They arrived on Tatooine at noon, the suns burning high above them, heat rising off the sand in shimmering waves. Ahsoka felt the dry air wicking her skin the moment she stepped off the freighter, and she tried not to show her discomfort—barely a minute on the planet, and already her clothes were sticking to her back, slick with sweat. It wouldn't take long before she was drenched through, at the rate Skywalker was leading her through the spaceport.
Mos Espa was a large, sprawling city, made smaller and cramped by the domed, thick-walled buildings—curved to protect against the sun, Skywalker told her—clustered tightly together. Shops and stalls fronted by awnings and verandas crowded the streets in a jumble of organized chaos. The main street was packed with beings of every shape and size, and when Ahsoka's gaze lingered on the unfamiliar species, Skywalker tugged her along to get a closer look—at the desert-seasoned eopies; the domesticated banthas, massive and horned; and the lumbering dewbacks, hauling carts, sleds, and wagons that ran on wheels and mechanical tracks.
"Tatooine is essentially a stopping point for traders," he was explaining to her, as they watched a pair of banthas rumble down the broad avenue, padded feet stirring sand and dust in thick clouds with each lumbering step. "Not a lot grows here—nothing worth to the Republic, that is—so we don't have much to trade. Our economy comes from our hyperspace routes—they connect all the Outer Rim Territories and borders the Mid Rim. Without them, we'd be cut off from the rest of the Republic."
"Does that mean you control the Outer Rim?" Ahsoka asked.
Skywalker paused. "In theory—yes, I suppose. But Tatooine has no jurisdiction over any system but our own. We just keep an eye on the passages between sectors, make sure no one's trafficking anything illegal through Hutt Space. We call it the Laya Region now."
A dark look crossed his face as he spoke, and Ahsoka knew he was thinking of the Separatists. It went unsaid: Tatooine might not control the Outer Rim, but they could under a different leader.
Was Dooku that leader? Would he go that far to secede from the Republic? Ahsoka didn't know what to think. She had never met the man, and neither had Obi-Wan, but it seemed too impossible. Someone from the Lost Twenty, a member of her own lineage, trying to instigate a war? No Jedi would do that, not even a former Jedi.
"There are a number of farms here, too," Skywalker went on. "Moisture farms, for the most part. We'll be staying in one, but it's a long way from here, over on the other side of Mos Eisley. We better get something to eat before we go."
So they picked their way through the merchants' district, and as they did, it seemed to Ahsoka that they couldn't go more than three steps without someone stopping to greet them. Vendors behind their stands, passers-by with their beasts of burden, drivers on their speeders—they waved at Skywalker heartily when they passed, some pausing long enough to make small talk.
Practically everyone dismissed Ahsoka almost out of hand, but she thought Skywalker looked uncomfortable whenever he had to introduce her. It didn't escape her notice that he was careful not to mention the Jedi or why she was here. By all appearances, she was just another visiting off-worlder, and at that, no one batted an eye.
One of the vendors they met—Jira, the weathered old lady running a fruit stand—was so pleased to see Skywalker that she spent a good ten minutes cooing warmly at him. Little Ani, Jira called him, and Ahsoka stifled her laughter at how red-faced he got from all the coddling. But Skywalker endured it without complaint and returned Jira's hug, and they left the fruit stand with a basket full of pallies.
"Someone's popular," Ahsoka said, snickering. They were standing at a quiet spot off the plaza, sipping at their ruby bliels.
Skywalker huffed. "Don't sound so surprised. We're not like the Senate here—not everyone has a stick up their ass."
"Oh, no," she deadpanned. "My poor youngling ears."
Skywalker rolled his eyes, but she was sure he was smiling. He didn't seem to mind all the attention he was getting, even though it slowed them down. If she hadn't known he'd made such a fuss about leaving Coruscant, she would have thought he was happy to be back home, catching up with his friends.
And they were his friends, Ahsoka could tell. He wasn't Senator Skywalker here. There was none of that formality and detached politeness she had come to expect from politicians.
"I used to sneak out here when I was a kid," he said, gesturing toward the plaza. "We wanted to be pilots, my friends and I, so we'd steal away to listen to traders and old spacers who come through here."
