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| - Caspar Lighthouse A sharp pebble-like island rises from the ocean, not so far from the Plaxton City waterfront. Shrouded in strata of smoky fog, this plateau can't be more than fifty meters in any direction. Clinging seaweed covers most of the fringes of the island, little arms full of green-brown waving when submerged. A cube-like building, a utility and storage space, is the only structure aside from the lighthouse itself. A hexagonal column of dingy gray duracrete rises almost forty-five meters into the sky, the remnants of old paint cracked and bubbling from its weathered surface. Topped by a cage of metal and glass and ringed with a narrow ledge, the tip of the lighthouse has been non-functional for many years. Dingy sections of a steep metal spiral staircase that leads to the top are completely missing now. The remnants of a hand-operated elevator are still set in the shaft of the lighthouse, complete with slack chains and squeaky pulleys. Early evening creeps up on Plaxton City, sending tourists and beachgoers back to their hotels and places of residence. Businesses slowly quiet, lights and signs winking out of existence as new ones, colorful and gaudy, flash to fill the empty space. Orson hasn't been back to the hotel room since he left, earlier in the afternoon. He hasn't gone far, most likely, having left his jacket full of tools and a few thousand credits hanging on the back of the writing desk at their place. More importantly, his almost-complete lightsaber is there, semi-hidden. With only a few small obstacles left to overcome, he'll have it, he believes. But his work has been slowed lately, by some nagging feeling of... he didn't know. Orson isn't in Plaxton City. Down on the beach, and further than that, a kilometer off the shore of the city, he sits, pulled in many directions. He wants to be as far from her as possible, but -- he needs her to come too, desperately. Dreading, hoping, and resting on the lighthouse island, Orson feels the power of the ocean in his bones. It hasn't been an easy decision for Jessalyn to finally come to him. Fearful of the possibility of losing him, she's all but shut down her emotions to the outside world, wallowing alone in her misery. As the hours pass, the hotel room becomes a cell imprisoning her, and she finally rises from her curled up position on the bed to the balcony windows. The curtains flutter against her bare arms as she opens them and steps outside, feeling the coolness on her face as the dry sea air evaporates the tears on her cheeks. Through blurred vision she looks out over the city, afraid to feel any connection, afraid to feel the Force. Risking her heart only brought pain and ultimately isolation, she tells herself over and over. When would she ever learn? Many moments later, the tears stop flowing, and she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. This selfishness wasn't going to do either of them any good. Orson could reject her if he wanted to, if he couldn't face his past. But she wouldn't run away. She would show him that she cared, before he made his decision. And then she would deal with the shattered remains of herself. Trying to convince herself that he wants to be found, and damning her pride which makes her want to turn back the way she came, Jessalyn washes her face and changes clothes, leaving the hotel behind and renting a landspeeder that will take her to wherever Orson is. Finally risking a look into the Force, letting it guide her out of the city, she comes to the little island where he has taken refuge. The Force announces her presence before she even tries to locate him visually, swallowing her pride and risking a greeting she fully expects to be rejected. Night is fast approaching. Wind from the surf whistles through without pause, making even the massive column sway slightly at its power. Orson is nowhere around, carefully hiding himself in the Force with techniques Jessalyn has shown him, and more seriously, afraid of looking there, in the Force, again. Afraid of what he'll find. He's not on the island floor, but has watched her approach from his vantage point. Wrapping his strong hands around the rust-eaten ledge railing at the top of the dark lighthouse, he leans forward, pulse quickening. Before he can stop himself he calls down, looking grim at the very small Jedi so far away from him. "You should see this view," he considers, only mouthing the words. Wanting to invite her up, he only points to the narrow hatch on the other side of the lighthouse. An entrance. Her face does look very small indeed in the dimming light as she turns it upwards to see Orson on the rusty ledge at the top of the old lighthouse, a perfect pale oval in the frame of her dark, wild hair that floats briskly on the rough wind. The stricken expression on her face is not yet visible from this perspective, only her luminous and unself-conscious beauty. She shivers, grateful she brought a jacket along, and pulling it around her as she walks hesitantly over the rocks towards the lighthouse, finding the entrance and climbing the spiral stairs to meet him. Every step quickens, her heart pounding by the time she reaches the top and throws open the door, emerging near him but keeping a respectful distance if he doesn't want her too close. Afraid to look at Orson's face, Jessalyn forces herself to gaze squarely at him, a challenge and an apology both in her eyes. Turning and leaning on the rail, Orson crosses one foot in front of another, folding his arms over his chest. The wind has had its way with him, really, beating his hair into a sloppy mess and even now snapping ripples over his striped shirt, licking at bare skin when it can to get to him. With wide, frightened eyes, he just stares at her, leaning back. "Just because you're my teacher," he starts, the wind stealing most