"Love can ignite the stars."—Mathew Stover

Leaving…it's a difficult thing, really. It's an act of tearing, of ripping, of cutting to pieces something you wish could've stayed whole. Of shredding a little bit of yourself, letting it bleed out onto cold ground—so honestly, it's a mutilation. Of body, heart, soul…or anything in you that will groan as you wrench part of it away.

Yet that's what I'm supposed to do today. What I've decided to, after I counted the cost, after I saw the torture in his eyes when he contemplated following in-suit. And standing on this docking port alone—save for the sinking Coruscant sun—I begin to wonder if he ever loved me more than the Order. More than the Jedi.

Clutching my arms to my chest, I watch the listless waves of Coruscanti traffic whiz by, their engines purring and hissing and growling pure energy. I'm supposed to be off-world by now, I guess; I've done my duty here, after all, have kept my home-world from entering the blood-bath of the Clone War. But for some reason, I've decided to linger, and I'm not all that certain it's the wrong choice. Maybe if I drink in all the sights and sounds long enough, if I take in all the beings and gleaming, sky-kissing towers, I'll understand—understand why he came back to this place.

And why he never came back to me.

My hands ball up, clenching into tight, tight fists. No. No, I'm not going to relive this. It's all over now, after all, is all wafting in the past as memories distant and untouched. All that's left is the present, the incessant gift of time that really only lasts for a heartbeat, and that ever-moving, ever-shifting thing we mortals call "the future".

"I'm leaving," I announce softly. "Leaving. It. All. Behind."

"Then I'll escort you to your vessel, Duchess."

As soon as that voice sounds, I freeze. I've asked my personal guards to hang back tonight, to give me at least a hundred yards of space, so I thought I was alone here. Was drifting in solitude, lost in my own, private nebula of sorrows—but I guess this wasn't the case. There's been a presence hovering close this entire time, hanging back far enough so that I wouldn't hear him, breath in his achingly familiar scent. That I wouldn't realize he was here till just now, when his voice broke my silent prison.

Obi-Wan.

I sigh long and hard. "I thought we'd already said good-bye."

"We have," he answers, still behind me. "But Master Yoda gave me permission to see you off, and with guards hanging so far back…he thought it would be wise if I made sure you were safe, Duchess."

My hands go slack, hanging boneless at my sides. Duchess. Not Satine. Not my name, the name he once whispered in my ear in night's gentle embrace, but something distant. Impersonal. "My guards are more than sufficient for that, Master Kenobi. And I don't approve of your following me like that."

"You don't approve of most of what I do, Duchess—but that's not the point. I wanted…I wanted to tell you something, something I didn't get a chance to say when we were saying good-bye." He pauses, then asks warily, "your guards aren't in earshot, are they? Because I don't exactly wish for them to overhear this."

"They might be," I tell him, although I know they aren't. They're watching me, yes, have their eyes trained on me like sunlight to a full moon. But they can't listen in. Can't hear the slightest whisper, the weary, haggard sigh—or the drum, drumming of my scorching heart. "But whatever you have left to say, please: say it now."

He hesitates for a hair of a moment—I'll bet he thinks my guards are listening in—then he says it. Says it clear, as transparent as a river untouched by sentient hands. Says it so there's no room for doubt, for guessing or second-guessing or for that oh-so bitter tang I call hope.

"It never would've worked."

Everything within me grinds to a halt, making me go rigid. I try to turn, try to face him—but I can't. I'm just so shocked, so numb that seeing him—even moving—might bring me to my knees.

It never would've worked.

So that means…what, exactly? That he's referring to circumstance, to all the impossible odds once surrounding our love? Or is there something—force forbid someone—that got in the way, wrenched him from my arms and catapulted him toward the life of a Jedi? Toward an existence of ice and total, unrelenting solitude?

"What do you mean?" I breathe, still frozen in place.

"I mean that I'm a Jedi, Duchess, and I always will be. There was no other path for me."

"And now?"

I hear him venturing closer, boots thudding against cold duracrete. "I have regrets."

My eyes fluttered closed. He's getting close-close enough that I can hear the rustling of his cloak-and it's overwhelming. Exhilarating. "What sort of regrets, Ob—Master Kenobi?"

He inhales sharply. "That you never asked me to stay, for one thing."

And that makes me turn, whirl to face him. Except...well, he's closer than I realized. Much, much closer, to the point that he has to snap his head back to avoid colliding with my head. That we briefly brush, his hands skimming across mine.

