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Jan. 20th, 2007 10:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mari4212I'll get to the rest of my responses to the meme tomorrow, but it just occurred to me that I've had this fic written since the ninth, I posted it elsewhere, and then forgot to put it up here. *sigh* Blame college for being too busy, thus making me loose what little remained of my mind.
Title: Hands
Fandom: Star Wars
Era: Original Trilogy, with references back to the prequels
Characters: Obi-Wan, flashes of several others.
Warnings: Err, I committed songfic? In my defense, that was the current challenge on the board.
Disclaimer: Star Wars and everything recognizable from there is owned by Lucas, the song "Hands" is Jewel's.
Summary: It was amazing how much a person's hands told you.
If I could tell the world just one thing, it would be,
That we’re all okay.
It was amazing how much a person’s hands told you about who they were.
And not to worry, cause worry is wasteful and useless in times like these.
I won’t be made useless.
I won’t be idle with despair
Qui-Gon’s hands had been strong and steady, the palms roughened by work, but surpassingly gentle with a youngling or injured creature. His broad, workman’s hands had been astonishingly dexterous with intricate details. They’d calmed him, taught him, nurtured him, healed him, admonished him. Throughout the years of his apprenticeship, Qui-Gon’s hands had molded him into the Jedi knight he had only dreamed of becoming.
It was fitting that his last memory of Qui-Gon involved one of those hands, brushing away the tears he’d shed. With one hand he’d expressed all that they had shared more thoroughly than any words could.
I’ll gather myself around my faith,
For Light does Darkness most fear.
Anakin’s hands had been swift, with skillful fingers. When he’d been younger they’d flown through the air, graceful and exuberant as he explained his newest lesson or droid design.
They had curled trustingly against his own hands countless times in training, as Obi-Wan had taught him how to hold a lightsaber, how to fight, how to heal. And they’d gripped his shoulders tightly when he’d wake Anakin from the nightmares that plagued him.
It had hurt to watch the first one be replaced. To watch as part of Anakin was lost, shut down forever.
It had been agony to sever the other.
My hands are small I know,
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken.
Yoda’s hands had been so small, no larger than those of a two-year-old human child. A stranger, one who had not known who the ancient master was would easily assume that he was as frail as his outward appearance implied.
But Obi-Wan had learned to see beyond that surface, to see the strength held close underneath the skin of those small hands. Yoda’s strength endured, while those with more visible prowess faded away. Those wrinkled hands had guided the Jedi through some of their greatest triumphs and darkest days.
There had been strength in Yoda’s hands. Strength and great wisdom.
Poverty, stole your golden shoes,
It didn’t steal your laughter,
Palpatine’s hands had always lied. At first appearance, they had been warm and compassionate, enfolding his own cold fingers as Palpatine had murmured condolences for Qui-Gon’s loss.
But then something had changed, and for a flash the grip had become cold and cruel, squeezing too tightly and grinding Obi-Wan’s knuckles against each other. Only for a second, before the compassionate mask returned, but that exchange had remained vivid in his memory. In hindsight, he would blame himself for dismissing the warning that Palpatine’s grasp had shown him, for believing the lie of patrician gentleness that had wrapped the poison truth.
And heartache came to visit me,
But I knew it wasn’t ever after.
Padmé Amidala’s hands had been just as deceptive, in a way, as Palpatine’s. Her hands had been gentle, graceful, even delicate. They had fooled many into forgetting the woman’s strength and nobility. He had known better, had seen her hold a weapon with the same prowess as any soldier, and still he had forgotten her strength until the end.
It had only been as she gripped his hand while giving birth that he had felt the bone-deep strength she possessed. It had only been as she gave one last touch to her beloved children that he had understood her nobility.
We’ll fight, not out of spite,
For someone must stand up for what’s right,
Luke’s hands had reminded him of Anakin’s. That same speed and grace, that same curiosity as he trailed his fingers over the dusty ornaments in Obi-Wan’s small hut. The same skill as he tinkered with mechanics. And the same eagerness when they reached for his father’s last Jedi saber.
The boy’s hands were more awkward, cradling the lightsaber, than Anakin’s had ever been. But even with the awkward grasp on the hilt, the potential for grace and power remained.
Luke was not his father, for good or ill. But he was similar enough to make Obi-Wan ache to teach him.
For where there’s a man that has no voice,
There ours shall be singing.
Vader’s hands were utterly unlike Anakin’s. They were cold, cruel, mechanical. They lacked the life and passion that Anakin had shown in every aspect of his being.
But more than that, they were still. Anakin had never been able to stay still, his fingers has always been moving, tapping, jittering. It was a nervous habit that Obi-Wan had never been able to break him of. Anakin was action personified.
This empty stillness, more than the malevolence that permeated the air around them, was what told him that Amidala had been wrong. There was no Anakin within Vader. Anakin was dead.
My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours, they are my own,
I am never broken.
I am never broken.
And what of his own hands? Scarred from battle, spotted by age and the punishing suns of Tatooine. Work-worn, tired, and old.
To his eyes, they were ordinary. No sign of the kindness of Qui-Gon’s broad palms, none of the strength and wisdom of Master Yoda’s, nor the spirit and passion of Anakin or Luke’s hands. Ordinary hands, the hands of a man who’d often fell short of his own expectations and goals, but who had done his best nonetheless.
