Obi-Wan awoke to the sound of sand tearing its nails across the flaps of his curtain-door. Tendrils of it slapped across his face like fingers drumming wake up wake up wake up you've got to get to work. Obi-Wan allowed himself one long, painful groan before pasting a mysterious smile on his face and forcing himself to enter the day with it. Nobody smiled on Tatooine, that harsh desert planet of scum and villainy, but he was determined each day to try.
He cracked his back, listened to the snap and thought I'm getting old the same way he had for the last ten months. Before that he'd been too old for shenanigans, and before that just the right age. Obi-Wan was also determined to reclaim whatever shenanigans he could in his exile; perhaps that was why the natives thought him so strange.
As it would, a shenanigan happened to fall right into his lap that very morning. He was rummaging around his kitchen, humming an old tune he'd picked up on Mandalore (snow is sweet and hail is bitter), remembering with some fondness a woman he'd once had the pleasure of knowing, when he noticed that something was missing.
It wasn't something he saw; the Force pushed the feeling against him, that feeling like a wire whistling high and tight of danger. Upon further inspection, Obi-Wan's eyes fell upon the missing shape of the duura fruit he'd picked up from the market last Tuesday, a slight indentation not yet covered with the layer of sand that had accumulated over the rest of his things.
He started forward. His hand slid to his lightsaber on instinct-
Except that it didn't seem to be there. He blinked. He laughed, the way a hermit living on the edge of the harshest desert in the galaxy would. Somehow he'd forgotten. Well, he'd have to make do. There was a moisture spike in his shed that had a long, thin handle and rather sharp barbed tips; it should prove sufficiently terrifying enough to scare off these would-be thieves. He pushed his door-flap aside, blinking in the white light of the desert suns-
And then something very hard and solid smacked against his leg. Obi-Wan fell to the ground with a rather embarrassing grunt. He tried to crawl away, but down the object swung, again and again, and soon another and then another had joined it, and he was gritting his teeth, trying to think I've faced worse than this and failing. It was just so undignified to be squirming on the sand like a sunwyrm, utterly outgunned and outmatched. Ah, how far the mighty General Kenobi has fallen…
Steeling his will, he kicked backward in a mighty Force-push, sending his attackers into the dust. He clambered onto his knees, trying to ignore the throbbing pain, well, everywhere and turned to look at the vagabonds in the eyes.
A group of peculiar creatures stared back at him. They were short, perhaps coming up a bit past Obi-Wan's thigh, and vaguely humanoid. Their faces were covered in strange masks with holes at the eyes and mouth, and they wore long, sewn tunics of unknown skins. They were also holding some rather imposing clubs, and those clubs were stumbling backwards in blind confusion.
"Who are you?" Obi-Wan asked.
There was no answer. Perhaps they didn't speak Basic.
"Ah," said Obi-Wan. "I suppose you are the Sand People that I've been hearing so much about."
The creatures - the Sand People - said nothing again. Luckily there were only three of them, so as they attempted to charge again Obi-Wan was able to send them tumbling with a haphazard flick of the Force. They turned, and Obi-Wan felt fear growing and rotting within them; the biggest one, the leader, appeared to be almost sick with it. He did some sort of hand motion to his fellows, and they threw a package at his feet and started to run as fast as their feet could carry them.
Strange, Obi-Wan thought. He shrugged. At least he hadn't had to kill them. That would have been messy. He took the package inside and found within his duura fruit, a hefty stack of his credits, a pair of his socks, and one of the busted comms he'd found scavenging and had been trying to get working again. He paused and sent his thanks to the ever-shifting currents of the Force. These were small things, but important to him.
Well, he had just survived his first encounter with the Sand People. The natives had always used words like "savage" or "sadistic" to describe them, but it appeared that they were much easier to scare than they'd let on. Obi-Wan couldn't help but feel that he'd claimed a minor victory.
The raiders trekked through the desert, clutching their clubs with white knuckles. The heats rose and fell, roasting them alive within their skins and still they walked bent-backed against the swells of sand. One of them fainted; they gave him a quick burial and continued on.
