Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani silenzi, e profondissima quïete io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco il cor non si spaura… Così tra questa immensità s'annega il pensier mio: e il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.
[But sitting here and gazing, I can see beyond, in my mind's eye, unending spaces, and superhuman silences, and depthless calm, 'til my heart is no longer afraid… So in the midst of this immensity my thought drowns: and shipwreck is sweet to me in this sea.]
~Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi: 1798 – 1837~
Obi-Wan is shaking.
The once-proud and refined General Kenobi sits quietly on the third class bare durasteel bench of the Galactic interplanetary transport. The cold of the metal is beginning to seep through the rough cotton weave of his Jedi trousers into his bones, and he shivers.
A usually-energetic head of straw-blond hair grumpily emerges from beneath the cowl of a miniature Jedi robe.
"Master…?" Impatience is curbed just long enough to wait for acknowledgement by authority.
"Yes, Padawan?"
"Is space always, well…this cold?"
Since Masters Yoda and Mace Windu are also in attendance, Obi-Wan cannot give Anakin a straight answer.
"Only when you concentrate on it. Once you learn to expand your focus beyond the immediate, small physical discomforts will become much less…perceptible."
The boy's eyebrows beetle together as he attempts to decipher the exact – and simple – meaning behind Obi-Wan's reply.
Inwardly chuckling, the young Master sends a private thought along their fledgling training bond:
"Alas, my very young apprentice, space is always very cold."
The all-pervading cold fills the passenger chamber, despite the exceedingly cramped conditions, and chills the very air he breathes. He reminds himself acerbically that he has always hated space travel for this reason.
Anakin hates space flight even more than you do…
The Jedi – no, ex-Jedi – Master draws his long brown cloak more securely around himself in an effort to ward off the chill, shrugging his hands more securely within the sleeves, arms crossed over his chest.
The thick material warms his body, but not his heart.
His heart will never be warm again. It sits frozen solid in the middle of his breast, so that Obi-Wan thinks the ice of Hoth must surely be surrounding – permeating – it. Even the blazing heat of Tatooine cannot crack such a frigid shield.
Tatooine.
The scorched cinder of desert planet is his destination.
Ironic that the self-same sunsbaked soil upon which his Padawan – now his arch-nemesis – was born will be the one his former Master will now reside on…presumably until the day he dies. That they should now both call the same Force-forsaken bit of cosmic dust home…they have such precious little else in common anymore…
Anakin has always hated Tatooine with a passion (though hate does not become a Jedi) mainly for two reasons: the first being its well-earned and deserved reputation as a hive of despicable villainy, safe haven as it is for the scum of the galaxy…and the second (far more innocuous) being for the copious, omnipresent sand.
Once, he wryly remarks to Obi-Wan that, for one of these reasons or the other or both, on Tatooine he had never felt clean.
Obi-Wan, ever fastidiously neat and tidy, knows for a fact that he will never feel clean again. The stain of sorrow – of shame – of failure – marks him like a brand.
At another time, in another place, Anakin might find this vaguely amusing…the idea of his Master being the dirty one, for a change…
Anakin… He must remember to stop calling him that. It is Vader now – Vader, the Emperor's right hand; Vader, the terror of the galaxy; Vader, the Sith.
Anakin Skywalker is gone – dead. He is…no more.