Chapter 12
The canyon was a long, winding land formation carved into the stone by an ancient river that had dried up eons ago with the rest of Tatooine's water. At its broadest, it could accommodate a small freighter skimming along its bottom, but it often narrowed to the point where a band of Sand People would have to move single file, even if they weren't already doing so. It was not especially deep–perhaps ten meters at its lowest point–but its sides were steep and jagged, with loose boulders and crumbled sandstone littering the floor.
It wasn't far from Obi-Wan's home but it was a secluded location deep enough into the Jundland Wastes to provide a reasonable level of privacy. Working within the canyon assured he and Lorna would not be seen, except in the extremely unlikely case of a low-flying vessel in the area. He was confident he would be able to detect any intrusion long before it reached them.
It was well-suited for the purposes of today's training—lightsaber combat.
Lorna had been pestering him about it, though his initial answer had been a firm no. Not long after he'd arrived on Tatooine, he had buried his lightsaber–along with Anakin's–inside the cave where he meditated and watched over Luke. He couldn't stand the sight of them. Couldn't stand thinking about the last time they'd been used. He did not want to admit that he'd hidden them to Lorna. It made him feel cowardly, even though he'd thought he had a good reason for it at the time, telling himself that it would be too dangerous to keep them with him or even hide them at the homestead.
Lorna's persistence wore him down, as it often did, he was finding. And so, one day he had made up an excuse to leave alone again, and he had retrieved his weapon from the cave. He went through his usual routine while he was there, checking up on Luke and meditating deeply, unsuccessfully attempting to reach out to his Master.
Since Lorna had arrived, he had fewer opportunities to make the trip. Based on the sideways glances he had received the last time he had departed for the cave, he was pretty sure she had stopped buying the story about trading with a local moisture farmer. For some reason, she did not confront him about it, though he was fairly certain she would eventually. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. But he would not neglect his duty to his mission on account of her, so the trips would continue.
They'd left the eopie behind, the rough terrain in the area too challenging for their mount, especially bearing two riders. A part of him was relieved to be traveling on foot. The physical proximity that riding together required of them seemed unwise after… well, he wasn't exactly sure what had transpired.
He hadn't meant to sense her thoughts that day—hadn't been actively seeking them. But in that unguarded moment, he'd felt the way her eyes trailed across his bare skin, caught a flutter of something more than casual interest in her observation of him. Her embarrassment had been palpable, and his hasty retreat to the hut had hardly been his most dignified moment. He should have handled it with more grace, perhaps acknowledging it with gentle humor, or redirecting her focus.
Instead, he'd become... unsettled. The warmth in her gaze had stirred something in him he thought long buried, something that had no place in their arrangement. He was here to guide her, nothing more. To let his mind wander down other paths was to court impropriety and disaster.
He cast a sidelong glance at Lorna as she picked her way across the rocky ground beside him. She had been careful to maintain her mental shields since that day, and he had been equally careful to keep his distance. Better to focus on the task at hand.
The floor of the canyon here was relatively level and free from large rocks. He scanned the area for any signs of watchful eyes, organic or mechanical, and found none, save the sparse natural species of flora and fauna.
"This will do," he said to Lorna, as he set his pack down next to the canyon wall. She did the same and knelt down, fishing through her bag. Her hand emerged from the bag wrapped around her lightsaber hilt. Her expression cycled through a complex range of emotions as she stared at it briefly before clipping it onto her belt.
Obi-Wan palmed his own lightsaber's hilt, letting its familiar weight settle in his hand. Light from the suns, shining into the canyon from directly above, glinted off of the alloy metal as he turned it to and fro.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lorna's voice was cool, quiet.
He turned to look at her where she stood behind him, her expression soft and unjudging. With a slight nod, his eyes dropped back to the weapon. After the past year—the longest he'd ever gone without it—he'd thought it might feel more foreign, unnatural, but the truth was it was still as familiar as ever. The ridges of the black ribbed grip and the bronzium accents near the emitter were still every bit a part of him.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts and Lorna let him, remaining silent and taking a few steps back. He grounded his awareness and let the memories of his duel with Anakin push forward in his mind. The Mustafar heat bearing down on him, even more oppressive than that of the desert canyon he now found himself in. The scent of charred skin, the pure hatred churning out of his friend, the sickening ease with which the saber he now held in his hand had sliced through flesh. He asked the Force to take away the pain of these memories, and it answered, vast swaths of emotion swept away in its current. But some yet remained. Always, some remained.
