| abstract
| - Gold Beaches - Coronet City The crash of the surf here is not so loud as the engines of the Port, but they carry the same strength and promise of power, more magestic than any artificial energy. The deep blue of the water is complimented royally by bright gold sand beaches, stretching north-south of the City. It is a fine sand, glittering underfoot, and residents of the city as well as visitors relax in its warmth. The occasional CorSec officer patrols here, for the safety of the public. Despite being the site for so much turmoil and difficulty in Jessalyn's short return, the young Jedi seems to find herself drawn to the beach that runs the coastline of Coronet City. This, at least, is a different area, rockier, with needle-like projections of land that thrust out into the sea to meet the crash of the waves head-on. They break the hardest of the waves, calming the water that reaches into this little sandy cove where Jessalyn has brought her student. It's late at night, and two bright moons shine in an otherwise blackened sky as the flames from a small, nearby fire lick skyward. Jessa sits close enough to the fire to feel its warmth, and she stares into the constantly shifting flames as she speaks to Orson. "This is the perfect place to try this. At night, when you're unable to rely on your vision." She smiles lightly as she begins the instruction. "I want you to close your eyes. Relax... feel the Force flow..." Her voice begins to take on that modulated, soft tone that seems to encourage the Force to stir of its own accord. "I want you to look as far as you can. Look towards the city, and tell me everything you see. Or smell, or hear. Through the Force, you'll see the present as it exists. There is no difference between being somewhere physically and being there through the Force...." Despite only a few weeks of training, Orson looks different. His face has more color, his body is leaner, and his smile is easier but less earnest. He shifts his posture, crossing his legs beneath his body and resting a hand on each thigh, looking across the small circle at Jessalyn as the mechanic prepares for another lesson. Orson's eyes close. Moments pass, and one unskilled in the Force might think he's fallen asleep, or simply forgotten about the task. Rhythmic breathing is the only move he makes. "The fire," he murmurs, smoke clinging to his nostrils. He's firmly anchored to the spot, but is wandering about easily after the long centering exercise. "Two animals, in the water." Sleek dark, backs break the water with a swirl -- how far? -- very far from the shore. He turns the other direction, his touch becoming more diffuse. "Music, at a party." Gaudy lights and a throng of impassioned people flicker through his mind. Orson hesitates, attention becoming more laser-like. "Roses. Your hair." There is no emotion on his face, but he obviously lingers, only a meter or two away. Attuned to the Force, Jessalyn observes distantly as Orson stretches out with newly attuned senses, like a teacher following in a leisurely but protective path behind her errant student. Eyes closed, face turned toward the warm glow of the fire, she smiles as she sees the things he points out, catching a strain of a tune she had loved once as a child... a lullabye one foster mother must have sung to her, she muses. Then she finds his senses hovering closer, and a flush creeps up her cheeks. "Very good," she goes on, trying to keep the lesson focused, her toes curling in the soft sand at her feet. "Tell me more. Move out further from the city... there are no barriers through the Force. You are linked to every part of the universe...." So many nights of his youth had been spent like this, camping on the sandy shores of the ocean lakes of Southern Ukio, that planet his childhood home. He and his brother occasionally, but more often he and his renegade friends, incorrigible kids more focused on breaking the boundaries of youth and learning life's lessons on their own than taking up the feudal ways of their culture and parents. They had had many good times. A memory from a specific night stirs in his chest, and his looking with the Force moves to the past, lightyears from this place. "Laughter. Middleson and Chane, arguing good naturedly. Fenns flapping by, overhead." He whistles a quiet breath through his lips, a decent copy of that small shore bird's call. Many minutes have passed. "Repulsorlift. A landspeeder?" He's not so sure now of the specifics, but it's probably clear that /something/ is approaching, in the present, still a hefty distance away and not yet in sight. Most likely it's CorSec, on their nightly patrol. "A creature," he pronounces a moment later. He finds that his eyes have opened and his hand has extended, pointing at the semi-translucent crablike animal that has emerged in the silence. Two little eyestalks retract at the motion, and it freezes in place. The family memories seem to linger in the air as Orson's thoughts drift to the past, and she sighs inwardly, leaning back on her elbows and turning her closed eyes toward the sky. Her emotions try to coalesce around her sadness, but she doesn't let them, instead distracting them away by her focus on Orson's training. Hearing the crab's soft skittering feet in the sand -- a noise undetectable by human ears -- she opens one eye to gaze at the crustacean Orson has in his