Sage Hazzard
Jan 5th, 2003, 02:01:20 AM
Light moves across the loosely nitted screen door. The warm glow is equally brilliant against the rows of pure green growth outside, extending for endless miles. A young boy's eyes follows the travel of a yellow green leaf. Serenity in it's perfect form as a snapshot is made of the vision of loveliness.
The young child's belly feels cool against the tiled floor of the foyer. He watches the continued concert playing outside in ambient, contagious life. Behind him the dull, distant whispers of two origins discuss something foreign. With his innocent physche he picks up on stray words. A minimal few he understands, originated from the 'big kid' land he hasn't been formerly introduced with yet.
"He looks so much like you honey. It's uncanny."
"It's breathtaking."
"Isn't it?"
"I just hope... Hope he doesn't become a failure like his father."
"Hearth?! You are a sweet and wonderful man. He'll be perfect, just like you."
"I've failed you, dear. Don't deny it, I'm nothing to be proud of. I'm no good as a husband, forget fatherhood."
"You are a brilliant Jedi Knight, your family comes second. I understand that. They will too, in time."
"But is that the way it should really be? I save, help, aid, console, and eliviate the pain of everyone and everything but my family? Is that really the mark of a good Jedi or more so, of a good man?"
"I'm not incompetent Hearth. I can handle the homestead. The people you help need you, they don't all have as wonderful of wives as you."
She drapes her slender arm over his shoulder and meets it with a hand looping under his opposite arm. The child tries to hear, to learn, to make out what the two giants are conversing about. Supposedly their mantles are mom and dad. However the meaning of these titles escape him completely. His 'sister' plops down beside him to enjoy the harmony of the universe around them. Her warm body makes him feel good, happy... loved.
"I'm quittng the Jedi."
She kisses him softly on the neck and then the chin, she pauses before continuing onto his lips.
"No you're not."
He chuckles at the absurd nature of it all.
"Yes I am."
She kisses his lips making him forget his last words.
"No you're not."
"I am going to be home more."
"That I can live with."
She hugs him tight before turning back around to their twins.
"I hope he makes something of himself."
"They both will Hearth. They'll both be exactly like their father."
<hr>
Reality cuts like a serrated knife into the blissful vision. Something feels constricting in the back of his throat. As the air sucks through his mouth in a sharp journey for breath, it ends and exits through the entrance. He's choking. He flops onto his stomach, opening his mouth and coughing purposely. Discolored bile and better left unsaid substances flow from his mouth onto the contrasting grey, rough surface in front of his face. Vomit.
"Wh--"
The pain in his speech reminds him that his vocal cord is crushed. As he gets to his feet, all the merry way up he 'remembers'. Fractured left arm, two broken left fingers, dislocated left shoulder, bruised right knee cap, a twisted left ankle, a shattered right shin, stubbed toe. His migraine is a pillow fight injury in comparison. The cause to this effect is a blurry, flurry, shredded mess of a thing at first. The fog slowly lifts and the sheer horror of dozens of Sith fighting amonst themselves over who will be the lucky one to have his head on their home display spike hits him harder than all of his aches.
He had barely recalled the life of a Jedi, his entire essence now days, until he noticed his right arm seemed painless. A flood of good memories and bad wash over him. The arm that held the mighty weapon of truth and justice. With it in his hand he was invicible. Was. Is. He felt the familar wait in his right hand. The cool to the touch cylinder was resting comfortably in his palm. Funny, it felt like it had never left his hand through the turmoil, the retreat, and the resulting unconsciousness that came after. When fighting with a lightsabre you're arm often doesn't incur damage, unless an attack occurs to dislodge the lightsabre. The reasoning behind this is simple. You're arm is always moving, it's the most protected part of your body in a sabre battle, and the best defense is generally the best offense. Poetic that Sage believed this wholeheartedly, applying it to Jedi 'defense only' phylosophy. He clipped it to his belt, smiling despite his injuries. After all, he had lived to tell the tale of taking on a swarm of loyal Sith brethren. His naiveity and ego was what hurt him the most though. Despite being proud of his own warrior skill, he realised now the folley of his ways. He was almost a rare find in an obscure Jedi history book, about the man that committed suicide without ever drawing blood on himself.
