Walk by Night

Tags

completed stories, completely random posts, contrast, rambling musings, short stories, star wars

Well, since I don’t have a new chapter of Battlefield of the Soul, but I do have a hard drive full of little gems such as The First Time, You Never Know, and I Called Him Wormtongue, I decided to post another one of my never-before-seen short stories. Enjoy!

Author’s Note: The Shi’len are a creation of mine. They’re a human race–not quite a separate species–with a much longer lifespan. 😉

Walk by Night

                Jillayea’s measured pace turned up the Temple, step by step. She could not sleep. She had not slept for nights.

It was peaceful here, in the Temple precincts, when the sun had gone and the Jedi were resting. Jillayea followed the tiled floors down toward the Room of a Thousand Fountains. It was refreshing, more so than sleep.

“Do you often walk here by night?” a voice asked, softly. Jillayea looked around, startled, for the owner of the voice. It was a nice voice, she contemplated, with an upper-class accent that was almost a brogue; a clear tenor, ringing, lilting, almost brassy, yet with an understated richness that surprised her. It carried something more than gentleness, something not quite remorse; though young, it was ancient, and rich with memory.

Jillayea did not see the voice’s owner at first, then she spotted him, standing in a corner. She hadn’t seen him before, though something about him was vaguely familiar; she couldn’t place exactly what. He was perhaps in his late teens, with a compact, sturdy build, and of only mediocre height. It was his eyes, though, that caught her attention. They were not quite blue, not quite gray, not quite green, but a strange balance of all three; continuously changing, but somehow at rest, at the same time. Ancient eyes, that had seen more than many a Jedi.

Somehow, Jillayea tore her eyes from the young man’s eyes and took stock of his appearance. Handsome, with a cleft chin and dimpled cheeks, square jaw, broad but shallow cheekbones, straight nose with perhaps a miniscule break, thick, slightly ruffled auburn hair. Jillayea self-consciously straightened her somewhat rumpled tunics. A slight humorous twinkle of amusement lightened those strange eyes. Something about the eyes made Jillayea feel that, despite his appearance, she should be calling him ‘master.’ “Well?” he continued softly. “Do you often walk here by night?”

“Not often,” Jillayea said slowly. “Do you?” The young man shrugged.

“I live here,” he said quietly. It seemed like a somewhat strange answer to Jillayea. “What are you looking for, young one?” There was a world of experience in the words, and, strangely enough, for once Jillayea did not object to being called young.

“I don’t know.” she said quietly.

“The answers are simple, aren’t they?” he continued. Very soft-spoken, but Jillayea had the feeling that he could be intimidating, if he wanted to be. “Peace of mind, hope, dreams which won’t break, release from grief or sorrow, or even escape from nightmares. It’s harder to tell which one you are seeking, though.” His eyes still held a faint whisper of innocence, somehow, though it was tempered by harsh trials in the school of life. “Perhaps, meditation might help. Wandering the halls of the Temple by night, not so much. Go back to bed, child.” He smiled at her. Jillayea smiled back. It was a good night…

The next thing Jillayea knew, it was morning.

Epilogue

                “Master Skywalker?” Jillayea asked.

“Yes, Jillayea,” Luke Skywalker replied, looking up from the book he was perusing.

“I wanted to ask you about… well, a Padawan I met, or perhaps a young knight…” Jillayea blushed furiously. Here she was, dithering over someone whose name she did not even know, and she didn’t even have romantic feelings for him.

“Of course. What was his, or her, name?”

“I don’t know. He was smallish, well-built, a bit taller than you perhaps, but not quite as tall as Captain Solo… Ruddy hair, piercing eyes… Oh, and one more thing… his eyes seemed to change color.” An odd expression crossed Luke’s face. He turned back to his desk and pulled a few books and papers out of the way, lifting a piece of canvas with a painted portrait of a young man on it.

“Is this him?” Luke asked. Jillayea nodded, eyes going wide.

“Yes! How did you know?” Luke smiled slightly.

“I know him well, very well.”

“What’s his name? I would like to contact him…”

“His name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Is he currently in the Temple?” Luke, inexplicably, did not directly address the question.

“He was my father’s mentor, and eventually mine as well…”

“So… he’s Shi’len?”

“Jillayea, Obi-Wan Kenobi has been dead for almost twenty years.” Jillayea gasped.

“He…”

“Yes. But I don’t think Obi-Wan was the type to ever retire.” Luke smiled. “It’s good to know that he’s still around, helping us.” A faint shimmer gleamed upon the still, dust-sparkling air. Neither of them actually heard a voice, but they could have sworn that they did.

