They ran, 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 the gaderffii sticks."
They approached in stealth, using the banthas for cover. Two of the raiders pillaged outside the hut, one filling a large clay container with water from the vaporator, the other pulling plants out of the hydroponic system. The third bantha's rider was nowhere to be seen.
"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 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.
She closed her eyes and sank her hands into the bantha's dense brown fur. 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.
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 thieves noticed their mounts escaping. The raider pilfering water sprinted after the banthas, while the second raised his gaderffii stick overhead, howling in alarm.
The missing third raider 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 raider fired early in surprise, the shot grazing Obi-Wan's left arm.
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 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 raider 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, he snatched up his 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 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. Her eyes slid to his arm.
"You're hurt," she said. Her brows knit with concern as her fingertips grazed 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 he keep enough water storage vessels to match the capacity of his cistern in case it 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 was damaged, and 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."
Together they made quick work of the remaining salvageable plants in the fading light. 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," he said.
The destruction inside the hut was discouraging. 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.
He lowered himself into the single intact chair. He had forgotten about his arm in the chaos, but now that she brought it up, the stinging pain nagged at him.
"Yes, of course," he answered.
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 would not divulge Luke's existence.
Lorna set the kettle to boil and disappeared into the fresher. He rolled up his sleeve, examining the wound. The projectile had left a finger-length gash across his upper arm—not deep. The bleeding had already subsided.
It wasn't that he didn't trust her. 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.
She returned from the fresher carrying a towel and bacta patch. She reached out gingerly, fingertips grazing his inflamed skin as she wiped away dried blood. Her touch was tender as she steadied his arm. He tried not to dwell on the 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.
The kettle hissed and Lorna went to prepare tea.
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 clumsy evasiveness.
She returned with two mugs, and he gratefully inhaled the comforting scent of the sapir leaves. 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 formed 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. Palpatine's influence had 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," he continued. "He 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 resisted."
"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. 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.
"When Master Yoda and I returned to the Temple after the attack, we discovered Anakin's betrayal and the truth about 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."
"Obi-Wan, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice soft with compassion. "I can't even imagine…I shouldn't have pressured you to speak of this."
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. To his surprise, so had hearing her use his real name. She seldom called him Ben lately, except when they were in public.
She nodded with a small smile and they sipped their tea in companionable silence. Obi-Wan stroked his beard, surveying the destruction in the room.
"I can't believe they did this to our home," Lorna said, following his gaze.
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 retrieving medical supplies and preparing 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. And yet, it would not last.
When he pulled his thoughts back to the present, Lorna was 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 smirked.
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.
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. 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, returning to the fresher for his grooming kit. She brought the kit and a towel, which she draped around his shoulders. 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 hoped the gruffness of his tone would disguise his nervousness. 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 trim their hair to prepare for them to grow their Padawan braids. Master Secura always said I had a knack for it," she said, measuring out a section of 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 could hear the playful smile she wore in the lilt of her voice as she trimmed a few more pieces of 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 felt rare and precious. Her hands were sure and steady, her touch imbued with confidence.
In her training, he'd mostly seen her moments of tension and doubt. 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 to assess 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 along his jawline.
He shifted uneasily in his seat. Her fingers tilted his jaw slightly to the angle she needed. As she trimmed, her fingertips lingered at his pulse point and he found his breaths coming 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. It was disarming, the intimacy in how 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 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. "I'm twenty-six."
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. 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.
"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 ought to be a Knight by now."
"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 mirror. 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 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.