"You wanted to be a pilot?"
Skywalker looked away, twisting his fingers in his cloak. Ahsoka could feel the ripple of uncertainty roll off him in a tentative wave.
"I fly like my name," he said, sounding almost wistful. "I wanted to be a lot of things. But plans change and I just—never got around to them."
Ahsoka wrinkled her nose. "I know you're older, Skyguy, but you don't have to sound so old."
Skywalker laughed. "And you don't have to be so snippy. I can't help it if I have more life experience than you."
They continued to travel the crowded plaza. All the while, Skywalker let her dawdle at the food stores and odd shops, sometimes regaling her with anecdotes about some of the trinkets and brightly colored fruits that caught her eye. It reminded Ahsoka of her off-world missions with Obi-Wan—her Master did the same thing whenever they visited a new planet, and she was always a little afraid he'd quiz her afterwards, if he caught her not paying enough attention.
By the time they left the spaceport, the twin suns had dropped toward the horizon and the last of the day's light was beginning to fade. As they rode through the desert in their rented speeder, Ahsoka felt a pleasant, warm sort of fatigue starting to settle in her muscles. It wasn't what she expected, this bodyguarding business, but she'd be lying if she said she minded all the detours—or the company.
With Skywalker behind the controls, Ahsoka sat back and looked around her, curious to see more of Tatooine.
It didn't take her long to realize that there wasn't really much to look at. A ball of dust in space, Skywalker had called his planet, and he wasn't wrong. Everywhere she looked, she saw only an empty carpet of sand and sky, broken only by outcroppings of barren mountains and craggy cliff faces.
As if he'd sensed her disappointment, Skywalker glanced at her, smirking a little. Though his good mood hadn't vanished, Ahsoka remembered how ill-tempered he'd been back at Coruscant, how reluctant he'd been to return. He had seemed content enough in the frantic bustle of Mos Espa, but she thought she could see, now, why he felt hemmed in here. It was easy to feel desolate, when all there was to see for miles on end was a desolate landscape. When the sky overhead felt endless and out of reach.
The first stars were coming out, small pinpricks against the deepening black, when they arrived at the Lars' moisture farm. There was a man working on some sort of fence sensor outside the homestead, and he brightened as they approached. He looked around Obi-Wan's age, with a stocky build and a round, boyish face under a scrubby beard.
"And here I was thinking you weren't going to show," he said.
"Where else would I be?" Skywalker said, grinning back, as the man ran forward to embrace him.
"On a spice freighter halfway back to the Core. Don't say you didn't consider it—Kitster and I have a bet going."
"You didn't bet against me, did you?"
"Never," the man said, and he flicked Skywalker's ear. Skywalker yelped, scowling good-naturedly, but their laughter faded when the man caught sight of Ahsoka.
The man and Skywalker exchanged a look.
"Ah," he said, simply. Then he stepped forward, held out his hand for her to shake, and introduced himself as Owen Lars, Skywalker's stepbrother and Beru's boyfriend.
"I hope you're hungry," Owen said. "Dad went a little overboard with dinner . . ."
Owen led them through the entry dome and onto the courtyard. From the house door, a heavyset man—Cliegg Lars, Owen's father—glided out on a hoverchair to meet them. His face was weatherworn and sun-browned, and one of his legs was missing.
Skywalker glanced at Owen, and Owen answered with a grimace.
"The mechno-leg's been acting up again," Owen said. "I told him we should have gotten Matta to take a look—"
"And have her go all the way out here?" Cliegg said gruffly. "Nonsense. She's doing good work. Important work. I'm not going to intrude on her time when she's busy enough as it is."
"Then you should have told me," Skywalker said. "I could have talked to the Chancellor—you know he wouldn't mind getting us a new one."
"Well, I do. We owe that man too many favors as it is."
Skywalker's scowl, this time, was sharper. "He's my friend. He only wants to help."
"Which I don't need," Cliegg said firmly. He wore a long-suffering look that told Ahsoka this wasn't the first time they'd had this argument. "I appreciate the gift, Ani, but I can get by just fine. I always do."
"But you shouldn't have to! None of us has to just get by—"
"Enough of that now," Owen said pointedly. "We have a guest."
