Chapter Text
In another lifetime, one long since lost, Obi-Wan had been fed krayt dragon meat by a slave woman who'd opened her home to him and his master. Obi-Wan had been little more than a child then, and he'd subtly rolled his eyes at Qui-Gon's breezy conversation. Back then, he'd thought the Jedi were above communing with those they protected. But he'd never forgotten the woman's compassion.
It felt wrong to be the one harvesting the meat from a krayt dragon's corpse. It wasn't that Obi-Wan still thought himself beneath manual labor. He just knew that he didn't belong here – at this worksite or on this planet.
But dead men didn't have the luxury of choice, so he shook his head slightly, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand, and kept slicing meat.
Labor was taxing regardless of what planet one was on, and Tatooine was the worst. Its twin suns were unrelenting, and between the oppressive heat and the coarse sand, it was impossible to ever take a deep breath.
The knife thumped dangerously close to his fingers, and Obi-Wan snapped out of his midday haze with a start. Right, he was still wielding a sharp object – maybe the lack of oxygen had addled his brain. He repositioned his hand and resumed his task with a bit more caution.
Minutes (or hours) later, a whistle let out two dull blasts. The other workers immediately abandoned their posts, moving like puppets on strings as they jammed their tokens into the machine and caught a meager handful of credits.
Every day, over and over, for years on end.
Obi-Wan carefully cut a small slice of meat, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and tucked the parcel into his apron. The fragrant meat was one of the few luxuries in his life. Surely he'd earned a piece for himself, given how many hunks of krayt meat he sliced a day. Well, the supervisors likely disagreed. But they couldn't punish an act they'd never noticed.
Obi-Wan settled into line, absently tucking his knife into its sheath and wiping his hands. The man in front of him caught his handful of credits, then frowned.
“It's only half.” The man looked up at their supervisor, a stout man with a massive, wiry beard, and hesitantly stepped towards him. “Please, I have a family-”
The blow was quick and efficient. The man stumbled backward with a pained gasp, clutching at his stomach.
“One more word, I'll take it all,” their supervisor snapped, jabbing a meaty finger at the worker.
The man hobbled away wordlessly. No one ever fought back or complained, regardless of the abuse they were subjected to. Pressure suddenly built in Obi-Wan's chest, a tug that pleaded for him to say something. The supervisor wasn't even paid more than them, and everyone knew it. That other worker needed money! He had a family! He-
Obi-Wan punched out without lifting his head. He'd gotten good at that over the years.
But as he headed for the shuttle, he spotted the man again, still hunched over, a telltale lump in his pocket. Obi-Wan couldn't quite wrestle his conscience back into submission, and with a grimace, he changed course. He silently brushed past the man. The extra credits dumped in the man's pocket went unnoticed.
It was hardly anything Obi-Wan knew. Their wage was worthless in the face of Tatooine's rampant inflation. Still, an intelligent worker could make a few credits go a long way. Maybe the man could eat with his family tonight.
Halfway through the shuttle ride back, the man, who sat a few seats away, shifted. Obi-Wan's gaze instantly snapped to him, half out of curiosity, half out of concern. He watched as the other worker shoved his hands into his pockets with a sigh. The blank expression quickly morphed into a frown, and the man drew his credits from his pocket.
Obi-Wan took a breath and held it, steadfastly ignoring the nervous thud of his heart. He was the only one that'd bumped into the man. Would his irrational “good deed” be called out or challenged?
No. The man gasped softly, then clutched the credits to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. His murmurs were in another language, but Obi-Wan knew the face of a praying man when he saw one.
If only he knew that his “divine blessing” was just a foolish man's act of goodwill.
Obi-Wan tore his eyes from the man and tugged his scarf over his mouth. He never went into the city without hiding his face, and besides, the wind was picking up. It was hellish to pick sand out of his long beard.
The rest of the afternoon was painfully average. The shuttle reached town around midday, and Obi-Wan grabbed his eopie and started off into the desert before the hour was up. It was the routine he'd held for years. He worked six days a week and watched over Luke whenever he could, going from his home to the city and back again. Over and over for years on end.
...gods, he was bored. Maybe he silently helped his fellow workers (as he'd done so many times in the past) just so he didn't die from a complete lack of stimulation.
But he didn't dare fully break the routine.
Once home, Obi-Wan hung up his bag, unwound the scarf from his neck, then headed for his desk. The wind had been wilder than usual, so the kick-up of sand had been nigh unbearable. It was on days like these that Obi-Wan truly despised his contacts; taking them out was nothing short of bliss. He examined the brown lens for just a moment before dunking them into their jar. Good riddance.
As Obi-Wan heated his dinner, a breeze drifted through the cave, ruffling his hair and flopping a few strands into his face. He brushed them back, then scowled when they refused to cooperate. Over a decade of looking at Qui-Gon's back, he'd never figured out how his master kept his hair so neatly styled. He had half a mind to cut it all off.
But then, that would make him more noticeable. Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi had worn his hair short and neat, with a shaped beard to boot. Loner Ben had long hair, always slicked back, a messy beard, and dark brown eyes that almost seemed black in the shadows. Nothing connected the two men. Nothing.
Except for Obi-Wan himself. Except for the memories and the ball in his stomach that never went away, even when he slept. Gods, especially not when he slept.
And that was why he stuck to the routine – it kept him safe.
