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Part II: Dust On The Wind
He found himself in a strange place, in an in-between place. As though wedged between a dilapidated slum and a senator's mansion, Obi-Wan blinked away the muddied passage of unconsciousness. The sandstorm raged, yet to exhaust itself, but he discovered that he didn't care. A translucent film of eternity had been placed over everything, and he tried in vain to resist the idea that he saw things clearer through it.
Love is not the illusion, life is.
For a moment, it seemed as though someone had taken a fistful of colourless dust and used it to form a picture of Qui-Gon Jinn on the jaundiced canvas of the fevered storm. Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, and slowly breathed out emotion. Even if his eyes had seen any such thing, he knew it would be entirely due to his own perception of the Force. It simply wasn't his Master's way to rise from coagulating sand in the middle of a Tatooine sandstorm like some apparition of the Whills.
Besides, reflected Obi-Wan ruefully, Qui-Gon had never quite learned to like his broken nose.
Objective reality, factual physicality, eluded him. There was only the Force. Talk to me, Master, not at me!
The Force spoke in the voice of Qui-Gon Jinn. Have you given up hope, Obi-Wan? Despair is of darkness.
'Darkness…' He was vaguely wondered if he was still capable of stringing a coherent sentence together. 'Has perfect union with the Force bestowed on you transcendence above the pain of ten thousand worlds, Qui-Gon?'
He is dead, thought Obi-Wan furiously, he is beyond pain. I can no more hurt him than I can hurt the Force, and I should be thankful for that. The Force swirled and rippled, muddied with darkness. But in this moment, in this moment, the Force was Qui-Gon Jinn, and Qui-Gon Jinn was the Force, and Obi-Wan thought, Let not this last sanctuary be sullied. Let it not be spoiled. Please. And it was all right, light, only he could not see it.
When that which is invulnerable chooses to be with the vulnerable, we call it love. Obi-Wan.
He set his shoulders rigid, trying to keep them from shaking. A crushing realisation had struck him as Qui-Gon spoke—that neither love nor hope nor even duty bound him here, in a dusty hut on this sweltering armpit of a planet, in this foul universe. It was despair, debilitating inertia.
Let it go, Padawan. Let it go. Despair is of darkness—so is anger. So is fear. So is hate. Despair is sin is lack of trust, of love.
He lifted his nose bare inches from the sand. 'Can't there be love without trust?'
Can there? And in that moment, he didn't know if the Force spoke, or if it was his own parched voice he had heard. Trust is luxury, hard won, easily lost.
Obi-Wan, love those you love as they deserve to be loved. That is immortality—selfless love. And faith. Faith in the Force, in Its Chosen One.
'Faith. In An-Anakin.' The name stumbled from between his lips like dirty joke.
Pure faith. The Force spoke, but it did not command. Invulnerable, it became vulnerable, waiting. Waiting for him.
Obi-Wan was gasping for air. 'I…can't. I know, I can…know it, but Master, I can't understand it.'
It will be enough. Only know it, know it. The One will bring balance. Then will you trust me, Obi-Wan?
'Master, I know it!' The four words were shouted, desperately, the next four were whispered, 'I cannot be more.'
The storm was calming now, the wind dropping to a gentler gale force intensity. The air around him, stirring the sand between his legs, gusting his tunic, scouring his lungs and nasal passages, coursing in his blood, was roiling with primal violence. And in this moment, there was the Force, there was Qui-Gon Jinn, the man, immortal who had been mortal, One with the transcendent embrace of the vast, vast Force. Obi-Wan, do you regret your love for Anakin?
His response was an inelegant silence, his mind an eloquent, vivid canvas of painfully clear memories over which was spattered a profoundly abstract confusion and uncertainty.
It was as though his Master had faded into One with the Force all over again, until there was only the peace, the passion, the calm of Light when it spoke inside him, the borders of selfhood were blurring, fading already. Love is that which does not pass away.
Tears start, because here, here, is the whole grief of the universe, the teaching Anakin had never learned to take into his bruising heart—all things die. Yes, and even the light of the stars will go out. Have gone out. Even the Son of Suns has plunged in darkness.
Love is hatred's answer. Faith for betrayal. What is anger, if not love scorned?