The absurd nature of the situation made him burst out in laughter. A bad idea for a man with two cracked ribs, which he only now remembered he had. He was a Jedi Master that had gallavanted across the galaxy to duel a one man war against a hoarde of Sith, so he could kill them. How completely, utterly asinine. He thought himself untouchable now that the nightmares had gone away, the ones that started before he joined the Jedi. He never thought to consider the reason they went away wasn't because he had 'saved' Sith but rather because he had saved himself. Yes, they had stopped the night he killed a Sith under his new belief that he was the only one headstrong enough to straighten out the balance of the Force. He never thought to think that the same night that happened, he came out from under his father's shadow. That he had chosen his own path with that belief and stopped trying to follow his father's. A father he never knew growing up, because of an untimely death. A father he made a false image of, only so he could become it. He now relised that those nightmares weren't the souls of the fallen men and women he had killed before joining the Jedi seeking their revenge but rather they were him condeming himself for doing something he thought his father would never have done. He had always been free, he just chose to lock himself up.
This vision... this dream he had when he was unconsious... Of the little boy, him at a younger age, that was the object of his parents fond observance. He ascertained that it was most probably a post-cognitive recollection. A Jedi learns through the Force to be connected to all things, space and TIME. In that vision he had visited a time when he was too young to understand his surroundings, yet now he could. Now he saw that his parents were good, honest people. Not gods like he imagined them, just nice simple people that tried their best at every turn, nothing more. BUT WAIT!!! Hadn't his mother died at his birth? His father told him this in his earliest memory, a memory locked in his brain not the Force. This vision predated his memory though, before his father told him this falacy. If his mother hadn't died during delivery, then could she still be alive? He had to know.
Ignoring his pain, ignoring the fact that the extreme measure he took to escape from the fight previously had sapped his body of all strength to use the Force temporarily, he pressed on. He came to the edge of where he stood, the top of a building he now remembered. He had retreated here with speed given by training as a Jedi after creating a sensory blinding explosion through the Force. Something that he had never practiced before, only read about. Something that almost killed him exerting the power to create such a thing that could momentarily blind the senses of Sith Masters. He had run for hours and hours, wounded as badly as he was now, until he could no longer feel the bloodlust of the Sith ricocheting through the Force. Collapsing on this rooftop on Coruscant. It was the last thing he could recall.
Having no idea where he left his transportation, and having no money to speak of, he leaned over the railing of the rooftop, looking down on the blur of activity that went about undernearth. Thinking of a way to get back to Naboo to find out where his mother was, his eyes lit up.
OOC - If you wish to join please PM me first to give me your general intent. I'd like to insure the general flow and meaning of the story is not comprimised.
The young child's belly feels cool against the tiled floor of the foyer. He watches the continued concert playing outside in ambient, contagious life. Behind him the dull, distant whispers of two origins discuss something foreign. With his innocent physche he picks up on stray words. A minimal few he understands, originated from the 'big kid' land he hasn't been formerly introduced with yet.
"He looks so much like you honey. It's uncanny."
"It's breathtaking."
"Isn't it?"
"I just hope... Hope he doesn't become a failure like his father."
"Hearth?! You are a sweet and wonderful man. He'll be perfect, just like you."
"I've failed you, dear. Don't deny it, I'm nothing to be proud of. I'm no good as a husband, forget fatherhood."
"You are a brilliant Jedi Knight, your family comes second. I understand that. They will too, in time."
"But is that the way it should really be? I save, help, aid, console, and eliviate the pain of everyone and everything but my family? Is that really the mark of a good Jedi or more so, of a good man?"
"I'm not incompetent Hearth. I can handle the homestead. The people you help need you, they don't all have as wonderful of wives as you."
She drapes her slender arm over his shoulder and meets it with a hand looping under his opposite arm. The child tries to hear, to learn, to make out what the two giants are conversing about. Supposedly their mantles are mom and dad. However the meaning of these titles escape him completely. His 'sister' plops down beside him to enjoy the harmony of the universe around them. Her warm body makes him feel good, happy... loved.
"I'm quittng the Jedi."
She kisses him softly on the neck and then the chin, she pauses before continuing onto his lips.
"No you're not."
He chuckles at the absurd nature of it all.
"Yes I am."
She kisses his lips making him forget his last words.
"No you're not."
"I am going to be home more."
"That I can live with."
She hugs him tight before turning back around to their twins.
"I hope he makes something of himself."
"They both will Hearth. They'll both be exactly like their father."
<hr>
Reality cuts like a serrated knife into the blissful vision. Something feels constricting in the back of his throat. As the air sucks through his mouth in a sharp journey for breath, it ends and exits through the entrance. He's choking. He flops onto his stomach, opening his mouth and coughing purposely. Discolored bile and better left unsaid substances flow from his mouth onto the contrasting grey, rough surface in front of his face. Vomit.