"Too long," he said finally, raising to his feet. "Are you ready?"
"I am."
"Let's begin."
They both removed their outer robes. Underneath, Lorna was wearing her modest gray pants and tunic, which was cinched at the waist with a belt, along with her practical brown knee-high boots. He assessed her as he would any potential sparring partner, noting how her athletic frame and average height suggested agility rather than raw power. Physically, she was not a formidable opponent, though there was a quiet strength in her bearing that reminded him of another woman who had carried herself with similar grace. A woman he hadn't been able to help having a deep affection for...
He pushed the memories aside. Double-checking their surroundings once again he ignited his lightsaber, the snap-hiss echoing off the rock walls surrounding them. Lorna's saber followed, blue and green light illuminating the canyon floor. She assumed her ready stance, stepping back with her right foot and sweeping her blade down to her side in a two-handed grip. He glanced over her form. Good foot placement. Hands steady. But her shoulders were much too close to her ears.
"Relax your shoulders," he instructed.
She did, her expression set in determined calm.
"Form Six. A fine choice, though I prefer the more traditional styles myself. What draws you to it?" he asked.
"It's balanced. It avoids the weaknesses of the other Forms. And it allows me to use other Force techniques to end the conflict."
"Drills first," he announced firmly. "Take it slow. Begin with attack positions. One, two, three…"
Lorna moved her blade methodically, hitting each attack position with the ease of familiarity as he blocked. He picked up his pace slightly and repeated the pattern as he switched to the attack position.
"Good," he said, as they paced through the warm up. "You're right, Niman does aim to circumvent the weaknesses of the other Forms. But it also cannot fully take advantage of their strengths."
He drew his lightsaber back until the hilt hummed near his right ear and extended his left arm forward.
"Try to get past my guard," he said.
He braced himself, but she did not press her offense immediately, instead narrowing her eyes in focus and shifting her feet slowly in the sand. Circling him, she studied his stance. He met her eyes and matched her movement, keeping her squarely in front of him. Then she launched herself forward, her initial strikes probing and precise. The electric hum and crackle of their blades sounded off the canyon walls as he deflected her blows with ease. Her movements were quick and controlled, but each thrust was almost too predictable.
She's hesitant, he thought. Why?
Her blade swiveled in a flurry of strikes, her technique polished and clean, belying the years of study and experience of her training. Yet each time she found a potential opening, she pulled back, never going for the decisive blow.
So unlike Anakin. He couldn't help but compare her to his former Padawan, with whom he had always had to temper the need to dominate, as he aggressively sought the weaknesses of every opponent.
"You're holding back," he observed as he parried another measured strike, the blades spitting sparks where they met.
Instead of answering, she pressed forward with a series of swift cuts that forced him to give ground. Her saber arced elegantly through the air as she advanced, and he was forced to duck when it suddenly slashed toward his head.
"My form is not compromised," she argued between strikes, her face still a mask of calm focus.
"You said yourself that you value Form Six's balance. But you are not using the full extent of its strengths." He brought his blade up just in time to block a wide, sweeping blow that would have gutted him had it landed. Rotating his arm, he twisted her blade away to the side. "Better. But you still have not fully immersed yourself in the Force."
Their conversation after her nightmare replayed in his mind. She had looked so small, huddled around her knees in his bed, when she'd admitted she struggled with controlling her fears. And yet he knew her to be capable of great strength, escaping the Temple and surviving the Underworld as she had.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked, locking eyes with hers.
"I… I don't know—"
"What are you afraid of?" He switched to an offensive position and swung at her right shoulder. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she blocked his swing just in time. He continued to release a barrage of attacks at her. The Force rippled as she pulled it tighter around her, hugging it closer. Now we're getting somewhere.
He propelled himself forward, aiming a blow at her neck, but her blade came up in time to stop it. Their sabers glowed between them, as his attempt to get past her guard brought him much closer, their faces only inches apart. He pushed, testing her strength, but she held firm. Heavy breaths made her chest rise and fall rapidly, her lips parted slightly as puffs of air escaped through them. The emerald of her blade made the already vivid green of her eyes otherworldly as they bore into him.
With a grunt, she heaved forward, shoving him away, and he staggered back a few steps.
