Smile
Traditions 1.
Beneath the hem of her robe, the stones were warm beneath her bare feet.
She walked in silence, following the dark shape of her Master before her. The soft sound of water could be heard, lapping quietly against the sides of the long pool that stretched the length of the courtyard. If she turned her head, she could see past the colonnades to the faint, rippling reflection of twin moons in the night, lambent in colors of jade and honey. The air was cool; autumn was coming, and on this world that meant freezing nights that lasted far longer than chilly days. The pool would soon freeze over, and the white petaled flowers that perfumed the air with sweetness would soon wither.
But that time was not yet now. Now were the last days of crisp summer, and insects still trilled through the evenings, while night-blossoming mirabilis opened phosphorescent blooms at sunset to fill the garden with an azure glow, and water flowed under the moonlight. The chill of the early night had not yet touched day.
Her toes were visible, peeping out from the edge of her long skirt as she walked – left, right, left, right, the viridian of her skin seeming slate grey against the tiles. The stones were grey, but a softer grey, with a flush of purpleness to them that hinted at lavender when the light of the mirabilis and the moons caressed the surface of the walkway. The edges of filigreed arabesques etched onto the walls seemed translucent where the light touched them, then deepened into shadow in the crannies of the carvings. The scrollwork was delicate, intricate, made of loops and whorls intersecting with each other and branching out until it became a bramble of stone just as interwoven and complex as the foliage of the garden.
The darker blur of her Master moved against the shadows, turned left, then passed through an arch the shape of a keyhole into a space that held a faint gleam of golden light, hinting that they were near to their destination. She breathed deeply, once, turning left and pausing to look out over the courtyard once she reached the filigree-edged archway. Two fingers came up to touch her face, her forehead, her nose, her right cheek, her chin. They were bare now, unadorned, but that would not last the night. The pattern of her life was taking shape, now that she had a Master to follow; she could no longer walk the galaxy without footprints behind her, with no evidence to show of the paths she had traveled. By daybreak, she would no longer be a child with no story written on her skin.
A passerine sang, somewhere in the bushes, whistling and trilling until it was answered by a second and then a third bird, and there was a flutter in the cultivated shrubbery as one of them took flight. She exhaled, folded her hands before her to create a semblance of tranquility, turned, and passed through the arch.
This was the heart of the temple. The passing of centuries had required renovation, but each time it was rebuilt without change, keeping its appearance constant and unwavering since the day it was first completed a millennia ago. There were no heated stones here, and the deep cold of the mountain below pressed up into the soles of her feet and she shivered as it seeped into her bones. Along the hallway were candles set in scalloped sconces, turning the slate-hued stone into a warm ivory where the orange of the flame melded with the drab of polished rock. The brightness of the light increased with each footstep, and the black blur of her Master became more distinct until her dark shape was fully enveloped by the light of a thousand candles ringing the nave.
The soft grey of the stone hall gave way to glittering rose quartz and cream colored marble. Square, the nave stood for the parts of the world, and in each corner a pillar rose skyward; one was carved in filigreed flames, one in whorls of endlessly spiraling air, one in the pattern of diamonds, cut from the earth and polished, and the last was all waves, each seeming to flow in the flickering candlelight, cresting white from the pale stone. A glance upward revealed vaults that dripped with inlay so delicate it seemed that someone had carved lace across the entirety of the ceiling. A dome crowned the vaulting, seeming to float on the moonlight let in by windows cut into its base. The etchings in the quartz made it glimmer where light touched; as though the starry sky was coming down to embrace anyone walking through the chamber.
Everywhere in the temple, there were stories carved and written on the walls. Memories and patterns left by those who went before, markers for succeeding generations to follow.
She breathed deeply, and fixed her attention on the cathedra at the end of the nave. Raised on a dais, the throne was as ornate as everything else in the room, as artfully decorated as the woman seated upon it. She was small, gowned in black, just like her Master and herself, but written across her olive skin were so many patterns. Delicate and filigreed, they covered her cheeks, bridged her nose, rose up over her forehead until they disappeared under the edge of her tall black headdress. The lines of her face gave added intricacy, the tattoos wrinkling and rippling with each crease. Her eyes were pale, slightly rheumy, but there was sharpness there too, and the gleam of intelligence and depth of age.
The stories were written across all of her skin; the history of her life illuminated in patterns and symbols and symmetry.
