Sorry for the wait... again. Enjoy! :)

He realizes now how precious water really is.

One would think it wouldn't have taken him six years to make that discovery, let alone three decades as a Jedi. He feels guilty for that. Having been to countless planets and systems during the Clone Wars, he has seen more than his share of poverty, malnutrition, slavery, torture, and other terrible living conditions. Thinking back, he can think of many places and situations where water was a scarce commodity, and yet he never truly realized how much of a simple blessing it could be.

In those times, the Jedi had never really been Jedi at all. They were soldiers, generals, warriors. Their armies were usually supplied with at least the bare necessities, water being one of them. He only remembers experiencing severe thirst a few times, mostly when he and Anakin had been stranded or lost on some Force-forsaken planet that was typically a breeding ground for the most bizarre creatures he had ever seen. Creatures that tended to have quite the appetite for stranded, lost, and thirsty Jedi. One did not have time to dwell on his need for water when the more pressing need was to try and not get devoured by bizarre creatures.

There was only one time when he had experienced true thirst and hunger pains so severe that he swears he can still feel them by merely remembering. What happened on Jabiim is not worth remembering, but he knows he will never forget. He still has the scars...

Luke teeters out of the door, limping a little as he follows Owen a little ways from their small home. He must have bruised or scraped his leg recently, but at this distance Obi-wan can't determine the extent of the injury. The macrobinoculars he's using are at least twenty years old and have more dings and hitches than the old speeder model he's been driving around in. Only two lens settings work and neither provide much of a close-up view, but even so he's still able to tell that the boy isn't happy about something just from the way he's walking. He can't help but smirk a little bit at the striking similarity to his former padawan. Anakin had never had to speak for Obi-wan to tell what sort of mood he was in.

Luke has obviously picked up that trait as well. Whatever is wrong with his leg doesn't seem to be bothering him at all as he totters along, taking two steps for every one that Owen takes. It's the moisture vaporator. Clearly. From Owen's posture, Obi-wan can see that he's not as irritated as the boy following him, just slightly annoyed.

Moisture farming is a new way of living to Obi-wan, and one that he finds very intriguing. During his short stint in the AgriCorps, he had learned briefly of how to use a moisture vaporator, but once he returned to the Temple, that little bit of data had deserted him. Now he wishes he remembered. The vaporator is an odd shape for a droid. He still finds it a little strange that it is, in fact, a droid. One that just sits in one spot for days at a time until someone decides to move it. It's a tall, spindly thing. A little wider at the bottom, but not much. There are so many parts to it, so many buttons and knobs, that he doesn't even try to figure out how the thing works. He only knows that somehow it takes the very little amount of moisture in the air and transforms it into liquid water, something that's very valuable in a place like this.

Owen reaches it first, but Luke arrives only seconds later and brushes by his adopted father to examine it. Obi-wan smiles at this. He can readily picture himself standing in Owen's place and Anakin in Luke's. The little tike is obviously good with machines. Probably anything mechanical. But it becomes very clear only moments later that Luke doesn't have even a smidgen of the little amount of patience that Anakin had to begin with.

Luke pushes only two buttons before he comes to a decision. He stands from his crouch, still barely up to Owen's waist - small for his age - and pummels the thing with a firm kick. Obi-wan very nearly laughs at the sight. Owen seems stunned until his young charge pulls his leg back for another go. Only then does he pull Luke away and crouch down to examine the vaporator himself, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to make sure that Luke isn't going to try a sneak attack when he's not looking.

He wishes he could see their faces a little better. He can read body language only so much before having to rely on intuition to guess at their conversation. Or lack thereof. Luke is simply standing back, little arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the larger man's back, or maybe at the droid; he can't tell.

Owen works on it a little longer and then stands up, wiping his hands on his pants and beckoning Luke forward. This time, Luke seems intrigued, and though Obi-wan has little respect for the man, he feels a small bit of gratitude towards him for this small gesture. He's clearly a good teacher, for the two spend the better part of fifteen minutes going over how Owen was able to fix it. He pauses every now and then when Luke points to something and mutters a few words.

"But you said he didn't die, so why did they burn him? We should have stopped them!"