Cliegg turned to look at Owen and noticed Ahsoka for the first time. She felt a little offended—was she really so unnoticeable, standing next to Skywalker?
Maybe it wasn't a problem with Obi-Wan after all. Maybe it was just her.
Cliegg's expression softened.
"Ani, you didn't tell us you were bringing a friend," he said.
Ahsoka felt Skywalker hesitate, the way he had been hesitating all afternoon, so she came forward. "I'm Ahsoka Tano. I'm the Jedi assigned to protect Senator Skywalker."
Cliegg frowned. "A bodyguard? Is it that serious?"
"Don't worry," Skywalker said, with a sideways smile. "She's tougher than she looks."
Ahsoka pursed her lips, trying to hold back her grin.
Soon after, they were sitting at the dinner table, passing food bowls all around, Skywalker and Cliegg's argument seemingly forgotten. Ahsoka took a good helping of several different dishes. The food was all unfamiliar, but the smells told her that she wouldn't be disappointed. She had expected dinner to be a quiet, awkward affair, like it had been at Padmé's, but Owen and Cliegg were quick to rope her into the conversation, asking her about the trip to Mos Espa and her other travels.
Ahsoka wasn't sure what to say, but they seemed interested—interested enough to humor her, anyway—so she told them, haltingly at first, about a recent visit to Ator, one of her more exciting missions with Obi-Wan. Skywalker was quiet as he ate, but he was watching her with studied concentration, nodding and smiling along. It reassured her, somehow, though she couldn't say why, and she became more animated as she finished her story.
"I've been to Ator," Cliegg said. "Lovely place. Owen was born there, but we came back here as soon as we could. Never looked back. But I must say, sometimes I wish I'd traveled more."
"You still could," Skywalker said.
Cliegg chuckled and waved his hand as if swatting away a fly.
"We're happy here, really," he said to Ahsoka. "Our family has been farming for five generations. I can't imagine living anywhere else."
Ahsoka nodded, thinking of the Temple. It was the only home she had ever known. As much as she enjoyed going away on missions, there was something to be said about knowing that there was always somewhere to come back to. She told them as much, and Cliegg beamed.
"Exactly," he said, arching a brow at Skywalker.
"You couldn't get Dad to leave this place even if you paid him," Owen said laughingly. "Sounds like you've done a lot of traveling, though. Have you been a Padawan for very long?"
"Not really," Ahsoka said. Then she remembered how Skywalker had reacted to her age and quickly added, "But my—teacher, Obi-Wan, he encouraged me to go—"
"Obi-Wan?" Cliegg echoed, his eyes going wide. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?"
"You know him?" Ahsoka said, startled.
Cliegg's brow furrowed into something like recognition, the corners of his mouth twisting into something that could have been contempt.
"I know of him," he answered, but his gaze was on Skywalker.
Skywalker was wearing a hard expression, his eyes flicking over everything but the faces around him, his hands disappearing into the folds of his cloak.
Worry coiled in Ahsoka's gut. She had felt so at ease with Skywalker in Mos Espa, with the Lars in their warm, cozy kitchen, that she had almost forgotten—she was navigating uncharted territory, here. There was so much she didn't know, these histories that preceded her.
Owen cleared his throat, suddenly.
"It's been a long day," he said, getting to his feet. "Ahsoka, come along, I can show you to your room . . . Dad, didn't you say you wanted Anakin to take a look at the vaporators?"
Then, with a speed that would have put a Jedi to shame, Owen cleared the table, nudged Ahsoka out of her seat, and led her out of the kitchen and away from Skywalker, Cliegg, and the tense silence that surrounded them.
"Don't worry about them," Owen assured her. "They'll talk it out. By morning, Anakin will be back to normal. Now—how about a tour?"
Ahsoka didn't know if that was supposed to make her feel better, or why she would even need to. It wasn't like she knew what normal looked like for Skywalker. But she kept the thought to herself—Obi-Wan would be proud—as Owen showed her more of the farm.
Each room was cool and shadowy, the planet's heat shut out by the thick walls, though dust still hung hazily in the air, caught by the ambient light cast by the glow lamps. Furniture, tools, and various bits of machinery took up almost all of the available space, but most of the clutter was kept to the side, and there was more room than the entry dome would suggest.
