Radge Thoughts

Just to prove I still exist...

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 11:09:28 GMT

I just totally have not put anything together in fanfic in ages, and that's what I've kind of reduced this journal to use for (that and keeping up with awesome people and cool fics, even if I never comment cos I'm lame). I have a shiteload -- none of it complete, and most of it not to current WiPs. Having a crisis of writing ability, not to mention the on-going crises of RL here.

But my year has been made. The year I turned nineteen and barely remembered I was actually now "an adult" -- jeez, how am I supposed to deal with 20 in like 4 months??? But, anyways, my year's been made.

5 years since the awesomeness that is Smile Empty Soul burst on the scene, dubbed by some as the new Nirvana...they've done a Nirvana cover. It's like chocolate and butterscotch sauce on mint chocolate chip and peppermint ice cream (with cherries!): Perfection! I am happy ^_^

Plus, I've an opportunity to make money for the fam, courtesy of one of my best friends -- maybe I'll be the one to turn 2010 around.

...But first, integrated science awaits me. It and a portfolio are all that stands between me and my (much-delayed, much-awaited) HS diploma. Whoo. Wow.

Fic Preview: Untitled, X-Men

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 14:28:08 GMT

So...I should be doing classwork...cos I need to be done with two whole courses by mid-next month (no way, really)...but anyways...I decided to fic write instead because ~~I'm a horrid, horrid procrastinator~~ I had an idea.

I've read a couple of fics where Remy has a child, and they kind of fascinate me, so I decided to do a somewhat movieverse (okay, kinda more like pick-and-chooseverse, as enemyfrigate calls it -- who btw, writes awesome Lomy fics) fic where he ends up back in New Orleans after the whole Three Mile Island disaster cos he heard about Bel having a daughter (most fics have him with a son, and even though I like that idea better, I figure I'd try something new). Also, in my little world, Remy got taken to Three Mile right after he was kicked out of New Orleans on his wedding day for the duel with Julien. So yeah, that's the beginning background. It's another semi epic idea. I need to stop with those. I've got like, what? Four? Geez. But anyways, I like this one so...

Oh, yeah, and I like accents, if my Trainspotting love doesn't give that away, and I reckon Remy's gets thicker when he's in familiar/familial turf, like everybody else I know...>.>

(The lyric from the cut is from "Shimmer" by Fuel.)

“Bella…”

The look of utter shock that had met him when the door swung open had faded into jaded passivity and a hint of aggravation. “Whatchu wan’, Remy? I don’ wan’ not’in’ t’ do wi’chu.”

“Belladonna…”

“What I say, Remy? Leave. Git de hell on. I don’ wan’ ya t’ darken my do’ no more. Aller. Y’ might as well’ve really been dead.”

That hurt. Remy winced; that hurt more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. He caught the door as Belladonna Boudreaux attempted to slam it in his face – again. Her icy blue eyes lasered him from beneath dyed-black curls. He met her glare, ounce for ounce. He didn’t have an issue with Bella – didn’t want to have an issue with Bella, but the girl had never made anything easy. Being with her had always been either love or hate.

Right now was a “hate” moment.

“Look, Bella. I know. I know ‘bout her.” By the way the Assassin’s lithe body went utterly still, Remy knew she hadn’t expected those words – didn’t know what to do with them. He pushed further, in words and on the door. “She’s my daughter, too, Bel.”

Belladonna crossed her arms across her chest, face like granite, but her teeth were bared ever-so-slightly in contempt. The subtle look didn’t set well with Remy. In fact, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Too righ’ she ‘uz yo’r chile,” Bella said in a low, accusatory tone. “Fo’ sho’ was yo’ chile wit’ dem’s devil’s red eyes.”

Remy sighed. Caught between rage and sorrow at her words, he took the latter route and murmured ruefully, “Dat never bot’ered ya, Bel. Dat’s yo’r daddy talkin’.”

“What d’you know, Remy LeBeau!” Bel spat in anger. Remy understood she was only yelling because he was right. Suddenly, her words ran back through his head.

“Now, what d’ya mean ‘was,’ Bella? Where is she? What happened?…” His eyes flashed red. “What’d you do, Belladonna?” He had to consciously will himself not to charge the door beneath his hand at the thought.

Belladonna took two steps back. He could almost feel her apprehension – saw that “oh, shit” look clearly cross her face. She reschooled it into a full sneer. “Jes’ like dat, Remy: lookin’ like de soulless demon y’ are. A fuckin’ diable blanc.”

Remy swallowed hard. He didn’t have a fight with her, he kept telling himself. He didn’t have a fight with her.

Didn’t mean he didn’t really want to blow something up right this moment.

“Bel,” he said through gritted teeth, “I always knew y’ could be a righteous fuckin’ bitch, but now, right now you’s jus’ bein’ a heartless cunt.”

Her gasp of indignation and slack jaw were little gratification. “What’d you do, Belladonna? Where is she?”

Fiery anger flashed through the sleet blue eyes, and Bel was screaming. “What’s it matter t’ you, Remy? How d’y’ even know? Ain’ like you been ‘round or nothin’! Bein’ the fuckin’ trash y’ always were, weren’t ya? Killin’ m’ frere and den jus’ runnin’ out on me?! What does she matter to you? Did you ever think what I had t’ go t’rough, Remy? Dat ever cross yo’ mind? Ever t’ink how bad it hurt me? What is ‘uz like fo’ me, wit’ de bastard chile of the devil’s boy T’ief? What I had t’ do t’ her?”

Is that what you thought, Bel? Dat I ran out? Remy thought at the back of his mind. But that was an issue for another time. He hated how wretched she looked right now, black tracks down her pale face from her tears running her mascara. Half her words he knew weren’t from the Belladonna he had known before he had been exiled and kidnapped, experimented on and worse; in the years he’d been gone, her daddy had really warped her head. Damned shame. He reached out what he called his charm, emotionally reaching out like a caress to her. “What did you have to do, Bella? What happened?”

Bella felt the empathic caress try to soothe her. Remy’d always hated to see her upset. Devil’s child or not. He really had always cared, always tried to keep her happy, whether he could do it by his own sheer charm or his mutant charm. She hadn’t always treated him right, but he’d always tried to do right by her. Damn him.

With a choked sob, Belladonna collapsed, legs just going out from under her. Remy knelt before her. She was back to that day, back when her father had come and taken the baby as soon as he learnt about her. A keening wail slowly escaped her. “He took her. He took her ‘way. Oh, bon Dieu, he took de baby ‘way.” Bright blue eyes looked at Remy, pleadingly. “I didn’ treat ‘er right, I know dat, Remy. Didn’ take care a her. I didn’t…I didn’ know what t’ do…didn’ want not’in’ t’ do wit’ her. I shou’n’ta done dat, but… I’m sorry, Rems. I —”

“Bella,” Remy interrupted, a hand upon her shoulder. He tried to ignore the anger that flared at the notion she had done wrong by an innocent child, let alone let her be taken away. “Bella. Come back here, Bel. Tell m’ what happened. Who took ‘er?”

Blood-shot blue eyes met Remy’s. They were that smooth grey-hazel colour again, she noticed. “Daddy took ‘er. Said de Antiquary’d lost his last prize; said…‘dis red-eyed bastard’ll do jus’ as well as de ot’er.’ ”

Remy’s blood froze. That was a name he had hoped never to hear again – ever. The Antiquary was the dark spectre that presided over the shadowy memories of his early years, times that came back to haunt him in night terrors along with the worst of instances he could vividly remember. He knew his mind was detail-oriented – it was part of what made him one of the best Thieves in the world, and he didn’t ever forget much, if anything. Most things he did “forget” weren’t forgotten; he’d blocked things away. Like times when he had lived on the streets as a child, some of the time at Three Mile Island, the moments before his cousin Etienne died. But all the time before he had ended up on the streets at six was a blank – he couldn’t bring it back to mind when he tried, like he could every time else. He got flashes sometimes, but nothing concrete. He had heard once that the human mind could block out instances it finds traumatic, too much to handle.

If that was any indication, his daughter was in a place he really didn’t want her to be. That no one should be.

“I…I t’ought m’ père had run him out…” Remy said weakly, hoping against hope that maybe Bella had it wrong. He doubted it.

“Non.” She sniffled, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Jean-Luc jes’ got ‘im t’ go t’ ground. When he took y’ in, de Antiquary lost all a his sway ov’r de Guilds – but he’s still ‘round, Remy. Velvet Ministry an’ all. And Daddy took de bébé to ‘im.”

Remy got to his feet, grabbing Belladonna by the shoulders to pull her up to hers as well. He wrapped an arm about her and walked her into her house, to the sofa in the living room. He was damned glad this wasn’t the Boudreaux manor. Bella took the handkerchief he offered up from his back pocket.

“I’m gonna get her, Bel.”

Belladonna wiped at her eyes and looked up. The cool look had come back into the pale blue of her tear-reddened eyes. “G’wan, den. But don’ bring dat chile back heah, y’hear me? We done, Remy. I don’ wan’ not’in’ t’ do wit’ you no mo’, an’ dat means dat chile, too.”

Remy sighed, looking from beneath his overgrown bangs at her. “Say whatchu will, ma chérie. Didn’ plan t’ no way. Bonsoir, Bel. Mebbeh when we cross path’s again it’ll be differ’nt.”

Bella only snorted and looked towards the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Remy headed for the door. He paused, a hand on the knob and one resting on the frame. Without turning, he softly threw back, “Je t'aime toujours malgré tout, Bel.”

“Si te veux, Remy LeBeau,” sighed Bella. She knew he meant what he said, though.

She wasn’t sure if she did.

Translations:
Aller - go
Je t'aime toujours malgré tout - I always love you anyway
Si te veux - Whatever

Memoriam

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 02:23:55 GMT

RIP Frank McCourt (1930-2009)

Mini-Picspam!!!

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 03:22:35 GMT

So...I lost my mind for a pretty little time earlier today, cos evidently, the omniscent ones have been listening to the fanbitches' wank* and have gone back and CGed some details in accordingly when it comes to Wolverine. (*Note: I say 'fanbitches wank' cos if you've ever been on Superherohype, you understand that that is a fairly, if crassly, astute label) And so, that led me to lose my mind with the photo capture feature of PhotoImpression. ...Centring my attention on Gambit, of course.

Now, there's only like 3 real pics, just the whole trailer screen and then edited down. And they're small, cos they didn't have a full-size screen option on the trailer screen.

I'll give you the close-ups first.

(And because I was like "Holy shite. Lomy moment!")

-----------------------------

Here's the ones with the trailer border. They're good if you're anal retentive like me and have to have the icon picture square. :)

...Ah. I can't wait until May.

Update: Genesis, T, (1/?)

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 14:09:08 GMT

Title: Genesis
Author: Curt Kenobi
Fandom: X-Men (draws from X-Men: The End, Heroes and Martyrs)
Rating: T/PG-13
Summary: Remy’s early years are vague at best. But everyone has a mother. And, even when forgotten or unknown, everyone has a beginning to their story.
Disclaimer: Remy and all recognisable characters involved with him are all Marvel’s (but damn, I’d like to have Remy LeBeau – not for profit, just for some fun ;) ) Only one that belongs to me is his maman Alix/Roxanne.
Heads up: A good deal of this chapter is a flashback, as will much of the next chapter.
A few notes:
1) Sinister is living up to his name, of course. Nothing graphic, just hinted.
2) In Heroes and Martyrs, there's a flashback of Sinister's life. Basically: He pledged himself to Apocalypse and Apocalypse granted him seeming immortality. He came to realise that that wasn't quite the case -- he did age, just slowly. So, he began to transfer his psyche and abilities into younger hosts. Initially, he needed a woman to give birth to this younger host, though later he developed the technology to grow a clone to transfer his psyche into it.
3) I am totally ignorant when it comes to French, so bear with me, correct me if need be. Thanks :)

Intro

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((PART ONE))

Eyeless skulls watched her from the walls with gap-toothed leers. He had grown increasingly frustrated with her, day after day. She didn’t much care. Absently, she found it odd for a thing that claimed to be devoid of feeling to seem that way. She was all but completely shattered by now. She was the prisoner of a monster. It was not only the glowing red eyes he was revealed to have, no – but more so, his calm sadism and what he’d done to her. She’d stopped praying soon in. What did the Lord want with a whore’s pleas anyways? And while the Blessed Mother may have felt her anguish, she was begotten with a sinister demon’s spawn. Perhaps this was her penance. For the way she had lived, for being foolish enough to willingly fall into this devil’s arms.

He, M. Essex – Sinister, he had told her he was often called, and she believed it a well-earned sobriquet, if an understatement – had laid out her fate to her early on. He had meant quite literally, “I will have your body.” He would and did. Currently, in this lab, he did not have the “advanced technology he would have preferred.” Something about wanting to take advantage on his holiday here in France of her, and willing to use the basic facility he had here. Besides, he had a morbid fascination with her, and the rudimentary facilities he had here made it much more…personal. Thusly, she was to be kept about, kept alive. Not taken apart and constructed from. He himself would do all the conducting and observing.

He said he had perfected the genes he desired his “next incarnation” to have. She would be little more than an incubator. A womb for use.

“I will be perfect. And you, mademoiselle Alexandrie, with your own ability – and your beauty, shall serve to make me even more so. You don’t realise just how great a service you shall be – but then, you’re quite remiss in realising your own potential, after all.” His metallic fingers had caressed her cheek. She had turned away from him, unable to go anywhere, bound as she had been to a lab table. She didn’t want to see that metallic visage, so unlike what she had been introduced to – and yet the same. The skin wasn’t the tan she was used to – no, now it gleamed like silver metal – but there was still the goatee and chiselled features, the slicked raven hair. But then the unnerving ink-black lips would part, revealing sharp teeth all around. She’d rather ignore him. He didn’t concede to her disdain, though, and persisted contact. “But, I’m afraid, my dear, as for all things with a short, designated purpose, you shall be disposed of in the end.”

It was then, with that cold, monotone, straightforward admission, that most of her caved.

(four months ago, right after conceding to Essex's request)

She woke with a gasp. The lights her eyes were met with were blindingly bright – she tried to shrink away reflexively, but found her arms, waist and ankles bound with thick metal restraints. The table beneath her was flat, uncomfortable. Gone was the nice dress she’d had for two years now, instead a lab gown covered her thinly. Frantic, her hazel eyes searched about for a clue – for anything that might tell her where the hell she was or help free her from these restraints. All she saw was medical equipment. The walls were silver to either side and to her feet. She laid her head back and tilted her chin up to see behind her. Skulls and bones mortared to make a wall greeted her. The catacombs?

“Tsk, tsk.”

At the admonishing tone, she jerked her head up. And screamed.

“Now, come, my dear. Certainly that’s no way to greet your host.”

“You are no host; you are a monster!” she burst out, struggling against her immovable bonds. With a sigh, Essex moved forward, and as Alix watched, his form changed. Seemingly melting away, the English gentleman visage disappeared and coming to a stop by her side was some metallic manlike creature. His lips were black and his eyes glowed an unearthly red. Alix stilled.

“What…are…you?” she whispered. Had her hands been unbound, she would have crossed herself.

“Not much different from yourself, my dear,” Essex – if that was what he was even called – replied offhandedly, his attention rather on the items in a tray on the small metal table beside him. “A step forward in the human evolutionary process – though for myself, I was rather…created, instead of just a natural talent such as you.”

“What do you mean? What are you saying? Why am I here?” Alix’s voice got more hysterical as she continued.

“Mutants, mademoiselle. Those born with gifts that far surpass that of the normal homo sapien. The fittest in this everlasting game of survival. And your ability, if I’m not mistaken, is a rare and underestimated, but coveted one: the ability to feel and manipulate the emotions of individuals. Is it not?” Black lips twisted, sharp arrows of teeth making a mockery of a smirk.

“I – I…no. No.” Alix shook her head, shocked. Yes, she could feel the feelings of others, but had blocked her reception to them early on. Manipulate? She didn’t think so. But how could he know this? …She wasn’t a mutant. She was just a young woman. Just a whore, whose choices had never been the wisest. Anything she felt through a sixth sense was simply intuition.

“Really, now?” he mocked, picking up items from the tray. Alix wanted to know what, but didn’t want to take her eyes off this creature.

He gazed up, apparently lost in thought as he put together the needle he had picked up from the tray. “I…I will be perfect. And you, mademoiselle Alexandrie, with your own ability – and your beauty, shall serve to make me even more so. You don’t realise just how great a service you shall be – but then, you’re quite remiss in realising your own potential, after all.” A metallic hand reached out and caressed her cheek.