The Illuminated Woman stood from her throne and moved slowly down the steps, the fabric of her black robe whispering against the floor. Her Master reached out and helped her down the last two steps, then stood silently by as the Illuminated Woman moved slowly forward, lifting her hands. There were patterns there too, tiny details of ivy and scrollwork, etched into the back of her hands, her palms, her fingers – the tips were solid black – and ever so gently, they took her face in her hands.
The Illuminated Woman looked ran thumbs over her cheeks, turned her head side to side, then looked at her eyes, seeking something.
Then she smiled. "The story written on your skin is the story of your life. And it is eternal."
People felt differently, in the Force. Everyone was a little different, everyone unique. The Illuminated Woman felt like the archives at the Temple. The deep archives, where there were no holobooks, but instead flimsiplast sheets bound by thread and covered in leather. She felt of age, of turning pages, of secrets and stories undiscovered. Every line drawn on her skin was an experience, a reminder of hardships and victories – some of those lines were placed there by hands, inked into the surface of her skin. Some were placed there by time – added by worries and cares from an unknown number of years.
She had no such lines. Not yet. Tonight. After those inkwell fingertips touched her face, she would be illuminated too.
The Illuminated Woman spoke. "We write patterns on our skin to show the lessons we have learned. Time etches patterns on our skin to show the paths we have walked. Experience draws patterns on our skin to show the burdens we have carried."
Her smile widened a little. "Yes. You understand this. Kneel."
And she did. The floor was cold under her knees, just as it was under her feet. Her long skirt puddled around her, and she looked upward as the paper-thin hands of the Illuminated Woman cupped her cheeks again. "Diamonds. Yes, diamonds. Strong as adamant and made of earth. You have found your strength already. Under the eyes. Because you see and understand. Clear like diamonds, clear sighted. Yes, under the eyes. And across the cheeks. Here," the Illuminated Woman swept a thumb under her left eye. "And here." She swept the other thumb under her right eye. "But here too," she added after a moment, a thumb pressing into each side of her nose. "You breathe in the suffering of others, expel their pain with your breath. Yes. A healer, yes? A mender of broken bodies? One who restores the breath to the body. Yes, across the nose, and under the eyes, there will be diamonds."
Those black, inkwell fingers began to dance, to etch patterns on her skin. The touch was light, and cool, and it tingled as the tattoos took their places on her face, the marks of who she was. Diamonds, across her nose and cheeks. She would have diamonds, and be a healer who saw the suffering of others and sought to repair it.
As the Illuminated Woman drew stories on her skin, she breathed and felt the imprint of age.
A gentle kiss to her forehead signaled the end of the sketching, and the Illuminated Woman stepped back a pace, allowing her Master to step forward, a heavy black swathe of fabric in her arms.
"There was a time, before our people walked between the stars, that those who sought wisdom would live in their places of learning. There was little warmth in the stones then, and the heavy hood of a scholar was all that kept her warm on nights when she looked to books for knowledge, or to the heavens for the future." Her Master unfolded the fabric to reveal a hood. Far simpler than that of the Illuminated Woman or her Master, it was plain and would be kept close to her head, more fitting for a student than one of rank. But even this symbol of her apprenticeship was a powerful one; so few made it so far.
A Padawan, with a Master. A student with a teacher. A seeker of wisdom and a guide to it.
The short cloak and cowl was swept around her shoulders, tied at her neck. Her Master smoothed her hair back, then pulled the hood up so that it framed her face. The fabric was soft and thick, and though the stones were still cold and hard under her knees, warmth began to suffuse her that was perhaps not entirely from the added layer of clothing. She was a carrier of stories now; the first pattern of her life was imprinted on her skin. She was not a child, still seeking who she was, what she was. She had experience now, direction. Purpose.
Her Master straightened, blue eyes gentle. "Let this remind you of the places your ancestors walked in the past, as you walk into the future."
"I will, Master," she said voice small but firm in the quiet vastness of the chamber. Candles glowed golden yellow against the walls, illuminating the inlaid patterns carved there so many centuries ago.
Two hands were stretched out to her; one was the papery, filigreed hand of the Illuminated Woman. The other was the smoother hand of her Master, small ringlets of black encircling the joints of her fingers.
Placing her hands in those of her elders, Barriss Offee stood, and smiled.
The architecture referenced in here is inspired by the Alhambra, in Spain, and the Hagia Sophia, in Turkey.
~Queen