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Xanatos De'Crion
09 November 2005 @ 06:59 pm





The evolution of basic was a long one, and in the oldest documents you'll find from the Republic the words are all different. You wouldn't even be able to understand them, now. The original word for "return" was nostos - algos meant "suffering." Nostalgia is, in root, the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. In each language throughout the galaxy these words have a different semantic nuance, but always they carry the sadness caused by the impossibility of ever really going back.



The rain was coming down thick, slanting gray ropes slamming into loose earth, plowing it up like blasterfire. The old governor's home had been left to it's burnt shell for over eight years, gabled roof pulled over crumbling exterior like a low hat. The walls, streaked with moss, had grown soft, and bulged a little with dampness that seeped up from the ground.

Qui-Gon supposed it hadn't been torn down sooner because Xanatos wouldn't allow it. Now, though, now it was coming down. There was noone left to hold on to the past.

He wondered, standing there in the worst of the rain, what his former apprentice had seen when he looked at it. Why he'd wanted it left standing at all.

When Qui-Gon looked at it, what he saw was the day he'd first come to Telos with Dooku, several dozen years ago, still wearing a padawan braid himself. When the house had been newly built, and the smell of sypherglaze on the walls was fresh. A beautiful sentient woman crying as her child was pulled out of her arms, a prideful father who reluctantly assured her that it was for the best.

Standing there in the rain, Qui-Gon could remember blue eyes expanse like sky staring up into his face as he assured the family that the Jedi would take care of their son.

A crack of lightning - the demolition workers grunted in annoyance at the weather as they craned large durasteel machines to crack apart walls. His long hair a shock of swollen twine, tangling into the hood of his robe and the neck of his tunic. Qui-Gon's hands limp at side, a finger twitching so often as he blinked the stinging water from his eyes and watched white tufts of sheetplaster crumble in on itself.

To the workers who were unaware of the house and it's history and of the old man who was a Jedi that watched in the rain, all they saw was another outlived structure from a time gone.
 
 
Xanatos De'Crion
09 November 2005 @ 01:09 am





He froze as a distant thunder began shaking the cool dawn air entering through the temple's massive entrance. Qui-Gon moved to stand atop the limestone staircase and stare down into the street as the sound grew stronger. He saw a flank of elite Telosian guard approach through the morning haze, headed by a figure in black - holding red lightsaber ignited in sapphire glow through the foggy daybreak. The ebony-clad figure turned his head upward, hood falling down. All the blues of all the oceans, broken scar, broken lives.

Qui-Gon sat up with a start, a tangled blanket sticking slick to his sweaty chest. The room he was in was unfamiliar for a moment, dark. Gathered himself from the disturbing dream, threw the blankets down to legs and allowed himself room to breathe.

It would seem, then, that there were reasons Qui-Gon Jinn professed to stay in the present, perhaps being the future was still so clouded by the past that he had nowhere else to stand comfortably but in the momentum of now.

So then, he became aware of the present, the mission he was on, the room he was in. Focused on it to forget everything else. On the sound of wind from a cracked window, the environmental systems that vented the room and adjusted the temperatures, the feel of the mattress under his calloused fingers - all things that promised life goes on, that nothing stands still and stays the same, and that that in itself, was okay.

He was okay.

A bare-chested companion in bed, lying on stomach and dark rivers of jet black hair.

Qui-Gon's breathing haulted there in chest.

The figure moved, groaned and rolled over in semblence of waking. No. Not black hair, just shadows playing across skin.

Breath came again, and in a voice clouded with sleep, Obi-Wan asked if his Master was alright.
 
 
Xanatos De'Crion
08 November 2005 @ 02:07 am





A last, fleeting glimmer of amber light played across his black cape as he let his lightsaber drop back in place at side, an old familiar feeling. Allowed it to deactivate. In the gathering gloom of dusk, Xanatos's familiar, tall, powerful contour seemed as if it were no more than an apparition made of shadows, ethereal and not there at all - some stale shell of a man he'd become and had tired of being.

It didn't matter that Obi-Wan was there, nor did it Den or Andrea. Xanatos's eyes stayed on Qui-Gon, long beats of silence as they comtemplated one another for the last time.

Faint sounds of distant laughter Xanatos had once allowed, conversation from another time between them that only their bond could have known. Qui-Gon had loved his laugh. So many times since Telos he had prayed to the force that he would be able to laugh again - that they both would. Xanatos was watching him in a way that said, no. Neither would ever laugh again.

"...You destroyed me because you couldn't save me. I am your biggest failure. Live with that. Live with this.."

Stepping backwards, things lost.