sights. "More animals? You have a knack," she teases lightly, letting her humor chase back the shadows. Then her amplified hearing picks out the lullabye again... not a recording, a voice. A mother holding her newborn son. Jessalyn closes her eyes once more, wanting to bring her awareness back into her own reality, but longing to hear the rest of the song. "Orson... tell me about your family," she asks softly. Not the tone of a teacher giving instruction, but of a friend seeking more comforting thoughts. Orson passes over an inner barrier with a deep exhale, some new steadiness found deep within him. The repition that Jessalyn politely demanded was having the intended result, and Orson lets his weight sink fractionally more. He's rooted to the sand, eyes still closed. Still meditative, quiet, and ultimately very aware, he speaks. "I'm from Ukio," he starts, with a mental shrugs. "High tech world all in all, but I'm from the South. Older. Etiquette and culture are still valued there a lot. I left there, those -old- ways, to explore the galaxy on my own." A wry smile creeps on him, and the fire pops. "I left before I was named. Orson is my family rank." He mentions this matter-of-fact, but it's the cause of some sort of discomfort, and he quickly adds a new sentence, eyes opening. "My only other family is Karrde's group. And then Marina, and my." He swallows, and frowns, breaking out of the meditation, uncrossing his legs, and settling into the sand. "My children. But I don't suppose they really count. It's been years." The young woman gradually opens her eyes when she senses Orson slip out of the meditation, and she sits up as well, suddenly self-conscious, and pushing her hair back from her face distractedly as she looks into the fire. Unable to fathom having children she could not see, Jessalyn shakes her head sadly. "Don't you want to see them? Your wife?" she asks in an earnest voice, but unable to look over at him, feeling a twinge of guilt at making him discuss something so troubling. The older man clears his throat, poking an idle finger into the sand. Suddenly awkward. "Not my wife," Orson refutes to the ground. "She ran off a long time ago. I don't need to see her. My kids, I guess they're hardly mine anymore. Last time I tracked my daughter down she didn't want to have anything to do with me." He forces a little laugh, capping off that emotion. No need to dig that up, at least not now. "I guess I should have told you this earlier," the Jedi student apologizes, dim light from the dying fire deepening the shadows on his face. He doesn't explain /that/ comment any further, and simply shifts his weight to look over at her. "What about you?" Jessa keeps her sad gaze on the fire, trying not to think about Orson's concealed anguish, her face expressionless except for the haunted green eyes. "Oh... there's not an awful lot to tell about me," she confesses. "My family was from Corellia, but I never knew them. I was an orphan. Though I have three brothers who I've barely met who live around here somewhere." She sweeps a hand around, indicating the city, then scoops up a fistful of sand and pours it into a pile in front of her feet, creating a little cascade; the silky sound it produces reminds her of Tatooine, and the whisper of the wind before a sandstorm. "I guess you could say I've had a few romantic entanglements. The usual silly adolescent stuff... and... mostly regrets." "I can identify," Orson says mildly. He doesn't even let his mind twist around Simon and that failed relationship. Bringing it up would cause her pain, and letting it form in his head would darken his already melancholy move. "If I were a more impulsive man," he starts, drawing his knees up to his chest and grabbing at them. If there's anything he's not at this point, it's impulsive. From his own life experience, his and Karrde's recent conversation, and his developing Jedi patience, he's firm and thoughtful. "Well, it's not as if I can hide the way I feel about you." He purses his lips, standing suddenly and wandering down a little closer to the shore, drifting into the dark without another word. The ghostly crab doesn't like the way this conversation is going, and it taps sideways across the sand, looking for its hole. Only after Orson stands and retreats is Jessalyn able to tear her eyes away from the fire and look at him, seeing the broad silhouette of his shoulders as he disappears from the circle. She suppresses a groan -- of sympathy, of hurt, of frustration, and manages to get to her feet, crossing the cool sand and feeling it grow damp as she nears the water's edge. In the dark, she can't yet make him out with her eyes, but she stretches out with the Force instead, a little pleading question in the touch. "Orson, I'm sorry," she says aloud, the sound of the surf and the wind drowning out her voice. "You don't have to keep running away from me, you know." "Really?" he accuses from the dark, stepping toward her, face serious. "If you really meant that, Jessalyn. If it was for the better." The man snakes an arm around either side of her waist and gives a tug to test her resistance to the idea. The night wind from the ocean is cool, remarkably dry. Music clicks in Orson's mind, and in these circumstances, he can't be sure if it's from a distant source that he can hear through the Force or he's simply imagining it. The new student's