The Leader received them later in his tent, when the shimmering pattern of the Star-Mother had begun its great journey across the black sky. The raiders knelt and produced from their pack the item that they had taken from the strange hermit's hovel: A cylinder of metal, winking and shining in the moonlight. The Leader took it with hesitant hands, admiring its smooth, glossy sheen. There were buttons raised in grooves along its surface, and he ran his hands over each before pressing one with grim determination. A beam of blue plasma erupted from its end, humming and sizzling with power.
The raiders stumbled back in fear.
It is as you had thought, the Leader signed, waving his hands in frantic motions. This is the weapon of the Battle-God.
The raiders cried out in terror. The Battle-God-That-Shows-No-Mercy was no mere legend, like their other gods; this one had shown his face to a western tribe not long ago, and the bodies were still there if you wanted to go looking for them.
He could make the world shift with his hands, one of the raiders said. He has grown very powerful.
He could do such things before, the Leader replied. I forget; you were not born the last time he appeared with his sword of fire. You do not know what he was capable of. He stood. We must go and warn the unwary. A sacrifice would be in order.
The raiders nodded. Fear curled their hands into fists.
Obi-Wan went to his bed, sighing with relief. Today had been a strange sort of day, and he would be lying to himself if he said he did not want to see it end. He slumped back onto his makeshift sheets, staring up at the ceiling. His right hand slid (as it always did) to the rows of cubbyholes beneath his bed. He felt around for a small cylinder of metal, searching for a bit of comfort from the strange place he'd stranded himself in. A whisper of his old apprentice always seemed to rest in the shine of his lightsaber, pure and good and fierce like he remembered him.
Nothing. He rolled down onto his knees, put a flashlight between his teeth, and looked again.
Nothing. It simply wasn't there.
"It seems my little friends have taken something that doesn't belong to them," he said aloud, smiling the way a madman often does in the middle of a desert.
A flash of memory came to him-
His own words: Your weapon is your life, Anakin… Anakin gently teasing him about that again and again as an insufferable Jedi Knight-
The memories hurt him, but he let them slide away, trying to remember them without the filter of hindsight. He would have to picture Anakin the way he was, without the lens of is. He was dead. He would do well to remember that.
So he left himself with the sweetness of those moments, the goodness. Anakin had been a good man. He would remember. He drifted off to sleep that night content, dreaming of battles won long ago.
Obi-Wan rose first thing the next morning. He threw a cloak around his shoulders and a scarf about his neck and resolved himself to spending the day in search of these Sand People. But first, he would need some help.
And so he found himself knocking on the door of Owen and Beru Lars, smiling his charming, half-mad hermit smile.
"Hello, Ben," Owen Lars said warmly. To his credit, he was not the kind of man to spit down upon strange men that lived in hovels. "What brings you to our door?"
"I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the nearest settlement of Sand People," Obi-Wan replied. "I'm sorry to be so straightforward, but time is of the essence."
Owen looked at him in utter shock. "Ben, why would you possibly ... You're going to get yourself killed, you old fool!"
"A fool," Obi-Wan mused. "Yes, I suppose I am. But the point is, they took something very important from me, and I plan to take it back."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Perhaps." Obi-Wan's lips twitched up in amusement. "I plan to do it nonetheless, with or without your help. Though I would greatly prefer to do it without getting hopelessly lost and killed or captured by enemies and killed. Mostly, I would just prefer to stay alive."
Owen sighed. "Alright, you old fool. Come on in."
Obi-Wan inclined his head in thanks. "Much obliged, old friend," he said, though the two had barely spoken for ten months.
The Lars house was clean, or as clean as anything could be in the middle of a desert. The furniture was made of simple clay bolted into the ground so that it might not be knocked down by sudden desert storms. Owen led them into their living room, sweeping aside a small toy model of a starfighter.