Teeka's arrival was out of the ordinary but not unexpected. Obi-Wan had ordered the starfighter toy weeks ago, and he was selfishly excited to leave it for Luke to find. Though Obi-Wan had never had a proper conversation with the boy, it was clear that he had a curious mind.
It ran in the family, didn't it?
Stupid. Best not to think about things like that.
When Teeka pulled out the Jedi belt, bile crawled up Obi-Wan's throat until it felt like he was choking from the inside. He hurriedly passed it back to the Jawa, forked over the credits (he did not pay for his stolen processing board, thank you very much), and shooed Teeka out of his cave. Thankfully, the Jawa went without too much griping or grumbling.
From there, the day became as uniform as all those before it. Obi-Wan packed his bag in preparation for his morning venture (it was always best to travel before the suns came up), fed his eopie, and cleaned with what little water he had. Water was a precious commodity, and what wasn't drunk was used to clean his technology. Of course, that meant Obi-Wan smelled terrible. Teeka was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them.
Eventually, Obi-Wan found himself with nothing to do except go to bed. He discarded the idea almost immediately and padded out of his cave.
Tatooine was an empty place, and it looked even more so during the night. Endless dunes of sand glimmered underneath the brilliant moonlight, and the distant calls of hidden creatures echoed like warnings from other worlds. Barren. Desolate, even.
Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around himself, peering up at the three moons overhead. Most days, he could keep his intrusive thoughts in a neat little box and only consider what was immediate and necessary. What to have for lunch, how many credits he'd gotten, whether anyone was following him around the plaza. But when Tatooine was so empty and the night was quiet, all Obi-Wan had left was his thoughts.
Ten years was a long time to be away from home. During the Clone Wars, he'd often bemoaned that he had to be away from the Temple for so long, engaged in bloody slaughters and missions that wore him down to the bone.
As awful as it was, Obi-Wan sometimes wished he could go back to those times. Back then, he'd had a purpose.
But he'd seen horrors, too. He'd seen fields of broken clone bodies, witnessed the deaths of thousands of innocents, and tussled with wicked people who'd wanted the worlds to burn. Over and over, for years on end.
And Obi-Wan had lost. He'd lost everything. His pride, his Order, everyone he'd ever cared about. The other Jedi. The clones, especially the 212th and Cody. Satine. Ahsoka. Padmé. Qui-Gon. And-
Like a bolt of lightning to his nervous system, Obi-Wan snapped back to the present. He scrubbed his face with shaking hands, but the motion couldn't stop a single damning word from rattling around his mind.
Him.
Obi-Wan hurried inside and raced through his nightly routine, desperate to crawl under his blankets and escape- who, even? Himself? His past? It didn't matter, because as soon as Obi-Wan managed to calm himself enough to drift off, the dreams overtook him.
It hadn't been an immediate thing – the dreams had only started in the past couple of years, and at first, they'd been intermittent night terrors. Now, they were nightly.
They came in flashes, playing scenes from his life on an endless loop. Mostly, they focused on tragic events, like Padmé’s funeral or Qui-Gon's death, or pieces of Mustafar. He showed up far too many times, more than Obi-Wan cared to admit. But something had changed in recent times – new scenes between the ones that'd haunted him for years. Segments from the Clone Wars. Battles and crucial turning points were a given, but sometimes, the dreams featured aimless conversations, quiet mornings, or solemn moments spent with his clones around a fire.
He still showed up too often, though. Inevitably, the dreams would circle back to Mustafar.
Obi-Wan jerked awake the sound of lava. It took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and a few more to remember where he was and that, no, he wasn't locked in a deadly duel. Obi-Wan heaved himself upright, wincing at the stiffness in his joints, and ran shaking fingers through his hair.
“Master Qui-Gon.”
The words slipped out without his express permission. Obi-Wan had abandoned any hope of communing with his lost master years ago, and he knew that his connection to the Force had withered away. Once, it had billowed beneath his touch, alive and fluid, guiding him and granting him sight. Now, there was nothing. A desert where there had once been a lake.
But that didn't stop Obi-Wan from talking.
“Master?” he murmured into the darkness. There was no reply, of course, and Obi-Wan sagged forward. “I... don't know what I'm doing here.”
Nothing.
“Should I even be here, Master? I know I must protect Luke, but I...”
Still no response. He'd never get one, either, because Qui-Gon was long gone. Obi-Wan had watched him die, and the Force couldn't – or wouldn't – connect them.
Obi-Wan roughly wiped away the wetness in his eyes and stood, striding over to his tiny kitchen. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well make something to drink.
As he stirred his caf (another small luxury he saved for the worst nights), Obi-Wan absently flicked back through his dreams. He'd developed the habit years ago, mainly to ensure that he never forgot anything from his past. The vivid recollections were so lifelike that they made his chest ache. There were a few funeral scenes, rampant death and destruction, and-
He'd had a new dream. Back during the Clone Wars, Obi-Wan and... him had been dispatched to the neutral planet of Kiros to intercept Dooku's attempts at invasion. It had been tragic but routine, one of many such journeys they'd made to stifle Separatist movement. Cody had given the all-clear, and...
“It's been ten rotations since Master Yoda's transmission. I just hope we're not too late.”
“Let's hope, indeed. Rex, take us down.”
“Hey, don't boss around my captain like that. You've already got Cody on this mission.”
“Oh, I'm sure Rex doesn't mind. Do you?”
“Don't answer that. Cody, do we have any backup coming?”
“Rex is right here.”
“Doesn't feel good, does it?”
