southernmedicine: (nightsister)
[personal profile] southernmedicine posting in [community profile] starwars100
Title: Harmony
Prompt: Water
Author: [personal profile] southernmedicine
Rating: G
Characters: Cal Kestis, Nightsister Merrin, Bode Akuna
Pairing: N/A
Star Wars Media Property: Jedi: Survivor
Word count: 300
Warnings/Spoilers: N/A
Summary: Earth, Water, Air. The Force connects us all.
Author Notes: It's only partially about water, but that's all it took to inspire some late-night thinky thoughts. This is not a story, but a wordy, artsy fartsy means of stringing musings together. There is no dialog and there are no names, but (if you're familiar with the game, at least) you're meant to know who each one is about. Apologies, please enjoy this aimless nonsense. I do not know what it is.



Earth

Worn boots pound through the valley, leaving the fresh scent of grasses in the air as it is left crunched and broken underfoot. Fine, soft dirt and road dust billow in small, wispy clouds. Up, up; even vertical, a man clings to the earth, communing with the rocky cliffsides and accepting into the scrapes and callouses of his travel-worn hands the energy offered from the core of the planet itself. Grounding. Steadying. It is the foundation upon which everything is built. It is the source of growth; spiraling trunks, stone formations, the fresh shoots of wildflower blooms. It is strength.

Sky

If man were meant to fly, he would have been blessed with wings. Even wingless they soar, kissing the sky, skimming the clouds. Climbing in lazy spirals and falling in great, wild swoops, always safe yet never not flirting with peril. A planet's wonders stretch out as far as the eye can see, a dazzling array of color, its shifting pieces a mosaic viewable only from so great and privileged a height. The sun climbs, and descends, the moon large and cold and unreachable, and man? Trapped joyously between above and below, a strange and fleeting visitor. It is freedom.

Sea

The fluidity of movement is the breath of life. Flowing, trickling, surging. Ocean tides reach across the great divide to ensnare the moon, the two locked in a graceful and eternal dance. One gathers water, consumes, thrives; a tiny pool contained in the cup of one's palms, vulnerable to each ripple of chance, containing the capacity for serenity or tempest. A graceful, pale shape wades through this clear, life-giving force. A conduit. Like magic it never fully disperses, only takes new shape as it continues through endless cycles of life, death, and rebirth. Crucial to all creation. It is potential.

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