"I am afraid of… of losing control of my emotions." Her eyes darted away to the sandy ground as she said it, a slight flush in her cheeks..
"Then stop trying to control them," he challenged.
"…What?"
The warnings about Anakin's aggression and emotional instability had been evident during his training, though he had tried to ignore them at the time. He had been reckless, arrogant, often angry. Fearful of loss above all else, he realized now. Pain twisted in his chest as he doubted himself once again, wondering if he had given these traits the attention they had so clearly needed during his time as Anakin's Master. He should have seen it. Should have done more.
If Lorna's fears burdened her, better it come to light now—he would not make the mistake of ignoring such signs again. He should know what he was dealing with before committing himself further to her training. And yet...though he didn't yet know Lorna as well as he had his former Padawan, he had yet to see any of Anakin's most volatile traits in her. Yes, her fear was evident, but that simmering anger, that desperate need for control and domination, seemed entirely absent from the woman before him. The knot in his chest loosened, just slightly.
"Let go. The Force flows through all emotions. Don't fight them—acknowledge them, understand them."
Her eyebrows raised with incredulity. "I don't understand. You want me to just… let my emotions run wild?"
"Trust yourself enough to feel, and trust the Force enough to let it guide you. We will deal with any negative emotions as they arise." He took a step forward and raised his lightsaber in front of him. "Again. Break past my guard."
Lorna's expression remained skeptical as she brought her own blade before her. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, her opening move a burst of quick strikes leveled at his head and sides. Their sabers clashed, the weapons singing their lethal song as they crossed again and again. Her strikes came faster, stronger, driven by a surging of the Force around her. He found himself working harder to match her renewed assault. She remained disciplined but there was an edge of unpredictability to her movements that made her far more dangerous.
"What do you feel?" he asked her.
"Strength. Power. Balance." Each word was punctuated by another forceful strike. "But… this is practice." She disengaged with a flourish and took a step back. "When I am up against a real opponent—I don't know." Her eyes cast about, uncertain, her shoulders tensing.
"Then imagine that I am a real opponent. Visualize what brings you fear and face it."
"Well, maybe I—"
He swung his lightsaber at her suddenly, forcing her to stop mid-sentence to block him, her mouth falling open in surprise.
"You are overthinking it, Lorna." He pressed forward with a series of aggressive cuts that drove her back several paces. "Use your instincts. What would you do if I was your real enemy?"
Her face tightened with concentration as she deflected his attacks. He could sense her continued hesitation. Adopting a more predatory stance, he let his presence in the Force take on a harder edge as he switched from his preferred Soresu to Ataru. His boots traced patterns in the sand as his feet danced around her, his lightsaber a blur of motion. His muscles protested and sweat began to collect on his brow, his body unaccustomed to the level of sustained physical exertion required of Form Four. He pushed his damp hair back from his face as he circled her, the length of it becoming a nuisance in the heat.
Lorna adapted, parrying his strikes and leaping out of the way of his swinging blue blade, but even on the defensive, he noticed she was slowly backing away, guiding him to a different part of the canyon. As he glided around her, her footsteps kept directing them to where the walls towering over them narrowed, creating a choke point. Very clever, he thought. Ataru, with its acrobatics and constant movement, would be less effective in a tighter space.
He moved to put himself between her and those narrow walls, halting their progression towards it. He put his strength behind a staggering blow, which Lorna just managed to block. He swung again, and Lorna, unable to get her blade up in time, raised her hand instead, stopping his saber with the Force. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a grimace as she groaned under the effort.
Was he pushing her too hard? No, he needed to see, needed to know how she would react.
"Face your fear," he told her through gritted teeth as he pushed his saber down, testing her strength and will. His gaze never leaving hers, he watched as her tenacious glare morphed into a wide-eyed, panic-stricken stare. Her pupils had dilated, her face drained of color, as though she were looking right through him.
She cried out and pushed with all her strength, staggering them both backward several feet. Her lightsaber thudded into the dirt as she lost her grip on it. She fell to one knee, her back hunched over, her shoulders heaving with uncontrolled breaths.
He quickly moved to her side, kneeling down beside her. "Lorna, are you alright?"
His hands gripped both of her shoulders, feeling them shudder as she let out a sob. She couldn't answer him, her breathing ragged as she gasped for air. He cursed himself. He had pushed her too far, forcing her to relive another nightmare.