Finally, Owen showed Ahsoka the guestroom, which was as neat and clean as the rest of the homestead.
"Obi-Wan did something, didn't he?" Ahsoka said quietly, just as Owen was about to leave. She didn't know what it was that spurred her to ask—but it clicked, then. "That's why Senator Skywalker hates him so much."
Owen lifted a brow. "How do you know it was your teacher and not Anakin?"
"Was it Anakin?"
"You'd be surprised, at how often it is Anakin."
Ahsoka snorted with laughter.
"Or maybe not," said Owen dryly. "I don't know what he's told you, but his past is his own. I'm sure he'll tell you everything you want to know, when he's good and ready."
"I don't think he likes me much," Ahsoka admitted.
But Owen just smiled, like he was sharing a secret. "You'll wear him down soon enough. I can tell."
Obi-Wan knew there was no one in the galaxy more reliable for information than Dexter Jettster, unless that person was Jocasta Nu—but the computer screen in front of him, displaying an empty quadrant of a star map hologram, showed that the two were completely at odds.
Kamino. A planetary system that wasn't on any maps, that seemingly didn't exist. . . . Was his only lead nothing more than a dead end?
Dexter had been certain of the origins of the saberdart. Every bit as certain as Madame Jocasta had been of the completeness of the Jedi Archives. Both couldn't be right.
Obi-Wan leaned back in his seat, pondering his next move. It seemed the puzzle of finding Anakin's would-be assassin was not as clear-cut as he had hoped.
Oh, Anakin . . . what have you gotten yourself into this time?
Obi-Wan's gaze drifted to one of the bronze busts that lined the halls of the Archives, commemorating the Lost Twenty. Perhaps the saberdart wasn't his only lead. . . .
Obi-Wan hadn't known this man, this legend, Count Dooku, very well. His leaving was a sore topic, rarely discussed even as gossip, as were the Jedi who left before and after him. What little Obi-Wan knew of Qui-Gon's former Master, he had gleaned only from Dooku's reputation. From that alone, Obi-Wan found it hard to believe that Dooku could be their culprit.
Dooku's visit to Tatooine might have been somewhat suspicious, but it was hardly a reason to denounce the man as an assassin and a warmonger. With thousands of systems joining the Separatist movement, many of them Outer Rim Territories long neglected by the Senate, it was more likely Dooku had sought out Anakin because he thought Tatooine could be swayed to his cause.
But Anakin was certain it was more than that. More troubling, he believed there was some connection to his mother's death, though he had no proof to verify either claim. All he had was his instinct.
Instinct, which Anakin had in spades. The more pressing question: was that instinct borne from listening to the Force, letting its currents guide him to the right path, or was he only hearing what he wanted to hear? Was it the will of the Force, or was it the will of Anakin himself?
There were times when Obi-Wan couldn't tell. The Force had always been different around Anakin, and no amount of meditation could lift the fog of uncertainty that clouded his future. Any other Jedi flowed seamlessly with the tide, like minor planets following their courses, but Anakin was like the eye of the storm, like the sun—or perhaps he was the remnant of the sun, a black hole dragging the Force toward him, pulling until he was the center around which they orbited.
Obi-Wan felt a tinge of regret as he remembered his conversation with Ahsoka earlier that morning. Perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing her suggestion, circumstantial though it was. Whatever else he might have thought of it, there was no excuse for the way he had reacted, only his own weakness—nightmares of losing Anakin, of holding his little corpse the way Obi-Wan had held Qui-Gon's, had speared through Obi-Wan, then, and it was a grief sharper than any blade.
It made little sense that he could still remember them with perfect clarity, all these years later, as though such dreams were fragments of memory. They weren't, of course they weren't, because Anakin was still alive. Lost to Obi-Wan, maybe, but still alive.
If Obi-Wan could make peace with Qui-Gon's death—had long ago learned to live with the pit inside him, the hollow space where Qui-Gon was meant to be—then surely, surely by now he could make peace with this too.
You are a Jedi, Obi-Wan reminded himself, ruthlessly. Jedi let go.