Always, old friend.

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Guilt Tripped

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author, c.s. forester, completely random posts, confusing nonsense, contrast, horatio hornblower, insanity, long rants, rambling musings, small rants, star wars, story dynamics

I was guilt tripped today.

No, literally. I mean my guilt tripped!

Someone tried to guilt bribe me with something I really didn’t feel guilty about. I just ignored them.

Score one for me. Big fat zero for the other person.

This is also good in another way.

As in, the villain tries to hold off the hero (see Hostage Situation) with something the hero does not feel guilty about. Also known as Dun Moch Backfires, or Count Dooku (or other Star Wars villain) Fails. (Not to be confused with Inverse Dun Moch, in which the hero tries to convince the villain that the bad guy’s life is so sad, he just goes around blowing things up.) But that’s not really what we’re talking about here.

Sometimes, the villain doesn’t even succeed in making the hero mad. (Still more EPIC fail! :-P) So, instead of a guilt trip, it gets shrugged off and the hero says something along the lines of “You deserve to die, but you’re still not worth the powder!” (I love Horatio…)

Though this is not always the best option for an emotionally charged climax (why do we all love angry heroes?!), it’s still something to keep in mind.

Because, to be honest, taunting? It doesn’t always work out that way. 😉

Never Tell Me the Odds

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author, completely random posts, confusing nonsense, contrast, explosion, flame it, insanity, j.r.r. tolkein, long rants, madeleine l'engle, rambling musings, ray bradbury, small rants, star wars, story dynamics, the silmarilion

Han Solo quote aside, just… don’t. They can be helpful, but statistics are also a nuisance. (Did I mention that the title is also the best Han Solo quote EVAR?!)

And then there are other things that you should never tell an author. Here are a few pet peeves (my own top ten):

10.”Oh my **** that’s so cool! What do you think about… {insert name of random celebrity who I have, honest to goodness, never heard of before}?” Or, “Sure, that’s nice. Do you mind getting more napkins?” Excuse me while I’m sick.

9. “So, you write novels all the time?” Sorry, no. I would love to, but there’s real life. Oh, and the fact that there is such a lovely thing as a short story. (Partial to Ray Bradbury, myself.)

8. “I can draw the illustrations for you if you like.” Er… ever heard of an author who does their own?

7. “Have you ever considered writing Amish fiction?” *facepalm*

6. “Have you ever considered writing about vampires?” Ewwww.

5. “Have you ever considered writing children’s books?” Gah. Should be the first consideration, to my mind. To quote Madeleine L’Engle, “You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” Children believe better than adults, and aren’t going to laugh at you if you believe too.

4. “Are you getting this published?” Well, first and foremost, I write for myself. If other people like my stories, then that’s great, and yes, I will consider publishing. If not, I have lost nothing at all.

3. “I tried writing once, but I didn’t like it.” Do or do not. There is no try. If you are a writer, you will write, fair or foul, like it or not. Even if you just spend hours typing and erasing, that’s still progress. People who just give up are wimps.

2. “I might try writing some when I retire.” Seriously?! Everyone can write, if they try. This does not necessarily mean they will be good at it. That takes hard work, and a casual little moue like this indicates to me not wanting to really try. Even then, though, some people just (ultimately) can NOT write. This is why there are ghostwriters. Believe it or not, Miley Cyrus and all those bands don’t actually write all their own songs!

1. Don’t just make assumptions and randomly compare their work to the work of a published author, especially an uber-popular one. Some of us lesser-known authors have very strong likes and dislikes, and don’t care at all for Harry Potter, Twilight, The Hunger Games. Not that I have any dislike for any one of those in particular (never having read them), but, just for example. 😉

And, worst one of all time…

0. When someone tries to talk to you about a book you have never read that is really ultra-popular, completely ignoring that you just said that you liked The Silmarilion just two seconds ago!!!

Okay, rant over. You can go about your own lives again now. ;-P

Comes a Time

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battlefield of the soul, c.s. lewis, completed stories, completely random posts, confusing nonsense, contrast, g.k. chesterton, insanity, j.r.r. tolkein, long rants, military, nanowrimo 2013, national novel writing month, poetry, politics, rambling musings, shifting tides series, short stories, small rants, story dynamics, the age old debate, the hero's dream

Yes! Erin is back at last from her long jaunt into Nanowrimo Nation. Did you miss me? 😉 Late happy Thanksgiving, everyone. 🙂

I have some news for all my beloved readers in this post. I have finished a concept drawing for The Hero’s Dream and other stories in the Shifting Tides series, as well as parts of the next installment of the series, Battlefield of the Soul. The concept drawing will be posted once I scan it into the computer (unfortunately, it’s black and white… sigh… Does anyone know how to use the program to color it in? *hint hint wink wink*), and the story will be posted as soon as I can type it up.