"It was… I saw…" she tried to explain between uneven breaths.
Her fingers curled into the sleeves of his tunic, gripping him as if he were her the only thing tethering her to reality. Her mental barriers were dissolving, all of her grief and panic and pain bleeding onto him. His chest ached for her, and he allowed her to lean closer, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder.
"I'm here, Lorna. You're safe," he said, his hand moving in small circles on her shoulder blade.
When she still didn't respond, he reached for her mind, searching for the source of her turmoil.
Ozone and smoke and blood. The bodies of dead Jedi on the polished Temple floors. Where is Master Secura? Suffocating darkness. Cruelty and suffering. I have to help her. Glowing yellow eyes and blue blades. Flee. He killed her. He killed her!
The fragments of her memories hit him like a physical blow. "Anakin?"
Her head snapped up, her wide eyes meeting his. His heart lurched painfully against his ribs as he released her shoulders and stepped back a few paces. He cradled his brow in his hand, his shoulders sagging beneath an invisible weight.
"You…you saw him?"
"At the Temple… He killed Jedi. He killed Master Secura!" she exclaimed, her voice wavering.
She picked up her lightsaber hilt, her hands trembling, and stood slowly. Her breathing began to steady.
"I was trying to find Master Secura. I wanted to help her…She was fighting… I didn't know it was more than just the clones."
She had seen. She had witnessed Anakin's betrayal, had carried that knowledge all this time. A jolt ran through him as he realized there were probably very few others, if there were any at all, who had witnessed the slaughter that night and lived to tell about it.
"The Dark Side… I've never felt it so strongly around a person. He… he murdered my Master like she was nothing!" Her words cut like a sharp blade as her fury and pain bled into her voice. "Ben—what happened?"
"Lorna, I…" The explanation caught in his throat. How could he possibly help her understand when he still struggled to understand it himself?
A silence settled in the canyon, wind kicking up sand and eddying it around their feet. There was a desperation in Lorna's eyes, pleading with him to help her make sense of the horrors she had been forced to witness. He had seen it himself, in the Temple security footage. What it must have been like for her to be there, watching a fellow Jedi, a trusted comrade, betray everyone she knew. Her yearning for answers from him made his heart ache. But grief seemed to cause him to choke on his words as he fumbled for something, anything that would get her to stop looking at him like that.
She shook her head, pain marring her features as she stared at the ground, appearing to be warring with her own thoughts. "You said you returned to the Temple. You saw what he did! You were his Master… Why? Why did he turn?"
"It's complicated, I—"
"Complicated? He became a monster!" Her voice rose, her pained words echoing off the canyon walls. "I lost the only person who ever understood me because of him, because of what he did. You know the truth—I can sense it—yet you choose to keep it from me. There are so few of us left, and still you refuse to trust me with the truth about why you hide here." Her expression twisted into a bitter scowl as she stalked off towards where their packs were still leaning up against the canyon wall.
"Do you think I don't wrestle with these questions myself? Do you think I don't wonder what I could have done to prevent it?" he shouted after her.
"I wouldn't know, because you won't talk about it!" she called back, snatching her cloak from where she'd left it and pulling it back over her shoulders.
He followed her cautiously, taking deep breaths to reel his emotions back in. He donned his own cloak and swung his pack onto his shoulder.
"Lorna, I can't just—"
The Force convulsed with urgency, wrenching his attention away from his thoughts and cutting him off mid-sentence. Lorna's face paled as her head swiveled around the canyon, searching for the threat. But it wasn't here.
"The homestead. We need to get back now!" he said, as he rapidly began climbing out of the canyon, with Lorna following close behind.
They ran. The journey there had taken a little less than a standard hour, but they covered the same ground in half the time, setting a pace as fast as they could manage without tiring.
The first thing Obi-Wan saw when his home came into view was three banthas lined up alongside the eopie's stall.
"Sand people!" he huffed. "Keep your lightsaber hidden. There's only three of them, we should be able to scare them off."
"Sand people?" Lorna asked.
"They're here to raid. Stay in close quarters so they cannot use their rifles, but watch out for their gaderffii sticks."
Using the banthas for cover, they approached in stealth. He could see two of the Tusken raiders outside the hut, one filling a large clay container with water from the vaporator, the other pulling his plants out of the hydroponic system. He didn't see a third and wondered if he'd gotten inside the hut somehow.