brow furrows, and he seems almost angry, though it's just the built up frustration playing a mean trick on his face. He touches her, with the Force, testing again. His mind is made up regardless, and he leans forward ... She gives a start, expecting his appearance out of the dark, but not expecting to be suddenly pulled into his arms. Placing her hands on his shoulders to offer at least a hint of resistance, her thoughts swirl up in a heated reply, foremost among them her fear. The fear of rejection and hurt, the fear of destroying a meaningful friendship. The fear of being the next in a string of people left behind and forgotten -- the fear of the Dark Side. But as soon as Jessalyn realizes what she's doing, she gasps, pulling her thoughts back in a panic, and sealing them behind a stubborn set of emotional shields. Watching him press forward, she struggles inwardly, and finally turns her head at the last possible second, her entire body trembling. "I can't," she whispers in a shame-filled voice, her hair falling across her averted face, shielding her expression from his eyes. "I can't lose you, too." The Orson Tighe keeps holding on, some small gesture that remains despite her turn. "You won't," he says, quiet, distracted by his own buzzing mind. Something about his hold is unconditional and strong, and he hangs on to it, savoring the one-sided embrace for a long moment. It was tempting to announce 'I told you so', and declare that all this was a test to prove his point made just a moment ago. Was it better? Now, to move on her? He slides away as easily as he approached, passing his hands behind his back and dropping his jacket on the ground. Small mechanical parts in the jacket make it heavy, and it falls directly to the ground. He kicks off his shoes, yanks off his foot covering, and finally, stepping toward her, reaches down and grabs the tuck of his shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it at her. He angles to find her face once more, frowning. "Hey. You won't." He steps without hesitation into the water, slicing into the surf until it's thigh deep. With an arching dive, Orson's gone, having run away from her once more -- it seemed to be the better strategy, despite her insistence to the contrary -- and disappears into the moonlit ocean. Jessa inhales several sharp, deep breaths, surprised at the level of emotion rising up in her throat. He had shown her his truest self so deeply, and there was nothing there not to respect and cherish. She's the one who's damaged. Choking back a soft sob, Jessalyn's expression grows nearly as fierce as Orson's had seemed when he'd pulled her into his embrace, and she rips off her own jacket as she bolts out several meters into the water. "Hey!" she calls as she staggers to keep her balance. "Orson!" She can't see him, though the splash of water in the distance tells her he's swimming away. "Come back, please! Do you know how I feel? Do you really? Look in me and find out for yourself. Look and see what a broken woman you're wasting your thoughts on." Waves curl and extend, slapping at the packed sand before retreating, eyeing Jessalyn warily. The sand hisses as the salty water withdraws. There's nothing for a while, and then, a light. At least, it's light and warmth from the Force, but it's as real as a strong lamp would be. He does look at her, only lightly /in/ her. There's a measure of respect and deference saved for some parts of a person, Orson has decided. Maybe one day, but now reading the inner thoughts of a person while swimming at the same time would be a monumental task. "I see you," he calls out, not so far off the shore, toes sweeping over the bottom as water slides through the fingers of his treading hands. "You're no waste." Firm, but quiet. "I'm waiting for you. Will you come to me?" The water has made him bold, as it always does, and he grins in the darkness at the multiple levels of meaning in his comments. Jessalyn hesitates, a deep frown crossing over her face. The waves rush past her, in and out, not caring at all that she stands in the way, her feet sinking deeper into the sand with each passing breath. She pivots her head, focusing on Orson's luminous presence to guide her as she walks out a little farther, her chilled skin prickling with goosebumps as the water creeps higher. "It's cold," she answers dubiously, folding her arms across her chest as she shivers. The sensation only heightens her unease, and she swallows hard as she draws closer, getting to the crux of the matter at once. "What Simon saw inside me made him hate me," she says through chattering teeth. With a kicked swirl of water, Orson drifts into her, one able arm finding its old spot on her waist and helping hold her aloft when the larger swells sweep past. "It wasn't you," he says, breathing steadily. "It was his own mind. His own ... inability to see the galaxy differently. To see past himself, really. Selfish." His hand brushes over her as he swims, and for a moment, he gives several strong strokes moving further out into the ocean. "You're cold," Orson says, asking and answering the question in his head before it makes it to his mouth. He angles sharply and swims back to the shore, unnecessarily positioning her helpfully when the water is about waist deep. "Just. Just let me be the judge of you. I'll be more fair. Okay?" He seems much more in his element