of his volume. "Doesn't mean you have to pretend. That all that, what you saw... was okay." Vivid images, explicit and dark, tied up with neat ribbons of shame and loss. She's seen the rotten insides of the man -- even as he attacked himself with his own mind. That's too much of a load for even him. Certainly it would be for her as well. Certainly that exceeds the limits of what a reasonable person could accept. "Would you want me if I couldn't accept you for what you really are?" Jessalyn counters calmly, her eyes filled with regret and tenderness. "Isn't that what makes this -- us -- so special? I know you utterly. And you know me... completely. The things I'm ashamed of." She looks away from him, walking to a different position by the railing and leaning on it, her profile turned to him as the wind tosses her hair wildly behind her. She gazes down, straight down, wrapping her hands so tight around the railing that her knuckles turn white. "I'm sorry I forced you... before. I guess I was so caught up in wanting to help you, it never occurred to me that you might not want me to." Twilight settles heavily around them as Jessalyn closes her eyes. Moving quietly beside her, he grips the rail as well, hunching strong shoulders and looking toward the city across the ocean. A band of murky color waves in their direction, lights from the beachfront reflected back by the dark water. "I didn't mean that," he tries to explain. There was one thing about communicating through the Force: he didn't have to resort to words. Saying this was a struggle. Even in his mind, he had remained wordless today. It was too hard. "It terrified me," he admits with a hoarse croak, chewing on his lips. "Not Her. I see Her all the time. But for you, to see it all. Like that." Pride? Struggling with a sliver of self-worth? At its essence, he wants to be wanted, and fears her long-term response. Turning slightly, Jessalyn takes in the sight of Orson's face beside her, green eyes thoughtful and reflective, filled with her compassion for him. As her hand leaves its perch on the rusted railing to caress his cheek, she shakes her head slowly. "It's not because I'm your teacher that it doesn't matter to me," she explains to him earnestly, her voice a soft thread nearly lost in the gust of the wind. "You know why, Orson. I can't live without you anymore." Initially, he doesn't move, face pointed into the wind. When she touches his face, he shudders. Drawing back from the rail, he leaves his hands there and just hangs his head. With a quiet sob, hope grows, the man left only with Jessalyn's simple admission. A flicker fires in his chest, and he touches the Force tentatively. Soon, though full of raw passion, the Force and his own goodness shines bright. Like a beacon in the night the man, broken but truthful, shines. Purity in the wholeness, good and bad. He holds out an arm and pulls Jessalyn to him, hugging her without meeting the woman's gaze. Pressing his face to her jacket, some tears fall. Shaking with her relief, Jessalyn clings to him, her arms tight and her face bent to press against his hair. Gently she re-weaves their bond, reassuring him as she cradles his soul the same way she does his body. The essence of his Force-gift shines through, a pure heart forged by a life of sorrow really not so different from her own. She cherishes each aspect of him, good and bad, and shares with him her own strengths and failures. Her lips find his ear, and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut as she whispers to him. "I don't want anyone but you. It's the truth. I'll spend my life proving it to you if I have to." Dirty and useless, there's one thing still honest about him. Her. A roller coaster of emotion and truly cosmic power has racked his mind today, but here he stands -- not redeemed, but perhaps on his way - propelled forward by this woman's care. "I love you. Too," he whispers, pulling her away so he can look on her with haggard eyes. Trembling, he opens himself to her further, their intimacy stronger because of its completeness. It's a shocking moment for him, really, that she's here. The lengths she would go to for him. _I believe you,_ the man says, with reverential awe. Her hands caress his face as he gazes back at her, and a little nervous chuckle erupts from her lips at the same time that tears gather and streak down her reddened cheeks. Burgeoning the close connection between them, Jessa pours her strengths into him: her passionate and loving nature, her humor and courage, her deep compassion and devotion. It seems as though her heart will burst as she hears his words, and she pulls him to her, pressing her lips against Orson's in a searching kiss. Orson kisses needfully, hungry for the closeness. He's spent, mostly, his normal ease and grace having been scoured away by the drama of today's events and removing his scant style from him for now. A long time passes, and the privacy here makes him feel like they're off on a private island, in a private ocean, on their own private world. "I wish we could stay here forever," the man considers. In this spot, but with that same feeling too. Still, she is a woman, and shouldn't be subjected to less-than-perfect conditions when the suite waits for them in the city. A hot bath would be nice. "Wouldn't it?" he asks, not realizing that he hasn't supplied the first part of the invitation verbally. Jessalyn is almost too choked up to respond, though she detected the intent of Orson's thoughts through the warm weave of the Force that pulses so strongly between the two of them. The wind gusts, lifting her hair, as she nods her head. "It w-would," she stammers out. "I don't really care where I am, though, as long as you're there." She tightens her arms around him, refusing to let go as she blinks back the last of her tears.
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