A/N: And here we come at last to the end. Merry Christmas!

Epilogue: The Rain Curtain

Obi-Wan Kenobi had always thought that death would come like an inescapable storm.

Death is never sudden, for a Jedi; death always comes after a moment of awareness, where the Jedi knows it is coming, and hears the Force singing them home. The first storm swell had drowned almost all ten thousand of the Order; for the few who survived, there had been worse fates; crimson lightning, explosive thunder.

Obi-Wan senses his storm stir in the Force the moment he hears the harsh, mechanical breaths of the thing that was once his brother. He pauses, grasping his scarred lightsaber, and watches the thunder rumble in the Force–

–And he realises he has always been wrong.

The storm trembles in the oncoming wind, and subsides to a gentle swell of rain, a curtain of glorious spun gold rushing towards him from over the horizon.

It hovers there, just at arm's length, cascading in kyber-clear crystals over the black casket of Vader's armour, suffusing the air with a glimmer so bright it swells over the grimy red glow of Sith lightsaber. The patter of raindrops echoes with a promise he has heard every day of his life from the time he first reached out and touched the light; a promise of an eternal home, of a place untouched by thirst, or hunger, or shadow.

Beautiful, beautiful water.

The Force surges for a last time, and breaks gently over his boot-tips like the edge of an oncoming tide, leaving his path smooth and clear before him.

Perhaps he hesitates for a moment longer than he should have; but he would like to look past those bulbous red eyes and frozen, snarling mouth and see a shadow of the brother he raised. And there, just at the corner of his vision, Luke; those features so achingly similar, a blurred reflection of the man who had once stood beside him, and now towers before him, changed.

So for the last time, Obi-Wan raises his lightsaber in the ancient salute of the Jedi guardian; he stands like one of those solemn bronzium statues that line the processional way to the Temple, all those years and star-systems away, and smiles. Obi-Wan is almost amused at how the expression seems to shock Vader more than anything else he could have done...

And he steps into the rain.

Instantly, the aches of age and exile are washed from him. He feels the light of the Force more closely and cleanly than ever before; he is a crystal cut flawlessly from once-rough ore, sharp and perfect and a conduit so pure that the light pours in and out and around him as though he were created simply to bask in its warmth for eternity.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes – he is not quite sure when he had closed them – and finds that he is not quite alone.

"I have been waiting long, young one," Qui-Gon says, quite calmly. His long mane of earthen hair ripples in the gentle wind, around the edges of a small smile.

This world is a torrent of light; rain so fine and golden that the very air seems to laugh. Qui-Gon shines in bright, shadowless luminance, young and old and ageless all at once.

Obi-Wan stands for a moment, simply looking at the man before him. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Belatedly, he tries to bow, and is instead caught around the shoulders before he can complete the motion.

"You utter idiot," Qui-Gon says fondly, before pulling him quite firmly into a hug.

If Obi-Wan notices that his own hands seem smoother than they have been in a long time, and that there is a tickle of a padawan braid over his ear as he is smushed into coarse tabards, he does not pause to wonder at it.

The pitter-patter of rain is all around them, constant and soothing; but they are untouched by damp or cold.

"Mas-da," he mumbles into Qui-Gon's shoulder.

"Obi-Wan," the voice above his head says mildly, "I rather think you should address me by my name, considering you made Council and I did not."

And therein rests memory.

"Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan says, more clearly this time, "I tried."

A sigh, and then he is pushed to arms' length, though one broad hand still rests on his shoulder. Obi-Wan looks up, expectant.

"You did," Qui-Gon states, firmly. "And you succeeded. Or will succeed. It is the same thing, after all."

Obi-Wan blinks. "But I–"

"Obi-Wan. I am very proud of you."

The words settle into his heart like a warm bowl of tea; a sweet, secure weight in his core. He finds himself suddenly taller, with the steady hands and feet of masterhood, as he had in the early days of the Clone Wars.

Qui-Gon's eyebrows rise teasingly. "It's verging on the ridiculous that you didn't know, actually. I had an awful habit of boasting about you behind your back."

"I know," Obi-Wan chuckles, rubbing at his eyes – they are quite dry, but he feels as though they aren't – "You were never quite subtle about it."

"Subtlety would be your forté, my friend."

"And un-subtlety, yours."

"Speaking of unsubtlety," Qui-Gon says suddenly, "You should perhaps tell our young friend that one blaster against four stormtroopers is pushing it, even for a Skywalker."

Obi-Wan pivots, stares for a moment at the scene unfolding behind the rain curtain. Time seems to run slower on the Jedi's side; a scant few seconds have passed in the world of the living.

It does seem like a warning is in order. Blasted Skywalker brains.

"Run, Luke, run!" he shouts, instinctively pitching his voice to the aged timbre it acquired in the last years of his exile. Fortunately, this Skywalker seems to listen to him better than the previous one ever did; Obi-Wan's order echoes through the curtain, and is followed without question.

"There," Qui-Gon chuckles. "I should think your work completed."

The golden shower tumbles all around them. Obi-Wan extends a hand into the cascade and wills it to touch him; he lets the warm droplets trickle over his fingers.

"Where do I go now?" he inquires, matter-of-fact.

"I have a pot of tea waiting," Qui-Gon says, folding his wide sleeves together. "Tahl is minding the fire, and Mace – if he hasn't run off – is setting the table. There are others there, waiting."

Obi-Wan finds himself unable to speak, overwhelmed. Eventually, he manages to loosen his tongue enough for a croak. "Noorian blossom Sapir?" he whispers.

"Of course."

"Qui-Gon."

"Yes?" The elder Jedi responds.

Obi-Wan stares at him, and repeats, softer, "Qui-Gon."

The crowsfeet at the corners of Qui-Gon's eyes deepen. "Obi-Wan," he says, simply.

The Force is there. The Force is always there.

The rain falls forever warm and golden as they turn away from the rain curtain, and make their way home.

Finis

The Rain Curtain

by Eirian Erisdar

Thank you so much for reading! And a very merry Christmas to everyone. Qui-Gon is the only father Obi-Wan has ever known; I thought it appropriate that he should be the one to welcome him home. Noorian Blossom Sapir is a reference to another Obi-Wan story of mine, Tea and Deathsticks. Go check it out if you haven't had the chance!

It's rather amusing that started this story as a oneshot, writing Landing at Point Rain from Obi-Wan's perspective before it spawned into this ten-chapter fic. I think this was, in part, an expression of how much I loved the way Obi-Wan lived and the way he died; the fact it was something he accepted and welcomed as homecoming rang very true with my own beliefs. You're very welcome to message me if you would like to ask about it.

Do leave a review, and thank you to everyone who followed and favourited. I didn't have a chance to reply to the reviewers for the last chapter, but I shall endeavour to answer everyone who comments this time. Thank you all; I shall have a new The Silent Song chapter for you sometime in January.