"Help me untie their leads. If we can spook them into running, maybe their riders will pursue."
He grabbed the first batha's lead and then gave it a slap on its flank. "Go on!" he hissed.
It didn't budge. He shoved hard on its flank and got no response.
"Let me try something," Lorna said.
Coming alongside him, she sank her hands into the bantha's dense brown fur. She closed her eyes and went still as he watched with curiosity. Suddenly the bantha let out a deep, rumbling growl, its body growing tense. The other two beasts noted their companion's distress and responded with similar calls, shuffling their feet uneasily in the sand. Obi-Wan quickly untied their leads. Lorna's brow furrowed in concentration, and the bantha beneath her hand bellowed again before bolting away from the eopie stall, its companions right behind it.
"EEEHHHHRRR ERH ERH ERH!"
Obi-Wan immediately recognized the barking cries of Tusken speech as the raiders noticed their mounts escaping. One raider near the vaporator sprinted after the banthas without hesitation. The second raised his gaderffii stick overhead, howling in alarm.
The third Tusken, the one Obi-Wan had been unable to locate earlier, burst from the house with rifle raised. The muzzle swung towards Obi-Wan, but before the shot could be lined up, he charged forward with Force-enhanced speed. The Tusken fired early in surprise, the shot grazing Obi-Wan's left bicep.
Ignoring the sting, Obi-Wan seized the rifle with both hands, forcing the muzzle upward. He drove his knee hard into the warrior's stomach, doubling him over. A quick glance showed him Lorna ducking beneath a swinging gaderffii stick. She countered by driving the heel of her palm up into the raider's face mask, drawing an enraged howl. She's handling herself just fine, he thought.
Wrenching the rifle from his opponent's grasp, Obi-Wan sent the raider sprawling with a kick. Rather than continue the fight, the Tusken scrambled down the sand dune after the banthas, shouting something to his remaining comrade. The final raider began backing slowly away from Lorna towards the vaporator.
In one swift motion, the Tusken snatched up their filled container and brought his gaderffii stick down onto the vaporator cistern's release valve. Water sprayed into the sand. With a final screech, he followed his tribe-mates over the dune and disappeared into the desert.
Lorna dropped to her knees, fumbling with the release valve as Obi-Wan jogged to the vaporator.
"We need to catch as much of it as we can!" He snatched an empty jug and thrust it under the rushing water. He fought a rising sense of dread at the sight of so much water disappearing into the hot sand. How long would it take to recuperate the loss?
"I'll go grab more jugs from inside," Lorna called, already running for the hut.
The Tusken's gaderffii stick had sheared the valve stem clean off at the threads–there was no way to stop the water that was pouring out of the cistern. Obi-Wan cursed and raked his fingers through his hair, pushing the unruly strands back from where they had fallen in his eyes as he bent to hold the jug under the rushing water.
"Who are these Sand People?" Lorna asked, returning with more jugs.
"Tusken Raiders," he replied, switching out the full container as Lorna carefully positioned an empty one under the valve. "Native to the planet. They're nomadic tribes who believe the planet's water belongs to them alone."
Lorna scowled. "Will they return?"
"I'm not sure. They've never attacked before. My homestead is out of the way of their usual routes. We let them know we're not helpless, though, so let's hope that if they were hoping to return, they're now reconsidering."
Lorna helped him switch to another jug and glanced at him. He watched as her eyes slid to his arm.
"You're hurt," she said. Her brows knit with concern as she reached up and grazed her fingertips over the fabric of his tunic on his left arm. He'd forgotten about the near miss from the cycler rifle. He glanced down and saw that his tunic was torn and stained with blood from where the projectile had opened his skin.
"It's not serious. I can tend it after we collect all the water."
Obi-Wan sighed with relief when, several minutes later, the last of the water trickled into the final jug. He was glad he'd listened to Owen, who had recommended that he keep enough water storage vessels to match the capacity of his cistern in case the cistern needed to be drained. Water was too precious on Tatooine to waste if it could be helped.
"They blasted through the lock on the door," Lorna said, emerging from the hut after carrying the last of the jugs inside. She leaned heavily on the door frame. "The inside's been ransacked."
He shook his head in dismay as he surveyed the rest of the homestead. Crates lay overturned, the eopie's stall door was damaged, and his mount had escaped. His carefully tended plants lay scattered and wilting, their roots exposed to the harsh desert air. Hours of patient cultivation, of creating something sustainable in this unforgiving environment - all strewn across the ground.
