This chapter has been revised and edited, with all suggestions/concrit made by Lionchilde (you should go read her stories!). I give her many thanks! She was kinda the unofficial beta for the story. Okay, read and review!

The man looked around his new home. Unquestionably, the weather-worn shack in the middle of a desert was nothing like his quarters back on Coruscant, but he couldn't go back there, so what was the point in wishing? He took a seat on the very-used couch and heaved a deep sigh. The previous owner had been kind enough to offer his furniture for sale with the tiny house, seeing as this man owned none. All that he owned was in the small rucksack by his feet. Wearily, he stooped to pick it up by the strap.

The man began to unpack his scant belongings, moving around the house to give everything a home. Slowly, slowly, the rucksack's volume decreased, until there was but a cylindrical lump covered by age-worn leather. He stared at the obscured object for what seemed an eternity, as if willing it to disappear. After a very long while, the man blinked, as if realizing what he was looking at, and averted his eyes. Quickly, he bent over to grab the bag and set it on the refreshment table, the object making a dull thud on the wooden surface. Then he turned on his heel and headed to the quaint kitchen to make a small dinner.

The weeks passed as grains of sand, forgotten and lost in the great desert called Time, and still the old traveling bag sat on the table, collecting dust. The man would expend several hours a day gazing at the sack, longing its opening, yet dreading the outcome. He did come very close to opening it once, but the whistling of his tea kettle distracted him and he lost his nerve. He spent many sleepless nights in bed, thinking about the bed's occupant. There were several mornings when great purple bags hung under his dejected, turbulent blue-green eyes, showing how much sleep that he had purposely neglected.

Then the day came. It dawned just like any other day. He woke up, refreshed, got dressed, and had a small breakfast. And then...it called to him. The Force, which hadn't spoken to him in nearly two months. And now, it was calling him to the rucksack. The man hesitated – he really did not want to open his bag. It would bring back painful, haunting memories... But he had always obeyed the will of the Force – he couldn't simply ignore it just it didn't suit his feelings. He took one last swallow of caf before getting to his feet and making his way to sit by the small table in the middle of the room. Like the past few weeks, he stared at the bag for a while, but this time he did something about it. With an excruciatingly slow pace, he reached out, grabbed the rucksack, and dumped it out. His hands were shaking as he delicately picked the long-hidden object that was sitting in his lap: a lightsaber.

Memories flooded the man's mind, and he was taken back, back into the desert of time...

-----

He was standing in front of the funeral pyre of his mentor and great friend, his hood drawn over his face in mourning. Suddenly, he heard a tiny snuffle of someone crying silently beside him. He turned to the boy on his right and gave him what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. The boy smiled back a bit and asked a question: "What's going to happen to me now?"

"The Council has granted me permission to train you. You will be a Jedi, Anakin, I promise..."

-----

He was driving a golden-yellow speeder through the city, his apprentice somewhere on the ground level below him. He landed the vehicle across from pub the teenager was running towards.

"Anakin!" he called out, and the boy came to a halt.

"Master, she went in there-"

"Patience, Padawan. Use the Force. Think! He went in there to hide, not to run."

"Yes, Master," the young man responded mechanically.

"You dropped this," the elder said, holding out a scratched and beaten-up lightsaber.

"I'm sorry, Master," the boy said insincerely.

"This weapon is your life! Please, try not to lose it..."

-----

A mangled body lay below him on the black and hardened volcanic ground, writhing in pain, screaming in agony. And all he could do was weep. Because it-everything-was all his fault. He'd ignored the warnings, he hadn't seen the signs, and now his former apprentice lay before him, so close to death that he himself could feel the pain. He could hear words pouring from his mouth about the Chosen One, the Sith, balance to the Force, but none of it really mattered to him. His brother was dying right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do. He'd done enough already-he was the reason his best friend was dying.

"I HATE YOU!" The words cut through him far deeper than the lightsaber he'd just used against this man. He spoke again, but this time he was conscious of what he said.

"You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you!..."

-----

Her life was dwindling, and for the second time that night, all he could do was watch. Her newborn babies, twins, were crying softly, the boy in his arms, the girl in the droid's. He looked down at the new mother, tears welling up in his eyes. "Please, hold on! The twins...they need you here..."

She spoke, her breath coming in short, dying gasps, "Listen to me...There is...there's still good...in him...I know...there's still...still..." And she was gone. He couldn't believe it. The two people he cared for most were...dead. He looked down at the child in his arms. This boy would never get to know his parents, and neither would his sister. And it was all his fault...

-----

The man blearily opened his eyes and looked up at his surroundings. He was back in the shack, the desert of memories only visible to his mind's eye. He didn't know how long it had been, but he had fallen asleep quite some time ago. As he became more and more aware of his senses, he felt a cool wetness on his cheek. He vaguely registered the fact that his brother's lightsaber was cradled against his chest. He scarcely smelled the dirt floor on which he laid. He barely tasted the salt of the tears he'd cried, like rain on his desert. But he was aware. Maybe that was the source of his pain...and peace. No. The peace came from knowing – knowing that the Force would always be there to guide him, even in his darkest hours.

Slowly, he rose from the ground, the lightsaber still in his arms. Moving around the table, he began to search the house for the a place to reverently store the elegant weapon. His search was in vain, however; he'd not brought any extra 'saber cases. Despite this, he was neither upset nor frustrated. He knew the perfect spot to place it until he could acquire one. With a slight smile of irony, he returned to the table. With reverence that bordered being loving, he set the lightsaber on the refreshment table; he did not hide it this time, like a weakness or a festering wound. He kept it in plain sight as a memento for the boy, the student, the man, the son, the brother who had been.

Taking a step back, the man heaved a deep sigh of relief. He knew now that he would be able to cope with the pain. It would always be there, it would always be sore, but it would heal. And that was the reassurance he needed. He turned to the door and walked outside.

The desert of Tatooine was dry as ever, but in the man's mental image of his own desert, the rain was clearing up to make room for the sun gleam a small bit of hope on the future.