"That's Luke's. I'm terribly sorry for the mess, he's still very young and doesn't understand the concept of remembering to put things away -" His eyes narrowed suddenly at a spot behind them. Obi-Wan followed his eyes to the small figure of a little boy with very blonde hair, staring up at them with wide, nervous eyes.
Obi-Wan knelt. "Hello, Luke," he said gently. "It's good to see you again." He held out his hand. Luke stared at it, confused. "I see you have your father's wit," Obi-Wan chuckled. He reached out with his hand and clasped the boys', moving it up and down in a handshake. Luke, finally recognizing the gesture, began to grin and giggle, bouncing on his heels in excitement. Obi-Wan reached into the Force, feeling the way it thrummed and pushed through the very core of this boy, pulsing within him like a heartbeat. He is already so strong, he thought, a little sadly.
"Alright, you've met the old man," Owen interrupted. "Now go back to your room, Luke. Show's over." He practically pushed the boy back into his quarters, shutting the door behind him. "Sorry about that," he apologized.
"No, it's quite alright." Obi-Wan's thoughts swirled in his mind like sand buffeted by a gentle desert breeze. "He appears to be getting on quite well."
"Yes, he is." Owen abruptly changed the subject: "So, about this suicide mission of yours…"
"Yes, my suicide mission." Obi-Wan smiled pleasantly. "I should like to know the safest and quickest possible route into their camp."
"Well, first of all, you're not going there alone." Owen's voice was firm.
"I assure you, I am quite capable of-"
"You're not. That's why you came to me." Owen sighed. "And I suppose I've just sealed my own death warrant by agreeing to listen. Well, come on, then. I've got a speeder we can use, and some blasters in the shed."
Now, it was Obi-Wan's turn to be slightly baffled. All he could say was, "You're a good man, Owen."
"Yeah. I guess that's my problem."
Owen's speeder floated through the desert like a dream, scattering a drowsy haze of heat beneath it. Dunes spread in endless directions around them, swallowing each other in huge, gaping mouths. Obi-Wan's neck was stiff and red and his bruises pressed dull pain into the rest of him, yet he bore it all without complaint, pulling his scarf tighter about his face. Obi-Wan and Owen looked half Sand Person themselves; Owen was similarly clad in a scarf, and he had managed to find two pairs of goggles in his shed that were very effective but made them both look like they had peculiar insect eyes.
They had been following the lingering trail of bootprints for a couple hours now, but still they stretched on. "Three sets of 'em," Owen pointed out to Obi-wan once again, gesturing towards almost imperceptible impressions in the sand. "Must be your guys. They must've gone out pretty far." He appeared to frown, but Obi-Wan couldn't quite tell under all of his layers. "That ain't a good sign for us. They might try to raid our homestead pretty soon."
"Might be helpful to figure out what they're planning," Obi-Wan suggested.
"Look, unless you know Tusken sign language-"
"No time like the present to learn," Obi-Wan said cheerfully.
Owen sighed again. "Crazy sonofabitch," he muttered.
The prints stretched on.
Three prints narrowed to two. They began to stumble and falter, but onward they went, until night had fallen and the dim forms of small, round domes appeared ahead. The speeder skidded to a halt.
"We should make camp," Owen said. "Catch them unaware in the morning." Obi-Wan nodded.
They made no fire, hoping to keep themselves shielded from view. Instead, they huddled into their clothes, supping on cold jerky from Owen's pack.
"What animal is this?" Obi-Wan asked, taking a rather large bite. It was very salty and a bit sweet.
Owen shook his head. "You don't want to know."
Obi-Wan began to open his mouth, then nodded. That was probably wise advice.
The small, flickering flames of campfires glittered like beetles on the horizon. Obi-Wan felt rather envious of the Sand People, looking at them all. He was frankly amazed how Tatooine could always manage to be so cold at night.
"I'll take first watch," Owen said abruptly, standing and wiping jerky crumbs from his pants.
"Alright. Wake me up in a couple of hours." Obi-Wan fell exhausted into sleep, and after a while sweet darkness descended upon him.