A hard, cold chill raced through Alix at his musing, and in disgust at his cold touch. She looked to the ceiling. “What are you saying, monsieur—”

He drew away, pressing the needle into the rubber top of a small vial and drawing up its contents. “My name is Nathaniel Essex, dear. But I haven’t much been known by it since the late 1800s. Most know me simply as Sinister.”

Burning hazel eyes turned back upon him. “You are a monster, Monsieur Sinistre. A deceitful, evil, conniving monster. Now: why…am I…here?” She had always been one to stand her ground while she could.

Clear liquid arched in a fountainhead from the gleaming needle tip as he depressed the plunger just slightly.

“Don’t do it,” she said, forcing steel to her tone.

“I do not believe you are in the position to make any demands, my dear. You don’t know how to use your gift to aid you—“

“I am most certain I could figure out how,” Alix interjected, though he kept talking.

“—but I should oblige you, seeing as your importance to me.” His cold hand took a firm grip of her left arm and the next instance the needle tip had slipped underneath her skin into a vein on the inside of her elbow. Precisely, he depressed the plunger, dispensing the clear liquid.

“What – what is that?” Alix watched in shocked horror.

“A paralyser. You will still be able to speak, but I don’t need you causing undue commotion.”

“‘Undue commotion’?”

Sinister ignored her repeat of his words and went over to the counters along the wall. Alix closed her eyes and began to recite prayers. But a nagging question kept yelling in her mind over the words she knew by rote. Why? It echoed and got louder and louder until it finally fell from her lips. “Pourquoi? Pourqoui je?” Now unable to turn her head, she slid her eyes towards the ribboned cape and the back of the silver monster. He was shaking his head at her words. Like she was an errant, ignorant child.

“Why. …A good question, I suppose. To be frank, I don’t really need you beyond some genetic material. I am a skilled geneticist – I know how to create clones and have been for a time, though, as always with experimentation of that sort, it can be rather hit-and-miss. I personally do not like the idea of a ‘miss’ with a future incarnation of myself, especially when I have taken great pains to perfect my genetic makeup to make me a formidable mutant of my own means, and not just those that were bestowed upon me in addition to the one I already had. Therefore, as creating life the...more or less, 'old-fashioned way' is much more reliable, it’s the process I’ll choose.

“So, I suppose your ‘why’ is because you fit my needs and I have a uncalled for fascination with you. Suffice it to say: When one is offered a boon, you must seize it – especially if it’s not an unpleasant one either.” He gave her a pointed look with those glowing red eyes. “…As I am quite sure you understand, mademoiselle.”

She hated herself. She did understand. All too well. That was how she had conducted herself most of her life. It was ironic that she would be the pawn in someone else’s game for profit, for advancement. There were many who had been the pawn in hers – he was to have been a pawn in her game. And instead, she never realised the tables had already been turned. It had happened a few times before – a lot early on, but she never imagined such a devious plan on the other side. To be raped, all her money and anything valuable upon her stolen, beatings, death – all those she expected at some time. But never had she expected to be a guinea pig for some creature talking about “survival of the fittest” and mutants and how she suited his plan that had something to do evidently with both. “Future incarnations” and creating life and clones. It all was too unreal.

Sinister had been at the counters again, doing something. Alix was too lost in her own thoughts – too lost at what was going on. Instead of pondering it further, for she feared hyperventilation if she did, she simply blanked her mind and went back to the prayers. Offhandedly, she thought of the sheer audacity she had always had, showing up for Mass on Sundays. Confessions were always an odd affair, when she offered one. But when she had been twelve, new to the streets and thought she had started to lose her mind, what with feeling a million different ways at once and not at all sure why, even as she figured out how to ignore them, she had met Grand-mère. The old woman was a diviner, and counselled any. “Everyone needs a constant,” she had said, blind eyes set in a heavily lined face looking at Alix’s waif-like form, milky blue beneath white curls bound with a long navy blue scarf. “You’ve begun already to distance yourself from who you should be. Strength of will like that is to be celebrated, but not at the cost it may have to you. One day you will come to realise this. But until then, you are off-balance, and your life has no holds to begin with. To counter this adrift nature, you must find something to ground you.”

As she now recited the rote pleas, she came to realise that she had never really followed Grand-mère’s advice…and that the old woman was right.

Booted footsteps back towards her made her open her eyes. Sinister had another device now, some sort of long syringe.

“Don’t do it,” she said again, but the steel was not there, though most of the heat still was. She realised, though, that she really didn’t have much of a choice.

“You understand the futility of that,” Sinister stated dismissively. “Now, for the procedure.”

Tears streamed down Alix’s face minutes later as the horrible reality of her fate set in with her. And just like with the emotions she had received as a child, she started to block out the knowledge as much as she could.

Another needle was pressed into a vein, though she didn’t feel it and was staring numbly at the ceiling; she noticed Sinister’s movements peripherally. Suddenly, her eyelids feel like lead.

“Qu—quoi?…” she whispered, fighting against her eyes closing reflexively. Honestly, sleep was probably a good option right now.

“A sedative. I don’t wish to have you in hysterics or catatonic. This should hopefully reduce the chances of that.”

Alix couldn’t think anymore. Her eyes closed, and deep sleep claimed her.

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(The lyrics in the page break are from "Lullaby" by the Cure.)

-->Next: Part Two

New Fic: Genesis (X-Men, T, 1/?)

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 06:23:40 GMT

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((INTRO))

Her name was Alexandrie Renée Delacroix. She preferred just simply “Alix.” She hadn’t lived a glamorous life by anyone’s means, but she did what she needed to live…for however short a time it was. She never expected the turns it would take, especially near the end.

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Her name was Alexandrie Renée Delacroix. She preferred just simply “Alix.” Last names had no importance here. Given names – even chosen names – didn’t; names were just a label for the body.

She’d lived the streets for over half her life. She didn’t remember what life with her family – just her mother – had been like. It didn’t matter, she supposed. If it did, she wouldn’t have been living this one.

She was told – quite often – she was “stunning.” …“Beautiful.” …“Perfect.” Perhaps she was, with her thick, flaming auburn hair and crystalline hazel eyes – her porcelain skin and delicate features that belied her strength. All the same, though, she’d laugh it off and reply, “So just what do you want done this night, monsieur?” It was all part of the job, the flattery and dance. She knew every note.

In February, she met him. She thought it was something routine, if slightly offbeat. She’d been courted and had courted oh-so-many times. He – his name was Nathaniel, he said – was not like other men, she noted that from the off. She didn’t feel that tingle of excitability and anticipation that brushed her senses with her other clients. He hadn’t gone off to a room with her that very night she first approached him. No, he instead had bantered with her, though he did appraise her. All men did. But she from then on set her sights on this shadowy man, and all the while thought she held the reigns.

Nathaniel was tall and broad, dark and foreboding. His voice was sharp, dark – it sunk into her every time he spoke, even while the toning slid over her like oil. His accent was so very classically British.

He’d intrigued her. So she had spun her magic. She didn’t ever once contemplate that she may have been in danger. She’d become too over-confident and irresponsible in her twenty-four years.

But to be honest, she never stood a chance.

“You possess a magnificent body, mademoiselle Alexandrie,” he lavished upon her, night after night, in the corner of the club that became habitually left alone just for them. He’d offer her fine red wine. He told her that her preferred nickname didn’t do her justice or dignity, and said her real one with perfect pronunciation. “Il est” – his dark eyes bore into her after raking over her immodestly – “…très…magnifique.”

“Oui, Monsieur. I bet you say that to all the pretty maidens. Especially the ladies – and the whores. So tell me what you really want,” she spat back, time and again. But nevertheless, there was still a slight preening to her presence, a silent offer contradicting her curt words. Subtly, she’d reach out with that extra sense, trying to gauge him, though she never picked up anything conclusive. And the stranger – M. Essex – just persisted. He understood her standoffish come-hithers were not dismissals, but crude affection – he also felt her searching and knew it for what it was…and he wouldn’t have given up to begin with.

Near the end of the month, she finally gave into fancy. His flattery and darkness, his refinery and dangerous edge, were simply too intriguing.

“So, ma magnifique mademoiselle, will you yet relent to me?” he lightly chided as she sauntered over. He offered her his hand. With a gracious incline of her head, auburn waves sliding over her face, she accepted and they walked out into the cool Parisian night.

“I do believe I will, Monsieur Essex. You’ve been très persistent and a mademoiselle such as myself would be a fool to ignore your attentions.”

“A fool,” he said meditatively. Then, after a moment, he stopped and pulled her before him. She looked up over her shoulder, trying to catch his eyes, somewhat caught off-guard by the sudden manoeuvre, but not unfamiliar with the position. It made her feel somewhere between excited and unnerved. He leant down and kissed her, after a breathless moment on her end. She was surprised at how cool his lips were, even as her own heated.

“I do mean what I say, mademoiselle,” he said, his chill hand curved about her throat while the other kept her back pinned to him. His voice was a dark growl. Her breathing hitched. His hand twitched where it was about her neck, fingers tightening ever so slightly. His sharp thumbnail dug into the sensitive flesh where her jaw and neck met. “I will have your body, madam.”

She should have listened to her haywire senses, her internal alarms going off like klaxons. But she didn’t. Leave the sixth senses and foresight to Grand-mère. She had decided long ago to ignore her “inklings” when she could, though ever since she had met Nathaniel, she’d acknowledged them more than ever.

Instead, she conceded, forcing a flippant air: “Certainement, monsieur.”

His short chuckle at that made her panic. Without words, it told her that she had horribly misunderstood him.

Her next moment was blackness.

Unknowingly, she’d just sold her soul and body to the Devil, or as close as she’d come to meeting him.

...And it was in something quite akin to Hell she awoke.

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(The lyric in the page break is from "Fascination Street" by the Cure.)

-->Next: Part One

Flickr Meme...

Wed, 03 Dec 2008 03:15:47 GMT

So...ever the follower...nabbed from at least four people in like the past week....

Answer each of the questions below the cut using the Flickr search engine.
Choose a photo from the first three pages.
Copy the URL of your favorite photos here.

Then share with the world.

01. First Name
02. Favorite Food
03. Hometown
04. Favorite Color
05. Celebrity Crush
06. Favorite Drink
07. Dream Holiday
08. Favorite Dessert
09. What I Want to Be When I Grow Up
10. What I Love Most in the World
11. One Word That Describes Me
12. My LiveJournal Name

1. KURDT KOBAIN, 2. side of jambalaya, 3. Glimmer, 4. Evening Storm Clouds Over Manhattan, 5. OUT903065, 6. Shirley Temple, 7. "Almost" Manhattan:), 8. bokream cone, 9. Tattoo Studio Catclaw@Kyoto 2, 10. Cat Stare, 11. day two seventy five. leaning tower of thought., 12. Radge

"What You Touch, You Don't Feel..."

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 06:37:14 GMT

Just to prove that I'm not dead, but I'm not in a productive state either:

Gacked from izzardwizzard and pennilesspoet17's pages...

Five lists of five.

Five Favorite Childhood Books/Series

1. Wayside School Trilogy
2. The Sweep series
3. The Alex Rider novels
4. Harry Potter, of course
5. JEDI APPRENTICE!

Five Places I Want To Visit Before I Die

1. Scotland
2. Ireland
3. Australia
4. Romania
5. Seattle, Washington

Five Movies/Series I'll Love Forever

1. The Crow
2. Labyrinth
3. Velvet Goldmine
4. X-Men -- any of the animated series
5. Batman movies

Five Comfort Foods I Love

1. A fried egg w/ cajun seasoning
2. Cottage fries
3. Mint choc. chip ice cream with butterscotch
4. Reese's cups. tons and tons of Reese's cups.
5. Rice. just rice w/ salt and butter.

~~Five~~ Well, let's make that Ten Men I'd Like To...

1. Ewan McGregor
2. Stuart Townsend
3. Djimon Hounsou
4. Heath Ledger
5. Kurt Cobain
6. Cillian Murphy
7. Jonas Armstrong
8. Jonathan Rhys Meyers
9. Eddie Izzard
10. ...And any guy who looks sorta like Ewan McGregor... (stole that rather shamelessly fae pennilesspoet17, but it really is quite true...)

Update: Gimme Danger Cos I've Slept So Long, Part Five

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 09:22:41 GMT

Title: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: M (but really, this is back in light T)
Summary: In the early/mid ‘90s, Curt Wild is living a rather desolate existence. Until he spots the mysterious lead singer of a suddenly nonexistent band outside an infamous club. Little does he know that he intrigues that lead singer as well….
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
Warnings: ~~Writer that types while half-asleep.~~ Vampyrism, Angst, Bloodplay, PWP, Slash, Sex (in previous chapter), and Tragedy(-not-tragedy?). Cliffie end.
A/N: And here's short, conflicted Part Five. (alt ending-epilogues will be following soon -- and it will -not- take almost a year, swear!)

--------------------

Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Two

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Three

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four A

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four B

--------------------

-----t-h-e-n---I---w-i-l-l---d-o---a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g-----
Oh, God.

It was…irrepressible. Unstoppable.

If it had been like all the previous times, Lestat could have controlled himself. But every now and again, there were exceptions. One has to understand, with a vampire, biting is far more varied than it is with humans. (It’s the fangs.) With mortals, you’ve a graze, a nip, a bite, or a deep bite. With vampires, there’s still a graze and a nip; a bite is typically just a reddened impression of the fang marks left, though. And then, rather than calling it a “deep bite”, there is a “kiss” or a tease – where the fangs actually puncture the skin (though not as deeply as possible) and just anywhere.

Then there is the bite. Sometimes called the Silver Kiss, or the Dark Kiss – there’s a myriad of romantic euphemisms for it. The bite is what vampires are known for. Above a vein, fangs sunk in deep, a deal of blood hotly released and consumed.

All the bites Lestat had marked Curt with before had been nips, plain bites and kisses.

Now, though… He had bitten him.

When Curt came, so too in a way had Lestat. Not as Curt did, no – he was undead, and not even sex with a mortal he was intensely drawn to and connected with could change that. But emotions did spiral for him in much the same way – likely more so for him, for his telepathy was letting him know Curt’s. And as he was swept under by sensation – clenching heat pulsing around his cock (funny to think he’d had no use whatsoever for it since he was born into Darkness) – liquid, hot, spurting from Curt, sliding over Lestat’s hand, between their stomachs. All the little saints -- if he had no knowledge of what it was, by the feel he might have said it could have been blood. He supposed in a way it was: Blood was essence, soul. Life. So, in a bit of a lesser degree, was this. As he was overwhelmed by the intense emotion, Curt’s mind grasping his, taking him under – Lestat just lost control, and the impulse – the need -- to bite followed.

Ah. It was… The blood was hot, gushing forth, flooding Lestat’s mouth. It was his nature, and he bent to it, drinking eagerly. Distantly, he felt the initial clench of Curt’s fist in his hair. He was dancing through vivid, fragmented memories, tripping along the bars of a musical staff as if he were a moving note, or fingers put down on the strings of a guitar – a shining black Fender. Following the pinprick tracks down sallow skin to where a needle of murky liquid made a new one. Soaring away into a beautiful night above a noisy city, glitter falling from the sky.

A memory came forth, taking precedence: Curt walking down a hall, guitar on his back. Lestat could feel heartbeat, loud and irregular, but strong. Strong, joining with his, finding a harmonious rhythm. A hypnotic, soothing beat.

He was killing him.

--------------------

No sound came out as Curt’s jaw dropped when he felt Lestat’s fangs tear into his neck. Too shocked. Too wrung. Too…just didn’t give a damn. But sharp teeth ripped into soft flesh – Curt felt it tear, felt the hot blood flow thickly and the moist hotness of Lestat’s mouth, sucking at it. …He was drinking his blood.

He’d die.

For some reason, right now, that felt okay. Almost…peaceful. He’d attained a bit of something he thought had been taken from him – been lost to him a long time ago.

He was dying. Lestat was drinking his blood. Somehow it felt…almost fitting.

Right.

--------------------

Much like biting for a vampire, blood-drinking is varied as well. An unchangeable fact is that it’s nourishment. It can be drinking to feed – where the vampire drinks almost all the victim’s blood, though holding from those final drops, final moments. (When a vampire drinks from a host, they become linked for that spell of time. If they drink to the last, they are drawn in and die as well.) There is drinking to drain. Newer vampires aren’t very adept in this action, but the older ones have fed enough to know just when to disengage from a victim to leave them weakened, but still functional, given time to recover.

And then there is drinking to turn. Sometimes, it just starts as drinking to drain or to feed. Most of the time, the intent to impart the Dark Gift is already decided. And as the chosen is considerably weakened, on the verge of the precipice of death, the vampire shares his or her own blood.