in the water than Jessalyn, and though she tenses at first, she allows him to guide her among the waves, putting a hand on his arm to stop him when he angles them back toward shore. "It's not so bad, once you're out in it," she confesses, smiling a little. "I like it." She swallows, treading water and looking up at the broad expanse of sky, her hair floating on the water's surface like a fiery corona around her head. "Maybe... maybe I need to hear... what it is you really want," she says in a soft tone, surprised at how quiet it is here out past the breaking waves, the water lapping around her shoulders as she holds onto one of his arms for support. Orson scoops another arm up under Jessalyn, pulling her closer. A little too eagerly, he thinks, and he instantly lets go with that hand, drifting around. "Well," he starts thoughtfully. "Well, actually, I don't have a plan. I just want to be with you. I value our friendship as much as anything I've ever had. But there's more ..." He gives a little twisting kick of his legs and turns over, rolling closer to her ... within the red flames before turning away. "I don't blame you, if you didn't... Well, I'd understand. I would." "Aren't you with me right now?" she points out, her legs kicking slowly out from her body as she tries to stay afloat. Jessalyn lifts her head once more and turns to face him, arms stroking the water as she realizes just how deep it is here now. "We both want the same things. I've seen into you, too, Orson. Do you think you're being true to yourself? Or do you just want those things so badly, you'll grasp onto the... the wrong thing. Like I did... with Simon. Aren't you afraid of making more mistakes and ruining... -this-?" "Yes, but..." Orson begins at her first question but she follows up too quickly. It's not a riptide, exactly, but there is an undercurrent that's pulling the drifting pair further into the sea. "I /am/ being true to myself," the Jedi student says with spirit. "I do fear making mistakes. There's so much at stake, with you. But there's so much left unsaid if I don't try." He finds a reference point on the shore and slips an arm around her again, really swimming back this time. "So much undone," Orson adds quietly. "It could be nice." All she can do is study him pensively as he paddles them back towards shore, the lines of worry carved into her forehead softened only by the moonlight, but growing deeper as she continues to analyze her own feelings. When she can stand again, she does so, trudging the last few steps up onto the shore, and collapsing in a tired heap on the damp, hard-packed sand. She wrings water out from the hem of her rolled up trousers, biting her lip as she contemplates her reply. Finally. "And if I hurt you, can you honestly say it wouldn't tempt you to the Dark Side?" she asks plainly, giving him a look that betrays her deepest fear. "Yes, so much at stake. Everything's at stake. The galaxy is at stake. And for that I have to fear my own desires. I can't afford to feel. Luke is right. It all makes perfectly good sense now." Orson comes up beside her, chest heaving lightly. His own face turns dark as he listens, and the man tilts his head to the horizon. "Would you? Hurt me?" he asks, wondering if there would be any graceful backing out at this point. "I've feared and hated my fair share," Orson explains, going to a knee beside her. "But now, with life. In my life, I have to see all of life -- the hurts and the joys -- together. A balance. When I looked at the bright spots, I would feel good about things. And then you'd run into a dark spot and it would hurt. Only by looking at the whole thing," Orson says, waving his hands around an imaginary picture. "Can you appreciate life fully. With some consistency. At least for me." He finds his shirt, and dabs at his bare chest with it, standing and turning to move back to the fire. "You can't afford -not- to feel. Why care, if you didn't feel?" Skywalker. What foolishness he had put in this woman's head. As wise as she was, as good, Jessalyn was her own worse enemy. Her self-doubt crept along in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Orson could see it at work. "I'll show you," he says, voice equal parts of defiant and merry. Still catching her breath, Jessalyn watches Orson tread back towards the fire, and leans her forehead into the heel of her palm. If only it were so simple, to decide not to feel. To close off those emotions for the sake of a higher good. Jessalyn, instead, feels them all the more intensely, and Orson knows that, too. If only they had not led her astray so often, if only she knew what was the correct path before her, to paint that picture of balanced happiness that Orson described. But the wounds in her heart are still too fresh, the thought of intimacy only making her cringe away from the hurt still so present in her mind. She grabs her own jacket and follows after him, using a little Force-propelled momentum to catch up, and remaining silent as her steps match his own the rest of the distance. "I... care," she says to him, a little shyly, spoken with her eyes glancing up from beneath her lashes. "You know I do. We have our lives before us. Give me... a little time to heal." With her head ducked down, Jessalyn parts ways. It's her turn to do the running away this time.
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