RPlog:Mourning

Jessalyn is not at all sure why she saved it. She could just as easily have left it lying there in the sand where it had fallen next to the limb her own saber had severed. But something had compelled her to pick the carved wooden staff up from the sand, and it lies across the foot of her bed now, where she can stare down at it from her vantage point huddled against the bed's headboard. It's clear from her eyes that she has found no sleep. A night and half the morning has passed since her little house of cards came toppling over, and the dark circles carved under her eyes and her wildly disheveled hair are indicators of the state she is in. She has hardly moved since she returned to the hotel room from the hospital; once Orson, Han Solo and Luke were safely attended to by the doctors there, she had made her escape, not wanting to face anyone with this guilt eating her alive. She had to be alone, she had to feel every heartbreaking emotion that demanded her attention, like moving through a furnace that she hoped would purify her before it killed her.

Despite Orson's discomfort with the circumstances, he is strong as ever, thoughtful and brooding. The path to the Dark Side had been so graphically illustrated to him yesterday. And yet, while so clearly wanting to avoid that path, he could feel fear and anger creeping in on the edges of his consciousness. The broad-shouldered mechanic wasn't used to paying this much attention to his emotions, and it was a tiring exercise to muscles that weren't often used. He had to help fight Simon -- at least until Skywalker saved him, sending him to the hospital -- but he wouldn't stage a meaningless fight with a fait accompli. The events of yesterday had been set in stone. Forever. Unfortunate.

They had tried to force some examination or another on him, but he had taken much worse without a trip to the hospital. So, he had quietly stepped out, leaving Skywalker to lick his righteous wounds alone. He had secreted his way back to the ship, carrying a grim cargo nestled in the fabric of his jacket. The new student wondered if Jessalyn would miss the stasis field he had liberated from her personal things. Intended for the small flowers she enjoyed, it would serve well enough for the useless hand. He had crammed it in the stasis field, concealed it on the ship, and incinerated the jacket he had used to conceal it in.

The smell of the burning jacket hangs in Orson's nostrils still. He hadn't given a second thought to taking the hand. It seemed important, though later reflection wouldn't agree with the assessment. He touches a hand to the center of Jessalyn's door from the hallway. The door controls beep and he steps in, without realizing he hasn't touched -- at least not with his fingers -- the door panel. "I'm so sorry," he whispers.

When the door slides open, Jessalyn flinches at the sight of Orson, lifting a hand to cover her face as she bends her head, as if trying to hide her face. "No," she whispers. For a moment it seems that she's protesting his presence, but at last she adds, "Just... don't turn on the light."

Oddly enough the thick curtains are pulled shut over the broad windows that would normally offer a brilliant view of the golden beach outside. Despite being daylight, Jessalyn's room is as dark as if it were past sundown. She pulls the thin coverlet up over herself, trembling, and still not looking at her friend. "I'll be okay," she lies in a low, rough voice. "I just want to be alone."

The rectangle of light behind Orson changes proportions as the mechanic comes all the way in and the door begins to slide closed. They have both been plunged into darkness, pulled along with Simon's descent. The mechanic stands there a long time before doffing his jacket and tossing it on the table by the door. He moves, and a heavy clunk sounds hollow through the room -- Mira's lightsaber resting on the table, wires hanging from its end. With that, he steps to the bed and sits, ignoring her request. "You did what you had to," he comments quietly, after many minutes of just sitting, resting, and patting her shoulder.

It was easy enough to feel sorry for herself, to see how she had become the victim of her own emotions. She tries so hard to sort it all out, to make sense of it, to realize her mistakes. Simon believed that she had misled and betrayed him. But she could feel the same way: the Selas had delved into her mind at a time when she had been completely vulnerable, unable to defend herself or even know what was happening; he had rescued her when everyone else had forgotten her, assuming the role of the chivalrous hero with his visions and certainty of their destiny together; he had taken her to a planet all but untouched by the Force, where she could forget the shadows in his eyes, and hear the things she had always dreamed of hearing from a man. She couldn't help but feel for him, to want to save what she had glimpsed as being a strong and noble, if deluded, soul.

Whichever one of them had been misled, Jessalyn cannot help but feel responsible. It would not have gone so badly if she hadn't played with their emotions. And why was she still compelled to want someone so totally wrong for her?

The shoulder that Orson pats begins to shake with unshed tears. She couldn't give in to her sadness, not in front of him. What must he think of her? She was the poorest version of a Jedi for anyone to emulate. "No," she gasps out, her face still covered with her hands. "I did far more than that."

"Hey," Orson says, touching her wrist. "It's just me. We're alone. It's okay." It's okay to let out her feelings, he means, and he moves his hand back to her shoulder, still patting and looking up at the room's dimly lit ceiling. "It's impossible to understand," Orson says, confessing his own inability to comprehend all of it. "What happened. The Dark Side. It wasn't you." He hadn't seen the whole thing. He had felt a great deal of it, his new abilities like an open wound exposed to the air. After a while, his hand stops moving, and he lifts his legs to the side of the bed, crossing them over one another. He's come to lend support to the woman, his teacher -- his friend -- before anything else, and doesn't seem to be on schedule. "Shh," he barely sounds, his own thoughts stirring from the beginnings of a meditative trance.

