Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm Ltd., itself property of The Walt Disney Company. I make no lucrative nor commercial use of my writings in relationship with the Star Wars license.
The first sun had set when Luke put the shovel down. Wind was picking up, mixing sand in his hair, and he shivered from the chill. The familiar smell of dusk and cooling heat reached his nostrils.
In front of him, standing out against the scarlet sky, were two gravestones taken from the ruins of the homestead. The names of his aunt and uncle were carved on them in uneven letters, the best he could achieve with the crude tools he had found.
He sat down in front of them, wiped the sweat from his brow. His muscles were burning, his limbs shaking, each breath he took a stab through his lungs. He wished for nothing more than to collapse onto the sand and lie there for all eternity.
But he didn't mind the discomfort. It was good to feel like this, the pain real and deserved, grounding him, absolving him.
He closed his eyes and hung his head, clasping his hands in front of his mouth, silent. What could he say? What words could express the extent of his grief, of his horror, of his remorse? It was like a hole in his chest, like a weight that had fallen into his guts.
He still had trouble believing it. It seemed like a long and overdrawn nightmare, something too huge and terrible for his brain to comprehend.
His family. Murdered.
Because of him.
Rage grew in Luke. There was no trace of the killers, but he knew exactly what must have happened. It was the only thing that made sense. It couldn't have been an accident, Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru would never have let it happen. But in the eyes of the Empire, they would have been guilty of harbouring a Rebel and a Jedi, even though he was neither of those things.
They had been slaughtered for the sole crime of taking him in.
He wanted to scream his fury into the desert until his voice was hoarse. They were innocent. They didn't deserve this. All they had wanted was to live their peaceful life, to take care of their farm, to read Luke's starstruck letters from wherever he was stationed.
And that had been taken away from them, all because the Empire had thought Luke was a traitor. But he wasn't, he was loyal, he was innocent. He'd only ever wanted to serve, to fly, to make the galaxy a better place. They'd taken everything from him, and all for nothing.
He had nothing left.
The thought was like a punch in the gut, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his fist against his lips.
He had nothing left. His home was destroyed, his family reduced to ashes, he had a death sentence on his head with the force of a whole Empire after him.
He was alone, with nowhere to go.
Let them come, then, he thought with self-deprecating anger. Let them find him here, let them insult him and beat him some more before shooting him in the back of the head and leaving his flesh to decay in the open wind on top of his guardians' graves.
In this moment he was too tired to care.
His hands trembled, his breath hitched, hollow, crushed by the weight of horror and pain.
Luke...
The wind was picking up. He could feel it, hear it whistling in his ear where he sat.
Luke...
He looked up and around, trying to find the origin of the call. There was nobody around him, just sand as far as the eye could see. And that distance was diminishing as the storm was rising, clouds of grains swirling in the air in spiralling motives.
He should find shelter. He should go back to his ship and fly it away from here, for the Imperials would be sure to look for him in his home.
But the voice was still calling, and these sensible thoughts were but a whisper in his mind, overwhelmed by curiosity and the reckless urge to follow it into the desert.
Luke...
He stood up, turned from the graves, and walked away.
Luke didn't know how long he wandered without knowing where he was going, an arm up to protect his face from the sand whipping his face. His lungs were burning, his chest was aching, his muscles were screaming when he finally arrived at a small dwelling carved in rock, a square building with a dome on top of it. He hurried to the door and leant against it as he knocked, his knees trembling.
There was no answer.
"Hello? Anyone in there?"
He knocked again, desperate. Whatever strength had allowed him to stand on his feet until here, it was starting to leave him, and he slid down to the foot of the door. His face hurt from the storm without a cloak and his chest was burning; he could barely keep his eyes open, squinting and blinking and weeping to chase the sand from them. There was so little light anyway night must have fallen.
"Anyone there? Please let me in, I'm lost!"
Luke was starting to panic. He needed to get in. It was a bad idea for anyone to wander outside during a sandstorm, especially in the Jundland Wastes which were known to be dangerous, and he was still weak and injured. Truth be told, he didn't understand how he hadn't collapsed on the way here.
Were he forced to stay outside, he would never make it through the night.
"Please!"
Open the door.
Luke started. He looked around, tried to find the source of the voice again.
The door is unlocked. Open it.
Luke had many questions, but they weren't the most pressing thing. With his left hand, he reached out and pressed the activation button.
To his surprise, it did slide open, and Luke nearly fell backwards when it did. He rose and hurried to enter, leaning against the panel with a relieved sigh once it closed again.
"Hello?"
