"Flying"
Rating: G
Bail thinks about Obi-Wan.
I do think about him. Not as often as you'd imagine, really. Sometimes days, weeks, even months go by and he doesn't cross my mind except in dreams, subconscious whispers that can't be lingered on in the light. I would feel guilty, except every time I force myself to try I can hear him laughing at me.
My Jedi understood about duty.
My days are full -- intrigue, war, fatherhood, the daily work of assuring my world doesn't catch the taint of Palpatine's hand. I have rare chances to be alone, to sit and remember. Woolgathering is a practice of peace.
From a window in my private quarters, I can look out over the gardens, see the foothills that lead to the Haarin range. If the sky is clear, I can even see the sun glint off the ever-present snow on the caps of the greatest peaks.
I have watched the gardens through that window for thirty years, since these rooms became mine by right.
This morning, an old sun raptor sits on the garden wall, smoothing out his remaining feathers under the cool kiss of dawn. He was once quite beautiful, soaring above the hills, the sun's light making him glow. His cry would wake the children in the nursery and cause the people walking through the streets to search the skies.
His kind nested on the cliffs, stark, wind-beaten nests of sticks and mud holding brassy, shell-covered life. I climbed the cliffs one warm spring, years ago. Our nurse had told us the tales of the fierce warriors of the winds - the raptors were made from molten sunbeams, their feathers sharp as steel. I crawled along the grassy edge on my belly, looking down into those huge nests, perched on the tiniest of outcroppings.
The raptors flew around, circling each other, riding the wind. They played, these huge avians, harsh screeches sounding like laughter bouncing off the stone. The nests were still empty, mostly. Some were being repaired; a few had nesting pairs settled in. The young males competed, hunted, danced dizzyingly as the old ones watched.
It could make you believe in magic.
On my trek home, I found a single wing feather, longer than my arm. It shone in the light, deep bronze fading up into bright copper. I was surprised to find it was not metal at all, not sharp, not heavy. The barbs tickled against my fingers, the shaft delicate and clear.
How easy to surrender to that beauty, that feathered delicacy, and forget the claws.
As I grew into a man, taking up the mantle that was handed to me, the world changed. Perhaps I was the one who changed.
The raptors began to die out, hunted by people who resented their feeding or desired their beauty; their nests were destroyed, burned, beaten off the cliffs. Still some survived, attempting to adapt, to move higher into the mountains.
Then the wolves came in the night and fed.
The old one, the bird with his tattered, dulled feathers, protected his brood valiantly. He attacked, he feigned injury. He screamed his warnings, even when the noise no longer frightened his enemies. Once, I saw him destroy one of his own, piercing it with his talons so that the beasts would not steal its life. He even brought the remains of his brood to live in a hidden alcove in the roof of the palace.
He guards. He cannot soar, cannot hunt, living on the dead leavings from our kitchens. The great hunter become carrion so that no one steals his hidden future.
I wonder if he knows the wolves are coming for him still, that not even the palace gates are sanctuary from those that creep in the darkness.
Leia asked me years ago if she could feed the old one, try to lure him into the aviary where he would be safe. It is one of the few things I have denied her.
Nothing that once flew so far should be shackled by more than his own will.
I do think about him, you know. Random thoughts, desires, faded memories of a quicksilver grin and unending hope. I think about him when I have the luxury -- after all, we do not belong to ourselves, my Jedi and me -- but when I do think of him...
When I do, I imagine him flying.
~ fin ~