Jessa feels the back of her neck burning with shame at Orson's tenderness. Can't he see how unworthy she is of love, of comfort? Better to languish in her misery alone than to entangle yet another innocent soul in her fatal mistakes. She bites down hard on her quivering lower lip, squeezing her eyes shut in protest of the tears that leak from them. Weakly, her body leans against his sturdy frame as she draws a deep breath, her head resting upon his chest. It felt so comforting to hear his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his body instead of the cold and empty bed. But she hates herself for feeling any pleasure from it. "What have I done?" she breathes. "I told him that he would hate me... he never believed me. And yet, I made it happen."

Opening his arms to accommodate her slight figure, he tightens an arm around her, tugging the broken Jedi close and keeping his arms tight around her once she's settled into place. The victory in Orson and Simon's shortlived contest is bittersweet. He hadn't imagined it would turn out precisely like this. The winnings were in his grasp, and now he wants nothing more than for her to be with Simon. For it to have worked. For her dream of redemption for Simon to have come true. The new student shifts his weight uncomfortably, the intimacy here but bringing with it a sudden burden of guilt. "Don't figure it all out now," he whispers, pulling her hair back from her face. "The answers, your resolution ... it seems hard to see now. But give it time. Just ... give it time." There's no rush, and though the closeness, the deep, heady smell of her hair, causes him pain, he reaches out boldly with the Force. Honest, polite, unfettered. So unlike Simon in that way; he avoids any sort of mental touch or probing for fear of unsettling Jessalyn.

Remaining still where she lies curled in Orson's arms, Jessalyn doesn't resist his effort to comfort via the Force. It takes a moment, but she gradually pours out her emotions, the guilt that tears her apart, the sense of betrayal, the loss of love. Simon had wanted to know her this deeply, but in the end, he did not really want to see what he found there. Her shame is foremost; the love she had always carried for Luke had betrayed her. Any other, more sensible woman would have been able to let go of such a ludicrous emotion when it obviously wasn't returned. Instead she had carried hers inside like a bomb waiting for the perfect moment to destroy all her dreams. Only a sliver of hope remains in her tattered heart, but part of her simply won't let it be extinguished. "Time has been an enemy of mine for a while now," she muses aloud, her voice thick with tears. "I'm so blind, Orson...."

There is perfection in the impurity. Beauty in the wholeness of a person, and Orson revels in the fullness of seeing good, bad, strong, and weak. He has too often relied on the superficial, and his own past mistakes from long ago stir deep within. Jessalyn's honesty with her shame is a sharp knife, and it cuts through his emotional walls and barriers easily, exposing his own truest heart to the woman. He gasps quietly at the experience, nodding his approval, overwhelmed by the power of it, and shaken at this newfound -familiarity- with another person. "No," he refutes, words seeming all but useless compared to the exchange. "Not blind. Don't regret it ... overmuch." He's not sure what precisely she means, but it's important that she know, from Orson's perspective, that there's value in love.

The comfort of Orson's thoughts gives Jessalyn a little respite, and she hungrily leans upon his honesty, the revelation of his heart. Of course, there is heartache and sadness here as well, a lifetime of joy and laughter, despair and mistakes, people loved and lost. She is not the only person to feel this anguish, and she tries to express her gratitude to Orson for reminding her of that. Even his feelings for her, she accepts with quiet gentleness and returned affection, even while it's clear that some part of her heart is secreted away, too damaged, and shying away from any deeper sense of intimacy.

After a while, she finds her body has stopped shaking, and she lifts her head a little, resting her hand lightly on top of his. "Thanks," she says softly, trying to meet Orson's gaze in the dimness.

Orson pulls his face back for focus, wearing a soft smile as he makes eye contact with her. "I'm the," he starts, throat catching. "... one who should thank you." The man shows her the profile of his strong, average face, looking away but continuing to -Feel-. His fingers spread their stance over Jessalyn's shoulder and he grips her tight. Unwavering.

In the dark of an above-average hotel room, Orson sees the beginning of his path clearer now than ever before. His journey toward personal meaning would be plotted through the Force. The first step, the real one, had not begun with training, but rather with honesty. Despite Simon, the Empire, Karrde, his own past ... his mind is uncluttered and focused. Over the rugged terrain of loss and tragedy, Orson turns his head and touches his mouth to the woman's forehead, pulling her toward the rough kiss.

Feeling her heart beat in time with Orson's -- her confidante, student, and dearest of friends -- Jessalyn closes her eyes as his lips press to her forehead. "I feel like I should apologize -- for --" For his unrequited feelings, for loving someone else. For not appreciating his devotion and stolid protection. Oh, she had known it, the way he had looked at her, from the beginning. But it was easier to keep her own knowledge from him than to deal with what it meant. Keeping him interested enough to follow her across the galaxy, without promising any more. Was this the kind of woman she'd turned into? "I didn't want to ever hurt you," she finally says aloud.

The sturdy man breaks off the kiss, some slight bitterness threatening his bright look. Still, he smiles. "It's not like that," he says, encouraging her back to his shoulder. He's made of stronger stuff than that. But he's soft, full of hope, and he's shown his heart to her. She has seen the disappointment in him and knew its nature. "It's a strange sort of illness, that I have," he says quietly, forcing a half-chuckle. "Being a romantic, and chronically failing with intimacy." He falls quiet for a long time, eyes open and thoughtful in the dark even as the sun begins to set on the beach. No, promises weren't required. The exchange of honesty had been enough to make him follow; along with the glimpse of his true path through this present darkness.