Also, I have a bunch of original short stories to post–I worked on them during Nano, sort of to fill up the gaps. 😉 I hope you all enjoy them!

Then, on Nano, I did not win… didn’t even make my wordcount goal. I do have two valid excuses, though: Jewel’s Birthday (Friday), and taking out the trash. Surprisingly, Thanksgiving wasn’t that much of a problem. Anyway, so I spent Jewel’s birthday with her, and the next day (the last day of Nano!) I was taking out the trash, and the garbage barrel lid came down and bopped me a good one across the back of the head, and my glasses fell off and landed in the trash can, and when I reached for them I cut myself on some broken glass, in the soft skin between my first and second fingers, at the knuckle. Ouch. So then I was bleeding like no one’s business, and it just hurt too freakin’ much to hold a pencil, much less type.

Soooo, here I am, 12k short, and still completely happy. Frankly, I’m not sure how this is even possible…

And I now have a cold. Figures…

And now, for the real juicy bit. Warning: Intense Christian doctrine and evangelization ahead! If some of you don’t like overtly Christian and/or Catholic writings, it might be best for you to simply avoid the rest of this post. However, if you are a lover of philosophy or C.S. Lewis or a fan of G.K. Chesterton (or simply just plain stubborn), you might just enjoy this (though of course my lowly work simply can not compare to either Lewis or Chesterton… or Tolkien for that matter.) That much said, enjoy or avoid at will! 😉

Comes a Time

                Arinna pulled the kettle off the stove, pouring the boiling water into a chipped, earth-toned ceramic carafe and tossing some tea leaves in on top. “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning slightly to herself.

“You’re going to die in this holy war and it isn’t even yours.” Lexi said. “How is that not…” She paused. Arinna sighed and put down the earthenware carafe.

“Do you mean to say that I’m going to die for a cause that is, in your opinion, both worthless, and already doomed to failure?” she asked bluntly. Lexi turned away, probably unused to such blunt, brash, plain honesty. It took her a moment—a very long moment—to regain her composure.

“Yes. I do.” she said at last.

“Well, let me ask you a question then,” Arinna said softly. “What do you believe in?” Startled again, especially since Arinna had broken the social rules twice in as many paragraphs, Lexi took a moment before she replied.

“I’m a Christian, too, just like you, you know that!” she protested.

“That means nothing,” Arinna said. “There are too many denominations nowadays for us to know for certain that we hold any common ground whatsoever. Besides, many people who say they believe in Christ don’t really love Him. If they did, then they would act like it. What do you believe in? What are you willing to fight and die for? If not Christ, then what?”

“I don’t know!” Lexi burst out, frustrated. “You keep asking questions without any answers!” she fumed.

“Oh, they have answers,” Arinna assured her. “You’re just afraid of the answers. So am I. So is everyone else, for that matter.” Arinna picked up the pitcher of hot tea and poured it out into two mugs. She handed one to Lexi and sipped slowly out of the other, looking at her friend over the rim. “I’m your friend. It’s my business to ask the hard questions, Lexi. I only do it because I care.” Slowly, she lowered her mug. “Do you want to go on?” she asked softly. Lexi shrugged.

“Yes. I guess. If you want to.” Arinna nodded slowly as she went on with her apology.