He knows his Master, knows this truth. Cannot understand it. 'Don't—'
You cling to despair, Obi-Wan. Let it go. You did not fail in protecting him from being taken by darkness. Darkness is a choice we all make, every moment. And love.
He is shaking his head. No, no, no. 'All things…d-die. Even—'
Obi-Wan, don't go there. Now is not the time. Come, Padawan, trust me this far.
It was, then, neither faith nor passion nor hope that pulled him out of his bestial crouch and onto his feet, but the apathy of duty, a blind bond to promises made long ago, promises and faithfulnesses that had long since had their overripe fullness burned out, scraped raw, tossed into pits of flame, smoked into dust on the wind. The world was disjointed, or had been rearranged into a hideous simulacrum of reality that was all broken shell-pieces, all shattered deception layered so fragile on emptiness, as though the very movements of the constellations were ancient spell-words whose meaning had exploded into oblivion. Ever he followed his invisible, intangible guide, and to Obi-Wan, it seemed that with each step he took, the ground beneath his feet became more solid, more real, each step forward creating the solidity he was entrusting his body to, the sand seething over his boots and the wind plucking at his beard seeking to reassure him of the validity of their existence.
Time moved mysteriously, and before his mind had quite caught up, his feet were walking familiar territory. The seemingly featureless lay of the land, its distinguishing marks disfigured in the wake of the raging sandstorm as though by some vicious knife attack, the crunch of sand beneath his boots, the sand-swamped hut with its bulky vaporators. The home that would serve him until the Force willed Luke trained, and the Sith defeated. Both of which might not occur while he still drew breath, if they even occurred at all. He inhaled sharply, and lengthened his strides, and suddenly, he could see something there, less than a hundred feet from him—he hadn't noticed it sooner because it was perfectly concealed with sand—almost as though someone had deliberately hidden it from view. From the crude, blockish shape of its bulk as the wind shifted the sands tiding over it, he knew it was a landspeeder, and, fearful as he was of the implications of Imperial incursions, his heart rattled anxiously in his chest before he realised it was of local make. Which was almost as bad, because there was no one alive he could see. He broke into a run, his heart sinking as he drew closer and recognised the speeder as the same one he had seen parked outside the Lars homestead nearly a year ago.
Obi-Wan's heart tripped. There was a body crumpled against the leeward side of the speeder, hunched oddly, its posture suggesting it was protecting something beneath it. Forcing himself to be calm, he knelt beside it and began hastily shovelling aside the high sand drifts with slightly trembling hands. He uncovered a smooth, young, feminine face, half-shielded with a thick, homespun cloak; slim shoulders draped in the same heavy, greyish stuff; and then—oh sweet Force!—a pair of wiry arms clasped tightly around a fragile bundle of infant softness. Obi-Wan fiercely hugged Luke against his chest, not even thinking to brush away the sand from the child's mouth and nose and ears, and from inside his linen wrappings. It was a miracle he heard the boy's heartbeat through the layers of dusty fabric, over the thundering of his blood in his ears. Still on his knees, he turned to reviving Beru. He manoeuvered her limp body into a sitting position, leaning her weight awkwardly against the speeder. Balancing Luke carefully in the crook of his elbow, he grasped her shoulder and shook gently, calling her name. At the sound of his voice, Luke began to cry.
Beru came round slowly, her eyes fluttering open, and then widening with recognition. 'Massster Ke-Kenobi?' she slurred groggily.
'Ben,' he reminded her emphatically. 'Come, don't talk until you've had a rest and a drink.'
Even as he spoke, she violently pulled herself away from the speeder's flank, her gaze darting around wildly. 'Luke?' she cried.
'He's with me—don't worry. I've got him.' He placed a firm hand on her arm and helped her up. 'My house is just fifteen minutes ahead. I'll get both of you in there, then you tell me…'
Once she was safely inside, he handed Luke to her, and sagged against the doorframe. A Jedi's work is never done…But I'm not a Jedi anymore.
Aren't you?
Scowling, he pushed himself away and followed them in. When he silently offered Beru water, she did not protest. She uttered her thanks in a low voice, splashing some over Luke's face and into his mouth before swallowing a good half-jugful, and then passing the jug back to him. He slowly drank the remaining liquid while she looked about—it was her first time here.