No answer. Luke frowned. He fumbled with a hand on the wall before managing to find a light switch. The room buzzed with electricity then lighted up.
He looked around, tried to see if there was anyone around who could potentially be the owner of the hut. Who could be careless enough to leave their door open in the middle of the desert, at the mercy of pillagers and Sand People?
He seemed to be alone, though. Moreover, the house looked abandoned. There was a layer of dust on every surface, too much for it to be just someone away for a trip.
Luke sat down on the ground, his back to the door, as he could feel his legs grow weaker and spots starting to appear on the edges of his vision, his injured rib throbbing in his chest. How long had he walked in the sand? He had no way to know, but certainly far too long, especially in this state.
Now he was trapped here for at least as long as the storm lasted. Even if the weather had been good, however, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to leave. He'd just have to hope the owner of the house wasn't going to come back and chase him away, but hospitality was too strong a virtue on Tatooine for there to be a great risk of it happening.
Aunt Beru would certainly berate him for intruding in a stranger's home like that. But Aunt Beru would also want him to stay alive, and this was very much a life-or-death situation for Luke, uncomfortable as it made him.
Thinking of Aunt Beru was painful, and Luke tried to take his mind off his family.
The painful thumping in his ears was slowly receding. Luke looked around and tried to map his surroundings. White synthstone walls, small windows through which the wind was howling, furniture that was sparse but seemed comfortable: a small stove, a table, a chair, a bed with furs in an alcove which seemed to also serve as bed.
In the centre of the room lay a brown cloak, as if someone had taken it off then left it there. It was eerily stretched out on the floor in a puddle of cloth, foreboding.
The vision was uncomfortable, and he had to look away. But the rest of the room made his heart ache as well. It was so familiar, so close to his own home, the burnt home, all destroyed, that he'd had to leave behind.
He closed his eyes against the second pang of grief in his heart at the thought. The image of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru's corpses lying in the sun and the sand rose unbidden to his mind; he knew he would be carrying it for a long time. It still seemed unreal, as if by going back there he would find them once again like he'd always known them. Uncle Owen would clasp his shoulder, tell him he was glad to see him and send him to work; Aunt Beru would embrace him and see through his tough façade, let him break down in the safety of her arms...
He didn't have the strength to try and walk back there, though, in a way that had nothing to do with his physical fitness. He didn't think he could bear to see the destruction and the graves all over again.
Luke shivered, brought his arms around his chest, his knees closer to himself. He had forgotten how cold were the nights on Tatooine.
And this cloak lying on the ground... Luke didn't know what it meant, nor why it was there, but it made him deeply uncomfortable. He didn't want to move it, though, didn't like the thought of touching it.
Luke rose up just to get farther away from it and carefully made his way to the other end of the hut to the kitchen area. He knew the water was probably stale, but he opened the tap and drank anyway. He needed it too much to worry about bacteria like he usually would. Once he'd quenched his thirst, he straightened and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking around for food without much hope. There must be a cellar with some nuts and dried meat; he just had to find the stairs leading down to it. He suspected he would find it near the entrance, in the corridor.
He pondered the wisdom of it for a while. He was utterly exhausted, had nearly fainted upon arriving; the thought of stairs was not an appealing one. Yet going for longer without food certainly wasn't going to help matters.
In the end, he decided to find the trapdoor and see. There he found a light switch rather easily, which helped him gather his courage and tackle the stairs, a careful hand on the rail. After gathering some food in his arms, he came back to the ground floor then ate a little, sitting with his back against the wall again. Standing for more than a little at a time was still difficult and exhausting.
The bed was looking more and more appealing the more he stared at it, though. After several long minutes of hesitation, he decided that the owner probably wasn't going to come back in the middle of the night and thus wouldn't begrudge him sleeping there; the way the home was set, it looked like it also was a place where guests sat, anyway.
The furs were more comfortable than he had expected; they had a comforting smell of dust, sand and bantha. Lying was a huge relief, and he stayed motionless for a while, eyes closed and taking shallow open-mouthed breaths, his head swimming, pressure against his ears, pain in his ribcage.
At first he just lay on them, not wanting to open a stranger's bed, but when the bite of the cold forced him to choose between that and picking up the cloak on the ground, he ended up snuggling in them anyway. He was so exhausted he thought he'd fall asleep as soon as he was warmer.
Instead he tossed and turned for a very long time. His body was wired and tense, each noise making him jump. It was impossible to find a comfortable position, as pins and needles appeared in his limbs each time he forced himself to stop moving, and yet moving hurt his chest and made it harder to breathe. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his guardians' faces looking at him no more in love but in condemnation, twisting and twirling as they mocked him cruelly, cold grey walls closing in on Luke from everywhere around him.