"Er, never mind," Obi-Wan says, taking a measured step back. Clasping his hands behind him, he's suddenly back to being a Jedi—and is as distant as a dead star. "Forget I mentioned that. In fact, forget I was ever here at all, ever—"

"No. No, wait." I put a hand on his shoulder, a touch that's both platonic and sparking with waiting fire. His eyes widen a bit—maybe he can feel something inside me, is secretly eaves-dropping on my dancing heart—but he doesn't try to move away. Or flinch. Instead, I think I feel him softening under my fingers, his cool, icy exterior melting beneath my flaming core. "I—Obi-Wan, I couldn't."

The Jedi cocks an auburn brow. "You couldn't what?"

"I couldn't ask you to leave, Obi. Not when I saw how much it meant to you." My fingers curl, slightly tightening their grip. "Helping people, making a difference, fighting for things that mattered—you loved it. It gave your life meaning, direction."

Obi-Wan doesn't say anything for a while, eyes focusing on some far, distant point. He doesn't move, either: just stands there, the evening breeze playing gently with his graying hair, lips pressed into a grim line. But when he finally stirs, he's lightly brushing my hand away, removing it from his shoulder as if it were dust. "It was the only direction, Satine…and it still is."

Satine. Not Duchess, not milady. Satine.

But his finally using my name-that doesn't negate what he's just told me.

It was the only direction…

The words weigh heavily on me, dragging my fragile heart to its knees. So there wasn't any chance, then? None, none at all? No hope of him ever staying, of us weaving our lives together into one living, breathing tapestry, of us turning and facing twilight together, hand-in-hand?

...and it still is.

So this is Obi-Wan Kenobi—the real him, and not just the man I envisioned him being. This is what he is, at his core. In his hearts of hearts, the place where I desperately hope I once reached.

He's a Jedi.

No, more than that. He was born for to be one, was made to do the duty he so dearly cherishes, and there's no changing him. Even if he's wrested from the Order, even if all my nightly longings are fulfilled and he leaps into my arms, he'd still long for his old life. Crave it in some deep, dead part of himself that I killed, his blood dripping from my pining fingers.

He's.

A.

Jedi.

Averting my gaze—I don't want him to see the tears welling there, all choking and ready to burst—I begin to step away. To turn my back and head towards my ship, where the piercing eyes of my guards are waiting, watching—until Obi-Wan catches my wrist. Stops me and gently has me face him, his gloved hands clasped over mine. "This isn't our final good-bye, Satine. I've sensed it. But until then…"

Swallowing, I push back the tears and the looming, swelling lump in my throat. He's going to kiss me, I bet. He's going to press his moist lips to mine, turning the encroaching Coruscant night into fiery day with our love, our passion. And when he does…oh, it'll be deep. Deep and soft and—

No. No, he's not going to. He's not even on the brink of embracing me, either; rather, he's pressing something into my palm, something silken and oddly familiar.

I glance down…and see a long lock of braided, copper hair.

I gasp. "This—"

"Was my padawan braid," he finishes for me, nodding. "It was cut off after I became a full Knight, symbolizing that I was taking my first steps down a new path. A path without Qui-Gon, or any master to guide my way." Still clasping my hands, he gingerly closes my fingers over the skinny braid, and adds, "A path without you."

Oh. "So this is good-bye."

"No, not a good-bye. At least, not forever, anyway—because in my experience, nothing ever truly ceases to exist. It may have to be quenched for a while; it may have to endure drought, or some terrible, endless night. But in the end, I believe we'll see each other once more…in this life, perhaps, or in the next." Letting go of my hands, he shows me a weary—yet somehow brilliant—smile. "So consider this a 'till we meet again', milady."

Clutching his braid in my hands, I surrender a few quiet tears, their droplets carving tiny rivers across my cheeks. I loved him, wanted him terribly—and perhaps I still do. No, scratch that: I know I'm still aching for him, pining for him with every breath and sleepless night. I need him, need him to stay. Stay with me—but that's impossible. Even when he was in my arms he wasn't really there, after all, was drifting out of a crowded room into some bright, spanning destiny.

And so was I.

But even when we're apart, we're not alone. Not forever, anyway. Because somehow—someway—I do feel we'll meet again; and like he said, it could be in this life, or in the one hovering just beyond.

If that's the case, then our love is only beginning.

1 Corinthians 13:8: Love never fails. But where are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.