It hurt like hell to recall the conversation, but Obi-Wan couldn't stifle a flare of morbid fascination. That dream was new. He hadn't thought about Kiros in ages, or Rex and Cody, though the latter had been a conscious choice on his part.
Ah, well. Maybe the sun really was getting to him.
Despite his attempted dismissal, Obi-Wan couldn't help but fixate on that moment. It was the first thing on his mind when he awoke after a few more fitful hours of sleep, and he replayed their engagement with Dooku as he traveled across the desert. Obi-Wan only let go of the dream once he reached the moisture farm and had to actively avoid being detected.
Would Owen and Beru protest if they knew Obi-Wan was watching their nephew from afar? Almost definitely. But it was his duty, and given that Luke had never even met him, this was the only way he could keep watch.
Deep down, Obi-Wan knew that he wasn't so dutiful solely because of an old promise. He was just trying to make up for an irreversible loss. It was a fool's errand, but he was a fool now – just a man with too many scars, weary eyes, and the galaxy's weight on his shoulders.
A few minutes later, Luke clambered up onto one of the house's archways and piloted an imaginary podracer. He moved with such instinct that one could've sworn he was born to be a pilot.
Leaving the starfighter toy in the Lars' house almost felt like a mistake.
Obi-Wan shed his earlier preoccupations as he traveled home. Watching the sprawling desert from his cave was hypnotic, but being out of it evoked the exact opposite feeling. Obi-Wan's senses hummed, constantly scanning for nighttime raiders or bandits.
A patch of grass to his right crunched.
Obi-Wan immediately glanced over, squinting as he scanned the thin reeds. Nothing. Whoever was circling him was trained in evasion but by no means a master, and they didn't know the landscape well. It couldn't be bandits or Sand People, then.
A mini avalanche skittered down the hillside. That one was made by a small animal, judging by the chitters that followed it, but-
Something suddenly moved from the shadows, and Obi-Wan jerked his eopie to a stop, his hand halfway to the blaster at his hip. Then he picked out a head of dark hair, and a moment later, a soft voice called, “Master!” That... wasn't what he had expected. Who was this?
“I thought I saw you in town, but I wasn't sure,” the dark figure continued. Once they stepped into the moonlight, Obi-Wan noted more details – three lines striking down the man's face, wide eyes, and a small, disbelieving smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. “I didn't think you'd survived.”
Gods. The hope in the man's eyes made Obi-Wan's stomach churn. He was probably a padawan or Knight who'd escaped Coruscant, or maybe he hadn't been on planet when Order 66 had been enacted.
“No, you've made a mistake,” Obi-Wan said aloud. “I don't know you.”
The man's face fell slightly. “I'm sorry, my name is Nari.” He dug his hand into his waistband, then pulled out a silver lightsaber in pristine condition. “There's no mistake,” Nari continued, offering a lopsided smile. “I trained on Coruscant. I know you, Master, even if you don't know me.”
...damn it.
“You're looking for somebody else,” Obi-Wan tried. But his hesitation had convinced Nari, and they both knew it.
“What are you doing here, Obi-Wan?”
What a question. Gods only knew the answer.
“My name is Ben,” Obi-Wan said wearily, more out of habit than an actual attempt at deflection. He was just tired enough to humor this conversation instead of walking off – and maybe some tiny part of his heart clung to the fact that he was finally around another Jedi. A couple had been killed on this planet just in the past decade.
But every single one had been so painfully open about their status as a Jedi, and Nari, young as he was, had probably done the same.
Nari seemed to sense his growing hesitation, and desperation crept into his gaze. “Come on, please,” the younger man implored, inching a step closer. “Please. You have no idea what I've been through.”
Obi-Wan knew it wasn't fair to compare; he knew that. But so late at night, faced with a remnant of his slaughtered Order and haunted by a child who should've had a loving mother and father and sister, Obi-Wan just couldn't help it. Nari was what, in his 20s? What had he lost? A home? Friends?
Obi-Wan had lost everything. He'd sacrificed everything he had, right down to his very conviction, and then, the world had taken more. There was nothing left except for memories. He was just a ghost now. A shell.
He couldn't give this kid anything.
“Go,” Obi-Wan said, and his voice sounded dull, even to his own ears. “You've probably drawn too much attention already.”
Nari's eyes widened even further. “But I have nowhere to go. They're hunting me! You have to help me!”
The younger man was desperate now, and Obi-Wan could see it. But that old cry of fear was louder than whatever remained of the Jedi Code, and he edged his eopie forward. Inquisitors meant a fight, and a fight meant being exposed. If Obi-Wan went down, Luke would be completely unprotected.
Except it still wasn't about Luke, was it?
“Walk into the middle of the desert and bury your lightsaber in the ground,” Obi-Wan called, ignoring that little tug in his chest. Nari looked well and truly panicked, and Obi-Wan nudged his eopie again, ready to flee. “Stay hidden. Live a normal life.”
“What about the people that need us? What about the fight?”
The fight. The one that had taken everything? The one that had destroyed the Order and left the Jedi alone? The one that had ruined entire planets, demolished cities, and torn families apart?
And the people. The ones they hadn't been able to save in the end.
“The fight is done.” Nari recoiled a step, clutching his lightsaber to his chest. “We lost,” Obi-Wan added quietly.
Nari stared at him for a long, long moment, and Obi-Wan couldn't bring himself to leave until he heard the other Jedi- former Jedi's- closing comment.
