Title: Waiting
Author: Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, etc belong to George Lucas, not me. I'm making no profit from this story and no copyright infringment is intended.
Summary: Obi-Wan copes and learns and waits.
Rating: PG

Waiting

They never taught us about death. Not really, not in any literal way. They taught us respect. They taught us how to kill. They taught us to defend ourselves, taught us how to respect the dead, even that of our enemies. They never taught us how to cope with something like this.

I wanted to know what I was feeling, but I couldn't place it. I was feeling a million different things. I was feeling things that don't have words. We were trained so hard, trained not to show emotion, to control it. Even so, they couldn't stop us from feeling. I think I was feeling more at that moment then I had since I was a boy. Things came out clearly as I moved. The horror as I watched you fall melted into rage as I rushed forward. Even in that hysterical state I remembered how to control my emotions, how to funnel the rage into something more productive as I ran after your murderer with all my strength and speed. Guilt plagued my mind. If only I were faster... stronger. If only I hadn't faltered. If only I had beaten him straight away. If only...

If only you were still there to tell me what to do. Because even with my rage and my skill and my instinct I felt as if I were losing this battle. I know that if you were with me I could win. I would do it to make you proud of me, to show you that you were right in trusting me, in thinking that I was trained well enough to be out on my own. But you weren't there, and as that thought sunk in, every step got heavier and heavier, even as the thrill of the battle seemed to take more weight away from my opponent. I felt as if that weight was placed right on my shoulders.

The rest is a blur, really. I win. I know that much, I remember the final blow, the look on his face and the sting in my heart as he fell. I remember being frozen on that spot, your weapon in my hands, and the blood. I felt as if I would never get it all away from me, off of my hands and clothes. I had never killed before. I never wanted to do it again.

And through all of this, I remember you. I remember seeing you on the ground, struggling for breath and hearing one thought ringing through my mind. To this day I do not know if it was my own brain that called out instructions or something else, all I can recall are the words. "Go to him. Now."

I went.

I ran, skidded, tripped down next to you in a manner that seemed to drunken, too clumsy for someone of my stature. And too slow, oh god, much to slow. I felt as if I would never get to you, afraid that you would die before I got to tell you anything, before I could see you once more. But I made it and held you while holding back tears at the same time. I would not cry in front of you. I would not let your last picture of me be so weak. You said you were proud. You said that I was ready and that you were so, so proud of me. I couldn't speak. I couldn't form words. You were more than my teacher. You were my best friend, all I had known for as long as I could remember. You couldn't die. It wasn't allowed, it wasn't fair! What was I to do without you? Could I care for myself? Could I make it on my own? I didn't know. I didn't want to find out. I loved you more than anything else and the idea of spending the rest of my life without that love was unfathomable.

You made me promise to carry on in your place. I made the promise, squeezed your hand and swore through the tears and the nagging whisper in the recesses of my mind, insisting I could never carry on in your place. I could never be you. You used to tell me that I had the potential to be more revered and respected than you were, much more. At the time the idea seemed encouraging, but as I held you and watched the last breath slip from your lips it seemed like the stupidest thing I had ever heard. I could never be you. At least, not without your help.

I don't know how long I sat there, but when I finally opened my eyes and caught my breath the blood on your shirt was dry. I was dazed. I didn't know what to do and I'm not sure how I did it. I try not to remember that time, transporting your body and returning to report your death. I stood there with a stoic straight face as they inducted me into your place. I stood through it all with a rigid, silent stance, the funeral, the questions and sympathy. I thanked the well-wishers and listened to the stories they told of you. I smiled and frowned where I was supposed to and acted just as I should. But I knew in my heart that it was all bullshit. All of it. None of it mattered, none of their kind words and thoughts, because you were gone and that was all there was to it. No kind words would change that. No sympathy or visits or smiles from strangers. Nothing would bring you back, and if I couldn't bring you back, I decided, the best thing I could do would be to make you proud, make your chest seize up with pride, where ever you are.

I can be good. I can learn from my mistakes and carry on. I will carry on, right in your place, and I will be as good as you ever wanted me to be. Just wait.

fin.

Comments to kait@frowl.org.