And yet, they still had some strength left. Enough to begin Luke’s journey for him. With that, he was content.
In the end, only kindness matters,
In the end, only kindness matters.
Title: Hands
Fandom: Star Wars
Era: Original Trilogy, with references back to the prequels
Characters: Obi-Wan, flashes of several others.
Warnings: Err, I committed songfic? In my defense, that was the current challenge on the board.
Disclaimer: Star Wars and everything recognizable from there is owned by Lucas, the song "Hands" is Jewel's.
Summary: It was amazing how much a person's hands told you.
If I could tell the world just one thing, it would be,
That we’re all okay.
It was amazing how much a person’s hands told you about who they were.
And not to worry, cause worry is wasteful and useless in times like these.
I won’t be made useless.
I won’t be idle with despair
Qui-Gon’s hands had been strong and steady, the palms roughened by work, but surpassingly gentle with a youngling or injured creature. His broad, workman’s hands had been astonishingly dexterous with intricate details. They’d calmed him, taught him, nurtured him, healed him, admonished him. Throughout the years of his apprenticeship, Qui-Gon’s hands had molded him into the Jedi knight he had only dreamed of becoming.
It was fitting that his last memory of Qui-Gon involved one of those hands, brushing away the tears he’d shed. With one hand he’d expressed all that they had shared more thoroughly than any words could.
I’ll gather myself around my faith,
For Light does Darkness most fear.
Anakin’s hands had been swift, with skillful fingers. When he’d been younger they’d flown through the air, graceful and exuberant as he explained his newest lesson or droid design.
They had curled trustingly against his own hands countless times in training, as Obi-Wan had taught him how to hold a lightsaber, how to fight, how to heal. And they’d gripped his shoulders tightly when he’d wake Anakin from the nightmares that plagued him.
It had hurt to watch the first one be replaced. To watch as part of Anakin was lost, shut down forever.
It had been agony to sever the other.
My hands are small I know,
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken.
Yoda’s hands had been so small, no larger than those of a two-year-old human child. A stranger, one who had not known who the ancient master was would easily assume that he was as frail as his outward appearance implied.
But Obi-Wan had learned to see beyond that surface, to see the strength held close underneath the skin of those small hands. Yoda’s strength endured, while those with more visible prowess faded away. Those wrinkled hands had guided the Jedi through some of their greatest triumphs and darkest days.
There had been strength in Yoda’s hands. Strength and great wisdom.
Poverty, stole your golden shoes,
It didn’t steal your laughter,
Palpatine’s hands had always lied. At first appearance, they had been warm and compassionate, enfolding his own cold fingers as Palpatine had murmured condolences for Qui-Gon’s loss.
But then something had changed, and for a flash the grip had become cold and cruel, squeezing too tightly and grinding Obi-Wan’s knuckles against each other. Only for a second, before the compassionate mask returned, but that exchange had remained vivid in his memory. In hindsight, he would blame himself for dismissing the warning that Palpatine’s grasp had shown him, for believing the lie of patrician gentleness that had wrapped the poison truth.
And heartache came to visit me,
But I knew it wasn’t ever after.
Padmé Amidala’s hands had been just as deceptive, in a way, as Palpatine’s. Her hands had been gentle, graceful, even delicate. They had fooled many into forgetting the woman’s strength and nobility. He had known better, had seen her hold a weapon with the same prowess as any soldier, and still he had forgotten her strength until the end.
It had only been as she gripped his hand while giving birth that he had felt the bone-deep strength she possessed. It had only been as she gave one last touch to her beloved children that he had understood her nobility.
We’ll fight, not out of spite,
For someone must stand up for what’s right,
Luke’s hands had reminded him of Anakin’s. That same speed and grace, that same curiosity as he trailed his fingers over the dusty ornaments in Obi-Wan’s small hut. The same skill as he tinkered with mechanics. And the same eagerness when they reached for his father’s last Jedi saber.
The boy’s hands were more awkward, cradling the lightsaber, than Anakin’s had ever been. But even with the awkward grasp on the hilt, the potential for grace and power remained.
Luke was not his father, for good or ill. But he was similar enough to make Obi-Wan ache to teach him.
For where there’s a man that has no voice,
There ours shall be singing.
Vader’s hands were utterly unlike Anakin’s. They were cold, cruel, mechanical. They lacked the life and passion that Anakin had shown in every aspect of his being.
But more than that, they were still. Anakin had never been able to stay still, his fingers has always been moving, tapping, jittering. It was a nervous habit that Obi-Wan had never been able to break him of. Anakin was action personified.
This empty stillness, more than the malevolence that permeated the air around them, was what told him that Amidala had been wrong. There was no Anakin within Vader. Anakin was dead.
My hands are small, I know,
But they’re not yours, they are my own,
I am never broken.
I am never broken.
And what of his own hands? Scarred from battle, spotted by age and the punishing suns of Tatooine. Work-worn, tired, and old.
To his eyes, they were ordinary. No sign of the kindness of Qui-Gon’s broad palms, none of the strength and wisdom of Master Yoda’s, nor the spirit and passion of Anakin or Luke’s hands. Ordinary hands, the hands of a man who’d often fell short of his own expectations and goals, but who had done his best nonetheless.
And yet, they still had some strength left. Enough to begin Luke’s journey for him. With that, he was content.
In the end, only kindness matters,
In the end, only kindness matters.