Sure enough, the younger man dropped his arms to his sides with an incredulous huff. “What happened to you?” Nari demanded. Then the anger cracked, melted away, and reformed as grief. “You were once a great Jedi."
Once.
“The time of the Jedi is over,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Let it go.”
He left before Nari could say anything else.
Going back to work the following day felt even worse than usual. Obi-Wan tossed and turned all night, too fitful to dream, and the weight in his stomach was as heavy as a block of lead. The hours passed in a blur, and when he blinked, he was back on the shuttle, headed to the city. The man he'd sneaked some credits to looked miserable once again.
A momentary respite in an unforgiving world. Why did Obi-Wan even try? He was just like everyone else, scraping along on a barely livable salary; what made him qualified to try to help?
Nari's face kept drifting through his mind – childlike hope followed by the crushing realization that the great Jedi Master Kenobi wasn't who he'd once been.
Obi-Wan had always known that he'd changed the second he'd set foot on Tatooine, but, for just a moment, someone had looked at him with all the admiration and respect he'd once commanded. Nari's look of betrayal stung more than it should have. But he hadn't been lying; burying his lightsaber and giving up was the only way Nari could survive.
So why did Obi-Wan feel as if he'd made a terrible mistake? Why did he think about Nari and wonder if maybe, just maybe, he could've taken the other man in? Two pairs of eyes were better than one. They could've looked out for each other and-
A bag landed at Obi-Wan's feet, startling him out of his thoughts. His heart sank as he recognized the metallic wing jutting out of a rucksack bag. When he looked up, Owen stood a few paces away.
“I want you to stay away from him,” the farmer ordered. His eyes were cold, and his voice was edged with steel. “We don't need anything from you, Ben.”
Obi-Wan stooped, carefully scooping up the bag. “It's just a toy,” he murmured.
Owen scoffed quietly. “It's a lot more than that.”
A few days ago, Obi-Wan might've argued with Owen, been more acidic. But with Nari's words still rattling around in his head, all Obi-Wan could force out was, “I don't mean any harm. There's a whole galaxy out there, and he needs to know that.”
“I'm asking you to leave us alone, Ben,” Owen pressed, already turning to leave. Obi-Wan couldn't even blame him. “I mean it.”
Wait, why?
“Is he okay?” Obi-Wan blurted.
Owen paused. His shoulders rose and fell in a silent laugh, then he spun, wrapping one hand around the archway for balance. The very picture of disdain. “You don't care if he's okay,” he accused, piercing eyes sharp with danger. “You care if he's showing.”
“I do care if he's okay,” Obi-Wan protested, because he did; Luke was just a child! “He's my responsibility, Owen.”
“I'm his uncle.”
The danger in the farmer's eyes was getting brighter and brighter, and suddenly, Obi-Wan didn't feel so solid on his footing. If he wasn't willing to help one of his own, who was he to look after Luke?
Still...
“He will be strong with the Force,” Obi-Wan murmured, quieter than he'd meant to. “When the time comes, he must be trained.”
Owen's knuckles went white around the pipe. “Like you trained his father?”
The words hit like a body blow. Years of training kept Obi-Wan from showing anything, but internally, his heart seized, his lungs strained for breath, and gods, Owen was right.
“Anakin is dead, Ben, and I won't let you make the same mistake twice.”
Their simple exchange right before heading down to Kiros. Rex, looking between them bemusedly, so used to his generals' bickering, and dark blue eyes examining Obi-Wan with visible amusement. A knowing smile, followed by a gentle knock of their shoulders, and-
He was dead.
“So, leave him on the farm with his family, where he belongs,” Owen continued. But his voice was no longer as harsh, and something almost like guilt lined his face. Maybe Obi-Wan's grief had seeped through the cracks of his mask. But Owen turned away without another word, and Obi-Wan let him leave.
He was selfish. He always had been. He was desperate to train Luke to prevent the boy from going down the same path as him, but in reality, Obi-Wan had been the corrosive touch that'd led to disaster. If he vanished, wouldn't Luke be better off? The boy would eventually get into pod-racing, maybe start a family someday, and the Empire would be none the wiser.
...maybe it was time to consider leaving the Lars alone.
“Move. Now.”
The Force was beyond Obi-Wan's control, and he'd long since accepted that. But suddenly, an all-too-familiar tug in his chest seized tight, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins. Obi-Wan looked up, slightly panicked, and instantly spotted two dark figures moving through the crowd. Inquisitors.
“You know why we are here,” one of them shouted, and his voice was rough with wear. “There is a Jedi hiding on this planet. We need to know where he is.”
Owen, who'd stopped in the middle of the crowd, glanced at his hiding place. Obi-Wan's stomach dropped.
No. No.
“You will be rewarded well,” the Inquisitor continued, only to be interrupted by another voice.
“Or you'll be punished!”
The Inquisitor rounded with a snarl, and Obi-Wan followed his furious gaze to the other Inquisitor. Her eyes were slitted against the sun, and something about her made his stomach twist.
“Hands go first!” she bellowed, ignoring the first Inquisitor's warning shout of “Reva!” “That way, when you reach for anything, you think of us.”
The woman, Reva, stalked through the crowd like a predatory cat choosing its meal from a pack of quivering rabbits. Fear weighed heavy in the air, and all the while, Owen shifted on his feet, his indecision clear. Obi-Wan was torn between running or simply fading into the shadows and waiting the confrontation out. Usually, he never lingered in the city long enough to run into Inquisitors.
