Genre: beats me!
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Thanks George for creating these guys - you deserve all the money.
Summary: A storm, a saber, a hovel, a man.
Special thanks to betas Jim, Rene, and Arsinoe! feedback necessary!
The sandstorm howls furiously as it roars into the remote, desert canyon. Winds savage a lonely, modest hovel, the gritty barrage hammering futilely against the strong outer walls.
Inside, the storm's continuing wrath is broken by the sudden, crackling burst and hum of a lightsaber's ignition. The sound is a rarity in the galaxy. The mere possession of the weapon is now a death sentence, much changed from its former status as a symbol of justice and peace. Despite the danger, its wielder's casual movements exhibit little regard for the possibility of inadvertent discovery.
Blue light reflects cooly against the sandstone walls, its shadows moving and swaying in measured rhythm as the saber sketches an invisible pattern into the air. The heat, shimmering the dim room, remains unseen by the lone inhabitant. The old man's eyes are closed in effortless concentration. He moves confidently but deliberately, relying on an inner vision unclouded by the span of years during which such skills were unneeded. The booted feet, once breathtakingly nimble, are slowed by age. Though their graceful movements betray a still-supple grace and strength, they tread the floor with more care than was required in the past.
The long-familiar pattern is itself a meditation, easing sorrow, frustration, regret, and yes, even fear. It has been repeated thousands of times since the old man's arrival in this desolate, lonely place, and likely will be repeated still more times in the years to come.
The pattern finished, the old man suspends his movements. The saber's diminished hum is lost in the battering howls of wind buffeting the hovel's walls. His breath calms in the dry desert air.
Abruptly, the old man's eyes snap open. The blue eyes flicker and the mouth quirks into a smile, then the brown-clad arms poise again at ready, the eyes and mind alert.
He nods, then suddenly launches again into action, the saber now emphatic in its movements, its crackling hum biting through the roar of the storm outside. He steps forward and thrusts, hops backwards then twirls, his irregular motion appearing capricious.
Yet, there is something odd about his movements. His motions seem a pantomime where only part of the action is visible. It is as if the old man sketches only half the pattern, as if another is here, moving with him, a mirrored, oppositional presence.
His movements continue to the accompaniment of the roaring wind, until he stumbles, tripping on the hem of his robe. He stops momentarily, breath heaving, then steps back, saber raised at guard. A pause, then he jumps once again into action, the saber cutting a blurred, blue arc into the still air.
Gradually the howling storm lessens along with the old man's movements. Sweat sheens his brow, and the saber blade disappears. He pauses a moment as his puffing breath lessens, then kneels near a chest and tucks the hilt inside, under a grey poncho. Slowly he closes the chest and straightens.
The quirk of a smile again appears. "Next time, Master, it will not be so easy for you."
An echo of a chuckle fades with the wind.
