My Heart, The Galaxy
By Jedishampoo ljuserjedishampoo
Characters: Obi-Wan, OC
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Summary: Briefly, Obi-Wan on Tatooine not long after the events of ROTS. Really, my attempt to organize my thoughts about Ep. III. Trying to be angsty without being TOO angsty. Let me know what you think, good or bad.
Tatooine was the universe. Ben Kenobi's dead universe. Nights silent as space, mountains as inanimate as moons. As quiet places to meditate went, it was ideal.
Even sitting on the nearly-bare floor of his desert dwelling with his eyes closed, Ben could imagine himself at its center. It wasn't dead, not really. That was unfair, a small self-indulgence he permitted himself, who'd mistrusted the place the first time he'd laid eyes on it all those years ago. No, life had found the odd or end foothold in the desert wasteland, as it always did. Settlements dotted the wide vacuum-nothing like inhabited systems, oases of life. The Hutts hunkered at its core in nominal control, yet on the fringe, beings continued their lives regardless of what happened at the center of gravity's pull.
The Force was there, on Tatooine, as it was everywhere. Created by life, like water it seeped into lifeless cracks in the universe, filling them, filling him. But filling him with what? Not with peace, no matter how he tried.
Ben's stomach growled, loud and obscene in the small, silent room.
He blew out a breath and uncurled his crossed legs, stretching and shaking the life back into them. One could only meditate for so long. In the end, communing with the Force and delving its myriad secrets could not keep one alive indefinitely. Could not buy food, or parts for the cooling unit that kept him sane during long, blistering days. He was still learning about the Living Force. But what was he learning, and was this living?
His problem was inactivity. For too long, all had been nonstop. Ever since Anakin had turned nineteen--
—Anakin, about whom he could no longer think and on whom he could no longer dwell—
there had been war. Obi-Wan had been necessary, had been on the front lines, had been extraordinary. Out of necessity Ben was now a nobody on a nowhere world, unnecessary to the galaxy except as a threat, somebody to be destroyed. It was difficult to be superfluous, hunted, despised, when he had known so much, done so much. And then had been abandoned.
A Jedi does not cling to the past, he had been told. And he knew this. Of all the Jedi that were, Obi-Wan had perhaps felt it, lived it, the most. Still, some nights, the past clung to him. Some nights, memories overrode his training, his self-control, and crowded about him like flies, pestering him. Ben needed to be doing. Mostly, he needed food.
He threw a leg over the old speeder bike he'd purchased for next to nothing in Mos Druin and had tried to repair himself. He'd mostly succeeded. He was a fair hand with mechanics but nothing like An— well, like others he'd known.
The motor coughed to life with an indecisive grumble—it didn't really want to go anywhere, but had decided to humor him for the moment—and Ben wriggled the handlebars, distracted motions, pointing first this way then that.
"Where to go," he asked himself, aloud. His tiniest idle finger movements made the bike's nose twitch like an animal sniffing it way. Finally it pointed south-south-west, towards Way Station 6. Digging a heel to gun the accelerator, Ben let it have its way. He'd rather wanted to go there anyway. It was familiar. It was close. It had food.
They zoomed along, weak headlight picking out the rocky terrain like an old, worn-out eye. It was enough. Through the Force and memory Ben could see the way, could imagine the bare rock cliffs, pink and grey strata speeding by, blurred like starlines.
Ben still hadn't explored all of his new dead universe here in the Jundland Wastes, though he'd been resident three months now. Exploring was something he'd wanted to accomplish slowly. He didn't know how long he'd be here, only that it would be a long time.
He would tell himself, this week, I'll visit this settlement. Next week, or perhaps in two weeks, I'll travel a day or so in that direction. He'd parsed settlements, valleys and mountains out to himself like they were his last crumbs of food on a voyage to nowhere.
This night's destination, Way Station 6, was nominally a town. It wasn't the actual name of the town, but the name of a refueling station which had once serviced the area. Its inhabitants had long ago forgotten the place's original name. Like many other desolate settlements he'd seen in the galaxy, the hovels where people lived only barely outnumbered the cantinas. There weren't many of either in Way Station 6. But one cantina had stood out, at least to Ben. The Wookiee's Pelt, it was called.