In the background howled the desert wind.
Luke ended up waking from his half-slumber in tears, sweat on his face and the same mysterious whisper in his ear.
Luke...
He sat up, immediately awake and alert, and winced when the movement unsettled his rib once more. His heart was drumming in his chest.
"Who's there?"
He looked around frantically, but there was nobody. It was still the middle of the night, and the room was pitch black. Luke frowned; he didn't remember turning off the lights... Had the storm caused a power outage? But he thought he'd seen a generator in the cellar... a storm shouldn't be able to disturb it...
Luke reached out in the Force, but it still escaped him, slippery and murky. He couldn't find answers, couldn't see a thing through it.
You don't know me, but I know you, Luke.
Luke started. The voice was nothing but a caress against his ear, barely distinguishable from the wheezing of the storm. It might as well have slapped him in the face.
"Who are you?" he repeated, his heart still hammering, his hands clammy. His whole body was on alert; he didn't like this situation at all.
My name is Ben. For a long time have I watched you, protected you.
"Ben?" Luke said, frowning. "Like old Ben Kenobi, the hermit wizard who disappeared a few years ago?"
His eyes were drawn once more to the place where the cloak was lying, and a shiver of unease travelled down his spine.
The very same. I have seen you as a child playing in the dunes, flying in the canyons when you were still careless and free. But I fear I have failed you.
"What do you mean?" spat Luke. The voice may claim to be on his side, but he had no way to know that for sure. He repressed another shudder, brought his knees against his chest and wrapped himself around them. He was still fully dressed, boots included, and yet he couldn't help but feel naked.
He didn't have a weapon, not even a blaster. The Force still wouldn't answer to him when he called it, like a shadow that wouldn't let itself be touched, like a soap that would constantly jump out of his grasp. Luke was completely unarmed.
Were the creepy stranger to attack him, he would have nothing to defend himself with.
Luke. Go to the chest and open it.
Luke's heart was still thudding against his ribs, his guts knotted so tight it hurt, his breath so short it was useless. Now that he thought about it, he could remember something a little like a chest on the other side of the room. Was it a trap? Was something harmful hidden inside it?
What would the voice do to him if he refused to do it?
He just wanted for it to leave him alone. It wasn't normal; he was either growing mad or this place was haunted. The shadows looked as if they were going to jump on him and swallow him hole. The Force didn't help either, swirling agitatedly around him yet still desperately out of his grasp.
Do not fear. In this chest is your father's lightsabre.
Luke's eyes widened. "What?" he exclaimed. "How do you have that? Who are you?"
This time the voice didn't immediately answer, but Luke could still feel its presence around him, like a gentle caress against his ear. It didn't reassure him.
Everything in him was screaming at him to run away and leave this place behind. But until morning rose, and until the storm abated, he couldn't do that.
I was once a Jedi and your father's teacher. His weapon should now be yours, as he would have wanted.
Luke's stomach made an unpleasant somersault. A Jedi. The voice was claiming to be the spirit of a dead Jedi. How preposterous.
Yet he found himself latching on other words. His father's weapon...
For as long as he could remember, he'd longed to know his father. To have such a reminder of him... Luke knew there was probably nothing of the sort in the chest, that this was probably just a very elaborate hallucination. Still he was tempted, so very tempted.
After all, a weapon was always a good thing to have. He couldn't keep going disarmed; he thought he'd seen a rifle or two on the wall, but something with a closer range would be useful as well. And it would be a keepsake of his father...
In the end, dangers be damned, he rose and walked towards the chest. He tripped in the cloth of the brown cloak and moved away from it as soon as he could, nearly afraid it would come alive.
His breath short, he knelt in front of the chest and opened it. He blindly let his hand fumble in the things stored, the darkness making it impossible to see what was inside, until he stumbled on something metallic and cylindrical.
Gaping, he slowly took it out and rose. It felt good and natural in his hand, the weight of it just right. His thumb settled on something that felt like an activation plate; he pointed the weapon away from him and pressed it.
He jumped as a bright blue light sprang from the hilt, nearly one metre long, faintly illuminating the darkness of the room. He waved it right and left, transfixed.
An idea struck him. He squatted again and lifted the lightsabre above the chest, using the light to see what was inside. There were mostly what seemed to be clothes and trinkets, but a book with a leather cover drew his attention. He took it out as well, brought his makeshift torch closer to make out what was written on it.
"Ben Kenobi..." he read, his fingers brushing the journal. Perhaps the ghost was telling the truth, as ludicrous as it sounded.