Lestat had gone past the draining point, he was almost sure. That left two options, both of them quite grave and undeniably concrete: death, or turning.

He couldn’t ask it of him.

But…

With a great effort – a force of will he should have exerted moments earlier, but he’d gotten so taken away, so wrapped up in this rocker’s angel fall – Lestat pulled himself away from Curt. Away from his blood, and from his memories. Curt’s sallow skin had already been pale when they met, but now it was truly like alabaster. His breathing was laboured. His eyes were shining, almost painfully bright. A molten cobalt silver, that vision of ethereal grandness. His soul was ruined, but his eyes shone that there was a part of him that was pure – innocent, untainted…lost.

He could leave him. Carry him off to somewhere nice, maybe. Or just stay here. Curt would fall asleep and likely…just not wake. He could finish what he started, letting Curt go with his last memory Lestat biting into his neck. Or he could bite open his wrist and share his own dark blood.

He couldn’t.

Lestat knew his pattern. He would turn a beauty – worthy of it, entrancing, and often mirroring something Lestat desired or greatly admired. But he would grow tired of them in their immortality. They would grow apart from him. It was rather the vampiric way. Curt’s beauty would be retained, but would he resent Lestat for it, like Louis? Match him until he turned on him – like a little vampiric Darth Vader, as little Claudia had? Stay with him until Lestat realised that what had enchanted him before was lost, as it had been with Jesse?

He could take up music again. Be the rockstar Lestat had never truly been, though he’d played the role well. Resurrect the age of over-indulgent decadence and hedonist, spastic being that he had lived for. Herald in his own style? Lestat entertained turning Curt for many the same reasons he had turned Nicolas.

Nicki had gone insane at the thought immortality had cost him his soul, the heart of his music.

From the memories Lestat had whirled through, Curt’s music sprang from the well of an already tainted soul. He wasn’t Nicki. He wouldn’t be.

Lestat still couldn’t find it in himself to do it.

Part of him knew it was for his own sake. He didn’t want to sire another soon-to-be-disenchanted fledgling.

The weakened hand in his thick wavy hair found the strength to pull down, pulling Lestat from his inconclusive reverie, to bring him down to kiss Curt. The former rockstar bit at Lestat’s bottom lip, prompting (as Curt had meant it to) another slow, thorough blood kiss. When they finally parted, Curt took the opening.

“Do it.”

Lestat took a deep breath. “Do you want it? To be immortal, a vampire?”

Curt gave a wry smile. “I’ve lived this life, y’know?”

Life or death; it was true both ways, wasn’t it? There wasn’t really anything left to him in his mortal life: to turn him could be a rebirth, but then again, why bother extending it?

Blue-silver eyes met him levelly. “Do it, Lestat.”

Lestat closed his eyes, briefly. And then he set his mouth back to Curt’s neck.

(The lyric in the page break is from:
"Gimme Danger" -- Ewan McGregor and the Wylde Ratttz.)

UPDATE!!! Gimme Danger Cos I've Slept So Long (Part Four B)

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 19:40:49 GMT

Title: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: 'tis M
Summary: In the early/mid ‘90s, Curt Wild is living a rather desolate existence. Until he spots the mysterious lead singer of a suddenly nonexistent band outside an infamous club. Little does he know that he intrigues that lead singer as well….
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
Warnings: Vampyrism, Angst, Bloodplay (I guess?), PWP, Slash and Sex. ...And probably a bit over-dramatic or melodramatic? I never can really tell...
A/N: Alrighty.... ~~Curt and Lestat are still total girls~~ Um...it's been eons, but it will now be finished! Whee! ...Liberties were taken; creativity will be blamed. ...This is just really...just sex (hence the liberties/creativity thing) -- maybe it coulda stayed altogether, but hey... Oh! Another cliffie! Next is the last part and two alternate endings....
*hides away again*

--------------------

Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Two

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Three

Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four A

--------------------

---i-'v-e---k-i-l-l-e-d---a---m-i-l-l-i-o-n---p-a-n-s-y---s-o-u-l-s---b-u-t---i---c-o-u-l-d-n-'t---k-i-l-l---y-o-u---

Curt didn’t mind when Lestat pressed him back into the bed, plush and cool satin embracing him. An abstract part of his mind toyed with how this really must be considered some sort of honour – after all, what would all the little brainwashed Gothlings out there do to have this, to get fucked by the Vampire Lestat? …And as Lestat undid his leather pants with the most maddeningly light of touches and lethargy of movement, all he could think was: I want this. I need this. He reached out for something to ground him, one hand splaying across an unnervingly still chest, the other fisting in thick dark blonde hair, drawing the vampire down into a kiss and that unnaturally cool hand wrapped about his achingly hard cock. Curt could swear his heart stopped in that moment. As it was, he faltered in the kiss, his moan so intense, and his eyes rolled back and he almost came right then.

Lestat’s own cock was truly like living marble, all romantic euphemisms aside. It was hard, cool – though, unlike the rest of the vampire prince’s body, Curt’s heat seemed to affect it; as he almost unconsciously stroked his mind as – had to be – more engaged in remembering how to breathe properly), the cool skin got eerily warm.
Lestat’s mind was awash in glittering blankness. He felt. …As he gently start to move with Curt’s almost-steady – somewhat awestruck – rhythm, Lestat finally moved his own hand, accompanying it with a bite to the soft juncture where Curt’s shoulder and neck met. A blissful hiss encouraged him.

“Do – I – Pl –” Curt was incoherent. He slowly made his eyes open, both his hands now burying themselves in Lestat’s thick hair. They were impossibly bright, the former glam rocker’s eyes. Lie looking into the silver-streaked blue skies of Heaven.

“Hush, little love.” Lestat kissed the open mouth softly, silencing any of the words that couldn’t find their way anyways. Curt shook his head, though Lestat knew it was not in displeasure of the affection, of anything physically in this moment. No, it was emotional. Too much. Too teasing. Too…heady. Overwhelming.

Curt bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. He didn’t want to utter the word at the tip of his tongue, the word he desperately needed to say. But it took him back to the core of this.

He had to say it.

So, to quell his anxiety, he surged up and bloodily kissed Lestat hard, and then he said it, the barest feather-caress of lips against lips:

“Please.”

One word. And yet, it was as powerful as a supernova. “Please” was letting go. “Please” was letting in. “Please” was begging, at its purest. “Please” allowed one to take what they would, or to give what was needed, finally. For Curt, he found those examples to be one in the same for him.

An elegant finger fell coolly across his lips, hushing him. “I’ve got you.”

With seemingly practised ease, Lestat slid Curt’s old leather pants off of him, marking random spots with nipping, just-hard-enough-to-barely-break-skin kisses down Curt’s chest…stomach…his right hip…and the inside of his left thigh as he slid them down to be tossed off to the floor.

He wasn’t going to make it. He really wanted to be fucked, but he felt that if the vampire so much as blew on his cock, he’d come like a teenager. He had to distract his mind.

“So…ah…you – you’ve done…this before?”

Lestat smiled as he leaned over Curt to feel beneath the pillows. As he pulled back with the small bottle of lubricant, he settled back on his heels and replied, “A very, very long time ago.” Curt’s apprehension was delectable. “When I was a mortal.” With that utterance, he was surprised at the strength of the sorrow that hit him. Nicki. Darling Nicki, with his beautiful chestnut hair and compassionate eyes; his long, graceful fingers and love of the violin. The violin, which Lestat kept, along with another, to remind him of the loneliness and cruelty the life of a vampire means.

”You still have the violin, don’t you? No; I understand. After all, it’s only human.”

A soft touch to the side of his face brought him back to the present. He opened his eyes and all that needed to be said passed between them. The cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul…of a shadowed heart.

They kissed as Lestat prepared them both, this time this kiss hard but tender somewhere beneath the desperation. It turned into another blood kiss.

Curt’s world stopped as they joined. Lestat’s world intensified – everything was crystalline. He moved – back, in – until he was seated to the hilt – and stopped. Curt felt everything, intensely – but this was beyond that, a moment of sensation, emotion frozen in amber, eternal. Lestat could sense every minute detail, clearly defined. Curt’s head dropped back onto the silk-encased pillows. Lestat’s fell forward, dark blond waving coils hiding it.

Curt grabbed and pulled Lestat back down to him. He still had blood in his mouth. He kissed the vampire fiercely, and with one hand, Lestat tugged Curt’s brown-and-blond hair. Lestat pulled away from the heady kiss, the tip of his tongue swiping over his red lips, as he pushed himself back up a little, bracing himself on one forearm as his other hand kept a tight grip in Curt’s hair. The former rockstar was frustrated as all hell. It was too still – too…

“My way,” Lestat whispered with a smirk, his fangs giving the seriousness his teasing tone had belied. He wriggled his hips, just a bit. Curt thrashed, the spark of pain as he caused his hair to be tugged inconsequential.

“Fuck! Just…” Green-grey eyes searched Lestat’s somehow blue-brown ones. “Please. I –” I need it. I want it. You. Please.
He got it. With Lestat’s tattered, eternally damned soul and wretched heart wrapped up with it.

Lestat was amazed, as always, by the intensity of sensation. The tightness, the heat – velvet, clenching – of Curt around him. Of his skin and the strength of his wiry frame beneath and against him. Blunted – some jagged-edged – nails digging into his right bicep, his left shoulder. Thoughts, emotions – loud, swirling, incoherent. Hush, he wanted to say, though he knew that it would be impossible and didn’t think he’d survive the silence.

Somewhere before the world about them unravelled and gave way to oblivion – or maybe exploded and blinded? – somewhere, right before, quite possibly – Curt fisted both hands in Lestat’s hair and kissed him at length. Words caressed the vampire’s lips breathlessly, almost unintelligibly, though two came through clearly enough.

And as it shattered into crystalline shards of perfection, this implausible, lengthy moment, Curt falling apart in Lestat’s close embrace…

…Lestat bit him.

And drank.

(The lyric in the page break is from:
"Slept So Long" by Jay Gordon of Orgy.)

--> To: Part Five

Drabbling...is this Take 7? No, Take 6. (SW, "Too Late")

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 20:16:52 GMT

again...gonna let it wallow here, til i like it enough to post it at tpm100... *sardonic half-smile*

Title: Too Late
Author: Curt Kenobi
Rating: K+ (I’ve a horrible adversion to just K ratings…)
Summary: Belatedness sometimes makes something too late to matter.
Era: this is JA (Book 8, to be exact), with Obi/Xan preslash to be had underneath, if you'd like.
Disclaimer: me: poor. George Lucas: god. Who do you think owns the lovelies? (hint: not me :D)
A/N: Try as I might, I couldn’t get it down to a dead-even 100. It’s 116. ...And I've a soft spot for Xanatos.

------------

I saw it in your eyes, the first time midnight-blue glared upon me. Devilry, yes. Maliciousness, assuredly.

…I saw beyond your façade, too. Hurt – honestly.

I wanted to reach out and take your hand – for I felt something kindred deep within us. But I also wanted to live, was a Jedi...and you had your vendetta.

If only I…

Ultimately we found ourselves: me watching you distantly; hurt roiling off of you, standing on the abyss’ edge, backlit in bloodred.

Would they mattered, the words silent on my tongue again?

“Please. I understand. I care.”

…I’ll never know. They were only whispered – you beneath the death-black acid, Qui-Gon Jinn walking away – past-tensed. Too late. And:

“I’m sorry.”

Drabbling, Take 5, Is It? SW, "The Truth of Anger" (Initial Take)

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 01:33:44 GMT

So, I think it's rather crappy, which is why I'm not putting it up at tpm100, though this week's challenge inspired it. Going to try for another, I think. But since I haven't really the time to work on the longer works, doing drabbles is becoming a nice side-hobby.

Okay, changed my mind. I like the concept, and I'll edit it up when I've the time. I've already got so many things I know I'm going to fine tune, mainly focusing on that Anakin's anger is a product of his fears. But for now, the rough cut.
(It's all Anakin's fault -- the way his mind twists. Never can get anything out right the first go through >_<)

Title: The Truth of Anger
Author: Curt Kenobi
Summary: Who are you angriest at, Anakin?
Rating: let's say PG. it's kind of heavy.
Disclaimer: O He of the Wooden Dialogue, The Great Flanneled One, I am only borrowing thy creations for fun, never profit.

It felt like drowning. One of his greatest fears, drowning. And here the fuel of his greatest powers felt exactly the same.

It had been building, steadily. From the first realisation that he wasn’t worth bantha shit, to this moment, the suffocating heat surrounding him incomparable to that he felt within.

He stared into the silver-blue eyes before him, the knowledge that a simple squeeze would extinguish that infuriating determination. Those lying, beautiful eyes would go dead.

Dull, sightless brown eyes, a moment before suffused with aching compassion.

He blinked. It was Obi-Wan’s fault, wasn’t it? That he’d lost so much.

Or was it his own?

You live the reality you focus upon, Padawan. I suspect that’s why you’ve come so far. Double-edged admission, but true.

Who are you angriest at, Anakin? The liar before you, though he doesn’t much seem like one, does he? Or the devil in you?

UPDATED!!!! Ironic, T, (3/?)

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 20:11:01 GMT

Title: Ironic
Rating: T for now. Most likely will be raised.
Summary: It's a rocky path, but Curt and Arthur are traversing it together now. Tommy Stone's fame is astounding, almost comparable with his past -- and Curt plans to take him down a notch.
Disclaimer: Just playin' in the post-glitter with the boys.
A/N: Here's a trip into Curt's head. And things being set into place. Oh, translation on the line from Bittersweet. "Stranded [between] life and art." Appropriate, I thought.

Chapter One: Habits and Addicts
Chapter Two: Inside/Out

--------------------

Chapter Three: Breathing Under Water

--g-e-s-t-r-a-n-d-e-t--a-n--L-e-b-e-n--u-n-d--K-u-n-s-t--

Curt looked like he was actually contemplating the question. He wasn't; it was all for Arthur's benefit. He wanted to seem like he didn't go against the boy at every turn. To be honest, he would never eat anything after waking up: he just didn't work that way. But Arthur was so worried over him, and that -- while mildly annoying, at some times more acutely so than at others -- was endearing. He cared. And even though it had stung that Arthur hadn't expected an answer from him, was prepared to accept that Curt wouldn't tell him what was going about in his head before he would tell him, Curt appreciated that. Arthur...took him for what he was -- who he was. He was fine with Curt being obstinate, or withdrawn, or spazzy, or bitchy, or needy. No one had ever really done that before, accepted him for who he was. Everyone always said they understood him, but they always expected more of him, better of him. What they wanted of him. Arthur let it go as it would. There was only ever one person in his life that had accepted him like that, but that person had been just as fucked up as he had been, which Arthur definitely was not. And they'd been far more insubstantial, though they had most definitely been as consuming as Arthur now was for Curt. Even more so, maybe...

"Just say it, Curt. I'm not going to be upset."

Curt sighed, a tired laugh mixed within it, watching as Arthur laid across the bed, the better to see his lover's face. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I really...I mean, I try, y'know? I just...I can't fuckin' do it."

"You do it just fine," Arthur said cheekily, finally getting a half-smile. "As long as you keep eating at least once a day, I'm happy. Two meals, and I'll be ecstatic." The younger man brought Curt's face down to his own to kiss him playfully. He was smiling brightly as he pulled away. Curt loved that smile. That smile made Arthur look young as he truly was. "I'm going to get me something, though. Want a drink...anything?"

Curt looked into those soulful eyes. He shook his head and looked out the window. "I'll be about."

Arthur shrugged and the way he seemed almost loath to leave the bed made Curt's heart clench, just a bit. This was definitely something good.

And he was terrified he was gonna fuck it up. Eight months, and he still was that scared he'd do something, just one little nothing of something, and it would all be gone.

As he heard Arthur's bare feet pad down the stairs, Curt counted to ten, then headed from the bedroom himself. He lightly went downstairs to the spare room there -- the spare bedroom upstairs was Arthur's office: This was his place.

The place he hadn't been in since they moved in, three months ago. He'd dropped his gear in there, they had locked the door, and he hadn't been back to it.

Curt fished the key from its spot above the lintel and opened the door to his impromptu studio. Like a moth to flame, he headed through his scattered items straight for his Fender, up in the corner, shrouded in its black gig bag. Organisation of the place would wait. He had some things he needed to exorcise, and the only way he knew to help with it was his guitar.