Gods. These two were from Coruscant. How old had they been when the Empire had attacked? Had they lost their masters? Their friends?
“This is the Outer Rim.”
The defiant call stirred the crowd from their fearful reverie, and Reva's gaze instantly snapped to a woman with red hair and loose robes. Her strides were long and sure – the predator had chosen her prey.
“You have no rights here,” the woman continued, oblivious to the danger. “We're not under the Empire's-”
The woman's scream was agonized, and the smell of burning flesh instantly filled the air. Obi-Wan's head pounded, each beat synchronized to his racing heart, and the tug in his chest became more and more insistent.
Do something.
“All we want is information,” Reva called. She'd returned to stalking the crowd, looking for her next meal. “If anyone knows anything about a Jedi...”
She froze. Slowly, she turned to Owen.
Oh, gods, no.
“You know something?” Reva asked, as casually as two friends talking over lunch. Owen shook his head wordlessly, and Reva moved to stand in front of him. “What's your name?”
“Owen.”
For a few seconds, Obi-Wan's brain shorted out. He watched the confrontation and listened to the thinly-veiled threats being traded, but internally, he was reeling, almost on the edge of panic. If Owen gave him up, he was done. He'd have failed again, and-
“Tell me where the Jedi is, or this man and his family die!”
Reva's shout crashed through Obi-Wan's spiral like a hammer through glass, and he snapped back to attention. Suddenly, the haze of panic was gone, replaced by the widespread focus he'd cultivated during the Clone Wars. Reva was walking away, but Obi-Wan saw the exposed skin of her neck. His fingers twitched, urged on by years of instinct, and his heartbeat slowed.
One shot and she'd be gone.
“The Jedi are cowards,” Reva proclaimed, but her voice wavered with the long-buried emotions of betrayal. She must have been young, then – maybe a new padawan. “They failed you, abandoned you.” A padawan who'd lost her master. “There is no point in protecting them. They would not do the same for you.”
Reva stopped, turned, and waved her hand at Owen.
“But you can save this man.”
Obi-Wan pulled his blaster from his waistband. He wrestled with himself for a moment because, damn it, he was going to get himself killed! But his hand wouldn't respond to his commands anymore. It was guided by experience, by the tug in his chest that whispered, Save Owen!
The plaza was suddenly bathed in red light, and Reva lifted her lightsaber to Owen's neck with a ferocious snarl. “Save his family.”
Owen didn't even struggle. His eyes fluttered shut with all the resignation of a dead man walking, and Obi-Wan's fingers strained to shoot, just shoot! He was nowhere as accurate as he'd once been, but a distraction was enough! Owen could run, and Luke would be safe – the family didn't deserve this!
Even if that meant Obi-Wan died in the process.
The lightsaber inched closer. He began to pull the trigger.
He had to. He had to. He had-
“Enough!”
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and Reva's lightsaber waned a few inches away, breaking Obi-Wan from his single-minded focus. He gasped for air, and oh, gods, his legs were shaking.
The other Inquisitor strode forward with his shoulders squared. “If you remember anything, rewards will be given. Stand down, Third Sister.”
Reva's expression was pained – tortured, almost. Did Obi-Wan still have to shoot? He didn't even know if he could; the blaster rattled in his hands.
And then, the lightsaber deactivated. The Inquisitors swept away as quickly as they'd come, and slowly, the crowd dispersed. After a few minutes, the sounds of a retreating shuttle swept through the street. Obi-Wan still stood there, frozen. He was locked in place, fixed on the phantom image.
Would he have shot? Could he have been strong enough to sacrifice himself for the people of Tatooine?
Eventually, Owen looked at his hiding place. He frowned when he noticed Obi-Wan's blaster, visibly tracing the path of the laser with his gaze. Realization overtook his confusion in a wave. When Owen glanced back at him, something almost like respect flashed through his eyes. They both knew what would've happened if Obi-Wan had shot.
...could he have done it?
Obi-Wan hurried out of the city without speaking to anyone else. The journey home felt too long, too empty, and by the time Obi-Wan reached his cave, he was shaking all over. He flung his blaster at his bed, shoved the bag of credits into his box, and started making dinner without taking out his contacts.
Eating didn't help. Obi-Wan choked down the meal, but his mind was lightyears away. He wanted to see buildings again. He wanted forests and waterfalls, a 'fresher, books, communication! Mountains! Other people! The knowledge that he wasn't alone in the world and-
When he rubbed his face, his fingertips came away wet. Obi-Wan hurriedly swiped at his eyes, but he couldn't deny the truth. He missed Coruscant. Every day. He could pretend that he was okay with being duty-bound to Tatooine, but really, Obi-Wan just wanted to go home. To the Temple. To his friends.
Even to the war.
It came as no surprise that his dreams were even more vivid. First, the usual images flipped past, detailing all the loss and death and shame and guilt. And then, Obi-Wan was presented with a new scene.
His past self sat at a table, illuminated only by the blue light of the holo screen he stared at. An empty mug sat by his elbow, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Suddenly, the door hissed open. The past Obi-Wan glanced up, then visibly relaxed as a dark figure swept into the room, sinking into the chair at Obi-Wan's right. He refilled the mug with caf from a canteen, and Obi-Wan nodded his thanks.
“How are they?”