This wouldn't be the first thing Luke hadn't imagined ever happening in his life.
Luke, the Force is muddled and agitated. Great change is about to happen. You must go to Dagobah; there, you will find a Jedi Master called Yoda. He can help you, teach you.
Luke turned off the lightsabre, unheeding of the darkness that reigned once more. His mouth faintly tasted of bile, and he swallowed.
No. He wasn't a Jedi. He wasn't.
"I thought the Jedi had disappeared," he absently said, trying to change the subject, to think of something else, anything else. "Weren't they all killed by –"
He cut himself off. No, no, no, bad idea, he shouldn't think about him –
Luke hung the lightsabre on his belt with a shaking hand, although he felt like throwing it away. The darkness was squeezing his head, and he couldn't breathe.
It was a keepsake of his father. It was a weapon. A weapon was a good thing to have. It meant he could defend himself, that nobody could make him do anything he didn't want, take him anywhere he didn't want to go. He was –
– free, he was alive –
Luke fumbled around for the light, desperately needing something to lay eyes on, to distract himself with. He hoped the problem wasn't with the generator itself... Thankfully, the lights flickered on as soon as he pressed the switch. Luke took a deep breath, flexed his stiff shoulders and rubbed his wrists, wincing when it upset the still tender skin.
He wished the ghost would just go away, but Ben unfortunately didn't seem to catch on.
Yoda is the only one who remains, he said. He taught me when I was but a youngling.
Annoyance shot through Luke, violent and surprising.
"I don't need help," he shouted before he could prevent himself, maybe a bit too loud, a bit too sharp. The sound was real, so was the hut and the storm outside it. "I'm no Jedi."
Indignation ran through him at the thought. How dare he even think it? How dare he tell Luke to follow his damned, doomed path? He was nothing, just a dead space wizard who'd been crazy way before that. Luke wasn't a Jedi, he wasn't and he was never going to be one. He just wanted for the voice to shut up.
You need training, the ghost insisted. The Force is strong with you, and the dark side is lurking. Yoda is safely hidden, you won't be discovered, he will help you.
"I said no," snapped Luke. He took the lightsabre in his hand, gripped it tighter. "Go away."
The walls were closing in around him. The air was too cold. Bile and blood were rising in his throat.
Luke...
"Go away!" Luke growled, slashing around with the lightsabre.
It made a trail of blue light in the air, a strong buzz ringing in Luke's ears. It sounded dangerous and was somewhat cathartic.
Luke bit on his lip, immediately regretting his outburst. Thankfully, he hadn't broken anything; all the blade had touched was air.
But Ben no longer responded.
Luke waited for a moment, certain he was going to come back and nag him again. After a few seconds of silence, though, he forced himself to relax, reasonably certain the voice was gone now. He deactivated the weapon.
He was no Jedi, and he was never going to be.
He was safe here.
His legs trembling, Luke all but fell down sitting on the ground with a sigh and rested the back of his head against the wall, facing the chest, his heart hammering in his skull. He ignored the horrifying cold around his wrists, swallowed the blood-tasting nausea, worked to get the quick gasps of his breath under control.
Soon his limbs stopped shaking. His emotions calmed down, leaving way to great exhaustion.
Luke gave the lightsabre a glazed look, then replaced it on his belt. He felt like he had been trampled by a dozen banthas, and his rib was hurting again.
Through the window, the wind's howling abated. The dunes outside seemed to grow lighter. Morning was rising, reassuring and bright.
Luke absently flipped through the pages of Ben Kenobi's journal, without reading it. He was too worn for it, and was somewhat afraid of delving into a Jedi's thoughts so soon after he'd had such a strong reaction to him. He put the notebook in one of the pockets of his belt anyway.
If Ben said the truth about being his father's teacher, perhaps there would be mentions of him in it...
His stomach growled, which he took as a good sign. He hadn't dared eat a lot since – in the last few days, and he hoped this meant his stomach was slowly getting back in working order, for he could feel the weakness in his muscles caused by the lack of nutrients.
He would have a few bites again, then go back to sleep. It was probably safe to stay for a few days... he doubted anybody would come find him here, in the middle of the Jundland Wastes. He was lucky to have found his place, where he would have time and quiet to recover from his injuries; he just had to hope the spirit of the dead Jedi wouldn't bother him again. Then, when he felt up to travelling, he would set out for Mos Eisley and find transport off-planet.
This time, when he made his way back to the bed and snuggled in the furs again, he fell asleep nearly instantaneously.
Outside, the storm had entirely calmed down.