The name of the tavern was what had originally drawn him. Ben had a healthy respect for Wookiees and had been curious about those who would offend them. But far from being a Trandoshan watering hole, it was a tiny tavern like any other except for the old, ratty and genuine Wookiee's hide proudly displayed on one wall. The owner, a woman of uncertain age called Shoop, told all who asked—and Ben had—that it was a memento of a dear friend of a dear friend, and she'd inherited it. Apparently this particular Wookiee had said he would be honored to be remembered in this way.
Ben wasn't so sure. But truth to tell, he liked the place anyway. It was always quiet. And Shoop was kind.
He parked the speeder alongside the tiny building and stepped through the door. Things were quieter than usual inside. Shoop was talking in a low voice to a dusty, despondent Rodian at the bar, and the only other patron was an aging human hunkered over his drink at one of the Pelt's four tables. Now and then the man glanced at a small holoscreen hanging in the opposite corner.
Shoop looked up at his arrival and waved a pudgy tanned arm in his direction. "Hullo, Ben."
"Good evening."
Out of respect he gave the Wookiee's shabby pelt a fleeting pat as he passed, then settled himself at the nearest end of the cramped bar. As was usual in this particular cantina, all was as clean as it could be on such a dusty world. The bar's grey-metal top shone between its ancient scratches.
Shoop gave the drooping Rodian a commiserating sort of squeeze on the shoulder, then wheeled her chair the short distance to where Ben waited. "I have the usual, honey," she said, pulling at the edge of the bar to shift herself closer. "You want the usual?"
"Undoubtedly," he replied.
Shoop smiled, a beautiful white-toothed grin which crinkled the skin at the corner of her eyes and picked out the gleaming white strands in her already-fair hair. Then with the ease of long practice she gripped the tall wheels of her modified chair and gave them a wrench, tuning herself around in the small working space behind the bar, and rolled into the back room. She returned a few minutes later and presented him with a glass of the local ale and a plate topped by a massive, meaty sandwich.
Meat which managed to be completely unidentifiable as to species of origin but perfectly-normal tasting at the same time. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. It tasted good. It tasted familiar. Idly, he wondered what his old friend Dex was doing now. Serving sliders to the Emperor's troops?
As if on cue, the holoscreen in the corner blared out a tinny tune, the official Imperial Holonet theme. It was eerily reminiscent of that which had served the Republic's broadcasts. The Republic Obi-Wan had once served as well.
"Don't know why they bother to trans their decrees in our direction," Shoop said, shaking her head in disgust. "We've never been a part of that mess, out here."
"I'm not sure that anywhere is safe, anymore," he replied, trying to focus on his food. Yet from birth his eye had been trained to watch the small electronic image, and as ever his eye was riveted by that malevolent figure in black, hovering at the Emperor's side. A dark soul encased in metal and hatred. Still alive, technically. But not Obi-Wan's friend, and Ben would not see him or be near him again, unless it was for the last time. He knew this, with a certainty he'd rarely felt. Still, it was impossible not to be riveted by his own failure, the dark result of his last act of cowardice in service to the Republic.
"Bah!" Shoop blurted. "It's all bad news anyway, these days."
"These are dark times," Ben heard himself say. He tore his eyes from the screen, and Shoop must have caught some of the pain that lingered in them.
"I could switch to podracing, if you like, Ben. There's always podracing somewhere."
"No, thank you." Podracing. A deadly, corrupt sport that nonetheless seemed innocent in retrospect. Would he ever reach a point when something didn't remind him of Anakin? Even having the Force try and speak to him in Qui-Gon's voice was sometimes a curse, much as it was a blessing. Qui-Gon, who still believed he'd done the right thing—
"You watching that, Rovan?" Shoop yelled suddenly at the man in the corner. The man shook his head. Shoop nodded and switched off the holoscreen. "Good."
"You didn't have to do that," Ben told her.
"Eh, why not? Not worth watching." Shoop leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at him. "It's a slow night anyway. I'd rather chat. Gordoe over there doesn't want to chat, and Rovan's in a bad mood, so it's just you and me, darlin'."
"I'm not sure that I'd be much of a conversationalist myself."
