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He sliced the knife through the center of the orange pepper and spread the seeds with his thumb onto the neat pile in the corner of the cutting board. When that one was chopped, he took another, and another until the pile of peppers was large enough to fill a pot. When the peppers were done, he took an onion, transfixed on the smooth movement of the blade along the flesh of the vegetable and nothing else.
The pot was already on the small woodfired stove. He put the vegetables into the boiling water and stirred, staring blankly at the sandstone wall of his hut—the hut that would now be his prison.
Outside, the suns were setting an orange hue through the small window holes in the walls. He had been traveling all day from Mustafar to Tatooine, sitting in his small ship with Luke wrapped gingerly in his arms still covered in ash. Luke looked up at him with bright blue eyes and Obi-Wan just couldn’t take it. He held the child and refused to look down at him. An infant with all the potential in the world, and Obi-Wan couldn’t even look at him.
He hated it.
When he handed off the child to his aunt and uncle, Obi-Wan felt nothing. The scent of burning flesh and ash hung heavy all over his skin, and he could think of nothing else. He handed off the only thing he had left of Anakin and stumbled towards a future of miserable, lonely, solitude.
Everything except for the lightsaber.
As he placed the vegetables into the pot, the weapon's presence hung limply on his belt. His hands were still filthy. His face was still filthy. He could not bring himself to wash. Obi-Wan ran his thumb over the hilt of Anakin’s lightsaber and sunk into deep meditation.
Anakin was lying on a cold, aluminum surgical table–all bright red lights and droid attachments and screws. He screamed in agony as charred limbs were sawn off with little pain medication and anchor points for new prosthetics were drilled into his bones.
Obi-Wan could not stop the rush of pain flowing through their shriveled, nearly dead force bond. He screamed in agony in the hut, clutching his arms and wrapping them around himself, gripping at the ash-stained robes. As the vision clutched him further, Obi-Wan could only weep as Anakin was broken down and built up again, whatever voice he had left used to scream into the medical chamber and curse Obi-Wan’s name.
The vision ended as the soup was boiling over, sporadic pops of boiling vegetables popping out of the pan. Obi-Wan fell to the floor from his stool, and he lay on his side on the sandy floor clutching his heart, mind reaching out to the force bond that shriveled smaller and smaller every moment.
Anakin , he thought, reaching out to it. A foolish, desperate gesture to ease the pain. Anakin, I’m sorry. Please, you must know that I love you.
The bond radiated a fierce red, glowing so hot with rage that Obi-Wan felt his mind begin to melt. He pushed on, reaching a hand towards Anakin.
Master, how could you leave me! Anakin’s voice, his child's voice, called out. A scared boy even now. You left me to suffer! Look at me!
In Obi-Wan’s vision, he saw a nine-year-old Anakin engulfed in pain and burns, tiny hands reaching out to a younger version of himself turned away.
You never loved me! The burning child yelled as he tugged at his master’s robe, tears leaving tracks in the ash.
The image shifted, they were older now. Sometime during the Clone Wars. Anakin, a man now, lay beside Obi-Wan in their shared tent. He watched Obi-Wan breathe up and down, reached out a tentative hand towards his hair, and dropped it.
I was always too much for you, Obi-Wan.
The vision of himself turned to face Anakin, sensing his discomfort.
“What is it, dear one?” He asked, face soft.
Anakin looked at him with something like hope. “I-”
Obi-Wan tilted his head closer, searching. “I know these are stressful times, but I assure you that–”
Anakin surged forward, pressing their lips together. Obi-Wan lay there for a moment, shocked and leaning in before his rational brain got the better of him.
“Anakin, I know these are difficult times, but we must not do such things. They are against the code.”
Tears swelled in Anakin’s blue eyes, sadness and despair for once the dominating force in his mind over anger.
Watching the vision, Obi-Wan balled his hands into fists. Stop, please! He yelled at himself. Don’t let him go. Don’t let him feel so alone.
“I think it might be best if we stopped sharing a tent, Anakin,” he said, unable to stop his counterpart from making the same mistakes, “the Jedi code forbids such relationships.
Attachment is what leads one to the dark side.”
Anakin’s sadness shifted to fury, “tell me you don’t want me. Tell me, and I’ll never bother you again. But don’t lie,” his face fell, and he reached out, grabbing Obiwan’s sleep shirt, “just tell me the truth, master. You owe me that.”
Through the vision, Obi-Wan fell to his knees and grabbed his counterpart's shoulders through the vision. He shook as hard as he could. Don’t lie to him , he yelled, tears streaming. No!
With a solemn face, Obi-Wan bit his cheek. “No, Anakin. It would be improper.”
Anakin stilled. Got up. Said nothing more. He gathered his things and left the tent without looking back. Obi-Wan, lying in the cot, ran a shaking hand over his face and tried to stop the tears from slipping out.
Unable to stop the course of events, Obi-Wan watched it all unfold, body trembling from anger and sadness. He ran his hands through his filthy hair and begged his former self to get up and go after Anakin. But he did not, and the image morphed again to the image of his Anakin on the medical table, tubes coming from every part of his body.
You never loved me, master. The near corpse said, his lips charred and dry.
Obi-Wan tried to yell, but his voice was tired. He was tired. He woke from the force dream covered in tears, the soup long boiled over and spoiled. He searched for the bond in the back of his mind and found it shriveled up and dead.
With all the energy Ben Kenobi could muster, he unclipped Anakin’s lightsaber from his belt with shaking hands, stood, and placed it into a trunk in the back of the hut. If he was going to survive exile with enough sanity to be of use to Luke, he would have to remove reminders of Anakin from his sight.
He showered briefly, tended to his wounds, and changed into clean robes. He cleaned up the spoiled soup pot, water boiled off, and vegetables burned to the bottom. The smell of char made him gag, but he persisted and started on a new batch.
Someday, Luke would need him. Until then, he would live. Somehow.