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PUNISHMENT FOR MY SINS
Punishment for my sins.
That was how he thought of it, at any rate. He smiled faintly and threw his brown hood back, squinting upwards to glance at the twin suns of Tatooine. It was as he had suspected; he had meditated for more than seven hours.
It concerned him, sometimes, how easily he could lose track of time. In the beginning, every day was simply waiting. Waiting for a young child to grow up and face his destiny, waiting for it all to end. But as time had passed, the days became less important, until there was nothing but a dreary passing of life. The days went by and he did nothing. Nothing.
He rose to his feet, putting a hand on a nearby rock, heated by the suns, to help himself. His hair, shorter than it had been for years – he had hacked it off when it got too long – was dusted liberally with gray and white. His beard was the same. His face was weathered, not really old but the haunted blue eyes often gave that impression.
The crazy hermit.
He felt them often in the beginning – the deaths of the Jedi. Screams gave off waves in the Force, and the soft sighs of acceptance were mere ripples. But that, too, passed. As more and more Jedi were killed by the Emperor's pet killer, Darth Vader, less and less Jedi came into being. Being a Jedi was crime, after all, so a lessening in numbers was to be expected.
It still saddened him, though. At first he had raged in the silence of the desert, knowing that he could not be heard and that his actions would not be known. He had screamed and cried, going from hating his former apprentice to hating his former Master. But in the end, he had settled on hating himself.
For he had ultimately been responsible for his actions. For taking a nine year old boy as his Padawan, for failing to see the rising darkness in that same boy.
As the years passed he grew to accept it all, a gentle mellowing that crept up on him in the stillness of his dreams. He did not forget – he would not forget. But the darkness that had flourished with his hate had died away.
The hermit closed his eyes, but the sunlight that came through his eyelids did not allow him the peace that darkness often gave. Strange, that the utter solitude of darkness would give him such a feeling. Yet in those times he did not see the accusing gazes of his dead family.
Every time he looked at the fiery visage of the twin suns, he was reminded of that day when in his anger, he had confronted Anakin about his lies. He had been livid in the beginning but, as they had begun to have a furious battle with words, his anger gradually faded, until all he did was look at his former apprentice and shake his head. He didn't cry because he could not cry, but his soul was in pain nevertheless.
It hadn't ended well, regardless. Anakin had been remolded into Vader, the light burned away in the molten fire. Perhaps if he had not come after Anakin in anger . . . but speculation was pointless. A possibility of what could have been did nothing for him now.
Nor would it help a boy named Luke.
He pulled his robe tighter against the heat, as if trying to shield himself. He slowly turned to go back to his little home. It was small, but so were his needs. His clothing was worn and gave little protection. Water was scarce and valuable, as always on a desert world. He had little wealth. He walked forward, his boots making faint scuffing sounds on the dusty canyon floor. Life was hard and living was harder. But he didn't need comfort – and he didn't want it.
This was punishment for his sins, after all.
End.