*****

Part 1: At Twenty

There's something I love about the wind. It is maddening, intoxicating as wine. I want to fling myself out into its welcoming
arms, and I would too, only I know that even Jedi have not yet learned to fly. But I will be the first-the first human to soar
above Coruscant's buildings, held aloft only by the Force-the first to dive, twist and spin in midair, the first to know the delight
that birds live in every day.

Right now, the closest thing to flying is spreading my arms, my cloak streaming behind me, and running through the gardens in
the evening light, acting very childish, but feeling so free, so very Jedi. More of what I am, like there's nothing in the universe I
can't do.

As I open my arms to the wind, I know I am receiving power, that the heart is being put back into this star-fired being, this
mystical mix of earth and air, this chosen one, this fine-honed fighting machine ready for service.

And now, I hear a voice, the only sound dearer to me than that of the wind. And that voice calls me softly, "Padawan." What
do I say?

"Yes, beloved, yes, heart's desire, yes, soul of my soul, heart of my heart, my next breath, my eternal destiny, my love?"

"Yes, Master." That sums it all up.

And, at my reply, the only other thing I will ever want to open my arms to walks in the room.
 
 

Part II: At Fifty

I hate the wind. It scuds across this Force-forsaken desert, blowing everything away, destroying all in its path. There's nothing I
can do to stop it either, it's beyond my feeble powers to control.

That's probably why I hate it.

But even more than that, it reminds me of everything I've lost, my lover cut down, my apprentice's betrayal, my friends killed
one by one, my hopes and dreams shattered again and again.

Until finally I am left alone with-what? A chest filled with memories, two lightsabers that will probably never be used again, and
a golden-haired boy some miles away, whose chances to become a Jedi are slipping farther away with every year?

And I am the last of the Jedi, or so I guess. Almost ten thousand of us killed, and that only a small fraction of how badly Vader
has hurt the galaxy.

Our temple on Coruscant ruined, my home gone. The days I spent with Qui-Gon-and the nights-only a distant memory. What
do I have left?

My sanity. Perhaps.

If the wind could, if only just once, bring rain with it instead of sand, I might say I had more than sanity. I might say I had hope,
then.

END