A heavy sigh, coupled with a weary shrug. “Bad. How else would they be? What have you been doing in here, anyway? I've been looking for you all day.” Obi-Wan grimaced in reply, and he sat forward, scanning the screen. Anger spread across chiseled features. “Pong Krell's records.”
“There's nothing in our files to indicate why he did what he did on Umbara,” Obi-Wan murmured, and he couldn't keep the exhaustion from his voice. “As far as we knew, Krell was a model Jedi.”
“Yeah. Kriffing model.”
Obi-Wan glanced up at that, but he kept his mouth shut. Eventually, he pressed his fingers into his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice trembled.
“We lost so many men, Obi-Wan. Rex doesn't even want to give me a count. I thought Krell could be trusted, and now they're-” He trailed off with a strangled sob, and Obi-Wan was just grief-stricken enough not to say anything. When he closed his eyes, he saw images of a bloody field. “Rex is giving them a warrior's pyre. I'm going with him.”
“I'll cover for you.”
His head snapped up, but Obi-Wan steadfastly avoided blue eyes filled with hope. The bond thrumming gently in the back of his mind more or less negated his avoidance.
“You will?”
“Make it quick,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Tonight, if you can. The Council needs us back on the frontlines in the morning.”
“When do they not?” he grumbled, but his smile was warm, if unsteady. “Thank you.”
“Go.”
The dream began to fade at the edges, but his past self's anguish was so visceral that Obi-Wan suddenly struggled to breathe.
“Wait,” his past self said. He paused halfway through standing, and Obi-Wan hesitated, silently cobbling together a cohesive sentence. “Tell Rex... that I mourn with him. If I could be there, I would.”
A prosthetic hand landed on Obi-Wan's shoulder and squeezed once, tightly. The touch shouldn't have given him so much comfort. “I will.”
Then he was gone. When Obi-Wan jerked awake to visions of Mustafar and red, hate-filled eyes, he frantically flipped through his dreams until he found that single comforting memory. He clung to it, squeezing his eyes shut against exhausted tears and age-old sorrow.
The next day at work was the worst he'd ever felt, and Obi-Wan went through the motions in a daze. He was sleep-deprived and emotionally wrecked. Only once he was on the shuttle back to the city did Obi-Wan realize that it was nothing short of a miracle that his fingers had survived.
All the while, he replayed his dream, over and over. Though his very being sobbed, and the grief in that moment had been so potent that Obi-Wan could still taste it, the emotions felt... good, somehow. He'd had people to care about. He'd mourned alongside his soldiers.
And someone had been there to witness his pain.
Obi-Wan's routine was interrupted when he noticed a gathering crowd. The murmurs were edged with fear, and it was just odd enough to convince Obi-Wan to follow the onlookers. He rounded the corner and immediately spotted someone dangling from a bridge. Tragic, but nothing unusual. Tatooine was a rough planet, and-
No. It wasn't just another petty scrap. The man was severely beaten, and his arms and legs were covered in cooled burns and cuts so deep that bone gleamed in the sun. Only his face remained unblemished. Three lines struck down his forehead.
Nari.
Obi-Wan had both been a prisoner of war and rescued those held captive by the Separatists. He knew the signs of torture when he saw them, and the burns on Nari's body, carefully placed to inflict the most pain, were glaringly obvious. The blood trickling from his ears indicated that someone Force-sensitive had dove into his mind and taken him apart from the inside.
The younger man had likely been a padawan when Order 66 had come. He'd never fought, had probably barely begun to practice a lightsaber form. If the Inquisitors had tortured him, he would've cracked.
Which meant Nari had told them that Obi-Wan was still alive.
Which meant that the Inquisitors knew he was on this planet.
No, no, no-!
Obi-Wan grabbed his eopie and fled the city. The creature could barely move faster than a shamble, but he still urged it on, fear and desperation mixing in his chest in a nauseating concoction. The desert seemed to mock him, cackling at his foolishness for thinking he'd ever be safe.
He should've taken Nari in. Better yet, he should've gone into hiding elsewhere because Luke showed no signs of his father's power! He had to leave before the Inquisitors caught up and tortured him because he no longer had the Force to protect his mind while his body was broken.
Obi-Wan's frantic urging meant the eopie reached the cave in record time, and he leaped off his ride's back, barely pausing to glance at his sensor. Blue. Good, he still had time.
He flew around his home, shoving everything of value into his bag – all the credits he had, his box of valuables, a change of changes, what little food he'd saved – and looking around one last time. Obi-Wan had no lost love for this little cave, but running now meant he couldn't come back. The Inquisitors would probably destroy it.
And then, Obi-Wan froze.
He'd always known this would happen. For a whole decade, he'd pretended that he'd be safe here, on an Outer Rim planet known for its criminal activity. He wouldn't. Eventually, someone or something would catch up.
Why else was his lightsaber still buried out in the desert?
Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly, then started for the entrance. He'd only taken two steps when something clattered behind him.
Oh, no.
On sheer instinct, Obi-Wan threw himself to the side, crashing into the cave wall. His shoulder screamed in pain, but a bruise was better than the lightsaber burn seared into the rock. He whipped around and found a pale man in Inquisitor armor snarling at him. Another glance confirmed that the woman from before hid in the shadows, and an equally pale man with purple markings was descending from the cave entrance.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the man called, a pleased smile tipping his mouth. “This is a surprise. We all thought that Third Sister's obsession was unfounded, but-” The man inclined his head at Reva. “-it seems her theory had weight. That poor boy was quite happy to tell us everything.”
