Obi-Wan "Ben" Kenobi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
a_wider_world) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
eswareinmal2011-09-03 05:19 pm
a_wider_world) wrote in eswareinmal2011-09-03 05:19 pm
Entry tags:
Log: Arrival
Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, that greeter guy, and whoever else
Open? YES
Where: Ye Receiving Room
When: RIGHT NOW
Warnings: nnnno :V
It had been a long year.
Days on Tattooine were harsh and lonely, punctuated only once in a while by short glimpses of the infant Luke slung across Beru's back at the market. The heat was unbearable and the silence worse. When he could steal a HoloNet signal--which was not often, and not without danger--the news showed the government's swift slide into prejudice and rigid policy.
And everywhere, at the Emperor's left hand, that black-armored creature who had once been his brother.
It was a painful year, one that seemed to stretch on forever like the harsh colors of a binary sunset. Every so often he would wake from a dream, feeling as if he had been a changed man while he slept: someone happier, someone younger, someone who soaked up the light of the Force. But he could never remember the details, only vague shapes.
Sometimes he thought he could recall children. Sometimes he imagined, in the moment before waking, that he could feel a warm body curled around his own. Sometimes he thought he heard the startled, happy laughter of young people. It never lasted long, and he doubted it meant anything. He was lonely. He would be for a long time. It was natural to dream about a respite from the suffering he had brought on himself and the galaxy.
He was sure it would pass in time.
On the way back from a moderately successful market day--trading stolen credits, skimmed off a Hutt transaction, for the few things he needed--he stumbled over something and the corner of his cloak saved him from a bad fall. A long tear opened up in the sturdy fabric, one he knew he would have to repair as soon as he got back to his little hovel.
As the first of the suns started to set, he sat down wearily to assess the damage. The tear was larger than he'd first thought; he would probably need to patch it. With a sigh he hauled the cloak into his lap--
--and heard a soft thud as something fell out of his sleeve, onto the floor.
Blinking, he bent over. He was sure he hadn't sewn anything into the hems--he hadn't had the time before he left Coruscant. Yet there it was on the floor: slim and rectangular, bound in some sort of animal leather dyed blue. A silver pattern, much like a tangle of thorns, had been embossed onto the leather, and... was it binding together flimsi pages?
An ancient book. He hadn't seen one in years.
Obi-Wan picked it up gingerly, tilting it to try and make out a title. But as he turned it in his hand the pages fell open straight to the middle... to an illustration, obviously rendered by the hand of a dedicated artist.
He felt himself smile sadly. Anakin had been slow learning to read, and had preferred to sketch things to get his point across. Some of his drawings had turned out to be remarkably expressive, much like this one.
Well. No. Not quite. The level of detail here was far more intricate than his former apprentice's work.
It was like something out of a children's tale, really. The entire background was a morass of thorns. And in front of it stood a man wearing what looked like armor of some sort--clunky, impractical armor, either painted gray or made of some kind of metal. To his left stood a shortish, misty white silhouette; to his right stood a darker one of the same height. The shadow the man himself cast loomed behind him, tall and lean, but not sinister. He held a long, slim sword… about the same length as his own lightsaber, come to think of it.
And come to think of it--
Obi-Wan's eyes widened. The man in the illustration had his face.
His stomach lurched. A strange fuzz began to creep into the edges of his vision. Dimly he realized he'd fallen to his knees; his lungs ached as if he had been underwater for too long. He glanced down at the floor, and there was nothing but whiteness between his hands, stretching out forever in front of him...
He fell into it, and awareness left him.
* * *
There were no dreams here. Only softness, and warmth, and a sense that somehow he was safe. Obi-Wan stirred and reached into the Force, checking his own body for injury; aside from joints and muscles strained by the harsh life of a desert dweller, nothing was wrong.
"Ah, Sir Kenobi. You're awake."
He opened his eyes.
He was in a bed, in some sort of well-lit room with what looked like stone walls. When he moved his head to look for the source of the voice, he was confronted by the sight of a smiling human male--older than he himself was, by the looks of it, with a considerable mass of gray hair. Behind him stood a wide-eyed child, who stared at him as if he were something much larger and more dangerous.
"So glad to see everyone is coming through unharmed."
"How," Obi-Wan managed. There was a strange pressure in his temples. "How did you know my name?"
"Oh, all in good time." The man gestured vaguely, his expression bizarrely happy. "But I expect you'll have other questions. They all do, you know. Let me explain..."
The pressure was beginning to resolve itself now, as if a lock on his brain were springing open. Images poured in, memories somehow buried in fuzzy indistinct dreams bursting into full and brilliant life...
The City. The strange, enormous City, so primitive in its technology and yet brimming with a life and diversity he could barely absorb. The friends, the acquaintances, the constant threats to its safety; the vanishings and reappearances. The fights that challenged his every skill.
And the family that had formed, slowly, that had endured death and disaster and had filled him up with the light of the living Force...
He sat up, eyes wide.
"--so when you need to use--" The man stopped mid-sentence, blinking, and the child behind him leaped back with a gasp that sounded half like a giggle.