"We should try to salvage what we can from the garden. Some of the plants might survive if we get their roots back in the growing medium quickly enough."
Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Through the heat haze rising from the sand, he spotted the eopie grazing on a patch of dry grass in the distance. At least she hadn't gone far.
"I see our friend didn't abandon us completely," he said, nodding toward the animal.
Lorna squinted in the direction he indicated, shielding her eyes from the setting suns. "I'll start on the plants if you want to go get her."
The eopie had drifted farther than he initially thought. By the time he coaxed her back to the homestead, the first sun had nearly set, casting long shadows across the sand. He secured her in what remained of her stall, then joined Lorna. He found her carefully replanting the uprooted vegetation, despite her obvious fatigue. Together they made quick work of the remaining salvageable plants in the fading light.
He finally straightened, his back protesting the movement. Between the morning's training and the afternoon's crisis, every muscle in his body ached for rest. "We can make no further progress tonight. Let's go inside."
His shoulders slumped as he observed the destruction inside his hut for the first time. Containers and cabinets had been emptied, one of the chairs was broken, and their bedding had been strewn everywhere, his cot overturned.
"You should let me tend to your wound," Lorna said as he lowered himself into the intact chair.
He had forgotten about his arm in the chaos, but now that she brought it to his attention, the stinging pain nagged at his senses.
"Yes, of course," he answered.
Lorna picked the kettle up off of the floor and filled it with water, setting it to boil before heading into the fresher. He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, getting a good look at the wound for the first time. The projectile had left a gash the length of his index finger across the flesh of his upper arm. It was not deep, the bleeding had already subsided while they were cleaning up outside.
Lorna returned with a clean towel and a bacta patch. She reached out gingerly, her fingertips barely grazing the inflamed skin as she began wiping away the dried blood from his bicep. Her touch was tender as she steadied his arm to clean the wound. He tried not to dwell on how comforting caress of her fingers against his bare skin, despite the throbbing ache. Lorna's gaze flicked between the gash and his face as she finished.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, her thumb absently rubbing a circle into his skin.
He cleared his throat. "Ah, not terribly. I'll be alright."
She unwrapped the bacta patch and smoothed it over his wound, instantly easing the pain.
"Thank you," he said quietly as she secured the patch.
A heavy silence settled between them now that the threat and immediate needs of the homestead had passed. Their argument in the canyon weighed on his mind. What could he say? What explanation could he possibly offer for Anakin's atrocities?
If he explained the situation fully, he would have to divulge Anakin's secret marriage to Padmé, the children she had borne him. Such revelations would naturally lead to questions about what happened to the infants. He could not—would not—risk exposing Luke's existence.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Lorna. She had thoroughly proved her loyalty and dedication to the Jedi. But her plans to seek out other survivors on Jabiim, to continue the fight against the Empire... if she were caught, if they believed she knew anything of value, they would stop at nothing to extract that information from her.
A million lies and half-truths played out in his mind. He could tell her the twins had died. That he didn't know their fate. That Padmé had never been pregnant at all. But no—he would not compound his deception with outright lies. Better to continue withholding his true purpose here, for her own protection. But the terror in her eyes when she relived her encounter with Anakin, the burden of grief that crushed her over Master Secura… she deserved more than his fumbling evasiveness.
The hissing of the kettle broke the silence, and Lorna went to the counter to prepare tea. She returned with two mugs, and he gratefully inhaled the comforting scent of the sapir leaves as she set his on the table. As she moved away, he caught her wrist gently. He swore he could feel her pulse leap as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin there.
"Lorna." He waited until she looked at him. "About Anakin—"
"You don't have to explain," she interjected, her eyes narrowing as she tried to pull her wrist away. His grip held firm.
"No. I understand why you want to know. It's just that I… it's hard to talk about. I trained him from boyhood. I loved him like a brother." He moved the muscles in his throat deliberately, trying to keep his voice even.
She waited silently, expectant, though her expression softened.
"Over the years he had developed a friendship with Palpatine. As the Chancellor's power grew, I became uneasy about their closeness and tried to discourage it, but Anakin wouldn't have it. I don't know when Palpatine began manipulating him, but his influence had already taken hold long before any of us knew he was a Sith Lord." He realized belatedly that he still had her wrist in his grip, and he hastily dropped it, his hand returning to his lap. "Palpatine knew exactly which weaknesses to exploit and convinced Anakin the Jedi were against him, against the Republic. He sent Anakin to the Temple with the order to eliminate them."