He eased the instrument from its soft case, hands caressing it gently, lovingly – almost afraid of touching it. The body was cool, sleek, familiar – dark blue flecked with metallic twinkles of silver and white, as familiar to him still as Arthur’s body was to him now. He tucked it up under his arm as he grabbed out the cord and set up his amplifier. He plugged the cord into his guitar and turned the bass and treble almost all the way down. With a satisfied smile, he plucked a string, pleased with the small sound that emitted from the amp. And with that, he slid his marbleised-red pick from beneath the strings and set to his self-appointed therapy.

--------------------

There is a belief that one's life flashes before their eyes before they die. And surprisingly...Curt was inclined to say it was true. Because he'd had it happen, right before and as he had thought he was truly dead this last time. He’d wanted to be dead….

Curt's life was...like a badly edited movie. Violent. Impacting. Snatches and flashes. Vivid in detail, in what there was, but no names, save a few of merit (Arthur, Brian, Arik, Mandy...). Sometimes whole scenes would play out…sometimes, just clips from here and there. Always though, was overwhelmingly intense emotion, almost pervasive in its clarity.

He preferred not to remember. Because remembering was like those damned shocks – they affected him far too much, and never left him feeling right. But they gave him reason to indulge in the vices he did, or had. The problem with outrunning ghosts and the past is that they don’t work on the same playing field; they’ll always be ahead of you, as well as behind.

The one place that brought the most memories back for Curt was hospitals. He’d always hated them – from the time he was small and his grandmother had been in one. The old bitty was about to bite it, and all he could do was try not to hyperventilate from the sensation of being pressed in upon, from the stale air and stark antiseptic smell. Then, a few years later, he’d had his stint at Scourleigh, the fucking mental bin. That brought its own disturbances to add to the pre-existing dislike.

But that was where he had found himself, in a hospital, eight months ago.

--------------------

He woke up in a hospital bed, dreams of angels and demons in all too familiar forms fogging his head. Slowly, his senses started to come back. Vision. They weren’t clouds above him, no – a whitish ceiling…threaded with perpendicular grey lines. It still came in and out of focus. Smell and taste. It smelled…sanitary – like disinfectant, and the air was stale, his throat almost painfully dry. Sound. The light panels faintly hummed. There was a methodical beep…beep…beep coming from somewhere.

His hands curled into fists against cool sheets. Touch. There was a light pressure about his wrists…like restraints. Being held down, against his will.

NO! Curt started to struggle, realising where he was: hospital. He started to panic, an uncontrolled whimper falling from his lips. He looked around, squinting, trying to focus. There was a face above him, fair skinned with dark eyes and limp dark hair. It shocked him at first, then he was frustrated. Why was he here? Who was this person? Why hadn’t they gotten him out of here? Why was he being restrained?

“Hush. Calm down. It’s alright, C—Curt,” the voice of the kind-eyed stranger hesitated and stumbled upon his name. Somehow the stranger’s tentativeness made his (Curt hoped to hell that soft voice and strong hands belonged to a guy, or else maybe he was in one fucked up limbo hell) presence reassuring. It wasn’t the formal “Mr Wild” he’d learnt to detest all those years ago in the loony bin, and even more so in recent years. It wasn’t his first name said firmly, as an acquaintance or managing authority would. The voice was quiet, warm. Wanting acceptance as it gave reassurance, but knowledgeable of the fact that it might not receive it. A friend.

Feeling unsure and blind as he ever had, Curt desperately wanted to latch onto something stable. If only temporarily. If only because he was over his head and out of his depth and scared to death. Though he’d never admit to it.

He calmed down, just a little, and as he did, he realised that the hands that thrown him into a flashback had long since been removed. Courtesy. Concern. Such foreign concepts…. The beeping of the infernal monitor regulated somewhat, slower now, no longer the almost-frantic discord it had reached.

“You’ll need to stay calm,” the young man said. “What’s the matter, anyway?” He took a step back, giving Curt room to breath, but never stepping away.

Speech. Curt had almost forgotten that ability. He’d gone very long without speaking verbally. After those stupid interviews, back when he thought he had a chance to still make it…there’d been a long spell where all that was needed was the right look, the right sounds, never a word needed…and then “Tommy Stone’s” fucking goonies… the most he’d talked in the longest while was to that reporter kid. The reporter kid who knew it all, who understood, with those big dark eyes, knowing eyes – eyes that said he was younger than they’d lead one to believe, that he’d grown up before his time, like Curt’s own did….

The reporter kid.

Curt squinted. He’d been in the shadows and dark for too long. He’d not been able to make much out of the kid in the gloom of the pub. Just those wise eyes and tight smile. Curt gave up. Fuck, he was weary. Shame, because he knew the cold, harsh light of the hospital would light up details like a football field.

“You’re…you’re shaking again.”

Oh, yeah. The kid had asked him a question. Fuck it – the guy was here. And he was beyond caring. “Hospitals,” Curt croaked out. His throat was dry and sore…but he wasn’t really bothered…he was drifting back off.

“I’ll be here.”

Sure.

“It’ll be alright.”

Curt scoffed weakly. Fuck it’ll.

--------------------

The next Curt came to, he freaked out. That much he sort of remembered. He hadn’t really expected for the reporter to stay about – no one ever stayed about, and he was used to that.

He didn’t realise that his heart hadn’t gotten the message from his sensible head. …Or was it that his head hadn’t gotten the message from his jaded heart?

Really, all he could grasp was panic, a whirlwind of incomprehension and hurt and despair. And…overload. But a voice.

“I’ll be here. It’ll be alright.”

Like he used to hear Brian’s when he spun down, telling him flattering things that meant nothing at all. But this meant something – or at least it sounded more convincing….

He clung to it.

--------------------

Arthur was there when he came round again.

“You scared –!” he had begun to start in on Curt after Curt had rolled bleary grey eyes in his direction. Go on, Curt thought. He…really wanted him to. It was communication. It would be conversation he could understand. But the reporter had clammed up; he wasn’t going to go on. Not without being provoked. That was Curt’s conclusion, anyway.

“What?” Curt forced his voice to work. As he waited and hoped for Arthur’s answer (realising at this point that he really didn’t know the guy’s name), he thought himself a twisted fuck – because he wanted to get bitched out. Not told what to do – he’d always hated that. But ripped into. Scolded. Taken down. It was something he could understand. It was interaction.

The boy’s face coloured. For a second, Curt felt a déjà vu kind of moment at the sight. But it left.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered softly – surprising the hell out of Curt. Before Curt could form some cynical, smart-ass comment, he continued: “I saw the nurses and ‘em scramblin’, and then I heard it as I ran in….”

Curt arched an eyebrow a bit. He still couldn’t remember what happened, just panic and a downward spiral. He swallowed. “What?” he prompted.

The eyes Curt took comfort in found his, sorrowful dark pools. “You died…. Again.” The next and last was almost imperceptible, almost said under his breath, breathed out as it was on a sigh: “On me.”

Curt didn’t know how to react. Especially at the tears that pricked his eyes. He looked to the ceiling. His fucked up heaven sky with the grey stripes.

Apparently, neither did Arthur. He dismissed himself. Curt never recalled the reason, if one had been given.

--------------------

Arthur was his anchor, his reason. Arthur. He vaguely remembered the name when he finally asked the boy what his name was, like hearing an echo in his head as it passed the boy’s lips. “Arthur Stuart.” In an unnervingly short time – basically no time at all, it seemed – this stranger had become Curt’s everything. Arthur’s strong hand was there, unresisting as Curt squeezed it tight when the nurses and doctors came in. His calm voice with its almost jaunty British accent soothed him after a nightmare.

Curt remembered holding Arthur’s hand, eyes closed tightly through a check up, willing himself not to freak out and cause harm to himself. Arthur squeezed his hand reassuringly. Curt didn’t want to hold on for his own sake – but he saw Arthur cared, and he was important to Arthur.

He didn’t want to hurt Arthur.

But he wasn’t sure how much he could keep himself held together the longer he stayed in hospital.

He had looked pleadingly with blue-silver eyes as the nurse left. He knew he was close to slipping, so close to just going with what would – sanity, health. “I can’t –“

Arthur didn’t need him to finish his admission. A callused thumb smoothed over Curt’s hand. Arthur’s hands were so smooth, save for the calluses on his right thumb and middle finger. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said softly.

--------------------

Curt remembered staring at the wheelchair in disgust when they brought it to wheel him out – to release him, thanks to Arthur. He could see his almost fourteen-year-old self in one, the day he went home, shaking hands curled about the vinyl-covered metal arms, the vinyl of the seat flat and almost uncomfortable, cool and slick. The creak of the metal wheels as an orderly pushed him forward towards the door.

The fact he was shaking worse than his childhood tin-can trailer in a storm notwithstanding, he refused. Screw procedure. “Snap both my fucking legs and I’ll still drag myself out the door on my goddamned elbows. No. Fucking. Wheelchair,” he’d protested.

He’d staggered out with Arthur’s arm around him.

--------------------

He remembered despair as he sat in the back of the cab, leaning heavily on Arthur, the cloying smell of cigarette smoke and leather reminding him he really would want a smoke if he could be bothered to give a damn and lift his arm. He couldn’t, currently. He wasn’t even keeping his eyes open.

He wondered what would happen to his shit – he hadn’t chosen to hole up in the best part of town, though he’d been relatively left alone and unbothered his stint there. He didn’t have much, not anymore, but there were papers of importance and a few valuables.

He wanted his fucking guitar. And with a sick feeling in his stomach that didn’t help the nausea already present, he feared it was probably already pawned or bartered with.

He couldn’t help the tears. He took a deep breath, feeling himself drowning as his mind raced. Arthur smoothed a cool hand across his face, curled his hair behind his ear for him.

“Hush, Curt. Breathe.”

For Arthur, he’d try. Before, he’d always let himself be swept away, let himself be forced over his head, breathing barely manageable. But back then – back then he’d been invincible. Back then, he’d been damaged and not worth repairing. Back then…

Back then was a different time. A different life.

Curt took a deep breath, and calmed.

A bit later – a stumble up a few flights of stairs and stagger into a cool room – not reeking of booze and nicotine, so it wasn’t his room – hanging – quite literally – off of Arthur. “Got a couch?”

He’d woken up in a bed, Arthur’s warm body curled beside him.

--------------------

Curt stilled his hand over the strings of his guitar. All that. All that he considered Day One in his new life, his life with Arthur. Day One of not letting life drown him anymore, though it did had, initially, for a while. Day One of a trial to come. Of discovery and adjusting. Of more hurt, and hidden apprehension, and guilt and love – of acceptance, for them both. The lesson still continued, even now.

Curt had been a recalcitrant fucker for the longest, but he remembered when a part of him finally, truly and wholly, gave in a bit. It was the part that knew now that Arthur was safe to hold onto, that even if he drowned, Arthur would be there. That he truly, maturely, loved Arthur Stuart, and could accept the fact that Arthur loved him. There hadn’t been a moment of clarity and cosmic revelation like that with Brian. It all had been mad, consuming – just another eddy in his swirling, overwhelming life.

He found the stability Arthur offered…perplexing, but welcome.

--------------------

He lay in Arthur’s arms, shivering and sweating, sick and miserable – exhausted, and only relenting to the arms about him because he was so (or at least that was the line he told himself). As Arthur laid his head against Curt’s clammy shoulder, holding him tight, Curt recalled the last time he’d felt this…content. This right.

They were few and far between.

With his first boyfriend, when he wasn’t dodging swings, he had felt this way. Laying with Brian (though usually it was him curled about Brian… He didn’t want to dwell on the metaphor or irony or foreshadowing in that). In the end, he’d been left alone, kicked away, feeling empty, but still the same Curt. Given Curt had been stripped of any true worth long ago, it didn’t matter.

He felt that if Arthur was gone…he’d lose part of himself. Which was saying something profound.

Sometimes Tawny’s abandonment of him hurt more deeply than Brian’s outright dismissal. But at least Tawny had the decency to completely vanish. Brian had never gone away, but made it clear he got on just fine without Curt. For a time, recording with Jack Fairy, Curt had tried to say the same. It had just all gone downhill. The Death of Glitter had been the death knell of the time that had made him, and thus the Curt he’d been had started to die. He’d had one moment of life before that – one brief experience on a rooftop, making him feel as if maybe there was something real within him somewhere – but then it had ended, and it had all just slid down.

Arthur had said a couple months ago that that had been him, on the rooftop. It had been a passing mention, like their passing encounter. Arthur didn’t speak of it – Curt hadn’t brought it up, mostly because it was a memory more of emotion than any true visual. A memory he had treasured, even if he kept it at bay.

Brian had made it seem as if his past meant nothing, in a way Curt could almost envy, even as if pissed him off.

Fucking high and mighty Tommy Stone. Maxwell fucking Demon in human flesh.

The conflicted, crashing sound that elicited from his guitar matched his conflicted, disjointed thoughts, startling him. Shit. He looked to the door, but the polite knock and inquiry into his well-being (Arthur was sometimes painfully proper) never came. Neither did the alternate reaction of an anxious flinging open of the door, even though Arthur must have heard that.

Arthur was giving him space.

Curt sighed, leaning over and turning his amp up, just the slightest. What had he done to deserve this boy? Everything he could think of said he didn’t deserve a pot to piss in, let alone Arthur Stuart. But he had him.

Curt smiled, picking at his guitar again, much more melodically and focused this time. It was time to get back to being something. He could sing. He could play. He could write songs. He couldn’t do much, but he was a musician. He could make a song just for Arthur. And he could maybe go on to making music again.

He wasn’t sure about that last, but the former he was. He couldn’t ever find the words to express himself, but he could when he put it to music.

He thought bitterly for a moment about the dizzying wonder he’d felt when Brian had presented him with “Satellite of Love”.

“It’s a song for us. Want to record it with me?”

Damn him.

Curt swore whatever issued forth from him on this guitar for Arthur wouldn’t be devalued for fame. It would be a song for Arthur, and Arthur alone.

He may not have many morals, but he did believe in respecting the person he was with. It wasn’t an oft-realised fact, but it was true.

He put down his guitar at the sudden flush of hot anger – at Brian, and at himself, though he couldn’t tell why – and went over and punched a wall. The anger centred in on Brian with the blow. Bastard. Brian was a heartless, emotionless bastard. If there’d ever really been a Brian. Curt wasn’t even sure anymore. The man he once loved seemed to be nothing but a trail of throwaway personas as he looked at him more objectively, and in hindsight

Part of him wanted to pay the new person Brian was now a visit – this Tommy Stone – just to see if he truly threw away all of his old memories when he threw away the physical accoutrements of a personality he’d grown tired of.

That was a thought….

There was a rap at the door, interrupting his thoughts.

“Curt?”

He pushed away his dark thoughts of Brian. He had someone a hell of a lot better right now. He gave a short chuckle as he pushed a hand back through his hair as he turned to the door. “You heard that?”

Arthur’s head appeared about the edge of the door. “Heard what?”

Curt knew he had. “Nothing. Just me fucking about.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said blithely, but he was smiling happily. “D’you want some tea? I made the spearmint you don’t mind.”

Forget Brian.

He strode forward, opening the door the rest of the way. Arthur slipped an arm about him.

Even though Brian didn’t matter (and that’s what Curt kept telling himself), the little passing thought was planted firmly in the back of his mind.

--------------------

(The lyric in the page break is from “Bitter-Sweet” by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs.)

Update: Nova (15/?)

Fri, 16 May 2008 15:31:08 GMT

I have a new Joker drawing to post later today that I'm a lot more keen on than this. >_<

Title: Nova
Author: Curt Kenobi
Summary: Obi-Wan has secrets hidden in his past, and complications in his present. But what you hide will eventually catch you...and those around you.
Pairing: Anakin/Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan/Xanatos
Rating: M/R to be safe overall. PG...still
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance, Action/Adventure
Warnings: a lot of information not upfrontly put forth.
Disclaimer: Yeah, if Star Wars was mine, I could rule the world like GL. But, alas, I don't own it, so don't sue. Just call me Christian from Moulin Rouge. I'm naught but a penniless writer. Honestly.
A/N: Sorry it's been eons. ...Again. I'll clean this up when I come back round w/ Heathy Joker. Right now, gotta scat. Then ZOMG SLEEEEEP.

