Dear Qui-Gon,
I am most distressed, and I ask that you come to me so I may seek your counsel. I have attempted to communicate with Yoda, but I sense that he has entered into a deep and lengthy meditation and cannot be disturbed.
Today was Empire Day, or so it has been proclaimed throughout the Imperial worlds. One year ago the Republic fell, and the galaxy was plunged into darkness. One year ago that my dear friend died, and a monster took his place.
But I will not dwell on those thoughts, for the pressing concern is what happened at the Lars homestead today. It is Luke's birthday soon, and I visited Beru to see if she was planning anything in particular. I remember at the Temple the day of one's birth was a day of pranks, and I recall fondly the tricks of my fellow padawans that often got the better of me – itching powder in my robes, replacing my breakfast tea with cold bantha broth, reprogramming my datapad to play Roda-pop music rather than training holos. I remember my birthday the year you took me as your apprentice, Qui-Gon, and pretended that I'd been pronouncing your name wrong the entire time!
I worry for Luke when he grows, that he will not have such close friendships. There are a few children close to his age in Anchorhead, or so Beru tells me, but birthdays are not marked on Tatooine – at least amongst the farming community. I gather than most cannot afford such festivities; the only event on which precious resources are spent being one's wedding.
I understand this, of course, but still promised I would visit Luke on his birthday with a gift. I had already been to Ancorhead for that purpose, as well as to purchase tea to replenish my dwindling stores. I had bought an extra box, which I gave to Beru for her recent kindness and was pleased when she simply thanked me and stored it in her larder.
This was my first cause for concern. As Beru put the tea away I noticed that the larder was very bare indeed, with only the essentials and not much of those. Jars of homemade food for Luke seemed to make up the bulk of their supplies, and I then realised why Beru looked so thin.
Luke was in my lap sleeping, and a quick examination revealed that he was healthy; as chubby as any baby ought to be. But Beru looked almost skeletal, her face thin and her waist impossibly small – if possible even more ill than when she had visited my hut not too long ago.
"Are you quite alright, Beru?" I asked, deciding the straightforward approach probably best.
But for her many fine qualities and talents, Beru has a poor sabacc face. "Yes, of course Ben," she said with an unconvincing smile. But she gave herself away, tugged nervously at the binding on her wrist I had not noticed before. She saw my gaze rest there and pulled her hand away, smoothing her sleeve down over the bandage to hide it once again. "A reality of farming life," she said in an attempt at explanation. "Those vaporators often get the best of me."
But they did not call me The Great Negotiator for nothing – I know when someone is lying to me. More often than not I can see the truth written across someone's face – as I saw it in Anakin's at the beginning of the Clone Wars, when he escorted Padmé back to Naboo and claimed nothing of interest had happened. I had stayed silent then, but I would not do so now.
"I do not believe you," I told Beru firmly as Luke started to stir in my arms. "I want to help, Beru."
"We don't need your help." Owen's rough growl came from the doorway, and when I turned there stood a man severely altered from when I had seen him last. He was thin also, but in a different way from Beru, in the way of a man who worked too hard with not enough to eat. He was lean to the point of tragedy, his robes hanging loosely off a frame of bone and muscle and nothing else. It was then I noticed the black eye Owen was sporting, blotchy and dark, perhaps a few days old.
Luke woke up and began to cry, perhaps sensing the altered mood of the room. Surprisingly, it was Owen who crossed the small room to take the boy from me, and I did not miss that the man was limping slightly.
"This is none of your concern, Kenobi," Owen said gruffly, holding Luke up against his shoulder and patting him on the back with large, weathered hands.
I rose, angered by his recalcitrance. "If Luke's welfare is at stake, it is absolutely my concern," I told him. "Beru said that the farm was doing well, and yet I see you have barely any food supplies, with the two of you practically fading away and injured to boot."
"Luke has enough, we make sure of that," Owen held the boy tighter, almost as if to protect him from my line of questioning.
"If the burden is too great, I can make other arrangements," I offered, anguished at the thought that the young couple were struggling because their meager income could not stretch to accommodate a child as well.
"Get out," Owen ordered me, and I knew I had made an error of judgement. "This is Luke's home now, and we are his guardians. We will look after him."
Beru went to her husband's side, and put a small hand of support on his shoulder. "You are always welcome here Ben," she said softly. "But Owen is right, you must leave us to our own affairs."
Seeing that I would get no further, I bowed my head and left. It is now as I write this that I realise that there must be external forces of pressure on the Lars family, something they did not have to worry about before. Perhaps a local bully like Orrin Gault? Or more concerning a source…
I will meditate, Qui-Gon, and hope that you appear.
Obi-Wan Kenobi