But in that moment, sat by himself in the Temple library, with his fellow Jedi paying him no heed—away from Ahsoka's prying looks, from Anakin's righteous anger, from the Council's exhausting demands—Obi-Wan could admit, if only to himself, that this was one tenet he still hadn't mastered, even with ten years of Knighthood behind him. Might never master, and might never truly want to.
Because Anakin was alive, and Anakin was a memory—Qui-Gon's last wishes, all his hopes, distilled down to one person. What would be left, if Obi-Wan gave him up? Nothing else. Qui-Gon left no other legacy but Obi-Wan himself, and that was nothing at all.
Maybe, perhaps, there was Ahsoka. His precocious Padawan, who had been shoved into an apprenticeship neither of them had been prepared for. To place on her shoulders the same burden he carried with him, to have her live in the shadow of a dead man—Obi-Wan wouldn't allow it. Couldn't allow it. She was his lifeline, in the tangled knot of failing Qui-Gon and losing Anakin and grieving them both.
Train the boy, Qui-Gon had said, his dying breath spent on a boy he had known for only days, and Obi-Wan had agreed. One last opportunity to prove himself to his Master—and it was an opportunity he had squandered.
Obi-Wan took a shallow breath and closed his eyes.
Jedi let go.
He stood, dragging his chair with him. The loud screeching sound drew some reproving stares and distracted him from his thoughts.
Which was just as well, he supposed. He had a job to do. He could dwell on these grim meanderings another time.
With an apologetic smile at Madame Jocasta, Obi-Wan downloaded the archive information on the region of the missing Kamino to a small hologlobe. Then, the item in hand, he left the Archives.
But not without one long, last look at the imposing bust of Count Dooku.
Ahsoka awoke suddenly, as if somebody had whispered in her ear, startling her into consciousness. She sat up straight in her bed, and for a moment, she couldn't place where she was. It was still and quiet, but she could hear the wind moving beyond the thick walls of her room.
No—not her room. The Lars' guestroom.
She was on Tatooine. On her first assignment without her Master. She was with—
There it was again—that whisper. Ahsoka strained to hear it. The Force was thrumming around her. A low, wordless hymn.
Something had awakened her, but not something in here.
Disoriented, her feet moving of their own accord, she rushed out the door and crossed the courtyard, then walked out the entry dome. A cold gust of wind greeted her as she stood in the doorway, jarring her back to her senses. Now more awake, she looked out over the empty desert.
Only it wasn't empty.
In the distance, under the blanket of stars, was Skywalker.
His lightsaber—blue, just like Obi-Wan's—was drawn and activated, bathing him in an eerie glow. A trio of training droids was hovering around him, and Skywalker was moving, swinging his blade in wide, sweeping arcs.
At first, Ahsoka wasn't sure what she was seeing, why the Force had brought her here, but then its hymn pealed louder in her ears, nudging her forward, urging her to look . . .
The droids were darting rapidly to and fro, surrounding Skywalker in all directions. Though they were lunging toward him—sometimes alternately, sometimes all at once—Skywalker was holding them back, dodging their attacks, his lightsaber deflecting their energy bolts.
He was practicing, Ahsoka realized. Really practicing, not just wildly swinging his saber around.
And he knew what he was doing. He moved with the grace and certainty of someone who had wielded a lightsaber before. Someone who could draw from the Force to fuel his movements, to guide every strike and parry.
Ahsoka wasn't sure she understood. The Council had said Skywalker was untrained, but she could see, right in front of her, that it wasn't quite true.
But it wasn't untrue either. Skywalker didn't have the poise and control of a practiced Knight; he reminded her more of a novice Initiate, still mastering his combat forms. He had no real, proper style, and even from afar, she could see all the little mistakes Obi-Wan would have chastised her for making—a too wide parry, a sloppy lunge, a riposte too slow to land.
And yet Skywalker moved with an ease Ahsoka had never seen before—not from any of her fellow Padawans, not from Obi-Wan. Not even from Master Yoda. What Skywalker lacked, he made up for in speed and raw power.
Sheer, unbridled power in the Force.