Lorna's face had darkened as he spoke and she shook her head in disbelief. "How could he have fallen for it? He was supposed to be the Chosen One! He should have known better."
"Yes, he should have. As I should have recognized his struggle sooner." He closed his eyes and bowed his head, fresh guilt washing over him. "I failed him. I saw the darkness growing in him—his fear, his anger, his need for control. But I convinced myself he could overcome it. I didn't…I didn't see the truth until it was too late."
He forced his gaze back to Lorna, did not allow himself to look away from her pain as she grappled with the truth–or at least some of it–from that terrible night. "You should know that Master Secura died with honor, defending everything the Jedi stood for," he continued. "I'm so very sorry for what you've lost."
Lorna held his gaze for another moment, her eyes glistening in the soft light of the hut. The urge to touch her again took hold of him. To take her hand in his, to smooth her grief away with small circles of his thumb in her palm. He considered reaching for her when she looked away, taking a sip of her tea. The moment passed.
"Do you…do you know what happened to him after?" she asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed, cradling her mug in her lap.
He tensed, his face contorting with the reminder, but he nodded. He would be honest with her about this too.
"As I mentioned before, Master Yoda and I returned to the Temple after the attack, and we discovered Anakin's betrayal and the identity of Palpatine. Master Yoda went to confront Sidious, and he sent me…he sent me to confront Anakin."
The corners of Lorna's eyebrows fell in sympathy.
"Master Yoda was not able to subdue Sidious, but I…I defeated Anakin on Mustafar. He's gone."
"Ben, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice soft with compassion. "I can't even imagine…I'm sorry for pressuring you to speak of such painful memories."
He sighed as he watched the steam curling from his tea. "Sometimes speaking of what troubles us is the first step towards healing through the Force," he said, as much a reminder for himself as it was for Lorna. He felt the truth of it in the sudden lightness of his shoulders, the steadiness of his breath. Sharing even a fraction of his burden with her had lifted some of the weight he carried.
She nodded with a small smile and together they sipped their tea in companionable silence. Obi-Wan stroked the length of his beard, forcing his thoughts to the days of work ahead of them undoing the damage the Tuskens had done.
"I can't believe they did this to our home," Lorna said with indignation as she surveyed the destruction in the hut.
Our home. He wasn't sure when it had become that, but he couldn't deny that there had been a shift. Lorna's familiarity as she had retrieved the medical supplies and prepared the tea, her shared sense of responsibility for the clean-up–the domesticity of it struck him suddenly, filling him with equal measures of comfort and unease.
He was becoming used to her presence here, enjoying her company even. Her compassion, capability, and resourcefulness had revealed themselves day by day as she shouldered her share of their modest dwelling's upkeep. And yet, it would not last. Eventually, she would leave for Jabiim and he would remain here, forced to surrender this attachment to the will of the Force. He pulled his thoughts back to the present to find Lorna watching him, one eyebrow raised as if wondering where his mind had wandered to.
He raked a hand through his hair and gave her a rueful smile. "The Tuskens are pests. We certainly have our work cut out for us."
Lorna's eyes swept over him as if she were appraising him. "Speaking of cutting, you need a haircut."
He blinked at the unexpected change of topic. "I beg your pardon?"
"Have you not noticed that your appearance is getting a bit…unkempt?" she said, the corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk.
His hand reached for his beard self-consciously. "It makes me less recognizable."
"At least let me trim it for you. You're always having to push it out of your face. And just because you've chosen the life of a desert recluse doesn't mean you need to look like one."
"Oh, does my appearance offend you, then?" he scoffed, though there was more offense in his voice than he felt. He had been neglecting the maintenance of his appearance in his solitude. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a good look at himself in the mirror, but it must be egregious for her to mention it. A lock of hair fell into his eyes as if to underscore the point. It seemed the Force was mocking him. Lorna just gave him a look that seemed to say, "I told you so".
"Oh, very well then."
Lorna smiled and set her tea down on the table before heading back to the fresher for his grooming kit. She returned with the kit and a towel, which she draped around his shoulders as she came to stand behind him. His spine straightened as she combed her fingers through his hair, assessing the length.