“All of us have something we’re willing to fight to the death for, Lexi. Something we believe in—something we believe is worth believing in. It’s part of what makes us human. Someday, Lexi, you will live, and fight, and die for something—and you’ll do it willingly, too. I can promise you that. It’s your destiny—it’s inevitable. You can’t change it, but you can decide what it is you will believe in. Put God out of your life, and you will find yourself trying to fill that void in your heart—you’ll catch yourself filling it with less desirable things. The catch, is to ask yourself what you’re willing to die for. Power? Money? Pleasure? Goods? Your home? Your possessions? Your friends? Your family? If any of that comes first—before God does—in your life, you’re no better than a pagan. You’re an idolater if you put any of those… material things before God.” Arinna looked down at her mug; for the first time her voice sounded unsure. “You may not like to hear this, Lexi, but I only say it because I care. I can’t soften this for you, without losing the message. It’s uncompromising, as hard as nails. You have to choose what you will fight for. He who will fight for nothing is no pacifist, but a coward indeed. You must choose—now—whom you will serve. No one can do it for you.” She took a deep breath. “That’s why I am here—in this camp—in this army—today, Lexi. I said to myself, ‘No more hesitation! I am going to commit—today!’ We both know that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions—if you even believe in Hell.” The evangelist’s voice was tinged with heavy bitterness. “I am willing to die for my Heavenly King. I decided that He was worth fighting for. I regret all the lives lost in this war, but there comes a time when one can no longer stand idly by. There comes a time when one must make a stand. I decided Whom I am going to serve. So what if I’m not perfect? Perfection isn’t possible for any human being. It doesn’t come until Heaven. It’s the times I worked—hard—that matter. I know my cause is worth dying for. Is yours?” Arinna looked up at Lexi with pleading eyes. The other woman was silent. She knew would have to think about it; Arinna knew it too. And while Lexi thought, Arinna would pray.

“I’ll think about it, ‘Rin. I… I promise.” Lexi said. Then, she left the tent, as evening fell over the Crusaders’ camp.

Evangelist

Let the past lie where it’s buried

By the gravestone, on the hill,

Wind wanders wild across the wastelands,

They say the spirit moves at will.

Each sad tear-fall lies there buried

In the garden, by the rill,

Every laughter a rose has planted,

They say the roses bloom there still.

Where one rose blights, sad and mournful

One by one, the petals fall,

In the garden by the rill-side

Back to the womb whence it was called.

Hold tight to what you’re given.

Hold tight to those you love.

These little blessings that we seek

Are our anchors, from above.

Ask again what you now live for

Question your heart’s desire

Many things we are attached to

Pass, straw-like, in the fire.

With the light, morning arises

A new dawn casts the night away

Each day builds on the one before it,

The future’s fragments are at play.

Congratulations go to those who actually made it to the end of this post! Oh, and please tell me… did you like the poem? 😉 It’s originally from my April/July Nanowrimo project Angels’ Reflections. Which, incidentally, I have new ideas for now. Cheers!

As always, thanks for reading and may God bless you and keep you in all your days!

“It’s a faith worth fighting for.” –Anonymous (okay, maybe not ANONYMOUS, but I still can’t remember who I’m quoting. X-P)

I Called Him “Wormtongue”

Tags

brian jacques, completed stories, completely random posts, contrast, j.r.r. tolkein, lord of the rings, madeleine l'engle, nanowrimo 2013, national novel writing month, redwall, short stories, star wars, story dynamics

Hello, my beloved readers! Yes, I have not fallen off the face of the earth. Yes, I am still alive, believe it or not.

And today, I offer you a short–very short–story, as a brief break from my Nanowrimo project.

This story has a backstory, and that backstory was how I was thinking how some characters can pass by other ones’ names, or nicknames, even if they’re not from the same fandom. For instance, you could call Charles Wallace Murry “the Chosen One”, or you could call Obi-Wan Kenobi “Glorfindel” (“golden-haired” in Quenya. 🙂 ) You could call Martin the Warrior “the Seeker,” for goodness’ sake! You could even call Dooku “Sauruman”, if you wanted to. ;-P

That is what this story is about–name crossovers. Enjoy!

I have been called many things in my life. Obi-Wan Joseph Kenobi. Raelynn Ae’enn Narshala. Guardian angel. Mercy. Grace. The Negotiator. Brother.

Then there are the titles of which I am not so proud. The Angel of Death. That’s what they called me after the disaster of Nokama. Unobservant.

Traitor.

I don’t want to argue over whether people called me this for a reason. According to the strict definition, I am not a traitor. I never swore fealty to the Empire. I am–was–loyal to the Republic I promised to serve. I am not a traitor. I have merely been called that.

Palpatine–Sidious–was the real traitor. He betrayed us all. But maybe he was not a traitor–his allegiance always was to himself. It always comes down to points of view–and mine… it keeps on shifting, now. Making excuses for people whom I should not excuse.

Whoever said that the mind is a good servant but a cruel mistress was more right than he will ever know.

Palpatine stole my brother’s heart. I thought it was safe in my keeping, but he had already given it to someone else. He gave his heart to an angel, and it was stolen by a demon. Palpatine spent long years in poisoning my brother’s ears, changing his heart, making him cold, cruel, dark. I can see that now. They say, after all, that hindsight is always twenty/twenty.