When they had both drunk their fill, she said, 'It's hard to think of you living here, like this…Ben.' She used his new name uncertainly, and her gaze studiously avoided his, casting about instead on his spartan furnishings and meagre possessions.
'Me? Why?'
'Well—you being a Jedi, and a general in the Republic during the wars and all.' Gaining confidence, her gaze locked on his face, but his eyes were no longer trying to meet hers. He stared into a vanished distance as he replied, 'Don't speak of such things, Beru. The Republic no longer exists, nor the Jedi, and you'd get us all in trouble, or worse, talking like that.'
'I have to think about it,' she answered, her voice rising a little, 'because this is how my Luke is going to be living, if he's to be a Jedi like his father was.' She paused. Dimly, Obi-Wan's mind registered her casual possessiveness toward Luke, and then she was continuing, 'Owen doesn't talk of such things, but I reckon you're set on training my boy.'
'Beru,' he said clearly. 'Luke is not your son. He is Anakin Skywalker's son. And everything a Jedi possesses, including his family, can be called upon at any time to be sacrificed for the greater good. Luke's life, as was Anakin's, should be avowed to the service of preserving—or creating—peace and justice in the galaxy.' As soon words left his lips, he knew they had been cruel, hypocritical, and, to a large extent, not even true. But he had not been feeling kind or true. He had been feeling empty, a shell of Obi-Wan Kenobi, sitting beside Beru Lars.
He had expected an outburst from her, but she was nodding her head with admirable acceptance of his harsh words. 'He cannot be made to be a farmer all his life,' she said simply. 'I have seen that in him already, and he is just a baby. Owen can't face that, but I have seen what Luke was born to be. I have seen it in him. Take him, when he is ready.' She stopped, and he saw her eyes, close to passionate. He was painfully reminded of the pure faith Shmi Skywalker must have had so long ago, when she entrusted her only child to the care of a tall Jedi and a young handmaiden she barely knew. He wondered if either of the women realised how young Jedi started training. But whether Luke was ready or not was irrelevant. The time had not yet come.
'I know he is for greater things. But it is…hard…' Luke heavy on her lap, she turned her eyes away.
'I understand,' said Obi-Wan softly. More than you could know, he thought, his heart aching.
She briefly passed a work-roughened hand over her eyes, then said, 'I came out here so Luke could visit you. Owen's away in town for a few days. I just thought…I just thought if he could see you sometimes…he'd know there's more to the galaxy than vaporators and storage tanks and droid maintenance and beating off Tuskens and gathering mushrooms. So he'd be more ready, when the time comes. If you don't mind?'
He didn't answer her question. 'Owen doesn't like me seeing Luke, Beru?' he asked.
'He doesn't,' she affirmed. 'I hope you'll not go mentioning to him I visited, Ben. I'd never hear the end of it for getting caught out in the storm.'
'Beru,' he said gently. 'Owen may be right. It could be dangerous for Luke to be seen with me by anyone. It's better I watch over him from a distance. Safer from the Empire.'
'Oh.' Her voice caught momentarily. ' I didn't think of that.' She rose to her feet, balancing Luke on her hip. 'I suppose I'd better be going, then. I'm sorry for troubling you—'
He stepped forward, his eyes on Luke, and held his arms out toward the child. 'May I?'
'Of-of course,' she replied, placing Luke into his arms.
Obi-Wan gazed at the vivid intelligence and curiosity and the staggering potential of sheer power within those wide blue eyes—Anakin's eyes—that had aged by almost a year since he had first held this child on Polis Massa. He noted that Luke was able to stand on his own now, and could probably walk fairly steadily. Fear and desire simultaneously uncoiled themselves within him. He roughly tamped down the fierce emotion. 'I don't think he needs me to show him what lies beyond life on a moisture farm, Beru,' he said quietly. 'He is too much like his father.'
She came to stand beside him. After long moments had passed, he spoke, 'Here, take him. I'll see to your speeder.'
'Master Ke—Ben, don't trouble yourself—'
He looked down into her earnest blue eyes. 'Please, Beru, allow me.'