Chapter Text
A long time ago in worlds far, far away from each other . . . .
Obi-Wan Kenobi awakened after death. He had come to expect, for many years, the possibility of continuing on, of a life after life in which one is completely with the force, laid along with all the other trillions of passing beings in peace, surfacing only at the will of the force and one’s own dedication to studying it. His master, Qui-Gon, had learned such things, and in the years since he had been in exile on Tatooine, Kenobi had come to learn them too.
This was no peaceful death. He felt no call of cosmic force, no notion of his place in it- only the cold, hard world in which he fell to. Rather than the comforting voice of his master, melded with the force for so many years, yet coming free to guide him, he only heard echoes of the pain and suffering he witnessed in his last moments: the long, mechanical breaths of Darth Vader, the low hiss of concentrated air from the halls of the grand space station, and the snap-hiss of both of their lightsabers come to bear. One of them, for the last time.
The last sensation Obi-Wan Kenobi felt in his physical form was the heat of a lightsaber, swift and sharp, though not in itself unpleasant. He had barely the time to feel it, much less think on the pain, before the plasticine floor of the Death Star fell out beneath him, and the stars beyond the distant airlock faded to black.
There was a sharpness against his spine, a blur to his vision, and the echoes, now, of his own breath in the air above. The sound from his lips came harsh, quick, as he struggled for feeling in his hands. His heart beat loud in his ears as he sat, and shrugged off the rocks clinging to the back of his tunic. He rubbed his tired arms to find them cold and damp, with no Jedi cloak to guard against the floor of a cave.
Obi-Wan Kenobi gathered up all his strength, his senses fading in from what must have been some sort of end, and then, as follows in the perpetual turning of the galaxy in the will of the force, a beginning. He stood in the darkness and found hand-holds, found a speck of light somewhere ahead and above, and, for once in an extraordinary amount of time, no cool and familiar weight of a lightsaber at his side.
He stepped, carefully, through the cave and toward the light, minding every step he took, but through all the confusion still had the presence of mind to call out, “Master? Master Qui-Gon, is that you?”
The light turned, settling from somewhere above onto a smooth swath of stone in the form of a being: truly, a luminous being in the dark. Except, this figure was not one he knew. Instead of Qui-Gon in his after-death, or Master Yoda sent to guide him from afar, a woman turned around. She was dressed entirely in light, her gentle, knowing face crowned in jewels and long blonde waves. Starlight thrived about her, and enveloped her in the way he’d only known from a few beings in his time, the Diathim of Iego, perhaps, or some terrible power from a dream he could almost recall, in the form of a beautiful woman just the same.
The old Jedi took one step toward her and the light pouring all around her fell now on his face, pulling him out of the darkness to join her. “Obi-Wan Kenobi,” she said, looking upon him with the smallest smile. Her voice came full and resonant, almost shaking the walls of the strange space he found himself in.
“Yes,” said Obi-Wan, a curious tilt of his head as he regarded her. “And who might you be?” he asked, “What is this place?”
“I have gone by many names,” said the lady of starlight, “in many times, and from here, to the lands of Man, to the sea. Most, in this age, know me as Galadriel.” She stepped forward, long white robes rippling out from the movement and spilling out over the edge of the wide, flat stone as she came down to meet him. She turned a half-circle around, watching him with eyes he couldn’t quite make out the emotion or meaning behind. She seemed welcoming, knowing in the way of the force, but also of him. But the Jedi master, in all his years of training, did not know her in the slightest, and did not know what to make of his position here. He clasped his hands loosely together in front of him and waited, watching her in return.
“You are at a crossroads, I am afraid,” she said, looking more at the cave walls than at him, “a place between life and death.”
“Yes,” he said. “Though, with reason. In a moment of great peril, I sacrificed myself and passed away into the will of the force, only to find myself here.” Kenobi pressed his folded hands together, then up the length of his forearms, feeling the fabric of his shirtsleeves, Tatooine sand still laden upon them. “And alive,” he said. “If this is how it feels to be at one with the universe, I fear I have been misled, or otherwise too deeply affected by such old Jedi stories.”
“I know little of the force of which you speak,” she said, “or your Jedi, but I am more learned than most in the way of such things as magic. You find yourself at the doorway to the realm of Middle Earth.” She paused, meeting his eyes once more with her curious look, and said, “If you seek me out, in my home of Lothlorien, I may be able to guide you.”
“Find you?” said Obi-Wan, stepping closer to see. “But here you are.”
Galadriel smiled and said, “Not for very long.” The light receded, and so did her form. Far away, in the dimness left, another pocket of life alighted in the cave. “Find me,” she said, her voice at once surrounding, deafening, and then fading away to a whisper. “Meet me in the Golden Wood.”