Palpatine made me kill my brother. I am a murderer. It was me that killed Anakin Skywalker and allowed Darth Vader to take his place. I strangled the very thing I meant to nurture. I killed the innocent sprout-ling and nurtured the tares.

And in the end, I ran. I ran like a coward. He might have turned–he might have broken my heart–the heart I never really gave away until I met him–but I still loved him. Attachment is a curious thing. It can cosset and warm you, or it can betray you.

I ran. I ran from Palpatine, and from Vader. But before I ran, there was one confrontation with the man who destroyed my brother. It was not of the body, but of the spirit. He put a curse on me, but I put a name on him.

He called me “accursed.”

I called him “Wormtongue.”

The Breath

Tags

author, baroness emma orczy, bbc merlin, brave, brian jacques, c.s. forester, completely random posts, confusing nonsense, contrast, disney, hornblower, insanity, j.r.r. tolkein, long rants, lord of the rings, madeleine l'engle, merida, rambling musings, redwall, small rants, star wars, story dynamics, the scarlet pimpernel

Once again, my readers, I am back, and this time bringing to you a well-known plot device–so well-known, perhaps, that maybe you don’t even think of it like this. Maybe you don’t even know it, but I’ll bet you’ve probably been using it, unconsciously, all through your writing life.

I’m talking about the phenomenon known as breathe. Or, more simply, take a breath and keep on living.

But this is actually two things, and probably you’ve been using them both. The first one is the actual deep breath before the plunge.

The second is still more innocuous. I don’t know if it even has a name, properly, so I’m going to call it The Breath.

The Breath has only two requirements, and they are as follows:

1. There must be a look shared between two characters; as in they must meet each other’s eyes. (Gasp!) Even though this is a social no-no.
2. Is the redeeming feature. This simple look, only a few milliseconds long, must also convey some meaning.

That’s it. But, if you think about it, The Breath is meaningful and an important element in literature. It says the things that characters never otherwise say. It bears meaning.

It’s like paisley. It started out sharing a name with a little town in Scotland, and now it’s a recurrently popular pattern.

Popular and pretty.

Now, for the examples. It’s like when Merlin and Arthur exchange a glance, and Arthur leaps out and attacks the bandits. Or when Anakin and Obi-Wan exchange a glance–at exactly the same moment—before Anakin’s little line “What will happen to me now?” Sheesh, even Obi-Wan’s look at the camera right after Qui-Gon’s line “I will train him” could be counted–even though, technically, this is a look at the audience and not at another character. Or Keyla looking at Dwurp and knowing he’s been betrayed. Or you could see Frodo and Sam glance at each other just before Frodo says, “I’m glad you are here with me, Sam. Here at the end of all things.” Or it could be the look when Meg Murry and her brother Charles Wallace Murry share after he’s been ill, or the one between Meg and Calvin O’Keefe when they know they don’t exactly have to kythe, just be in communion with each other. Or maybe it’s Horatio Hornblower and Bunting looking at each other and by that, Hornblower knows that the heretofore troublemaker won’t be instigating a mutiny–anyway, not this time. Or Merida and Elinor smiling at each other after Merida turned aside a potential disaster.

See? Prevalent.

Like paisley.

You never know…

Tags

completed stories, completely random posts, contrast, j.r.r. tolkein, lord of the rings, rambling musings, short stories, small rants, song-related fiction, star wars, story dynamics

This is just a piece of randomness that I decided to post, just because. 😉 It’s just one of these things that happen… Welcome to a day in the life of an author.

You Never Know

T’karti closed her eyes against evening chill. It was cold, and she was far from home, and alone. She was a cast-off of society, forgotten. No one knew–no one even cared that she had been taken by cruel men, sold into slavery. No one cared. There would be no rescue. There was no hope.

That was when she heard it. The voice, young, pure, resonant, clear as crystal, sweet and strong, childlike treble melting into youthful tenor. It was a fragile thing, only a little thing, yet it gave her hope.

Home is behind

The world ahead

And there are many paths to tread

T’karti struggled forward in an attempt to push through the crowd of other downtrodden unfortunates. Something miraculous was happening. Even the most exhausted and broken of the slaves lifted up their heads, the first fingers of a hopeful future showing over the horizon. T’karti pushed past the others in the hopes of getting a glimpse of the singer. She was already in love with his voice.

Through shadows

To the edge of night

Until the stars are all alight

There was no fear, no pain, only golden light. There was hope.