"Bah. You wouldn't come here to see me if that was so." She gave him a roguish grin. "Now, for example, I bet you've always wondered why a gorgeous girl like me's doing in a place like this."
Ben wasn't sure another tale of woe was what he needed at the moment. Now Anakin-- Anakin would have talked to her, had always had a soft spot for females-- and there he was again. Anakin was gone. Why wouldn't he stay there? Ben gulped his ale to clear his suddenly-tightened throat.
"Actually, no." He forced a smile. "Seems a decent enough place."
Shoop grinned in reply to his outright lie. But her eyes showed a hint of hurt at his ultimate rejection of her invitation. "I like to tell it, anyway. Sometimes, to people I like. But I'll let you eat for now." She backed away.
To be truthful Ben was disappointed in himself for projecting. Be mindful of the Living Force, he could almost hear Qui-Gon say. Compassion. It was a lesson Ben believed, because he'd seen it work, had used it in the past. A fine reminder that he was still a Jedi, even if nobody else knew it, and whether there was an Order to belong to or not. Which there wasn't.
But she was already at the other end of the bar, back to consoling the Rodian, and so Ben ate his sandwich.
He ate his sandwich, and stared at nothing. He finished his ale, and Shoop brought another. She set it on the bar before him, adjusting the little napkin beneath it, then reached up to tuck a bleached, white-blonde curl into the pulled-up mass atop her head. She smiled, and her faded brown eyes smiled as well.
"I like you because you remind me of my husband."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. I loved him. He's a real bastard though, you know."
"Is he." He was a bit disturbed by the comparison.
"Oh, honey, I'm not saying you are." She peered up at him, up under the fringe of hair that had fallen across his eyes. "Is it all right if I talk?"
"Of course," he said. Did he have a choice?
"See? I was wrong. You're nothing like 'im." She winked at him, and splayed her palms on the bar, ten plump fingers caressing the metal. "He hated to talk. He was an action sort of guy."
"Oh?" he said, automatic.
Ben missed Anakin terribly in that sudden moment, a physical spasm in his gut. Missed his exuberance. Missed the wry humor, the jokes only they understood. Anakin as he had been, the Anakin who spoke the words Obi-Wan was thinking, who cared about things with a searing passion. Missed even his petulance, his impatience, the entire, freeing range of emotions that had drawn others inexorably into Anakin's orbit like he was a burning sun-
--Anakin was gone. Push the memory away, like the Jedi he'd always been would do. Perhaps the Jedi had been wrong to deny emotion. Nevertheless it was his way of life, whether or not it helped the pain, so he clung to displacement as he always had. Let it go.
Shoop continued, oblivious. "Like I said, an action sort of guy. Good-lookin'. I loved that man. We were crazy, like kids. But we had a business on Tarellia, parts. We made good money, we lived pretty good. I was happy, anyway. But it wasn't enough."
"No?" he asked. He held up his glass. The ale was dark amber, but the chintzy glow lights behind the bar shone through it, morphing the hue to a translucent, burning crimson.
"Nope." She shook her head, rouged lips pursed. "We argued. Thought I knew 'im. Thought I could convince 'im. But no, he wanted to move into blockade running. Oh, this was long ago, maybe thirty years or more. During the Two-Years' War, on the Rim. Don't suppose you remember that, Ben?"
"No, I'm sorry." A Jedi does not cling to the past. But this night, the past clings to him.
Obi-Wan blinks at the red glare. He is standing on a bank of rock next to a fiery, sluggish river, while the remnants of his best friend and companion quick-smolder, then ignite, molten flames burning skin to instant ash. The remnant is not dead, but is screaming, and Obi-Wan realizes that he doesn't know what to feel.
"Thought you might not. Anyway, I was clinging to this business, wouldn't sell, and he hated it, more than he loved me. He burned it, for the insurance money."
"Awful," he said.
On the one hand, he feels guilt. And it is something he can't tell anyone, at least in any detail. He can't say to Yoda: I've failed Anakin, by not being there when he needed me, so that he had to turn to others for solace and answers. And now I've done this terrible thing. This should have been my final act of mercy in my life as a Jedi-- to destroy Anakin utterly, because he had been my friend.