Bile clogged Obi-Wan's throat. Gods, Nari.
“You're done, Kenobi,” the other Inquisitor hissed. “Come in quietly, and we might let you keep all your limbs.”
“No.” That was Reva, and the glee in her voice was all too clear. “Take one of 'em. I think a hand would be good. Make him know what it's like to lose a limb.”
The Inquisitors were circling now, lightsabers raised, seconds away from pouncing. But beneath his fear, Obi-Wan's heart squeezed with loss. These people had once been Jedi. The leader had likely been a young Knight, and maybe the one with the hat had been, too. Reva could've been a padawan who'd lost her master.
These were his people. His kin.
And they'd fallen, too.
Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder. None of them blocked the ledge; they probably assumed that Obi-Wan would turn himself in. And yes, there was a part of him that wanted to. He could be done with it. Finally rest.
But that tug in his chest had never gone away, and his lightsaber was still buried in the desert, waiting.
“You won't get any of me,” Obi-Wan rasped, and he charged towards the ledge. He threw himself off with barely a glance, stumbling a step on impact. The Inquisitors were close behind, shouting commands at each, but a second was all he needed. Obi-Wan inhaled, prayed to whatever gods might be listening, and screamed.
It was a warbling mockery of the actual call, garbled thanks to how little he'd spoken in the past few years. But the sound rang true, and the call echoed across the dunes.
Searing pain suddenly slashed through Obi-Wan's left shoulder. He let out a strangled gasp, frantically twisting away from the burn. When he spun, Reva stood there, rage burning in her eyes.
“Where do you think you're going?” she spat.
Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and said nothing. The other Inquisitors had caught up, and none of them looked as jovial as they had a moment ago. Come on, come on.
“Scream all you'd like, Kenobi,” the leading Inquisitor said, low and dangerous. “No one will hear you. This is Tatooine, after all.”
With a jolt, Obi-Wan suddenly realized that he was only a few seconds away from death. If this didn't work, it would be his last failure – a miserable end to a pathetic life.
Then the sand began to tremble.
The Inquisitors glanced at each other, frowning, and Reva adjusted her grip on her lightsaber with visible nervousness. The tremors grew stronger, building into earth-quaking waves, and whatever the Inquisitors tried to say was lost to the deafening rumbles. Obi-Wan sagged in relief.
Near the hill's edge, a greater krayt dragon exploded from the sand, roaring bloody murder. A wave of sand crashed down on them, making the Inquisitors dissolve into frantic shouting and waving, and Obi-Wan moved. He sprinted towards his cave with all the strength he had left, ignoring everything. So long as he was gone by the time the Inquisitors killed the krayt dragon, he had a chance.
Obi-Wan tore through his home, racing up the slight slope and leaping onto his eopie's back. The creature bellowed in confusion but obediently lifted to its feet and turned, shambling into the desert. Shouts still echoed from behind him, and the krayt dragon's howls made his eardrums pop, but no one followed.
The next few minutes were nothing short of torture. The krayt dragon's thrashing erased the eopie's footprints, but a solitary figure meandering through the desert was a dead giveaway. Gods, Obi-Wan should have stopped to hijack the Inquisitors' ship or whatever they'd used to traverse the desert.
But half an hour later, he was still alone. No one had come racing up behind him, on foot or otherwise, and the sand was blissfully still.
He'd made it. His cover was blown, but he still had time to escape.
It was only halfway back to the city that Obi-Wan remembered the remnants of his past still buried in the dunes, and he brought his eopie to a halt. The beast bellowed a question, but Obi-Wan couldn't have given it an answer even if it understood Basic. A detour would take too long! He had to leave!
...but he wasn't strong enough to walk away. He never had been, and though his common sense screamed at him to leave, now! Obi-Wan nudged the eopie deeper into the desert. It went without complaint. Obi-Wan tried not to feel too foolish.
Ten years he'd tried to forget the location of the two lightsabers. Ten years he'd tried to follow his own advice and let them go, start over. Maybe he'd doomed himself if he couldn't even destroy the lightsabers.
After a good hour, the eopie reached the right spot in the blank expanse of sand. Obi-Wan brought the beast to a halt, then dropped to the ground, grabbing a shovel from the saddlebag. This was such a waste of time, but he couldn't help it. Either he would leave Tatooine with the lightsabers or die in this desert.
Cody would've raised an eyebrow, seeing him so stubborn. Rex probably would've laughed.
Obi-Wan shook the memories from his mind and started to dig. It was an arduous task, and his injured left shoulder made progress even slower. Still, after 15 minutes, he'd created a goodly sized hole.
The box wasn't there.
Obi-Wan sat back on his haunches and frowned at the hole, wiping the sweat from his brow. What the hell was going on? There was no chance that the Inquisitors had found the box, and he'd buried it deep enough that no Jawas or scrappers would've stumbled across it. A Jedi lightsaber would've made its way onto the market by now, anyway.
A faint breeze suddenly picked up, and Obi-Wan pulled his scarf up over his mouth. He watched, impassive, as the dune he sat next to let loose a wave of sand, and the whole structure shifted slightly under the wind.
Oh.
Oh.
Sand. Obi-Wan watched the dunes every day and- gods, he was a kriffing idiot! Of course the lightsabers weren't here anymore; Tatooine's sands had swallowed them up thanks to ten years of wind patterns!
Panic replaced his frustration in a rush, and suddenly, Obi-Wan felt lost at sea. How the hell was he going to find the lightsabers? He still needed them! The weapons proved that he'd once been someone!
