I stop), in my headcanon, Satine and Obi have a relationship that could be summarised as very rare moments of love without attachment. You can read more about them in my fics 'Night More Loving Than The Rising Sun', 'Towards The Light' and 'Mirrors of Silent Rain'. I certainly loved writing my own thoughts about love, relationships and attachment there.

This chapter is for all of you, but specifically for Tessiete who loves Obitine. Take care everyone, and tomorrow, I promise : no tears, time to pick a funny character! Much love, take care, Meysun (exceptional advocate of French poets today).