The Guardians

Part 1

Looking back he cannot believe how slowly each day passes. Yes, he has work and purpose. No, he is never truly alone. But in the most important ways, the most significant ways, he is abandoned, gone before his time and no one mourned him.

He knows he is aging quickly. He knows and he does not care. It seems a mockery that he is not dead, that he is alone with his memories: the bittersweet early years, when his mind began waking to a large world; the turbulent years when his task seemed a poor fit for his abilities; the betrayal.

Yes, though he should not, his mind lingers over those moments. He lingers over the truth he did not wish to face; the fight he wanted no part in.

The betrayal memories unfailingly give way to the most painful, the ones he now calls "the agonies." As an unsentimental man he would not have been able to explain why these were the worst. He had struggled for so long to resist attachment, to keep his mind open to the living Force.

Even as these memories seized him he could never clearly remember how many times she had called for the one who would never come back. He remembered how her sobs had choked what little strength she had. How much he wished he could give her what she needed, what she deserved. He remembered how he had tried to be her friend yes, but also the mother, the father, the sister, and even the husband she would never see again. How he had failed her again, even in that.

It was not hard to see how easy it would be to love her. He wondered at his own blindness, his choice to believe, to pretend his friend had not lost his heart. Duplicity of this kind usually disgusted him, but how willing he had been to be deceived! He had known. He had known and he willing chose to ignore. Yes, she would have been very easy to love.

He cannot help but remember her protestations of her husband's goodness, despite all evidence to the contrary. He cannot imagine a love so devoted it would die before seeing what power and lust can do to someone so beloved. He wishes he could believe as she believed but many years have passed and he has seen too much. He will not trust in a dying fantasy, born of love, true, but bitterly deceived at the end.

He thinks of his own chance for love. He thinks of the duty, the commitment that kept him from a love both passionate and powerful, and yet a love that was ultimately ephemeral, such that he wondered if he had only imagined its possibility.

These thoughts inevitably led to thoughts of the boy. He found him amusing, single minded but also evocative of mistakes he wished he could fix and felt doomed to repeat. Echoes of the lost friend dogged this young one's steps and he could not ignore them.

He had decided the Force must have a twisted sense of humor. He was kept from the boy by his uncle, a man who in reality had less of a tie to the boy than he did.

The uncle blamed him for the loss of the boy's father, for the loss of the boy's grandmother, whom he had never even met. The uncle was afraid he would lead the boy away on an idealistic mission, the likes of which he had always hated. He had blamed the boy's father for those crusades; he had not sought them himself, indeed, he would have much preferred staying in one spot and dedicating himself to one task, not run all over the known universe in such a haphazard way.

His habit of chuckling to himself over these ironies had no doubt contributed to the locals calling him a "crazy old man." But he did not mind that, he did not even mind the solitude. He had always loved peace, the immersion of meditation. He would not torment himself, dreaming of the lost love, the lost friends, the lost life. Well, he would not often torment himself. There were happy memories to cherish, painful in their own way but comforting as well.

No, the invasive tentacles of doubt and grief were the trials he sometimes felt he could not bear. Could he have prevented the choices that led to destruction? He knew he could have been a better master, a better friend, a better man. This knowledge haunted him; these thoughts made him believe he was, in fact, crazy.

In the best times he knew that fear was unfounded, but that knowledge did not lessen the ache every time he sat in his own door way, watching the sunsets. Obi-Wan would watch the dusk fall on the desert and in grief and humility ask again, "Why, Anakin? Why did I fail you?"


Author's Note: Star Wars does not belong to me. I do not receive a profit from this story. I live not for money but for reviews (hint, hint).

This is a collection of vignettes divided into sections. The first section is called The Guardians. Some vignettes will reference my other works, which you will find listed in my profile, but they will also stand alone (hopefully!). Thanks for reading!