Part One: Complicated Relations
Chapter One: Up from the Shattered...
Chapter Two: Forbidden
Chapter Three: Shadows
Chapter Four: Try to Redefine What was Known
Chapter Five: See the Stars Fall
Chapter Six: Wrongs Begin to Right
Chapter Seven: A Moment Timeless Still Must End
Chapter Eight: Resolved
Chapter Nine: Beneath the Surface

Part Two: Selective Acknowledgment
Chapter Ten: "Distinguished"
Chapter Eleven: Past Within Present
Chapter Twelve: Certain Points of View
Chapter Thirteen: Depth Perception
Chapter Fourteen: Feigning Ignorance Isn't Blissful

-----w-e-'-r-e---a-l-l---s-u-c-k-e-r-s---f-o-r---t-r-a-g-e-d-i-e-s-----

Chapter Fifteen: Feels Like Déjà Vu

5 Years Earlier, Avindal

He stood upon a platform before his people. They were desperate; they were worn; they were ill; they were embittered. Blame was to be pointed, and it would be at him. Part of him supposed he deserved it. His people wanted a definite and swift reversal of their mired fortunes. Which, right now, he was not providing. His ideals of order and rebuilding and bringing in revenue – at the costs it had wrought, even those ideals now seemed unfavourable in the face of – though less…savoury – quick wealth brought in from illegal trade business. Quick wealth to procure medicines needed. A turnabout from the disaster bringing in the Last Star Mining Corporation to mine minerals for wealth had brought. They had been meant to mine a rare mineral that was only found on Avindal, a mineral from which the royal family drew its surname, something guaranteed to bring in much needed fortune. Instead, too little was reported found, and the water supply was poisoned.

Yes, allowing illegal trade and runners and other thugs into their planet would make a quick profit. Money to rebuild and to aid. There were rare and beautiful things to be had here, that the people had stood strong to protect for so long. But what the people missed was what they would lose. Initially, there would be gain, but the doors would thusly be a wide-open invitation to moral-lacking, unscrupulous scoundrels, and a dying planet would be extinguished that much faster. The people, much like their land – their world – had suffered, would fall.

Passionately, Owen Kenobi, the lost Ruler, tried to get his people to see reason. Yes, he’d made a grievous mistake in his desperation to help the planet he’d been reinstated to. But this was not the answer.

“What do you, Kenobi, know of the people’s plights?” A dark-haired man strode forth, waving strands of Telosian malab-black hair streaming from beneath the hood of his equally black cloak. Owen was uneasily reminded of the mysterious man whom had found him on Alderaan a little over four years ago and brought him back to his homeworld to try and make a change. How ironic to be turned against by someone who looked so like that man?

The man turned to face the people. “What can he, the boy-king – the heir to a family that deserted their people – know of you? How can he speak for a world and people that he barely – no, doesn’t know? Hasn’t known? What’s to say that if the people follow him that he won’t turn tail when progress does not come? That he won’t vanish as Lyrea and Robben did at the first sensation that he knows his people realise that he’s not the great saviour they expected?”

Owen yelled out to the crowds, trying to tamp down his panic as he saw the people visibly taking this out-crier’s side. “I would have left already, do you not think, if his words were true!” he protested. “And it is true I am the heir of the vanished rulers, that I have not been here since I was a small child. But I have been here for four years now, and I have always been Avinic. My absence makes me no less passionate nor less attuned to your plight – to our plight! As I say, I’ve made a mistake, and I plan to right that. But letting our world open to people who care nothing for it – that is not the answer.”

There was a quiet murmuring amongst the people gathered. Then:

“Give him his due!” someone in the crowd shouted.

“He’s a point,” sounded another. “He speaks true.”

Owen smiled at the support, though it faded as arguments broke out between conflicting views.

“Please, we must stand unified! We can only improve ourselves by working together!”

The dark man was vocal once more. “And how long will this take – this self-based restructure and prosperity? Too long, don’t you reckon? And Avindal needs aid now – the people, the children of Avindal need help now.”

Once again, the people were swayed. Desperation addles minds, Owen had once heard from his school friend Bail on Alderaan. And never before had he seen it so painfully illustrated.

“It’s not –“

“Enough of your platitudes!” The man seized Owen by the arm. And the young ruler stood stock-still in shock. The eyes he stared into were dark, deep blue, callous and calculating. Brev Rennt, the man whom had brought him here.

It took a moment for the pain of the blaster bolt to hit him. Rennt pulled him close, looking intensely into his eyes. From far away it seemed, the people erupted into a cacophony of dischord.

“Why?” Owen asked in a whisper.

Brev Rennt – the anagram of Xanatos deCrion’s chosen Sith name, Verbrennt – eyed him hard and evenly. They were subtly different, in the emotions behind them, but the eyes were the same shifting colour as the ones that haunted him. Even though the face was different, the hair without any hint of red – the eyes were the same, the name and the blood close enough.

Owen was sinking to his knees.

“Ask your brother,” Xanatos sneered. Surprise and confusion flared in the aquatic eyes, as the lips formed the name “Ben?” silently. And Xanatos shot him once more, centre mass this time. Owen Kenobi’s lifeless body hit the platform with a dull thud, and Xanatos jumped off the back of it, getting onto the swoop bike he had placed in wait.

He didn’t feel satisfied. Faintly, he felt mildly disgusted. But mostly, he still felt as hollow as ever. But, as it had been time to leave Telos and its memories behind him, so it was time to leave Avindal behind him, too, its descent into destruction in his wake.

-----------------------

Presently

It hadn’t been too terribly hard to touch down on Eirendel. They were travelling in a cargo freighter – when Port Command contacted, it was simply a matter of “bringing in a shipment for Callen Zaer.” Zaer was the head man as far as everyone was concerned. He led the opposition army against the royal family, and he supplied them well, weapons-wise, at least. And he lined the pockets of the traitorous in the authorities well. By saying they were running for Zaer, they were deemed safe, and cleared to land anywhere in the capital city, Dulin.

Anakin was fairly sure “anywhere” meant one of Dulin’s three ports. Not the quiet clearing a hike away from the palace where Obi-Wan had landed the freighter.

Kacia was being held in the palace. Zaer wanted to make an example of her, and the time between now and then was lessening. Kacia had managed to get out the directions to a servants’ passage into the palace that had fallen into disuse years before and was hopefully not under surveillance before the comm system had died completely.

Working on that information, Obi-Wan and Anakin headed out, Anakin marvelling at the sheer...greenery of the planet, hoping that the young Queen had been right. Fortunately, the information she’d given proved accurate and after ripping down the mass of vines that had grown over the heavy wooden doors, the two Jedi traipsed down a handcrafted corridor. Its status as being in disuse was also true; a few times, the had to clear their way, for at some points, the dirt walls had semi-tumbled in, or a crossbeam had fallen.

Obi-Wan quietly quizzed Anakin over the details of the mission as they walked.

“What’s caused the unrest on Eirendel, Padawan?”

Anakin grimaced, glad his Master wasn’t looking back at him. He racked his mind for the data he’d only skimmed over on their journey here.

“Um… It – it didn’t really start here,” he stated, thinking hard. “It started on the other planet – the lost one…. Avindal. Bad water and angry people and bad business and bad people…and it kind of just bled over.”

Obi-Wan sighed. Anakin hung his head. He knew what that sigh meant. It meant that Anakin more or less had the base essentials of the issue down, but he had disgracefully, ineloquently put them forth.

“The key to diplomacy – and successful negotiation – young Padawan, is understanding the issues facing those you are aiding – and those who oppose them.”

We’ve had this discussion before, Master, Anakin mentally groaned, but kept his thought shielded.

“A true peacekeeper must do this, Anakin, for the people are fighting because they don’t understand each other anymore. It is crucial that you know these people…for they no longer know each other. Or, even, themselves.”

Anakin barely managed to suppress his own sigh. The one that said, “we’ve been over this a million times, Master; I know”. And he did, after a fashion. He understood what Obi-Wan meant, it’s just he found it hard not to just acknowledge what he saw as the main points: there were those who were right, and those who were wrong. The ones who were right deserved to win; the ones who were wrong deserved to be shown their place. And there were always innocents caught in the middle that shouldn’t have had to deal with any of it.

Anakin couldn’t argue both sides, couldn’t appeal to both sides. It offended something within him.

“You have to argue both sides, Padawan. You have to remember: the opposition – the ‘wrong ones’, as you say – believe they are right. You have to show the ‘right’ side where the opposition is coming from, but you must conversely show the opposition where they’ve gone wrong. We are peacekeepers, firstly, Anakin. If there is a way to argue peacefully and come to an accord…we should pursue it.”

“And sometimes the bad guys should just be blasted.” Anakin had whispered it under his breath before. He only sighed this time. There were some things Obi-Wan never seemed to comprehend. Obi-Wan was a born negotiator, a wordsmith. He’d toned down a good deal since Anakin’s first year in the Temple. He still had an edge – something base and jagged – within him, but he kept it tightly reigned in. He was good at being the model Jedi. And it could be infuriatingly frustrating, because Anakin couldn’t wrap his head around it sometimes.

Anakin was a fighter. Always had been. He wanted to help those that deserved help however he could. By force and one-upping those who oppressed them was usually the most effective way, he’d found, if not the most diplomatic.

With Anakin’s grudging silence like a heavy weight, Obi-Wan only sighed and fell silent. There were some things Anakin would never understand, for he was too set to try.

The servants’ corridor would take them into the back of the western wing of the palace. Obi-Wan shifted his focus from lamenting on his padawan’s woeful negotiation skills and obstinacy to hoping that the exit for this corridor was not blocked off, just forgotten as the passageway it let out from had been.

A set of rickety but nonetheless apparently sturdy wooden stairs let them up to a trapdoor, which was thankfully unblocked and opened up into a large supply closet.

“I suspect you didn’t absorb the finer details of what’s going on inside the palace in your scan/pick-and-choose review of the dossier, did you?” Obi-Wan asked as Anakin climbed out of the door.

Anakin frowned, though it very nearly bordered on a scowl. If Obi-Wan was going to needle him for not paying enough attention, Anakin could certainly needle him about a few things. “No, Master. I did not.”

“Zaer has Kacia and all who’ve been captured in opposing him on a sort of lockdown here. Once a month, an example is made out of one of the captives. Kacia is forced to witness, powerless to do anything but futilely plead. It’s feared that soon, an example will be made of Kacia herself.

“Now, even though he has the palace locked down, inside is rather open.” Obi-Wan indicated the civilian garb he and Anakin both wore. “Like this, we’ll blend in just in case Zaer does have any internal people, but Kacia’s transmission said that save for exhibition days and on patrol outside, Zaer’s presence is more omniscient than physically present within the palace walls. It’s a tactic a power-hungry warmonger like him would enjoy.”

“Yes, Master.”

They headed out into the palace. Obi-Wan had informed Anakin of Qui-Gon’s rule to situations where camouflage was a talent more than an availability long ago: If you acted and looked as if you belonged somewhere, there was less of a chance of being noticed or questioned.

It was surprisingly quiet in the hall. An old woman passed by, eyes sorrowful and head down.

“Ma’am?” Obi-Wan touched her shoulder lightly. The woman’s eyes took in the Knight and his apprentice, seeing nothing more but fellows in the same situation as she and several others.

“New ones Zaer’s added to ‘is collection, eh?” she inquired. She looked sadly at Anakin, a weathered hand touching his cheek as a rueful smile played across her face. “So young. Too young to deal with this. That Zaer’s a bastard of the deepest ranks of hell.” She looked back to Obi-Wan, about to ask a question – but froze, staring at Obi-Wan’s face.

“Do you know where Queen Kacia is?” he asked her, brow furrowing slightly at her reaction to him.

“Are you alright?” asked Anakin when the old woman didn’t answer for an extended time. She seemed bewildered and mesmerised at the same time.

“It’s just…”

Anakin saw the movement of his Master’s hand.

“Nevermind.” She shook her head. “Ye were askin’?”

“Kacia,” Obi-Wan repeated.

“Ah. The young Queen’s in the main hall, son. Poor child – she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, but she tries. May the little gods bless her soul, she tries.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t hard to find the grand hall. Heavy doors, two stories high, of black metal were partially open. The young Queen sat in one of the ornate throne chairs at the opposite end of the hall. She stroked the dark hair of a small child who slept in the seat of the other throne, a little boy, who couldn’t have been much more than four. At the sound of Obi-Wan and Anakin’s entrance, Kacia’s head snapped up, orangey curls swinging back to reveal a cherubic, freckled face.

It was Anakin’s turn to pause.

Obi-Wan nudged him and continued forth. Anakin looked slightly taken aback, but Obi-Wan was focused on the matter at hand.

“Milady Kacia,” he greeted with a bow, eyeing sideways to make sure his apprentice did the same. Whatever had distracted the boy a moment before seemed to have been put aside as it should be.

“You’re not from here….” Kacia spoke in a low voice, getting to her feet. She was a small woman, though her bright spirit eclipsed her stature. Anakin felt a touch through the Force, like a question, and realised with a start that the Queen was Force-sensitive. Not enough to be brought to the Temple to train, but enough that she could read people.

Obi-Wan replied with only a slight shake of his head. A relieved smile broke out across Kacia’s face, the inquiring sense dissipated. She gathered the sleeping child and beckoned them to follow.

Pulling a decoration on a column revealed a side passageway that she took them down and into a sitting room. “Please, do sit. Let me put Roloven to bed – he hasn’t slept in a proper bed in a week, poor lad, sitting up all hours with me.” Kacia palmed open another hidden door and headed out.

“What was that in the hall, Padawan?” Obi-Wan asked. Anakin stared at Obi-Wan’s hand for a moment, not wanting to look his Master in the face. Obi-Wan’s pale hand contrasted starkly with the dark varnish of the table, though the neat nails fit in with the polish and quality of the wood. Obi-Wan was always so painfully well kempt. Anakin dragged his eyes up to Obi-Wan’s. The beard that hid him and his long hair were at odds with his fastidiousness. But Anakin still thought as he always had.

“Master?”

Obi-Wan levelled him with a look – it wasn’t quite admonishing, a tinge amused, even. “It’s quite impolite to stare, Anakin.”

Immediately, Anakin felt on the defensive. “But Master – her eyes!”

“Are blue, Anakin.”

“No, Master. They’re not just blue.” Anakin spoke firmly. “They’re exactly like yours.” Anakin stared back at him, hard. No one in the galaxy had the same eyes as Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan sighed. Anakin knew this one as well: the “you’re being childish, Anakin” sigh.

Anakin was about to say something when Kacia reappeared.

“Sorry for that.” She took up a seat at the opposite end of the table. “It’s safe to talk. Zaer may not be present here, but just in case, I know he doesn’t know of this room.” She smiled happily once more. “So…I was beginning to think that the Senate had not received my plea. You are here to help me, yeah?”

“Yes, milady,” Obi-Wan assured her. “Your plea was indeed received. We’ve come to escort you to the capital to appeal for senate aid.”

Kacia hung her head. “I wish Callen would listen, but I know it’s too futile. He’s an offworlder, and cares nothing save what wealth he can garner. And with the people so upset by my father’s…insufficiency when Avindal’s crisis hit us… Zaer has the backing of my own people.” She sighed heavily. “He’s poisoned us against one another.”

Before she could continue, a small cry came from behind the door.

“Mama!” There was a soft thump as a little fist banged once against the door. “Mama? Mama mama mama mama…”

Kacia excused herself and opened the door. “Come on, then, Rol.” Kacia picked the dark-headed boy up. Anakin was staring again as she sat down, the boy’s head on her shoulder and his thumb in his mouth.

“Is he your son?” Anakin asked. She looked hardly old enough to have a kid that age.

Kacia brushed back the brown hair from the already slumbering child’s face. “Aye, he is. He’s…a joy.” She bit her lip, searching for words. “I knew he’d be raised right – I was a royal daughter. But then Da was killed…and nothing’s been right.”

Anakin could tell when he wasn’t being told everything. Especially given recent events; he’d had practise. He shared a look with Obi-Wan, knowing his Master had the same feeling. Kacia was kind, though. And there was a reason she was hiding what she was. Obi-Wan had always tried to impress tact upon him, so for once he applied it. Obi-Wan wasn’t pressing her for more information now, either.

“Who was Queen before you?” Anakin asked. He remembered something about the royal line being hereditary.

“My ma, Belena. She died of illness when I was small. It’s a wonder the Albire royalty is matrilineal – illness and general fragility is prone in the royal blood, but far more so in the women.” She looked back up at them with her changeable eyes. They were currently an overcast blue-green. Anakin shivered. There was something he wasn’t catching. He just…felt it.

“But look at me,” Kacia said, dismissing the heaviness her previous statement seemed to have cast, eyes now vibrantly greenish, “I’ve descended into boring history and I’ve not yet learnt who you both are, save the answer to my hopes!”

Anakin smiled. In a way, Kacia reminded him of Padmé – they actually were about the same age, he thought. But while Padmé was all steadfastness, Kacia seemed a bit more vulnerable. Perhaps it was her bubbly personality.

“I am Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is my apprentice, Anakin Skywalker.”