"Wh--"
The pain in his speech reminds him that his vocal cord is crushed. As he gets to his feet, all the merry way up he 'remembers'. Fractured left arm, two broken left fingers, dislocated left shoulder, bruised right knee cap, a twisted left ankle, a shattered right shin, stubbed toe. His migraine is a pillow fight injury in comparison. The cause to this effect is a blurry, flurry, shredded mess of a thing at first. The fog slowly lifts and the sheer horror of dozens of Sith fighting amonst themselves over who will be the lucky one to have his head on their home display spike hits him harder than all of his aches.
He had barely recalled the life of a Jedi, his entire essence now days, until he noticed his right arm seemed painless. A flood of good memories and bad wash over him. The arm that held the mighty weapon of truth and justice. With it in his hand he was invicible. Was. Is. He felt the familar wait in his right hand. The cool to the touch cylinder was resting comfortably in his palm. Funny, it felt like it had never left his hand through the turmoil, the retreat, and the resulting unconsciousness that came after. When fighting with a lightsabre you're arm often doesn't incur damage, unless an attack occurs to dislodge the lightsabre. The reasoning behind this is simple. You're arm is always moving, it's the most protected part of your body in a sabre battle, and the best defense is generally the best offense. Poetic that Sage believed this wholeheartedly, applying it to Jedi 'defense only' phylosophy. He clipped it to his belt, smiling despite his injuries. After all, he had lived to tell the tale of taking on a swarm of loyal Sith brethren. His naiveity and ego was what hurt him the most though. Despite being proud of his own warrior skill, he realised now the folley of his ways. He was almost a rare find in an obscure Jedi history book, about the man that committed suicide without ever drawing blood on himself.
The absurd nature of the situation made him burst out in laughter. A bad idea for a man with two cracked ribs, which he only now remembered he had. He was a Jedi Master that had gallavanted across the galaxy to duel a one man war against a hoarde of Sith, so he could kill them. How completely, utterly asinine. He thought himself untouchable now that the nightmares had gone away, the ones that started before he joined the Jedi. He never thought to consider the reason they went away wasn't because he had 'saved' Sith but rather because he had saved himself. Yes, they had stopped the night he killed a Sith under his new belief that he was the only one headstrong enough to straighten out the balance of the Force. He never thought to think that the same night that happened, he came out from under his father's shadow. That he had chosen his own path with that belief and stopped trying to follow his father's. A father he never knew growing up, because of an untimely death. A father he made a false image of, only so he could become it. He now relised that those nightmares weren't the souls of the fallen men and women he had killed before joining the Jedi seeking their revenge but rather they were him condeming himself for doing something he thought his father would never have done. He had always been free, he just chose to lock himself up.
This vision... this dream he had when he was unconsious... Of the little boy, him at a younger age, that was the object of his parents fond observance. He ascertained that it was most probably a post-cognitive recollection. A Jedi learns through the Force to be connected to all things, space and TIME. In that vision he had visited a time when he was too young to understand his surroundings, yet now he could. Now he saw that his parents were good, honest people. Not gods like he imagined them, just nice simple people that tried their best at every turn, nothing more. BUT WAIT!!! Hadn't his mother died at his birth? His father told him this in his earliest memory, a memory locked in his brain not the Force. This vision predated his memory though, before his father told him this falacy. If his mother hadn't died during delivery, then could she still be alive? He had to know.
Ignoring his pain, ignoring the fact that the extreme measure he took to escape from the fight previously had sapped his body of all strength to use the Force temporarily, he pressed on. He came to the edge of where he stood, the top of a building he now remembered. He had retreated here with speed given by training as a Jedi after creating a sensory blinding explosion through the Force. Something that he had never practiced before, only read about. Something that almost killed him exerting the power to create such a thing that could momentarily blind the senses of Sith Masters. He had run for hours and hours, wounded as badly as he was now, until he could no longer feel the bloodlust of the Sith ricocheting through the Force. Collapsing on this rooftop on Coruscant. It was the last thing he could recall.
Having no idea where he left his transportation, and having no money to speak of, he leaned over the railing of the rooftop, looking down on the blur of activity that went about undernearth. Thinking of a way to get back to Naboo to find out where his mother was, his eyes lit up.
OOC - If you wish to join please PM me first to give me your general intent. I'd like to insure the general flow and meaning of the story is not comprimised.