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This is my third fic and second vignette. It focuses on the thoughts of Obi-Wan Kenobi shortly before he takes Luke under his wing, and is intended to be a one-shot. This piece was inspired by a late night viewing of A New Hope and thoughts of how it all connects within the larger Saga, now that the prequels are complete.
Disclaimer: George Lucas, the Great Flannel Wearer, owns the Star Wars galaxy. And someday, I will own this one.
He feels it so suddenly, so subtle, so small, yet so significant. It is a sudden breaking of the dawn, washing the day with light, with promise, with hope. It is a hitch in the breath of every living thing—for one small second—that betrays the difference. It is the glimmer in the stars at night, as they swirl around in their cosmic dance.
It is change—change in the very Force itself.
And Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the last of the Jedi in the entire galaxy, feels it, just as twilight descends on the impossibly crude, backwards, and decidedly uncivilized planet of Tatooine.
He almost misses it, it is so faint. He starts, nearly dropping the tool in his hand. Obi-Wan reaches out in the Force, slowly, cautiously, in a way he has not done in years. The same way he used to do every day, every waking moment, before…well, before the dark times. Before the Empire.
Before the fall.
He shakes his head, and slowly placing the tool down, chides himself for nearly slipping back into the past. He has come to terms with it—through a long stretch of guilt, heartache, and tears—and it no longer has any power over him. Pushing away these stray thoughts with a firm mental thrust, he settles down in his sparse hut and concentrates.
The Force converges and collides around him, swelling in unbreakable waves, raw with the promise of power. He gently immerses himself in the sea, seeking to wait and watch. To be patient. To be.
It comes to him then, in one blinding flash of light and understanding.
It is time.
Obi-Wan's eyes open suddenly and forcefully and he exhales sharply. Time? He thinks. Time for what?
But deep down inside, he knows.
His eyes are drawn irresistibly to the wooden box that rests on the short shelf in the corner of his room. The box lovingly crafted by some nameless artisan, stolen by a Tatooine peddler, and sold for probably three times its worth. Yet Obi-Wan eagerly bought it, then fresh into exile, starved for a connection to his past. It was no wonder he bought the chest—designed by chance or deceit—to look like the Temple's furniture.
Now, an older, wiser, and more weathered man eyes the box with mixed emotions. For it contains an artifact—an object that appears deceptively simple yet is undoubtedly deadly. Elegant, lovely, but yes, undoubtedly deadly.
The lightsaber of Anakin Skywalker.
Years ago, the name would have caused Obi-Wan much pain and guilt. Now the thought of his fallen apprentice stirs only thoughts of resignation, regret, and resolve to set things right, no matter what the cost to his own person. He sighs and slowly rising to his feet, approaches the modest chest.
It opens slowly, hesitating as its hinges creak, protesting against the years, the sand, and little use. Obi-Wan reaches over and brings the small lamp he has been using closer, holding it up to illuminate the darkness that now spreads over Tatooine.
The saber shines brilliantly, even in the sparse lighting of the small hut. It is well worn, nicked, scratched—but it is whole. It curves and flows—yet it is also tight and sharp. It exudes power, yet is innocuous enough to be mistaken for some kind of tool—if one is ignorant enough.
Obi-Wan picks up the blade cautiously, knowing full well the power of the lightsaber. Settling down again, he retrieves a rag and a polishing chemical, and slowly, but methodically, begins to clean the weapon. All around him, the Force hums in anticipation.
There is hesitation in his movements, as he ponders the thought of what will inevitably come. His thoughts stray to a sandy-haired, daydreaming youth, living in ignorance nearby, chafing at the rules and regulations of a strict, but well meaning uncle. He chuckles to himself when he considers the resemblance between father and son, and then sobers immediately as the physical weight of the weapon, as well as the emotional weight of the task, sit heavy in his hands.
It is time; the Force has made that clear. It has been two decades of waiting, watching, of patience, and of learning. And yet, Obi-Wan cannot help but examine the lightsaber with some concern. It is clear that he will have to guide the young son of Skywalker if it is the will of the Force, but what are the chances of success? And what are the chances of failure?
Visions of blue on red flash through his mind and memories of recordings—sensations enhanced by the Force—appear tangibly before him. He falls into the memories without a fight, for they will come and go as they please, searching for the answer to the unformed question that causes his hesitancy in passing on this lightsaber, and indeed, the duty of becoming a Jedi, to a certain young Luke Skywalker.
How can I teach him? How do I guide him without failing him, as I did with Anakin? Is it right to try—to pass on these burdens to him—to pass on a tainted blade?
The lightsaber gleams in the soft light, almost as if it is taunting Obi-Wan.
You sentimental old fool. Hanging on to this bloodstained weapon…the same weapon that murdered your peers senselessly. The weapon that cut down your friends without a care, paving the way for evil in its fullest glory. The weapon that you fought against, doing your duty, trying to set things right—and failing utterly. How could there be any doubt that this object is marred beyond return?
Black thoughts swirl around Obi-Wan, tantalizing in their despair. How easy it would be to tip over the precipice into them, giving into that darkness.
But Obi-Wan has faced this many times in his exile, and he will not give up easily.
If all this is true, then why has he kept it for years? Why did he bother to pick it up from the ash-strewn ground at all?
Because it is a link—a link to the good man Anakin Skywalker was. A reminder of choices and destiny. A symbol of a proud legacy of warriors and peacemakers. A relic that must be passed on, no matter what its cost.
For, it is not the weapon that defines the wielder, but the wielder that defines the weapon.
The light once again returns to Obi-Wan and he nods purposefully to himself. He kept the saber because it is only that—a lightsaber. It is an object, a weapon, a mere thing. It holds sentimental value certainly, but it cannot truly be sullied in any way except a pure physical sense.
And now the polished, clean lightsaber shines clearly, reminding Obi-Wan of the past again—but these are memories of happy, simpler times. Times when Anakin wielded it with a righteous purpose, calling it to himself, and losing it (again and again)in the most peculiar of ways.
This weapon is your life.
Obi-Wan remembers the admonishment he gave his Padawan many times over, meaning, of course, to instill responsibility and caution into Anakin. Another lesson that was intrinsically wrong, though there was no way he could have known it at the time.
No, he thinks as he puts away the cleaning rags and polish. The lightsaber is important certainly, but it does not truly define the Jedi. No weapon can or does. It holds no power over its wielder, it is merely a tool.
And any thoughts of redeeming it for what it has been used for in the past, is pure and utter nonsense.
The lightsaber is beautiful and the truth is blindingly clear to Obi-Wan as he places the blade carefully back into the case. He runs a hand over the wood of the chest lovingly, accepting the memories it brings, good and bad, reveling in their warmth and darkness.
And then, he lets it go.
The case clicks softly as it closes, and Obi-Wan smiles as he prepares for bed. The Force swirls around him, and he openly embraces it, accepting the newest duty it is giving him. A new beginning, a fresh start, a second chance. One where he will not fail, one that is not tainted by memories, not overshadowed by past deeds.
Idly, he smiles, allowing himself one stray thought before he turns off the light.
His father would have wanted Luke to have it, when he was old enough, anyway.
Author's Note: Alas, school is starting again here very shortly and I am afraid that I will be busy in the coming weeks. I have plans to start writing a full length story however, and for those who are interested, I beg that you be patient. Thanks to all those who have stuck with me thus far!