Mist and twilight

Cloud and shade

Away shall fade

All shall…

A whiplash silenced the song. T’karti froze. A moment’s dead silence. But then the last note still rang out in triumph.

Fade!

Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi bit his lip against the searing lash that shot a white line of fire across his vision. He did not care. Hope was precious, but it was meant to be given away, and he might have just made someone, somewhere, a little happier.

You never know.

Author’s note: Okay, I know I stole the song from J.R.R. Tolkien, but still. 😉 It was all for the best, and I love it, anyway. I know this is shorter than most of my stories, but it’s only an interlude and could really fit in just about anywhere, into any story where Obi-Wan is sold into slavery as a Padawan. 😉 Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, and God Bless! 🙂

Endurance

Tags

completed stories, contrast, short stories, star wars

Hello, once again! I’m back, this time with an exercise in contrast, between our two heroes: Anakin and Obi-Wan! (This is sort of my own commentary on the Jedi Code and what I think it really means. Sometimes, the words just fall short, know what I mean? 😉 ) Anyway, enjoy, and tell me what you think. 🙂

Endurance

There is no emotion, there is peace.

                Obi-Wan stands beside the funeral pyre, no tears in his eyes. He can not even cry for his master. He has tasted what vengeance could be and it has no allure for him. Qui-Gon is with the Force, but Obi-Wan’s heart is still broken. Still, Obi-Wan may not forget… but he will try to forgive.

Anakin looks up at the strange young Jedi beside him. The young man’s face is impassive, emotionless. And Anakin does not understand. He does not understand. If Obi-Wan is so determined to be a coward, Anakin will not forgive, and he will not forget.

 

Anakin stands in the middle of the Tuskens’ camp, among all the bodies, and at last begins to understand what he has done. Shame grips his heart, but hatred and revenge are stronger, choking out his love for his mother. What would Obi-Wan say? And in that moment, Anakin decides that Obi-Wan must never know of this.

 

Obi-Wan looks at Satine across the space between them. She is more lovely than ever, he thinks. But the space remains. He may regret, but he will not look back.

Anakin closes the space between himself and his beloved wife. He holds her in his arms. Life is too short for regrets, and he doesn’t want to allow himself the time to look back. He will not feel guilty for his happiness. This is another thing that he will not tell Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan watches from behind a pillar, not wanting to snoop, but unable to rip his gaze away. Poisoner, the devil on his shoulder whispers in his ear. Obi-Wan quenches the thought in a breath of flames. Padme is no poisoner. He is glad he was only here by accident. He will not tell the Council. How can he? He will keep Anakin’s secret, and pray that Anakin will not live to regret it. After all, he himself knows what love is like.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

                “Why am I studying this stupid thing, again?” Anakin snarls, in a foul mood. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath.

“Patience, Anakin. Just because you’re the Chosen One doesn’t mean you already know everything.” Anakin snarls again, but this time, he does it because he knows that Obi-Wan is right.

He always is.

“And that’s another fallacy, Anakin.”

There is no passion, there is serenity.

                “Come to your senses!” Obi-Wan shouts. “If Padme was in your place, what would she do?”

“Her duty.”

Neither of them is patient with the other. Padme would have eased the nails on the chalkboard, and not for the last time does Obi-Wan wish she had not fallen out of the gunship.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

                Anakin’s room is a mess. Again. “Anakin, come clean up your room.”

“Yours is a mess, too.” Obi-Wan laughs.

“That’s only because you don’t understand my filing system.” Anakin throws his cloak in the closet.

“Clean freak.”

There is no death, there is the Force.

                Vader stares, disbelieving, as the cloak drops to the floor, empty. Perhaps the Jedi Code is not so mistaken as he once thought… And Obi-Wan was always a better follower of it. I wasn’t perfect, a voice not his own that he half-thought he had imagined whispered behind his mind.

In the end, my Padawan, I did not really win. I did not have to ‘win.’ I just outlasted you.

Because I’ve been holding out on you all this time.

I knew about Padme.

I worried about Ahsoka.

I was sickened by Palpatine.

And finally, I was taught by my Master.

You said the circle is complete, Anakin. You don’t really know how right you are.

But you don’t know what makes it complete, even after all these years.

To make the circle complete… you have to learn once again.

After all, my Padawan, what is the Force, but life?

And the Force is eternal.

Death is only part of the circle.

Death is not the end.

Because life is eternal.

It is time to learn again, my Padawan.