But he wasn't connected to it anymore. Just as the Force had cut him off, Obi-Wan's lightsaber had vanished beyond his realm of sight. He was as blind as a scrapper, staring helplessly at the endless waves of sand.
...no. He wouldn't let it go so easily.
Obi-Wan took a deep breath, steeled himself, and allowed that tug in his chest to sweep through his whole body. For the first time in ten years, he opened himself up to the Force. It felt like running on a strained muscle, forcing something already injured to perform at its peak. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and the once-peaceful sensation of being surrounded by the Force now felt like an ice-cold bath.
It didn't want him.
Obi-Wan doubled over with a gasp, coughing up bile and flecks of blood. Nothing. Only a feeling of ostracization and a growing headache.
No! He wouldn't give this up!
His second reach warranted the same results, and the headache worsened. Obi-Wan's third attempt drove him to all fours, coughing and sweating, and his stomach churned with emotions.
Please, he begged for no one to hear. Let me try again.
Nothing.
Nothing.
And then, a glimmer. It was barely more than a spark, a dying ember from a fire extinguished years ago. But it warmed Obi-Wan's chest, and suddenly, the feeling of wrong vanished. The tug solidified and guided him back towards the city, gentle and familiar. Obi-Wan leaped to his feet, stumbled a few steps, then back towards his eopie.
The tug persisted, comfortingly consistent as they shambled closer and closer to the city. Finally, it took a sharp left turn and plunged into the sand, and Obi-Wan started digging again. He was frantic now, he knew, but he stubbornly ignored it.
Ten minutes later, his shovel thumped against something solid. Five minutes after that, he'd uncovered the sand-dusted lid of a box.
Oh, thank the gods.
Obi-Wan tossed the shovel aside and lifted the box from its hole with shaking hands. He carefully rested atop the pile of sand, then opened the lid. Sitting safely within clean fabric, untouched by time, were two silver lightsabers. One was silent, unresponsive to Obi-Wan's presence. The other seemed to become radiant once he laid his eyes upon it.
Except... it was reversed. His lightsaber was silent, cold and foreign – just like the Force now was. The other was the radiant one. It sang with joy, easily connecting to the tug in his chest.
His lightsaber was the one Obi-Wan had latched onto.
Obi-Wan's palms had gone clammy. His breaths shuddered, his hands shook, and all the while, a chasm yawned in his chest. Anything he might have felt was swallowed up by the nothingness and left him numb. Slowly, Obi-Wan reached out.
As soon as his fingers brushed the lightsaber's hilt, memories exploded in his mind, a thousand dreams crammed into a few seconds. Obi-Wan gasped in pain, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught. He couldn't draw his hand away (why couldn't he move his hand?!), so all he could do was endure it.
Triumph. Disappointment. Fury, then cold apathy, all the highs and lows of being trained by a master who wasn't ready. Then, much more extensive, came loss and pain; gods, there was so much pain. Grief and sorrow and rage had lingered, always lingered, survived an entire decade.
But there was more than just pain. Yes, that had shaped this weapon, but it had also seen victory and laughter, love in the darkest places and deep friendship. The lightsaber still knew Obi-Wan, and it welcomed him back as its wielder had once done. It whispered the greeting of an old friend, and the flashes of pain became memories – just like his dreams.
And then... pride. That damned pride that'd gotten them into trouble so many times, shining like a beacon at the lightsaber's core. He had been proud of his creation, proud to wield it and bear the title of Jedi.
The enigma that had been his closest friend.
Obi-Wan closed his hand around the lightsaber, and instantly, the cacophony silenced. He took a few moments to breathe, settling his racing heart and willing away his headache. Then he examined the lightsaber in his hands.
The tug in his chest was still there. It had connected to his lightsaber.
Obi-Wan had spent ten years repressing everything in the deepest parts of his mind, and he wasn't about to start working through his issues at a time like this. So he wrapped both lightsabers in the fabric, stuffed them into his pocket, and remounted his eopie. Only a bit further. Then he'd be gone.
Echoes floated around his head, though, still dissipating after touching the lightsaber. Loudest of all was a single word, spoken by a voice so familiar that it made his chest ache.
Obi-Wan.
An hour and an argument with a traveling merchant later, Obi-Wan had sold his eopie and stood next to the city's spaceport. A bit of eavesdropping had informed him that a transport was leaving in a few minutes, and there were several open seats. But his feet were glued to the ground.
If he left now, there was a chance he'd never come back.
But that was what Owen had asked for, wasn't it? If Obi-Wan wasn't around, who would even look twice at the Lars? The boy showed no signs of being Force-sensitive. For all intents and purposes, Luke Skywalker was just a normal kid.
Maybe it was time to stop using him as an excuse.
“Well?”
Obi-Wan looked up. An older woman stood at the checking station, watching him with weary eyes.
“You coming or not?” she pressed, and her voice was heavy with the impatience of someone who'd watched a thousand passengers waver before boarding a flight.
Now or never.
Obi-Wan exhaled sharply, then approached the woman. He offered a handful of credits, which she took with a pleased nod, then strode forward at her permissive nod. The hunk of junk sitting on the sand was barely passable as a ship, but it would get him off of Tatooine. And that was all Obi-Wan really needed.
The lightsabers hidden in his tunic were cool against his skin, even wrapped in fabric – one silent, the other still alive with the Force.