But I was weak. I couldn't kill my brother, my friend, so I cut off his legs, blade slicing through his familiar, living tissue like it was less than air, and I cut off his last intact arm, hearing the singe of bone and cloth over the boiling thunder and hissing steam of molten rock. I couldn't kill him so I made him suffer, watched as he burned and screamed and smelled his cooking flesh, and told myself that the Force would decide. The Force had directed his blows as surely as it had ever directed any others. The thighs, the arms. Why not the neck, the stomach? A quick, clean kill, hard but necessary. Why cause suffering?
"It's hard to see the ones you love do something stupid, ain't it?"
"Yes…" he said, low.
But there is not only guilt. On the other hand, he is angry, more furious than he's ever been in his life. Because he has been betrayed, and has seen the irrefutable evidence of that betrayal. Anakin—Vader-- has destroyed everything Obi-Wan stood for, all he's fought, bled, suffered loss for. He'd given everything he had to Anakin, every last damn thing Obi-Wan had poured his heart into, his whole life. Including himself. Anakin had murdered younglings. Children who trusted him, even as Padme trusted him, till the very end.
What had been good was gone forever. But as he watches evil burn, Obi-Wan wonders. And wants to believe differently, but cannot, because he is broken and betrayed.
"I was stupid, too. I ran back inside for my stuff, and this--" she pointed at her lack of leg-- "was what I got for it. He took off. Don't think he even knew, the bastard. I never saw him again."
Right now, he feels everything, every emotion running together until his heart is a maelstrom.
"You think, where did I go wrong, how could I have made it better, and everyone keeps telling you, it wasn't your fault. It was his, you didn't do a thing. Just broke your heart over a worthless bastard."
The only thing he cannot feel is the heat. And there is heat, boiling at his skin while his very sweat was steam. But he cannot feel it.
A hand touched his arm. "Are you cold, Ben? You're shivering."
Ben blinked. The rocky bank became the barstool, and his glass was only filled with dark, bitter ale. He was on Tatooine, and Shoop was looking at him, concerned. "I'm fine," he told her.
"Just making sure. I was talking about broken hearts. Ah, well. My heart is but one galaxy in the universe of myself, and the universe spins, undeterred. I am destroyed. It blinks, and I am still there."
"That's lovely." He choked out the words.
"Ain't it? It's Circossan. My husband used to read him. See, talking about it makes me sentimental for the bastard. After the operation, I came here. But I still think about him. Gets too quiet here, sometimes."
The quiet, space-silence of Tatooine, the dead universe. His heart was but one in the multitudes that filled it. He was destroyed, yet billions, trillions, more, didn't know, and didn't care. His old universe was gone, but others would take its place. Leia. Luke. The past was his. The future wasn't. Not yet.
Ben still didn't know what to feel. But it didn't really matter, did it? In the end.
Shoop went on. "He liked a good poet. He wasn't all bad."
"Doesn't sound like it."
"Ah well." Shoop shook her head. "Don't think he meant to hurt me. Leave me, but not hurt me. I remember him as he was. It's our memories that are our worst enemies."
"Is that someone?"
"No. Only the truth."
Obi-Wan swallowed, found the words. "Truer than I can say, right now."
"But you haven't said hardly a thing, honey."
"I know."
But in memory, at least, there was life. They were his feelings, his memories, and he would deal with them in his own good time. Sift them through his mind, his hands, like grains of sands, remnants of decaying mountains. Hoping to discover that he had set in motion something other than darkness.
Luke. He wanted to see Luke. Even if only from a distance.
Shoop smiled again, her now-familiar, kind smile. "That's all right. I understand."
"I'd better go." Ben, Obi-Wan, stood, wanting to be alone with his memories, his enemies. His heart, the galaxy. There was room there for everything. Even clinging memories. He flipped a credit at Shoop and smiled at her. There was always room for compassion as well. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, honey. But you were right. You weren't much for conversation tonight," she told him, and cast a roguish look at him to let him know that she could forgive. "Just remember. You're not alone."
"Perhaps," Ben said, and patting the Wookiee pelt once more, a quick homage to the departed, left to make his amends. To see Luke. To touch the future as he touched the dead. And to wait.
End.