"You do know what you're doing, don't you?" he said, hoping the gruffness of his tone would disguise his nervousness as her fingers wove into his hair. Electricity tingled down his neck from where her fingernails met his skin.
"I used to help care for the younglings in the crèche sometimes. I would often trim their hair to prepare for them to begin growing their Padawan braids. Master Secura always said I had a knack for it," she said, measuring out a section of his hair and snipping away the ends.
"Ah, so I won't end up looking like a Loth-cat that got caught in a power coupling when you're done, then?" he teased.
"I won't make any promises. It has been a while, after all." He couldn't see her, but he could hear the playful smile she wore in the lilt of her rich voice as she trimmed a few more pieces of his hair.
Something warmed in him at the thought of Lorna caring for younglings at the Temple. There was a serenity to her Force signature as she worked that reminded him of something rare and precious. Her hands were sure and steady, her touch imbued with calm confidence. In her training, he'd mostly seen her moments of tension and doubt, he realized. But here, in this quiet moment of attentive nurturing, her presence bloomed into something natural and whole that he found himself wanting to lean into.
When she finished with his hair, she moved in front of him and began assessing his beard. He hoped she wouldn't notice the flush in his cheeks as his features came under her scrutiny.
"I think I just need to shape up the sides here and here," she said, her fingers lightly tugging on the unruly strands of his beard along his jawline.
He shifted uneasily in his seat. Her fingers tilted his jaw slightly to the angle she needed and she began trimming. Her fingertips lingered at his pulse point and he found his breaths coming shorter and shorter. She was so close, he caught the fullness of her scent—fresh sweat carrying the mineral tang of their long day in the sun, the herbal notes of his soap, and beneath it her natural sweetness, like kessinnamon and sweet cream. It was disarming, the intimacy in the way her smell reminded him of their shared time together.
Enough of this, he thought to himself harshly. He was much too old to be reacting to a young woman so. He noted the smoothness of her skin, completely lacking the lines he knew were etched into the corners of his own eyes and across his forehead. With alarm, he realized he had never thought to ask Lorna her age. Force, how much age difference was there between them?
"How old are you, Lorna?" he blurted.
Her eyes snapped to his and she gave him a quizzical look, pausing her trimming. "I'm twenty-six."
So there was over ten years between them. She was older than she looked, but still–he probably seemed an old man to her. He must have misinterpreted her pointed attention that day he'd removed his milk-soaked shirt in front of her. She had just been caught off-guard, as anyone would be if another person started undressing in their presence. It was time to let these thoughts go.
"Why do you ask?" Her face still wore an odd look as she returned her focus to his beard.
"I just… wondered how long you have been a Padawan. I was around your age when I became a Knight."
"That is part of why I was so eager to continue my training. I know things like rank don't matter anymore, but… I feel like I still have so much to learn."
"Everyone learns at their own pace. There is no age limit on becoming a Knight."
"That is exactly what Master Secura would say."
He smiled warmly. "Then she is exactly as wise as I remember her to be."
Lorna gave his beard one last snip and leaned back, examining her work. "There. That's much better."
He rose from the chair and headed to the fresher. Turning his head back and forth, he examined Lorna's handiwork. His appearance was indeed much improved. His hair was still longer than he had kept it during the waning days of the Clone Wars, but much less shaggy, and the pieces in front no longer fell over his eyes. His facial hair was neater, actually making his features appear less aged.
"I quite like it," he called, running his hands through his beard.
"You can go ahead and wash up," she replied. "There should be enough in the hot water tank for one of us to bathe tonight."
A few moments later, he leaned under the stream of water in the shower, washing away the tiny, errant hairs on his neck and chest from the trim. He recalled his image in the mirror. Perhaps he had needed this more than he realized. The person he saw in the mirror looked much more like himself. He felt more like himself. There had been some healing in this small act from Lorna, something he hadn't expected.
As he washed, his mind strayed to memories of her touch—those graceful fingers sinking into his hair, trailing sparks across his scalp and down his neck. The way she'd looked as she'd trimmed his beard, her face so close to his, pale green eyes focused solely on him, her full lips parted slightly–
His hand shot out suddenly to the shower valve. He twisted it to the coldest setting, forcing his traitorous body under the frigid water as it doused his wayward thoughts. Thoughts that he was beginning to understand all too well and that he knew would only lead to catastrophe.