Legacy
Summary: Obi-Wan reflects on a lightsaber…and the man who once wielded it. Vignette.
Timeframe: Before ANH, after ROTS
Archive: In the unlikely event that someone would actually want to archive this – ask and I'll say yes. Just let me know where it's going.
Disclaimer: All things recognisably Star Wars belong to George Lucas. I just like making up my own stories. ALL HAIL LUCAS!
A/N: The idea for this fic sprung to mind after a SW themed social function I went to, which was last year. It's been a long time since I've posted a SW fic, so I hope you enjoy!
The weight of this weapon is heavy in my hand. It feels slightly strange to me, as any other Jedi's lightsaber does, and yet it is so familiar that every score and scratch and carving in the hilt is etched in my memory, burned there forever.
This lightsaber was Anakin's.
I have not looked on it for a year or more, but as I searched my meagre possessions for another robe, I found this hilt.
And so now I sit here, turning it over in my ageing hands, and I remember.
I remember the day Anakin constructed his first lightsaber, how his young face shone with pride and excitement. How he ignited its glowing blade and spun gracefully into a series of complicated moves, his energy and joy in the Force as bright as his new weapon.
I remember the first time he lost his lightsaber, how I lectured him afterwards. And how he was so remorseful that I gave up my lecture and sent him off to find it, with the promise of another Form I combat training session once it was recovered.
I remember the umpteenth time he dropped it, how I caught it and reprimanded him before we continued after the bounty hunter we were following. And how he responded, first sullen and exasperated, and then sorry and contrite.
I remember the last time we fought side-by-side, how his blade moved in perfect sync with mine. And how well we worked together as a team, our blue lightsabers flashing in graceful dance.
I remember the last time he used this weapon, this lightsaber in my hand. I remember the hatred and rage burning in his eyes, the ferocity of his attack. I remember the pain I felt each time his blade struck mine – not only physical, but an ache in the core of my being. I remember his words to me as he lay burning on the sands. I remember picking up his lightsaber as if a subconscious afterthought, as if directed by the Force.
I drag myself back to the present and stare at the cool, scorched metal in my hands. I run my fingers slowly over it.
This weapon was not constructed by a man in the grip of the Dark Side. It was created by Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight. My brother. My friend. It is one of the last legacies of a good man.
So I place it gently back in its hidden spot. One day this legacy will belong to another.
One day Luke Skywalker will know the legacy of the man who wielded this lightsaber.
Fin