“Kenobi?” Kacia’s brow furrowed then she shook her head, an inwardly amused smile playing across her face. “Real Jedi, then? So I trust I’m in the best of hands.”

“Some of the best the Order has,” Anakin said brightly. He’d learnt over the handful of years he’d been a Jedi to stop at that. Obi-Wan evidently hated when he brought up his Master was a Sith killer and they were both known as the Heroes of Naboo.

Kacia smiled at him. “Rol and I are in the best of care, I’m certain.” She was very sisterly, he decided, and he thought she was a good person. This Zaer guy needed to be taken down. Anakin only wished that was part of their mission – he knew they could do it.

Suddenly Kacia yawned. “Will we be leaving in the morn, then, Master Jedi?” she asked, looking to Obi-Wan. She seemed as quietly curious about him as Anakin had initially been about her.

Obi-Wan inclined his head after a moment. “Better that we have our wits about us. It’s a fair hike to our transport.”

“I’ll see you in the morn.” She touched Obi-Wan’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you both. I just want things better here. Better for Eirendel and her people. Perhaps Albire as a whole.”

“We’ll get you back to the capital as quickly as possible, milady.” Obi-Wan didn’t add that it was up to the Senate once she got there whether they would hear and answer her plea or not. Anakin tamped down his frustration and stayed in the moment. He caught the saddened look that had flitted across his master’s face at redemption of the Albire system. No one else would have, but Anakin knew him well enough – had learnt that subtle emotions were what he usually had to go on from Obi-Wan.

“Here, let me show you an extra room back here.” Kacia led them down the concealed hallway and into a room off the left. As the young queen left with her son and the door closed behind them, Obi-Wan told his apprentice to get some sleep. Sulkily, Anakin did as he was bid, taking the right side of the single large bed. He'd get information in the morning.

Wonderings about the queen and this system and Obi-Wan found him before sleep did, forming into the questions to ask when sun came, and when he finally gave into rest, he realised his master still was awake.

------------------------

(The lyric in the page break is from “Roses for the Dead” by Funeral for a Friend.)

I'd like to know where those scenes are...

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 05:19:19 GMT

OMG...

There are NO words for how utterly...infectious he is! AND HE'S STILL ON!!!!

What am I doing?????!!!!

*poof! runs madly downstairs to the TV*

ETA: That has to have been the greatest time I've seen him on a talk show. Better than the water fight. I'm seriously -- I seriously think I'll still be giggling about this weeks later.

Alright, that's that: I desperately need for someone to craft a patch, similar to the nicotine patch, only for Ewan addiction. Really. As the albino chick in Not Another Teen Movie sang, "I'm not kidding. Somebody please fucking help me."

*dies laughing -- no, let's be honest: it's a giggle-fit*

...

"What did we learn tonight?" (Besides everything you listed, Craig:) That two crazy Scottish men who are adorably funny should never be allowed in the same room together, for utter madness, far too fast-catching and likeable, will ensue, and the world -will- be theirs.

...And that George Lucas needs to come off those cut nude scenes, cos there are fangirls that want that more than we ever wanted Hayden's chest.

^_______^

*is so glad that sie taped this on DVR*

Preview: Chap 15 of Nova Intro (aka peace offering)

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 06:19:23 GMT

Since I know I'll not have the next chapter for Nova up in some time, I'm afraid *facepalm* (Gah, Darth RL and school = teh suckage), I'm offering a preview of what's to come. It's actually not much as a preview...since it's a flashback...but it lets you in on some of the things that have gone on in the Albire system. It takes place right before TPM did, and sort of concurrently. Makes it simpler for it to fall under since the Senate and everyone is focused on Naboo's crisis.

5 Years Earlier, Avindal

He stood upon a platform before his people. They were desperate; they were worn; they were ill; they were embittered. Blame was to be pointed, and it would be at him. Part of him supposed he deserved it. His people wanted a definite and swift reversal of their mired fortunes. Which, right now, he was not providing. His ideals of order and rebuilding and bringing in revenue – at the costs it had wrought, even those ideals now seemed unfavourable in the face of – though less…savoury – quick wealth brought in by from illegal trade business. Quick wealth to procure medicines needed. A turnabout from the disaster bringing in the Last Star Mining Corporation to mine minerals for wealth had brought. They had been meant to mine a rare mineral that was only found on Avindal, a mineral from which the royal family drew its surname, something guaranteed to bring in much needed fortune. Instead, too little was reported found, and the water supply was poisoned.

Yes, allowing illegal trade and runners and other thugs into their planet would make a quick profit. Money to rebuild and to aid. But what the people missed was what they would lose. Initially, there would be gain, but the doors would thusly be a wide-open invitation to moral-lacking, unscrupulous scoundrels, and a dying planet would be extinguished that much faster. The people, much like their land – their world – had suffered, would fall.

Passionately, Owen Kenobi, the lost Ruler, tried to get his people to see reason. Yes, he’d made a grievous mistake in his desperation to help the planet he’d been reinstated to. But this was not the answer.

“What do you, Kenobi, know of the people’s plights?” A dark-haired man strode forth, waving strands of Telosian malab-black hair streaming from beneath the hood of his equally black cloak. Owen was uneasily reminded of the mysterious man whom had found him on Alderaan a little over four years ago and brought him back to his homeworld to try and make a change. How ironic to be turned against by someone who looked so like that man?

The man turned to face the people. “What can he, the boy-king – the heir to a family thatdeserted their people – know of you? How can he speak for a world and people that he barely – no, doesn’t know? Hasn’t known? What’s to say that if the people follow him that he won’t turn tail when progress does not come? That he won’t vanish as Lyrea and Robben did at the first sensation that he knows his people realise that he’s not the great saviour they expected?”

Owen yelled out to the crowds, trying to tamp down his panic as he saw the people visibly taking this out-crier’s side. “I would have left already, do you not think, if his words were true!” he protested. “And it is true I am the heir of the vanished rulers, that I have not been here since I was a small child. But I </span>have been here for four years now, and I have always been Avinic. My absence makes me no less passionate nor less attuned to your plight – to our plight! As I say, I’ve made a mistake, and I plan to right that. But letting out world open to people who care nothing for it – that is not the answer.”

There was a quiet murmuring amongst the people gathered. Then:

“Give him his due!” someone in the crowd shouted.

“He’s a point,” sounded another. “He speaks true.”

Owen smiled at the support, though it faded as arguments broke out between conflicting views.

"Please, we must stand unified! We can only improve ourselves by working together!”

The dark man was vocal once more. “And how long will this take – this self-based restructure and prosperity? Too long, don’t you reckon? And Avindal needs aid now – the people, the children of Avindal need help now.”

Once again, the people were swayed. Desperation addles minds, Owen had once heard from his school friend Bail on Alderaan. And never before had he seen it so painfully illustrated.

“It’s not –“

"Enough of your platitudes!” The man seized Owen by the arm. And the young ruler stood stock-still in shock. The eyes he stared into were dark, deep blue, callous and calculating. Brev Rennt, the man whom had brought him here.

It took a moment for the pain of the blaster bolt to hit him. Rennt pulled him close, looking intensely into his eyes. From far away it seemed, the people erupted into a cacophony of dischord.

“Why?” Owen asked in a whisper.

Brev Rennt – the amalgam of Xanatos deCrion’s chosen Sith name, Verbrennt – eyed him hard and evenly. They were subtly different, in the emotions behind them, but the eyes were the same shifting colour as the ones that haunted him. Even though the face was different, the hair without any hint of red – the eyes were the same, the name and the blood close enough.

Owen was sinking to his knees.

“Ask your brother,” Xanatos sneered. Surprise and confusion flared in the aquatic eyes, as the lips formed the name “Ben?” silently. And Xanatos shot him once more, centre mass this time. Owen Kenobi’s lifeless body hit the platform with a dull thud, and Xanatos jumped off the back of it, getting onto the swoop bike he had placed in wait.

He didn’t feel satisfied. Faintly, he felt mildly disgusted. But mostly, he still felt as hollow as ever. But, as it had been time to leave Telos and its memories behind him, so it was time to leave Avindal behind him, too, its descent into destruction in his wake.

I love Lizzy's randomocity... ^_^

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 01:23:02 GMT

So. Nabbed from goldfishlover73.

1. My username is ______ because ______.
Radge_one. Cos I'm crazy, and radge is Scots slang for it.

2. My name is _____ because ______.
Kurdt, because I like it better than my real name?

3. My journal is titled ____ because ____.
Radge Thoughts. Because i lack creativity and these are my crazy thoughts?

4. My journal subtitle is ____ because ____.
Oh dear god. Um. "Angst galore, randomness assured, obsessing guaranteed" cos I'm obsessive and random and moody.

5. My friends page is called ____ because ____.
At least they know me here. Because at least they sorta/maybe/kinda/okay not so much do?

6. My default userpic is ____ because ____.
Curt Wild in his jacket from the bar scene, leaning against something. cos it's simple and Curt's my alter ego.

Random Loserdom Checkup

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 05:49:03 GMT

Okay, official nerd check:
• - I just did the whole "enter your info at ACME Security and get a call from Jim Gordon" newest component of TDK's viral campaign.
(Inside, yes, I am squeeing with all kinds of happy, even if it wasn't Gary Oldman's Gordon voice. ...it is kinda making me mildly paranoid, though. "We now have your number, your IP addy...yadayada" ...but then again, I willingly typed it over. *shrugs*)

• - my aunt is buying my copy of The Pillow Book for my birthday present. How awkward is that? *exasperated facepalm*

...Anyways, before Mother Nature puts me in my place for being inane, I better scarper. Cos I love my harddrive and don't really wish for it to blow up, which is seeming quite likely. >_

Of March 31st and "Poisson d'Avril"...

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 05:45:11 GMT

is that even spelt right?

Who cares? Let's just put it plainly: I am a nerd and have no life. ~~Batman~~ (let's speak truthfully now) The Joker owns my soul. I love that everyone is so off the Batman trail for Joker. Cos he's so much cooler. Gah, these crime fighters and their driven agendas. Why can't they just cut lose and cause a little mayhem? (Oh yeah, cos they're the -good- guys. teh snoooze.)

...So, I'm seriously thinking that a Dark Knight viral addicts support group is in order, lol.

We'll all be in Arkham by July 18th.

Now, damn the Joker and his April Fool's Day anticipation. He's distracted me from the bigger issue, which not even me getting ohmigodiwishiwasanneforaminutesoicouldtotallydighiskinglymight over Jonny Rhys Meyers at 8 and 9 on Showtime made me forget:

TODAY's EWAN's BIRTHDAY!

(Can't have him getting away now, can we?)

So...I'm a bad child....

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 03:46:31 GMT

with bad PhotoImpression (love that non-PhotoShop-ness) skillz. This is so not the homework I'm supposed to be doing.

Nova Poster (2 more behind the cut)

ONE: BLACK AND BLUE

(this one's my favourite, and the best really. Not surprising, since it was the last one, and I finally figured out what I was doing 0_o)

TWO: SHADOWS, OF A SORT

(this one's the 'girly' one. Not sure why I started with the rose colours -- the yellow's better fitting.)

THREE: BLACK AND GLOW

I tried on all for a halo effect with Obi-Wan, darkness with Xan and somewhere in between with Ani, with black around -- you know, illustrate their personalities with colours.

The words in red, symbolise differences, and are parts of the respective Codes both follow. Xan is Dark, and they believe in following their passions. The first line of the Sith Code is "There is only passion." Anakin is a Jedi (not to mention his apprentice) so there should be none of that. The Jedi Code states: "There is no passion; there is serenity." So the base difference is there only being and there shouldn't being. Passion. Anger. Love. That which lurks in all. That which creates, and can destroy.

So yeah. Pretty much pointless procrastination.

I <3 the Playground and Wyn...

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 19:46:45 GMT

Cos now I just might have something other than lazing about at home and (hopefully) finally getting to watch The Pillow Book for my birthday. Deception comes out on the 25th. And...I wanna see it... ]:)

Nerdy devious ~~(or is that maybe deviant?)~~ meek-to-gonna-kick-your-ass~~(-cos-I'm-smarter-than-you-Hugh)~~ Ewan. Nummy.

UPDATE! Nova (14/?)

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 07:57:40 GMT

Title: Nova
Author: Curt Kenobi
Summary: Obi-Wan has secrets hidden in his past, and complications in his present. But what you hide will eventually catch you...and those around you.
Pairing: Anakin/Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan/Xanatos
Rating: M/R to be safe overall. PG still, really
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance, Action/Adventure
Warnings: Anakin being a teenager, and a lot of fact-finding, in a round about non-acknowledged way
Disclaimer: Yeah, if Star Wars was mine, I could rule the world like GL. But, alas, I don't own it, so don't sue. Just call me Christian from Moulin Rouge. I'm naught but a penniless writer. Honestly.
A/N: Sorry it's been eons.

Part Two: Selective Acknowledgment
Chapter Ten: "Distinguished"
Chapter Eleven: Past Within Present
Chapter Twelve: Certain Points of View
Chapter Thirteen: Depth Perception

-----h-el-p---m-e---u-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d-----

Chapter Fourteen: Feigning Ignorance Isn’t Blissful

Anakin walked back to his and Obi-Wan’s apartments as normally as possibly, dying to sprint there. Part of him entertained the possibility taking a quick detour and going to one of Obi-Wan’s friends for information – Siri or Bant, since Master Garen wasn’t around, and they, too, had known Obi-Wan since his childhood and should know about Xanatos as well. But Healer Bant couldn’t really be bothered, and Master Siri…was Master Siri; Anakin didn’t really want to bother her. Plus that carried the possibility of having to deal with arrogant, nosy Ferus. Anakin grimaced at the thought.

He palmed open the door a little more roughly than at all necessary. He didn’t care; if it broke, he could fix it. Obi-Wan wasn’t home. Anakin had known it. He reached out through their bond and found his Master in the Council Spire. He wondered why, but only briefly. The fact Obi-Wan was in with the omnipotent ones meant he’d be gone for at least a fair amount of time.

Anakin eyes went to Obi-Wan’s bedroom door. It was open. Anakin headed in. Obi-Wan worked truths from angles; Anakin found the spots between rules. Neither was supposed to enter the other’s room without invitation unless it was otherwise warranted. Obi-Wan had left his desk lamp on. Anakin really thought he should turn that off for him….

Immediately, Anakin dove in, searching for answers, clues. He began in the obvious places first: desktop, desk drawers (There’s where he keeps everything of Master Qui-Gon’s…, he thought as he forced the lock on the bottom drawer of the desk; he'd discovered about it awhile back, but it was interesting to know Obi-Wan hadn't changed it); the dresser was next, and the closet. He thought he found Obi-Wan’s journal on a shelf in the closet, but it had a security code lock as well as a voice one. Anakin reckoned had he the time to tinker with it, he could figure out how to by-pass all that, but to do so without leaving a trace was a painstaking effort, though the journal would definitely contain what he was looking for. He hadn’t that leisure time. And, of course if he took it to try and hack it later, Obi-Wan would find it missing. He slid the databook back into its place on the shelf.

Slightly annoyed with how fruitless his search was seeming, Anakin tossed himself down onto his Master’s bed. The memories of a few years ago crept upon him, memories of when this had been his escape – his place to come for silent comfort, snuggled up to Obi-Wan’s solid, sleeping form. He missed it.

Something was wrong with Obi-Wan’s pillow, though. There was – there was something under it. Anakin’s brow furrowed as he sat back up to examine the outward appearance. Yep, definitely something.

Anakin hid the only holo of himself and Obi-Wan together looking relaxed and smiling under his pillow, and a capture of Senator Amidala he’d downloaded onto a holochip from the ‘Net. What was Obi-Wan stashing under his? And why, for Force’s sake?

Anakin shook his head as he reached for the pillow. Probably the information on some random planet we may never visit – why he does research for fun…. Master really needs to read less –

It wasn’t a datapad that greeted him, but the back of a holoframe. Frowning some more, Anakin flipped it over.

And almost dropped it.

Up stared at him the face he’d pulled up in the Archives. Possibly a bit older, standing in a defensive pose, with his violet lightsabre slanted before him. In a little corner of his mind, Anakin found the leisure to muse that Master Windu’s ‘sabre wasn’t as special as the Initiates and most Knights seemed to deem it. And above a cocky smirk, dark blue eyes glinted from beneath a ruffled fringe of black. Xanatos Onasi.

Why was Master Obi-Wan hiding this? Because that was obviously what he was doing. A hot ball of anger burned to life suddenly in the pit of Anakin’s stomach. This was not adding up.

Suddenly disgusted – with Onasi’s lingering memory; with Obi-Wan; with everything, his own aimless doggedness – Anakin put the picture and pillow back roughly.