He flinches at the unspoken accusation, an exhausted sigh escaping through parted lips. He can barely stand to meet that broken gaze, but when he does, he sees past the hurt and anger to the confusion hiding beneath. He offers the child his hand. The boy hesitates, before taking it and he draws him close.

"His body died, Anakin, but the Force took his spirit."

"Oh." He can tell the boy is still confused, but not as angry. "That wasn't very nice."

It almost makes him smile. Almost. "You and I might not agree with it, but we have to accept what the Force does. He's in a better place now, anyways, probably laughing at the two of us since we're still stuck in these frail bodies of ours." It's a weak attempt at a joke, and most likely a hopeless cause since they're both still so deep in their grief.

That's why he's surprised when Anakin smiles up at him and snuggles in a little closer. "So we will see him again? When?"

"Why do you ask?" He's still taken in by the smile, unable to offer the boy an actual answer.

"Because I miss him."

He swallows the lump in his throat, but it only disappears for a second before it rises again, threatening to break free in a torrent of tears. "It might be a while, Anakin, but you will see him again. I promise."

"You promise? Really?"

"Yes."

Yet another broken promise. He hopes Owen is a better teacher to Luke than he was to Anakin. He watches the two of them stand and head back, but they only go a few steps before Luke pauses and turns.

And for a moment everything disappears and it's just him and Luke. A warmth that no desert could ever produce washes over him and he shudders at the feel of it, welcoming it. Slowly, he lowers the macrobinoculars and stares. Now... now they are just two miniscule specks in the distance. Black dots in a sea of dust.

But the smaller speck, the one that has dirty blond hair and shining blue eyes, the purpose of his trek out here, that one, had just looked right at him.

He stands, dusts himself off and starts descending the dune that had provided such a nice view for him. Then he starts walking. He refuses to look back, partly to avoid seeing Owen's angry gestures at being watched, but mostly because he doesn't want to see Luke turn away. Anakin had turned from him often enough, and though he knows that Luke doesn't mean it in the same way, he just can't bear to watch it happen again. It's a small form of denial on his part, but he cherishes that image in a way that no other would understand. Luke turned to him.

Turned to him. Not away, never away. Never again.

What does the child want from him? Not that Owen will ever let him get close to Luke again, but if he did... What would he do? Try and teach the kid? Show him how to channel the Force, how to use it, how to serve it? Would he show him the light side first, or the dark? Would he even be able to show him anything, say anything?

It grates on him the entire journey home. He only absently notices that he doesn't even have to check for landmarks to make sure he's going the right way. His footprints are still there, soft imprints in the sand, untouched by a wind that's not there. Today is a dry day. Dry even for Tatooine. His throat is parched. He can already feel the back of his neck begin to burn, the skin turning pink and raw, his nerves firing up from the prickly pull of his collar against it.

He notices all of this and yet he doesn't. None of it seems important at the moment.

Force help him... what would he tell the child? The past? Every little detail? Surely not. As if he could even if he wanted to. It hurts enough to just remember, but put those memories into words would surely prove unbearable.

What about Anakin?

Anakin...

I HATE YOU!

He reaches his little hovel and doesn't hesitate to open the door and step inside. It's usually only a small relief to go from three-digit temperatures to a heat slightly below boiling, but today the difference seems magnified and he sighs with pleasure. In here, it's not quite so hot. At least not hot enough to dredge up images of that fiery planet. The only place in this universe that might come close to Hell itself.

What would he tell Luke about his father? Was that what Luke wanted from him? Answers? Did he want what Owen and Beru refused to tell him? The truth?

A long time ago, he had believed in the truth. But times had changed. Today it is lies that keep men safe, and he understands that even if he hates it. Telling the boy would get him killed.

Perhaps a half-truth. He's a master at half-truths. Always had been and still is, but now he's starting to believe that his half-truths are still lies. A soft, shadowy cloak of carefully woven threads. Each thread a truth when it stands alone, but together a masterfully-woven lie.

He's beginning to despise the talent that had long-ago made him famous. The half-truth pops into his mind before the real truth even comes to be, a habit formed from constantly living on the edge during a time of war. A skill he never wanted, but only ever needed. Negotiating had been cake for him, child's play, him seeing checkmate before others had even set their pieces. It was a game he had excelled at, mastered even.

But this time it is no game. This isn't a Separatist leader he's dealing with, or a battlefield of droids he has to break down, or even a Sith Lord bent on killing him. He can't smooth talk his way out of this one.