He found himself standing in the Jedi Temple. Anakin was sitting in his seat in the Council chambers, eating a slice of cake, and getting the crumbs all over his chair, and Obi-Wan was just furious. Jam dripped from his lips and then it was blood and Anakin said, I hate you and-
Owen was shaking him awake. "Ben!" he hissed. "I think something's happening!"
Obi-Wan rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Thank you for waking me up," he yawned. "I was having a very strange dream…"
"Forget about your dream. Come on, look!" Owen pointed towards the distant camp.
Obi-Wan squinted, then recoiled in shock. A fire, much, much bigger than the rest, was burning in the distance. He stood, wrapping his cloak around him. "Well, come on, then," he said, "Let's figure out what's going on."
Owen's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his skull. "Are you insane? This is our time to leave!"
"It's a commotion that we can take great advantage of." Obi-Wan started forward, then turned, cocking a single eyebrow in his companion's direction. "I'm going. You can choose whether you want to come with me or not."
Owen sputtered, "I… Fine."
Obi-Wan skirted around the edges of the camp, light as a shadow. Owen followed, considerably less lightly. Obi-Wan found a ledge and began to climb until they were standing above this great fire, which seemed much, much bigger up close; flames stretched far above the Raiders' small houses, dancing over a pile of brush that stretched from end to end of the camp.
Beneath it, hundreds of Sand People were on their knees.
One stood before the rest, wearing a long, luxurious cloak covered in symbols drawn in thick black paint. He lifted his hands into the air in complex patterns, screaming inaudibly. The rest roared back. The sound was loud enough to shake the sand from their small houses; it seemed to somehow make the flames reach higher, making them grasp at the stars.
There was something very shiny and cylindrical at the standing one's feet.
Obi-Wan's breath hitched in his throat. It was so close… Patience, he told himself. He made his heartbeat settle down to its familiar thud-thud-thud, taking long, deep breaths. Patience. It seemed it had been a while since he had truly been on an adventure.
The standing one reached down and picked up the lightsaber. It pressed a button, and blue plasma rippled to life before him. The standing one roared, and the rest roared and cried, and the desert shook in their anger.
Three beings stood, then. One was taller, one shorter, and one very, very small. They walked over to the standing one and held out their arms. The standing one held the lightsaber aloft and struck them down one by one, blue fire burning in his hands, then charred flesh at his feet. Others scrambled forward on their knees and threw the pieces to the fire, screaming, screaming.
It's a sacrifice, Obi-Wan thought numbly. But to what god? His eyes fell upon the fire again, and for the first time he noticed that the wood resembled something - a being, rising from the sands, with eyes of red embers. And the more he looked, the more he saw that the figure was holding what appeared to be a rather long, thin stick.
Rather like the lightsaber that was being swung below.
Obi-Wan thought he was going to be sick. Anakin, just what did you do…?
Anakin, the dead man. Gone. Obi-Wan shook tears from his eyes. He had come here for a reason…
Concentrating, Obi-Wan stretched his arm out over the all-consuming flames. He felt for the little flaming heart of the lightsaber's kyber crystal and it sang of Anakin, bright and shrill and sweet. With a mighty tug of the Force, it came flying from the hands of its owner and into his own, sparking like blue fire.
Hundreds of eyes swung towards him.
They ran.
Mysteriously, the Sand People never attacked Obi-Wan again after that day. They avoided the Lars household by extension. Whatever that figure had been in the fire - Anakin or not - the Sand People appeared to think Obi-Wan was him, and he was not about to correct them.
Obi-Wan and Owen vowed to never talk about it again. Some things were best left in the desert.
And yet-
Obi-Wan couldn't leave the thought of Anakin behind. The longer he stayed in Tatooine, the more he heard tales of a tribe who had been all wiped out by plague or drought or, as some whispered, something much worse…
Obi-Wan tried to ignore them all. Dead men should stay dead, he told himself. But he couldn't quite get himself to believe it.