What was Obi-Wan doing, and why did Anakin feel that he had to know?

Between his confusion and latent anger, he almost missed the tingle in his senses that forewarned his Master’s approach. Anakin dove out the bedroom door, waving a hand toward the lamp, flicking it off as he exited.

-------------------------

“Masters,” Obi-Wan greeted, bowing deeply.

“Afternoon, young Obi-Wan. A mission we have for you,” Yoda informed him. Obi-Wan enjoyed the warmness, but also the forwardness, with which Yoda had always addressed him. The wizened troll’s eyes were evaluating him though, Obi-Wan realised, and he wondered what this mission entailed.

Mace Windu picked up the briefing. “We are dispatching you and young Skywalker to the planet Eirendel, in the Albire system.”

Obi-Wan held his breath. Eirendel was the neighbouring planet of Avindal – its twin. The two planets had been closely tied for eons – especially in the last century when Avindal sent on of the twin heirs to the planet’s throne to preside over Eirendel since the Eirendish king had no heirs whatsoever.

“The Senate received a distress call from the young Queen of the planet. For several years, both planets in the Albire system have been devastated by the exploits of a mining corporation years ago. They have never fully bounced back from this – Eirendel’s neighbouring planet is considered ‘lost’, taken over by unsavoury characters. But due to this stress, a civil war has erupted, and many blame the ruling family for allowing their troubles to continue, and indeed happen in the first place.”

“The queen, Kacia Culain, just recently came into power upon her father’s assassination,” Adi Gallia picked up. “She’s desperate for this to come to an end.”

“Target for assassination, too, the young queen is.”

Obi-Wan nodded sombrely.

Mace looked at him seriously. “What’s needed, Obi-Wan, is for you and Skywalker to get Kacia off-planet safely and to Coruscant to appear before the Senate for an intervention, for the corporation that caused the devastation of the Albire system is in league with the Trade Federation.”

Lovely. Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes, Masters.”

“Depart tomorrow afternoon, you and young Skywalker will. May the Force be with you.”

Obi-Wan bowed and left the round chamber, striding purposefully. He welcomed this mission – it gave him focus, kept him from dwelling in the shadows of his past. But why him and Anakin? To this planet? This mission sounded a lot like the one to Naboo, and that didn’t ease his mind.

“Obi.”

The call came from behind him and he knew whom it was immediately. With a bright smile, he turned about as the other Knight strode up to him.

“Welcome back, Garen.” He hugged Garen in warm greeting. Uneasiness about his mission, about Anakin, about Xanatos momentarily faded. “How are you?”

“Having to talk to the troll and Mace nothing-short-of-perfect-will-do.” The taller Knight eyed his best friend: usually dry, witty remarks (even of low calibre) received at least a chuckle. “Obi-Wan? Something’s on your mind.”

Obi-Wan looked away. “Come by later, Gar, please,” he requested quietly.

Garen frowned. “Sure, Obi. Probably will be tonight.”

“That works. Just…” Obi-Wan sighed. He didn’t want to bring Garen back into this; he knew how much it stung. But Garen was the only one he could really talk about the whole Xanatos mess with. Garen was the only one that seemed to understand Anakin as well. He shook his head. He looked back at Garen, eyes clear. “I just want to see you. We haven’t just sat about and talked in a while.”

“You’ve been too busy with Tachi,” Garen jibed lightly. He cupped Obi-Wan’s cheek with a hand. “And you’re lying to me. But, I’ll let you. For now. Because it probably is something I didn’t want to hear. If it blows up, though, we’ll sort it. You know that.”

“I do. Thanks, Gar.”

The taller Knight kissed his friend on the forehead, muttering something about hating “that Force-forsaken beard.” Obi-Wan smiled. “Gotta go, Obi. I can hear Windu calling me his choosier epithets for me from here.”

“Go on, then. Would hate for him to come up with a new one.”

“Blast! I’ve gotta get the reports from Master Koon and Gad, too. Find out how bad my kids are for them.”

"They might actually have learnt to fly within the designationsnow," Obi-Wan teased.

Garen gave a mock grimace and rushed down the hall for the lift. Obi-Wan continued for his apartment, a bit lighter than previously.

He palmed open the door to his and Anakin’s apartment.

"And here I thought you were deathly allergic to studies, apprentice." Anakin sat on the sofa, a datapad in hand. It was on spacecraft construction.

“I like studies in mechanics and flights and calculations, Master. It’s not boring.”

“You know, Anakin, one day you’re going to crash on a planet that you should have studied but didn’t and are going to regret it.” Obi-Wan took up his chair.

“Oh, come on, Master. That’s why I’ll always have you,” Anakin grinned. Obi-Wan didn’t respond, though automatically he thought, You hope. He thought Qui-Gon would be around for him to talk to for longer. So much longer….

“So why were you in with the Council, Master?” Anakin asked, noticing how his master had grown distant. Obi-Wan blinked and looked back at him.

“What makes you think that I was in with the Council? What is it you and Tru call them?”

“ ‘The Omnipotent Ones’,” Anakin supplied. “I felt you there.”

Obi-Wan was certain that he would never find himself unimpressed by Anakin’s connection with the Force.

“So what’s up?”

“We’ve a mission. Speaking of, you should probably get information from the Archives. We’re departing tomorrow to escort the Queen of the planet Eirendel back here. She needs to appear before the Senate to discuss an intervention, due to mining corporations’ devastating efforts that have resulted in a civil war.”

“Sounds easy,” Anakin stated. “So, Eirendel right?”

“Yes, in the Albire system.”

“Okay.” Anakin got up. He didn’t want to stay about, not while Xanatos’ holo was still on his mind. He didn’t want to give away that he knew anything, no matter how little it was.

“Going already?”

“Yeah,” Anakin said, nodding. He was nervy, and trying hard not to be too obvious about it. “Yeah. Tru and I are checking out the fighters before everyone else tonight.”

“Garen may be over later tonight,” Obi-Wan told Anakin as he reached the door. Anakin looked back.

“Master Garen’s back at the Temple?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow in suspicion, but then again, he knew how much Anakin appreciated his friend. “Yes. He was just headed to his debriefing as I was leaving the Council chambers.”

“Tell him – tell him I say hi,” Anakin stammered and left the apartment. As the door hissed shut behind him, he dashed down the hall for the hangar bay.

-------------------------

“Anakin. You’re a bit early for class.” Garen Muln eyed Obi-Wan’s padawan as he lingered in the doorway.

Anakin looked down at his feet away from Garen’s questioning gaze. He knew Garen was joking with him about class, but that also meant that he knew he was here for a reason.

Garen got up and leant against the front of his desk. “You’ve picked up Obi-Wan’s shielding ability, that’s for sure.” He laughed suddenly. “You just haven’t perfected that mask of Jedi neutrality.”

Anakin sighed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get that one down.

Garen smiled congenially and indicated a chair with a swing-down desk before him. “Come in and talk, kid.”

Anakin did so, and he knew while maybe he wasn’t shouting his thoughts like he had when he first arrived at the Temple, his apprehension was as noticeable as a beacon on a radar. “Can I talk to you about Obi-Wan?”

Garen cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. He was tempted to say, “It depends,” but he understood what being around Obi-Wan Kenobi was like, and he was one of the few that understood Obi-Wan the best. “What about him?”

Anakin caught Garen’s gaze. The Knight recognised the motion, Anakin trying to judge if what he wanted to say was even worth it. Garen met him evenly. Anakin inhaled.

“About Xanatos,” he said, words measured. “I want to know about Xanatos.”

Garen hoped to Sith hells his shock wasn’t visibly noticeable, though he did bristle at the name, he knew. He had for the past twelve years. Of all the damned things in the galaxy the kid could ask…and he had to mention that bastard.

How to side step this? “Have you asked Obi-Wan about him?”

“Yes…” Anakin frowned. “And he told me what I know was only some of it. I could tell. It was like what you could find in the Archives. That means there’s more….”

“And?”

“And then I looked around and I found more. I found a holo of him in Obi-Wan’s room.”

Not too terribly incriminating. But…frustrating. “That could have been Qui-Gon’s, Anakin. Xanatos was his padawan, and well, the falling out stuck with him for a long time.”

“I know, I know. It probably is. But – but Master Garen – I know where he keeps Master Qui-Gon’s things. And I know he keeps it locked. This was out.”

Garen gave the apprentice a look. “I’m not even going to ask why you go through his room.”

“Well, if he’d’ve talked to me when I first came here, maybe I wouldn’t have started it in the first place!” Anakin had the grace to duck his head – after a moment – following his little outburst. Garen understood him all too well, though. At least it didn’t seem that the boy had done as he had once (and it had only been the once) and figured out the passcode to Obi-Wan’s personal journal and skimmed through it. His own actions had stemmed from the same one that motivated Anakin’s method of privacy invasion: a need to know what was going on with Obi-Wan, because he had this insufferable (and Garen knew it to border on self-destructive) ability to keep all that afflicted him bottled, hidden and masked within.

“I’m not sorry for it, Master Garen.” Anakin held his chin up, and Garen recalled a littlegolden-haired boy standing in the hall after he'd pulled him from a fight with an older Initiate. The cherub look had left his face, and the hair had darkened now, giving the defiance and darker emotions that so often tore through him a harder edge.

Garen knew he was far more forgiving with Anakin than anyone else, and he did it because he understood the boy felt criticised from every other direction, even from Obi-Wan. “Well, I’m not the one that needs to be apologised to, if there was one given. And I understand what you’re saying, Anakin.” You’ve no idea how much I understand. “I really do. But, look, I can’t really tell you anything about Xanatos. Not about his connection to Obi-Wan. Obi didn’t even tell me anything about it.” Garen couldn’t help his voice tightening; while he believed that intentionally, Obi-Wan wouldn’t – couldn’t – hurt anyone but himself, sometimes it happened unintentionally. And his omitting of his little dalliance with deCrion and how Garen had found out about it – it still cut the roguish Knight to the quick.

“I thought – I thought out of everyone…out of everyone, maybe – “ Tears were sheeningAnakin’s eyes. Not in sadness, but in frustration. “Maybe you…I mean, you seem to be one of Master’s closest friends…out of everyone, you really know him and…and you don’t hate me.”

“Whoa, kid.” Garen had knelt in front of Anakin and held him by the shoulders. “Firstly, Bant and Siri don’t ‘hate’ you. Siri…Siri is something else. She used to be best friends with this guy Bruck Chun – I don't know if you've heard about him –and then after he died, she ended up getting paired up on missions with Obi-Wan, who was there when Chun died, and who she blamed for his death. Basically, they were enemies. That’s the reason why, though they both really are closer than actions would let on, they seem so much like water and lightsabers. …Plus, Siri can just be a bitch, and we have to accept that and move on. That, and she’s gotten used to Olin.”

That got the smile he had hoped for.

“And as for Bant. Bant’s Obi-Wan’s little sister, for all intents and purposes, really. And she’s a bit oversensitive to the fact that you’ve got more Force-potential than anyone that’s lived, and you’re a bit volatile. She’s kind of like the Council…and a lot of other people in that respect. They forget that one) you’re still just a kid – though you are growing up, kid,and two) you’re a kid that’s had a pretty rough life before you got uprooted from it and brought here. It’s not that no one understands, Anakin – and I know you feel that way, ‘cos I remember when you used to scream it in that little previously-not-as-well-shielded mind of yours. But it’s not not understanding, it’s not knowing how to handle it. And neither of them really know Obi-Wan as well as I do, either. They haven’t really had to.

“Now, secondly. Obi and I have always been really close, sometimes more so than at others” – he was fairly certain that Anakin caught the subtext of his statement, but wary of it as well – “but he doesn’t share everything with me. Obi-Wan doesn’t share everything with anyone, Anakin. Rule Number One. He’s always spent so much time trying to appease everyone else that he pulled more and more into himself. It doesn’t make sense, said like that, but do you follow me?”

“I guess.”

“It’s what happens when you try to please everyone, or when you’re torn between what to do. You could go to someone else, but at that point, you’re usually not sure if anyone would understand. So you trust it to yourself; you keep it to yourself.”

Anakin only nodded. “I wish Master Obi-Wan and I could talk like this,” he said quietly.

Garen kept mum on that. He had heard of how talks with Obi-Wan went. “He either thinks I’m prying or that I don’t care. That I’m either lecturing him or chastising him. There’s no middle ground. It’s this or that. Good or bad. So I keep it to teaching. To unimportant casual conversation. I can do that, Gar. I care about him – I do care about him so very much. But I don’t quite know how to reach him.” Garen didn’t know how to help either of them on that point. They both just needed to sit down and have a long discussion – just talking, or ranting, or crying –they just needed to actually really communicate with each other. But there wasn’t time for that. He could only hope that it might come round before everything blew up.

“Hey, Anakin, tell me this, though,” Garen said. “If you had a secret, or even just a really dark regret, and someone asked you about it, would you tell them?”

No. But that’s me. I’m not Obi-Wan. Anakin frowned, and thought about it for a minute. Maybe Garen had a point. Anakin still felt entitled to know, though. No matter how bad or secretive Obi-Wan felt about it for some reason. What secret or regret could you have about someone?

“I guess not.” Anakin sighed. “Thanks, Master Garen.”

“If you say so. Now get outta here. I know you leave for a mission tomorrow, but I’m betting you and Veld have something to, I don’t know, wreak havoc on? Or, maybe even research to do on where in the galaxy you're going?”

Anakin smiled. "Something like that." As he left to find Tru, Garen called out, “Don’t think about messing with the fighters, Skywalker.”

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(The lyric in the page break is from “The Outsider” by A Perfect Circle.)

-->To: Chapter Fifteen: Feels Like Déjà Vu

I apparently am the Crowned One of Loserdom...

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 20:09:42 GMT

Yeah...it's bad when family members find it highly amusing to channel surf and have me stand in the other room and tell them what's on.

..."Fucking Bobby Flay. In Ireland. ...He's wearing his orange sweater, isn't he? Change the damned channel. I'm not even watching and I can't stand this."

(after being told what just happened since there was no dialogue, the overview being, "Did you know that when a tree hits a horse and carriage, it can flip completely but still land upright?") ..."Yeah? They did that in An American Haunting."

I think I only missed two. But when it's like Pigmallion (which I got some credit cos I said My Fair Lady) and It Takes Two, it's...

...really, really, really sad. *facepalm* And I need a crown of movie and TV parts, that doesn't have little prongs, but rabbit ears.

Anyways, I've got another "Box for All My Story Thoughts" to start, this one specifically focused on just Nova and the other seriously AU, temp title being "Indefinite Absolutes".

OMG...

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:08:49 GMT

I about died last night.

I was watching Hell's Kitchen on Fox Reality ('cos I have this masochistic like of Gordon Ramsay, evidently) and there was a commercial break featuring shows to come. And right before my mum flipped the channel, I see this face I recognised, I thought, and told her to flip it back. I keep watching.

The sunglasses. And the hair.

I about died.

LONG WAY ROUND (and LONG WAY DOWN!!!) will be on Fox Reality. I just don't know when. But I'm...honestly a little afraid at how intensely I reacted to just the brief clips on the commercial. *hangs head* Fuck's sake, that's sad, lol.

Update: Nova (13/?)

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 07:14:04 GMT

Title: Nova
Author: Curt Kenobi
Summary: Obi-Wan has secrets hidden in his past, and complications in his present. But what you hide will eventually catch you...and those around you.
Pairing: Anakin/Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan/Xanatos
Rating: M/R to be safe overall. PG for this
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance, Action/Adventure
Warnings: um...it's a bit light. Think Chap 10, but not as light as all that.
Disclaimer: Yeah, if Star Wars was mine, I could rule the world like GL. But, alas, I don't own it, so don't sue. Just call me Christian from Moulin Rouge. I'm naught but a penniless writer. Honestly.
A/N: Whee! Fastest chapter ever typed! (helps having it written for two months, eh?)

Part Two: Selective Acknowledgment
Chapter Ten: "Distinguished"
Chapter Eleven: Past Within Present
Chapter Twelve: Certain Points of View

-----h-o-w---d-o---y-o-u---d-o---i-t---?--/--m-a-k-e---m-e---f-e-e-l---l-i-k-e---I---d-o-----

Chapter Thirteen: Depth Perception

Anakin Skywalker sped through the halls of the Jedi Temple, subconsciously hoping that by speeding himself up, he’d speed up time. The faster he went, the sooner he could get back to the apartment, with Obi-Wan hopefully not in it.

He skidded into the Piloting Skills classroom just off the hangar bay to find himself right on time for a change and made his way to a seat next to his best friend.