Because not an hour ago the kid had looked straight through him and everything came rip-roaring back, smothering his mind with the past, mixing it with the present, and presenting countless possible futures. Only one future is right.

Truth. "Anakin is your father. I tried to kill him."

The words fairly sting coming out and he walks to his table to sit down. Yeah, the kid would take that well, alright.

Perhaps he should just go after Vader himself, fix things before Luke got involved, fix them while he still had the strength and skill to do so. At this point Vader is still probably adjusting to the suit anyway, still struggling to move due to the pain it causes.

No. It's a foolish thought, not to mention selfish. And suicidal. And just plain wrong.

But he can't do it. Won't do it. Should, but won't. He decides on a half-truth, keeping to his safe path of simple manipulation of words, twisting the truth to make it more comfortable, less hurtful.

How would he say it when the time came? How to tell Luke about both Vader and Anakin? He supposes Anakin had been killed by Vader, in a way... from a certain point of view... that might work.

He's still thinking it over when his eyes stray to the pile of papers half-tossed into a corner of the kitchen, near the disposal unit. He blinks, mind going numb. The top one is a sketch. The sopping wet womp rat, soaked to the bone, nothing but bones, really. A grizzled old thing. Ugly and all but drowned. He can see the detail from where he's sitting. It's still half-finished, the shading of the background only partly done.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's over there and moving it out of the way, revealing the next sketch. This one is a little more promising. Yes, it is still another womp rat, but dry and maybe even a little nice to look at. The fur is silky and smooth, the creature healthier than its counterpart on the previous page. He sets it to the side and then goes still.

Luke,

I wasn't able to see you today. Your father... step-father...

That part is crossed out, a messy scribble over the top of it. He continues.

I wasn't able to visit you today, but I want you to know that I tried. I wish I could walk in and see you sitting in your father's lap, but that time will never come around, I'm afraid.

He doesn't finish reading, though he remembers the words as clearly as if he'd written them only a minute ago. They are scratched on the page, not his usual nice handwriting, but a desperate font, almost, as if he had to get them out and put them somewhere. Anywhere.

The truth.

He grapples for the pencil buried beneath the rest of the pages. Once he grasps it, he holds it over the page, still sitting on the floor and not caring one bit. He flips the page over in his hands and lays it flat on the cold surface beneath him, his hand hovering over the blank page, pencil shaking.

Then it steadies and he begins.

The truth appears silently, not quite as painful as spoken words, but carrying just as much weight. Luke will hear a half-truth when the time comes, but he'll make sure that the truth in its ugly, but pure form is there for him to find.

There was once a Jedi-

He stops again and crosses it out. Then he frowns and erases it instead. Another half-truth. Him telling a story woven into reality. It's not what he wants, so he begins again.

There is a man called Darth Vader. More machine than man, and a monster to most. To some he is the epitome of darkness, a rotting hole of hatred and rage. He kills, and he kills willingly. For pleasure, for revenge, for the twisted joy he gets from the challenge. He thrives on power, relishing in the weakness and inferiority of others. He is terror itself. Anguish drowning out hope. A cold that cannot be warmed. And yet he demands admiration. Admiration born of contempt, because those inferior to the darkness know they will never be as strong...

It's a rant almost, a vivid description of what he himself couldn't prevent, and it pains him to see the words come onto the page, but he continues, knowing it has to be done. The truth has to come out somehow... he pauses, lifts the pencil, leaves a space below the hefty beginning and sets it down again. Then he smiles a little, feels his heart get a touch warmer. What he writes next is something no one else knows. His own little secret. A sad truth, but one that holds a great deal of hope.

This is what Luke needs to know.

He slowly begins to write again, carefully scratching the words onto the page, through the page almost...

He is lost. He is confusion, he is pain, he is fear and doubt. Not to others, but to himself. He has no guidance, for darkness does not make the best of guides. It's a blind guide leading the way to a very steep cliff, one that has no bottom. An endless fall. But he is not falling yet, because Vader is just the shadow. Every light causes a few shadows to follow, and the brightest lights often cast the darkest shadows.

There is a Jedi you may have heard about...

Please leave a review if you can spare a few seconds! Thanks for reading! :)