"Ryou. Fakir," Obi-Wan breathed. Without any thought for what he might be wearing underneath them, he threw the covers off his bed. "I have to find them."
Open? YES
Where: Ye Receiving Room
When: RIGHT NOW
Warnings: nnnno :V
It had been a long year.
Days on Tattooine were harsh and lonely, punctuated only once in a while by short glimpses of the infant Luke slung across Beru's back at the market. The heat was unbearable and the silence worse. When he could steal a HoloNet signal--which was not often, and not without danger--the news showed the government's swift slide into prejudice and rigid policy.
And everywhere, at the Emperor's left hand, that black-armored creature who had once been his brother.
It was a painful year, one that seemed to stretch on forever like the harsh colors of a binary sunset. Every so often he would wake from a dream, feeling as if he had been a changed man while he slept: someone happier, someone younger, someone who soaked up the light of the Force. But he could never remember the details, only vague shapes.
Sometimes he thought he could recall children. Sometimes he imagined, in the moment before waking, that he could feel a warm body curled around his own. Sometimes he thought he heard the startled, happy laughter of young people. It never lasted long, and he doubted it meant anything. He was lonely. He would be for a long time. It was natural to dream about a respite from the suffering he had brought on himself and the galaxy.
He was sure it would pass in time.
On the way back from a moderately successful market day--trading stolen credits, skimmed off a Hutt transaction, for the few things he needed--he stumbled over something and the corner of his cloak saved him from a bad fall. A long tear opened up in the sturdy fabric, one he knew he would have to repair as soon as he got back to his little hovel.
As the first of the suns started to set, he sat down wearily to assess the damage. The tear was larger than he'd first thought; he would probably need to patch it. With a sigh he hauled the cloak into his lap--
--and heard a soft thud as something fell out of his sleeve, onto the floor.
Blinking, he bent over. He was sure he hadn't sewn anything into the hems--he hadn't had the time before he left Coruscant. Yet there it was on the floor: slim and rectangular, bound in some sort of animal leather dyed blue. A silver pattern, much like a tangle of thorns, had been embossed onto the leather, and... was it binding together flimsi pages?
An ancient book. He hadn't seen one in years.
Obi-Wan picked it up gingerly, tilting it to try and make out a title. But as he turned it in his hand the pages fell open straight to the middle... to an illustration, obviously rendered by the hand of a dedicated artist.
He felt himself smile sadly. Anakin had been slow learning to read, and had preferred to sketch things to get his point across. Some of his drawings had turned out to be remarkably expressive, much like this one.
Well. No. Not quite. The level of detail here was far more intricate than his former apprentice's work.
It was like something out of a children's tale, really. The entire background was a morass of thorns. And in front of it stood a man wearing what looked like armor of some sort--clunky, impractical armor, either painted gray or made of some kind of metal. To his left stood a shortish, misty white silhouette; to his right stood a darker one of the same height. The shadow the man himself cast loomed behind him, tall and lean, but not sinister. He held a long, slim sword… about the same length as his own lightsaber, come to think of it.
And come to think of it--
Obi-Wan's eyes widened. The man in the illustration had his face.
His stomach lurched. A strange fuzz began to creep into the edges of his vision. Dimly he realized he'd fallen to his knees; his lungs ached as if he had been underwater for too long. He glanced down at the floor, and there was nothing but whiteness between his hands, stretching out forever in front of him...
He fell into it, and awareness left him.
* * *
There were no dreams here. Only softness, and warmth, and a sense that somehow he was safe. Obi-Wan stirred and reached into the Force, checking his own body for injury; aside from joints and muscles strained by the harsh life of a desert dweller, nothing was wrong.
"Ah, Sir Kenobi. You're awake."
He opened his eyes.
He was in a bed, in some sort of well-lit room with what looked like stone walls. When he moved his head to look for the source of the voice, he was confronted by the sight of a smiling human male--older than he himself was, by the looks of it, with a considerable mass of gray hair. Behind him stood a wide-eyed child, who stared at him as if he were something much larger and more dangerous.
"So glad to see everyone is coming through unharmed."
"How," Obi-Wan managed. There was a strange pressure in his temples. "How did you know my name?"
"Oh, all in good time." The man gestured vaguely, his expression bizarrely happy. "But I expect you'll have other questions. They all do, you know. Let me explain..."
The pressure was beginning to resolve itself now, as if a lock on his brain were springing open. Images poured in, memories somehow buried in fuzzy indistinct dreams bursting into full and brilliant life...
The City. The strange, enormous City, so primitive in its technology and yet brimming with a life and diversity he could barely absorb. The friends, the acquaintances, the constant threats to its safety; the vanishings and reappearances. The fights that challenged his every skill.
And the family that had formed, slowly, that had endured death and disaster and had filled him up with the light of the living Force...
He sat up, eyes wide.
"--so when you need to use--" The man stopped mid-sentence, blinking, and the child behind him leaped back with a gasp that sounded half like a giggle.
"Ryou. Fakir," Obi-Wan breathed. Without any thought for what he might be wearing underneath them, he threw the covers off his bed. "I have to find them."
no subject
"I missed you too, son."