What the Desert Consumes

by Amy L Hull

Written for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon, memory, 400 words

The desert consumed everything. Water. Comfort. Life. Hope.

Obi-Wan carved a hermit hole from a fissure in the sandstone. He could only imagine what Master Qui-Gon would have said about such use of a lightsaber. This elegant weapon-that was his life-being used as a common chisel.

The desert consumed dignity as well.

On monthly trips to Mos Eisley for dried foodstuffs-better than Republic military rations-Obi-Wan kept his robe on and hood up.

He hoped the desert consumed identity.

His battered datapad failed in his fifth year in the desert.

Perhaps it was better this way. He'd long since committed the writings to memory.

Occasionally during meditation he heard a faint whisper, more like a ghost of an echo, like a memory of Master Qui-Gon's voice. He was never sure if he was tapping into Yoda's promised connection or if the isolation and the desert were consuming his mind.

His days-and some nights-were spent watching over young Skywalker, nudging opportunities and lessons his way. He meditated when Anakin and Padmé's son wasn't tumbling righteously into danger.

In the Great Drought, the ridiculous child challenged the Hutts directly. No one challenged the Hutts. Even without the boy to protect, Obi-Wan would not have done so without a squadron of clone troopers. Young Skywalker's insistence on fairness was foolhardy.

A night of rushed terror ended with the desert littered with Hutt goons and Obi-Wan breathing hard over a limp, concussed child.

He tried to focus on the outcome as he carried young Skywalker across the desert, but the close call had shaken him to his core. He had failed Anakin, and they lost the galaxy. He could not lose this, their last stand.

As he laid the child in the safety of the Lars' dwelling, he paused to look at the face, narrower than his father's, though the shock of blond hair was exactly his father's.

He passed a hand over Skywalker's forehead, nudging the concussion toward healing, nudging the boy toward healthy sleep.

He couldn't avoid touching the bright presence, as golden as Obi-Wan's memory of another young Skywalker's Force signature.

He wept as he crossed the sands to his hovel.

In meditation that night, Qui-Gon was clear, no mere memory. They felt, together, the comfort and rightness of this vibrating thread in the Force. This was the boy. This Skywalker was chosen.

Perhaps the desert consumed shame...and gave second chances.