“He’s not here yet,” Tru said, smiling his greeting but jumping into the conversation that hadn’t quite started yet – as always. Sometimes, even though he’d known Tru Veld for five years now, Anakin had trouble initially following any conversation with him.

“Who? Master Garen?” Anakin gave a look round despite Tru’s information.

“Master Garen’s away ‘til tomorrow, Anakin, remember?” Tru rolled his eyes in mock-annoyance, but Anakin didn’t think the smile playing at his best friend’s lips was strictly humour. Jesting humour, anyways.

“Oh, yeah.” Garen had come by the day before he’d left. Anakin had completely spaced it – he’d only caught Master Muln as he was heading out to leave after talking to Obi-Wan.

Hmm. There was an idea on who might know about Xanatos Onasi, and what Obi-Wan wasn’t telling him. He’d go to Garen if he was back tomorrow.

“So who’s covering?” Last class, Plo Koon had substituted.

The ghost of a smile broke full out across Tru’s face. Anakin quirked an eyebrow.

“His brother,” replied Tru.

----------------------

Obi-Wan decided as the apartment door hissed shut behind Anakin that it was time for him to leave his safety net. He didn’t need to be falling back into old habits, especially when it came to Anakin. He didn’t think that the boy would ever truly forgive him his actions their first few weeks together; Obi-Wan knew he didn’t forgive himself of them.

One of the hardest principles of being a Jedi was letting go of that which you were attached to. Obi-Wan knew he should do that about Xanatos, but part of him was quite convinced it wasn’t possible. So he would do as he had for years, and distance himself from it.

His thoughts were swirling madly. He knew Anakin was not placated by the response and information he had been given. And that fact, coupled with the knowledge of just how Anakin was – curious to the point of reckless – made Obi-Wan utterly paranoid.

Just another lovely side-affect of being Master to Anakin Skywalker. The child would be the death of him.

He had muttered as much under his breath during the stroll through the Temple he found himself on, Luminara Unduli walking with him. They had bumped into each other outside their common haunt of the Star Room.

“You don’t need to stand around in there, Obi-Wan,” she had told him. And as always, she was right.

Luminara Unduli was a couple years his senior, and while he had had Diplomacy classes with her as an Initiate, they only formed a close friendship since his Knighting and becoming Anakin’s Master. Besides from his childhood mates (and true compassion had only come unconditionally from Bant Eerin), Obi-Wan had only received the customary condolences and congratulations from everyone else. But when he couldn’t face the truth of Garen, Siri and Quinlan’s double-edged sympathy and Bant’s felt obligated to him, one night in the Temple’s Star Room, he had run into Luminara Unduli. And her honest empathy had shaken him to the core.

----------------------

Obi-Wan stood in the silent, round room, hands behind him. All was still but the turning of the miniature planets and the twinkling of the pinprick lights meant to be stars. So many stars. So many planets. How many had he been on?

Unconsciously, Obi-Wan’s gaze and soft steps were taking him on a pre-programmed flight course. Beginning at the little desolate orb marked as Bandomeer…a couple more planets, and he was at the one formerly known as Melida/Daan. Gods, how it hurt to remember that place, remember the people and the events. His actions. Handing over his lightsabre, renouncing his apprenticeship, his Jedi status. …Cerasi….

Then his gaze fell upon Telos. He knew the planet flourished now, though scars of Xanatos’ endeavours could still be found there. Unconsciously, he looked down at his chest, where the scar Xanatos had branded him with still was, and ever would be. The desperate sorrow that had captured hims, and the stunned disbelief and hurt that had struck Qui-Gon. Xanatos had always been the shadow Obi-Wan had walked in, and then he was gone, but never was he truly. The only thing worse —

New Apsolon. Tahl. Tahl had died, and Obi-Wan had almost lost Qui-Gon to the Dark that had swept away Xanatos. And he was to blame. He never really got over that, and he knew Qui-Gon hadn’t. His Master loved him, he knew, but there was always that resentment deep down, over Tahl.

Deserved. And so it was.

A blue-grey planet, he alighted on next. Home. Avindal. He closed his eyes a brief moment before continuing on.

Finally his eyes travelled from the dust bowl that was Tatooine and landed on a peaceful blue and green orb. Naboo. How could a planet so innocuous, so serene…how could it be where he lost himself – everything was taken, and new was forced about him? The hologram rotated languorously, completely oblivious to the terrible tragedy that had happened upon it, of its painful meaning to him.

She’d entered noiselessly, and but for her gasp of surprise at finding the room occupied by someone else, he might have never known she was there.

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped up at the soft sound to meet unfathomable, wide cerulean blue eyes, set in an exotic face of light brown. They had stood, for a long moment, simply looking at each other, through the sheer representation of the galaxy between them. (The irony wasn’t lost on Obi-Wan.)

Finally, despite how he felt, how much he wanted to stay alone, he felt the need to be chivalrous and break the silence and allay the shocked embarrassment and unneeded apology in those large eyes.

So inanely, he said, “Your hair’s lovely.” It was something that really didn’t matter, though he – and he was willing to bet not many others – had never seen Luminara Unduli without her customary headdress.

She smiled, though, and came round to stand beside him. Her eyes found her homeworld, a bit a ways from Naboo.

“I thought I was the only one who had this habit,” she said softly. Obi-Wan waited for her to explain.

Luminara inhaled deeply, straightening and gazing ever more intently at her homeworld. “I think Master Sulariu found it an honour to die upon Mirial.”

“What happened?” inquired Obi-Wan. Still gazing at the holographic brown and green miniature, she told of her mission at age twenty with her master, Sulariu Atiora, to their homeplanet to bring a Force-sensitive child back to Coruscant. Obi-Wan knew from his diligent studies in Galactic Policies and Intergalactic Social Studies that Mirial had an interesting code involving Force-sensitives. In a few ways, it was not unlike his homeworld. But whereas Avindal was a very nature-focused planet, Mirial was highly spiritual. The brown upon the planet was more from its many burnished gold temples than anything else, it was said. Regarding Force-sensitivity, many Mirialians innately were. Those exceptional were often trained as shamans. Unless the family contacted the Temple. Even then, Mirialians were not pleased by what they deemed meddlesome outsiders. The Council had sought to minimise the raised tensions, and thus deployed Mirialian Jedi (it was another Mirialian custom that they be apprenticed to their own, as they had difficulty initiating bonds with others outside their race). The mission had been straightforward – simple, even. But the Jedi had not anticipated the ambush in the hangar bay.

“They came from under the boarding ramp as we neared. Master Sulariu handed me the child. That is why she died. She hadn’t time to reach for her ‘sabre. She died then and there. I gave the band a Force shove, far more powerful than it should have been” – her eyes flicked to Obi-Wan; he indeed understood exactly what she meant, what that meant in general – “and I darted onboard. I put the child in the bassinette in the cabin…and then sought refuge in the cockpit. When I finally felt them leave, I retrieved Master Sulariu’s body. And then I came to Coruscant. I cried the entire way, even during contacting the Council. I handed over the child as soon as we touched down.”

Obi-Wan empathised with her every word only too well.

Luminara turned to him. “It takes time, Obi-Wan. And yet it still will ache, even when true acceptance comes.” She looked back to Mirial.

“What ever happened to the child?” he asked, curious, after he had absorbed her sage words. Her soft smile surprised him, and she didn’t answer him directly at first.

“Don’t lose what is left of your master, Obi-Wan. I learnt this. It was a valuable lesson, though it took time to accept it. Just don’t expect to have your master back. Enjoy what is left of them – nurture what is left of them.

“The child was Barriss Offee. She became my apprentice two months ago, the day she turned nine.” Cerulean drew him in again…and he was rather shocked to find himself drawn into a warm embrace. He was even more shocked as she wiped a tear from his face after pulling away.

“We’re never perfect, Obi-Wan Kenobi, but always adequate. Always. Remember that, even when it seems it’s not enough. It will be. Good night, friend.”

----------------------

Obi-Wan found himself returning to her words more and more often as the years with Anakin progressed.

“It would not take any special skill for someone to see that there is much on your mind, Obi-Wan. Besides the fact you seem to believe your Padawan will run you to death.” Luminara smirked, her voice gentle and cajoling, but commanding nonetheless, as always.

“Sarcasm is most unbecoming of you,” Obi-Wan told her. He sighed when she only smiled and told him she learnt it from him.

“A recent foe is plaguing me. And what he means to me,” Obi-Wan muttered distractedly. He only trusted Garen with the full truth and details of his liaison with Xanatos (though Quinlan and Bant also knew that it had happened). And while he had much trust and faith in Luminara, he did not wish to impart this to her. His relationship with her was much like his relationship with Siri – and while the fierce blonde knew as much about him as Bant or Garen, who were like part of him, she did not know about his dalliances. Neither would Luminara.

The Mirialian Master arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“He’s the son of Qui-Gon’s former apprentice Xanatos. The one that turned to the Dark side. The one that died on Telos” Figuratively, that was true, the Xanatos he had met five years later had been far more controlled – saner…though Obi-Wan expected he didn’t stay that way after Avindal.

“Ah.”

“Yes. His son, Granta Omega, holds me above all responsible for the loss of his father. He wants Anakin to study the Force, and the fact that my Padawan can empathise with him is worrisome.”

“Ever the one wanting to right past wrongs and help others in need, our young Anakin.”

“Ever the one wanting to liberate and help the oppressed, as well as correct any injustice committed against them, by any means, to be more accurate. To the extent of being so blinded by his own motivations that he misses what may lie beneath it all, I’m afraid.”

Luminara chuckled softly. “For all his open-hearted and honourable intentions, he does tend to get a bit overzealous and single-minded, doesn’t he?”

The path to the Dark side is paved with the best of intentions. “I worry, Luminara.”

“Don’t we all know.” She smiled gently. “And doesn’t everyone themselves.” They came to a stop before the grand central staircase in the centre first level of the Temple. Luminara took his hands, her eyes as always swallowing him. “I haven’t any knowledge on what to do, Obi-Wan; Barriss is not like Anakin. But then again, no one really is, are they?”

Obi-Wan didn’t offer a negation or affirmation of her observance.

“All I can offer is general wisdom, friend. You must trust in him, and you must also guide him. These things, I know you already comprehend. But you must also trust him, Obi-Wan. And you must find the balance in it.”

Trust. Luminara always had the innate ability to see to the core of a matter. She was a fit replacement for Master Yaddle.

“Thank you.”

Her smile was bright. “I am only too pleased to help, Obi-Wan.”

He inclined his head in deference. “I am grateful you take the time, Master.”

Luminara laughed, automatically registering the sincerity underneath the dry-humoured tone. “Oh, Obi-Wan. Come – the Year Three Initiates are learning to swim today. Surely they can tale you out of this mired mood.”

He offered a half-smile. Maybe they could. So long as none learnt the hard way, as Anakin had. …Though the subsequent lessons after that little incident did prove at times amusing, indeed.

They had been watching the progress of the Younglings in the Room of a Thousand Fountains for only a handful of minutes before Obi-Wan’s commlink went off.

“I’ve a mission briefing,” he informed Luminara. Bidding the young ones good luck and goodbye to Luminara, he headed off for the Council Chamber.

----------------------

Anakin hoped that he had clenched his jaw before it time to drop.

It didn’t surprise Anakin that he had a thing about people’s eyes. After all, he had always sought the comfort of his mother’s tired eyes. He’s basked in the compassion and resolve of Padmé’s brown eyes and the conviction of Qui-Gon’s clear blue ones. His Master had the most intriguing eyes in the galaxy, he was sure – while Anakin firmly believed his mother’s saying, “Within a person’s eyes is their soul,” he always found it fascinating that Obi-Wan’s eyes revealed more about him in their colour than in just what could be found within them.

It was the sparring competition’s youngest judge’s eyes that caught Anakin. They were a smooth blue-green, like a shade of Obi-Wan’s eyes (though Anakin personally enjoyed when they were a slate blue-grey).

“Hey, Tru – who’s that?” Anakin inquired, nudging his friend with an elbow and nodding in the Knight’s direction, not taking his eyes off the guy. He had a handsome face, almost unnervingly familiar.

Tru chuckled. “That’s Gadon Muln.”

Anakin’s eyebrows rose. “As in —?”

Tru nodded. “Yup. He’s Master Garen’s little brother.”

Maybe that explained the familiarity. But Gadon really wasn’t all that much like Garen. Gadon had softer eyes – Garen had really intense deep green eyes. Anakin had seen the way that Garen Muln’s gaze could smoulder the air. Gadon’s hair was also truly auburn, no just red-highlighted schoko brown.

It made Anakin pause later that night, after a fair showing at the exhibition (– he’d shown off a bit for Gadon, and had gotten a smile of approval before he was ultimate set down a notch by an older apprentice):

Everyone said that Master Obi-Wan and Garen Muln looked a lot alike.

Gadon Muln looked far more like Obi-Wan than Garen did.

And Anakin had an undeniable crush on Gadon Muln.

“You still like him,” Tru said, all but giggling.

“I still think he’s…I still think he’s really wizard, yeah.”

Tru gave him a “please-don’t-tell-me-you-expect-me-to-believe-that” look. “You still like him.”

Anakin was about to retort, but in walked their substitute teacher, ever the tousled-looking but purely kind-hearted Knight, and the young apprentice stopped.

“Ha!” Tru whispered.

“I like Senator Amidala,” Anakin shot back in a fierce, clipped whisper of his own. “Gadon’s just…something to look at.”

Tru smiled, shaking his head. Anakin had explained to him how he felt about the Nubian former Queen, now senate representative. Tru found it all endearing, if a bit dramatic.

“Sounds like an Alderaanian tragedy,” Tru had remarked. Even though Tru saw that it was romantic, he also took it as a bit fanciful, futile.

“This is real, Tru. I really love her. And one day, we’re going meet again, and I’ll tell her I love her again, and she’ll say she loves me, too, this time, ‘cos I won’t be a ‘funny little boy’ anymore. You’ll see. I know it.”

“And then you’ll remember you’re a Jedi and she’s a Senator, and that it’s not pursuable. But okay, Anakin. I’ll believe you if you say so. I mean, you’re the Chosen One.” (Anakin had never felt hurt by anything Tru had ever said, save that last statement, but then again, he wasn’t sure that the whole last of that wasn’t just a placation due to the Sith-awful glare he’d lasered his best friend with for doubting him.) Tru had sat back on sofa in the common room of his and his master’s apartment. “Just don’t be surprised if it doesn’t, Anakin.”

“It will.” Anakin had whispered. “It will.”

“I won’t tell her you had the hots for Gadon Muln for a year,” Tru smirked. Anakin punched him in his flexible arm. Part of it was for teasing him over that. Part of it was because Tru was going to start his term as a senate aide, and might actually talk to her. (Anakin ran messages for the Chancellor every now and again when he wasn’t on a mission, but most of their meetings were advice sought and given, and Anakin’s insight on a planet he had recently visited, on happenings in the Temple and the like. He didn’t think he’d ever get to talk to Padmé, but he had seen her twice.) …And he hadn’t liked Gadon for that long. Yet.

He felt Gadon’s gaze on them and quickly the boys schooled themselves into composure fit for class. Gadon gave them a little exasperated look, and then returned to talking about the flight simulation they were running today, following the review he was going over.

Anakin had discovered that most Coruscanti denizens had a…what he called a “rounded” accent. He’d even started to pick up on it. Some had fuller accents – case in point: Obi-Wan – but most were just…full-bodied and easy to listen to. Gadon’s was like that. Anakin closed his eyes and listened. He knew all this forwards and backwards; he had, after all, been a pilot for almost his entire life, and was quick to pick up how to run anything that didn’t touch the ground, and some things that did.

Gadon’s voice becoming Obi-Wan’s in his mind was another thing entirely.

Anakin’s eyes flashed open. Determinedly, he focused on the words upon the checklist that had been pulled up on the projection screen.

At least he wasn’t thinking about Granta Omega, he thought to himself. Whoops. And that only brought him back to Xanatos, and how badly he just wanted to get this simulation over with (which was highly unusual, since Anakin frequently found himself wishing Piloting class wouldn’t end) so he could run to the apartment, which he was almost positive would be empty, and see what he could find about Xanatos Onasi, and what Obi-Wan wasn’t telling him.

Anakin stubbornly pushed all these thoughts that jumbled inside his head. In his mind, he drew a heart around an image of Padmé’s face. This is where my heart is. He looked over the diagram of the starfighter on the screen before him. This is where my mind is.

Or at least, those were where they should have been.

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(The lyric in the page break is from “Stellar” by Incubus.)

--> To Chapter Fourteen: Feigning Ignorance Isn't Blissful