She had sensed it in the anger that hung around him when he spoke of the Council. In the silence that echoed when they caught and then lost his assassin. In the truth that rang in his words when he told her of going to Ilum.
If Obi-Wan could see her now, Ahsoka knew he would disapprove of her awe. There was more to wielding the Force than brute strength, he had told her that often enough. Power could only get a Jedi so far. Control was important. Restraint was important.
But seeing Skywalker, so engulfed in the Force, as he moved in time to the rhythm of its song . . .
It was mesmerizing.
Vaguely, Ahsoka wondered if this was what non-Force-sensitives felt around the Jedi. Awe and curiosity—but underneath it all, a strange sense of helplessness.
I will never be as strong in the Force as he is, even if I train twenty hours a day.
Ahsoka didn't know how long she stood there, entranced, before she heard heavy, shuffling footsteps behind her. She turned to see Cliegg moving around the corner, heading her direction. He was wearing a mechno-leg made of gleaming black and gold metal.
Ahsoka tried not to stare. The prosthetic looked Coruscanti-made, and it was easily the most expensive thing she had seen on the planet so far. It didn't look like it belonged here, surrounded by dust and dirt, compared to the machinery she'd seen on Mos Espa.
Cliegg caught her looking. Embarrassed, she opened her mouth to apologize, but he stopped her with an easy smile and a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Anakin was adamant I use it," he said, with a gently deprecating shrug. "But between you and me, I prefer the hoverchair. Ani made that one himself. Not that I don't appreciate the Chancellor's gift, mind you, but the chair's not quite as . . . showy."
He looked over at Skywalker; his face lit up with quiet pride.
"Ani made those things too. That saber, those training droids—made them all from scrap. Still don't know how he does it."
"Does he go out here a lot?" asked Ahsoka.
"First thing in the morning, usually. But lately, he's been . . ." Cliegg's expression shifted a little, hesitating. "He goes out here when he can't sleep. My guess is, he's having one of those nights again—but your lot would know more about that than I do."
"What do you mean?"
"Ani sometimes has these . . . dreams. Visions, he calls them."
Curiosity welled inside her. "What kind of dreams?"
Force visions were rare—Ahsoka didn't know anyone who'd had them before, besides Master Yoda. She had asked Obi-Wan about them once, and while she couldn't remember why she had—some report for one of her classes, probably—she could still remember how carefully impassive he'd been when he'd answered her, how the Force had prickled around him with curious apprehension.
Not every dream is a premonition, Obi-Wan had told her. Even Jedi have dreams, my young Padawan.
So how did Skywalker know the difference?
"You'll have to ask him," Cliegg said. He turned back to Ahsoka with a considering look. "You brought your saber with you, didn't you? Why don't you join him?"
Her eyes widened. "I don't think—er—that's not really . . ."
"For what it's worth, I don't think he'll mind the company. He's always complaining about not having anyone to spar with."
Lilting notes seemed to float through the air. The Force was prodding her again—but to what? Say yes? Say no? What was she supposed to do with an untrained—half-trained, barely trained, whatever Skywalker was—Force-sensitive?
This wasn't in her mandate. The Council never said anything about Skywalker actually knowing about the Force, and Obi-Wan . . .
Ahsoka didn't know what her Master would want her to do. She never knew what he wanted from her, period. What was she supposed to do now, when she had no idea what he would have done in her place?
Noticing her hesitation, Cliegg offered a warm laugh. "Well, if you change your mind, you're more than welcome to join him. Keep an eye on him, if nothing else."
"I'll think about it," Ahsoka said weakly.
Cliegg glanced at Skywalker again, shaking his head fondly.
"That boy could never sit still for long. He'll tire himself out in a few, not to worry. But you should get some rest. Work around here starts at First Dawn. And if I know Ani, you'll have your hands full trying to keep up with him."
They bade each other good night, and Ahsoka went back inside. As she hurried down the steps, she looked over her shoulder to see Cliegg take her spot by the doorway, standing as if in vigil over Skywalker.
Ahsoka returned to her room and lay in the dark for a long, long while, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the odd melody wrapped around Skywalker. She could still hear it, could still feel its warmth, and the gentle, steady beat rocked her to sleep.
