DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
Be brave, and don't look back.
Fine words, much easier said than done. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so alone. So afraid. So completely unprepared. He'd known his time as a Padawan was drawing to an end. Of course, he couldn't say as much to Qui-Gon. It was not the Padawan's place to tell the Master when he was ready to take the trials. That was a decision to be taken by the Master, after discussion with the Council.
Not that Qui-Gon had bothered with a trifling detail like consulting his superiors before announcing the fact.
Despite the pain, he found himself smiling. A more typical Qui-Gon gesture it would be hard to imagine. Even harder to believe was the thought of defying the Council himself ... defying Yoda ... and yet he had done it.
I gave Qui-Gon my word. I will train Anakin. Without the approval of the Council, if I must.
And he had won. Perhaps the most astonishing thing of all. He had won. And what a short victory it had proven to be.
"I wish you were here, Qui-Gon," he said to the empty air. "I need your wisdom. Your guidance. I don't know what to do."
The lack of him, after twelve years of near constant companionship, was a wound almost past bearing. Even knowing that his apprenticeship was coming to its end, knowing that most likely he would be assigned elsewhere and that doubtless Qui-Gon would take another apprentice ... it had not unduly distressed him. Because no matter where he found himself in the galaxy, it would still have been a galaxy with Qui-Gon in it ... regardless of the distance between them, never completely out of reach.
But now he was truly gone, forever absent, beyond thought and touch and sight. It had come too soon, and he hadn't been ready, and more than anything in the infinity of space and time, he wanted it to be not so.
So perhaps leaving the Temple was a good thing, after all. There was not one stone there, one room, one corridor, that did not contain a piece of Qui-Gon Jinn. He needed respite from the agony of remembrance. He needed distance. He needed to discover who, exactly, Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi was. Assuming, of course, that he was even a Jedi at all.
The thought was so dreadful it broke him into a cold sweat.
The Dark side.
From their earliest days in the Temple, novices were warned of the Dark side. Of its matchless power. The slick, seductive glide of it. The blood bursting strength of it. All-consuming. Avaricious. Gluttonous and unforgiving. Once embraced, never to be forsaken, like a jealous lover. He'd had nightmares for a week once Yoda had finished pointing out the pitfalls of the Dark side.
I have not turned. I have not turned. I have not turned.
Touching was not turning.
Being touched was not turning.
So what did this mean, this banishment? This exile? Did Yoda consider him beyond hope? Beyond redemption? Did one small sip of the cup poison completely?
It couldn't. It couldn't.
Seek the truth. Seek the path. Seek your destiny. When these things you have done, and answers you have found, here will we be waiting.
Hope, then, was not lost. Else Yoda would not have spoken so.
He was not lost.
Somehow, no matter the cost, no matter the suffering, he would find redemption. Purge himself of pain, grief, anger, fear ... servants all of the Dark side.
He would prove himself worthy.
Be brave, and don't look back.
Sound advice. Qui-Gon was dead. The Sith Lord was dead. The Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi was dead, too. Nothing would ever bring them back. For good or ill, what was done ... was done. He could undo none of it. His only hope now lay in going forwards. In seeking peace and clarity and understanding. In surrendering himself to the will of the Force and allowing events to unfold as they would. It was Qui-Gon's favourite, most infuriating response to any and all obstacles encountered. I am sure another solution will present itself. And most infuriating of all ... one always did.
Into his mind, unbidden, floated a single word.
Tatooine.
The name invoked a tumble of memories. Heat. Sand. The flash of lightsabres. Qui-Gon sweat streaked and panting and thrumming with alarm beneath a mask of calm.
Tatooine?
Well ... why not Tatooine? The desert was a favoured choice for contemplation. Yoda had told him to seek a place of solitude. From what he'd seen, he could imagine few places more solitary than the desert wastelands of Tatooine.
Tatooine. Stark. Searing. A crucible in which he could burn away his final impurities.
Another thought occurred to him. Anakin's mother was on Tatooine. Qui-Gon had liked her, very much. There'd been something in his voice when he spoke of her, some longing or regret or ... something. She would be missing her son. He could tell her how Anakin was. He could reassure her of his safety. His future. It was the compassionate thing to do. Qui-Gon would approve.
Satisfied, he programmed the navi-computer and punched in the co-ordinates. The stars streaked and stretched and disappeared. Setting the auto-pilot to drop out of hyperspace once they were within half a parsec of the planet, he withdrew to the ship's small cabin, lay down to meditate ... and was asleep before the first syllables of the Third Invocation had even formed in his mind.
For the first time since Qui-Gon's death, it was a sleep without dreams.
There were children playing in the workyards behind the slave quarters. Drolly and Boo and Eppi and Fleer. Anakin's friends. Shmi paused in hanging Watto's washing on the line, and watched as the children squealed and laughed, playing tag around the engine parts and evaporators and other broken down bits of machinery that were in the process of being repaired or stripped down or left to corrode into piles of rust.
She couldn't decide whether it helped or hurt, seeing them. They reminded her of Anakin, of the bleeding wound his leaving had left within her. But seeing them she could also see him. Imagine him playing with new friends. Happy. Free. She frowned. There would be games, surely, on faraway Coruscant? There would be time for a small boy to be a small boy? Even if he were also a Jedi-in-training?
With a sigh, she turned back to her work. Watto's temper was more uncertain than ever, these days. Anakin's leaving had created trouble she'd never contemplated. If she didn't finish her tasks by sundown, the consequences would be ... unpleasant.
Half listening to the children behind her, half dreaming of her son, only the sound of her name caught her attention. She turned. The game had stopped, and the children were gathered around a young man with short brown hair and an aura of leashed control. He was dressed simply in tunic, leggings and boots. No way of telling if he were rich or poor, native or off-worlder. She'd never seen him before ... but something about him stood the hair up on the back of her neck. Drolly pointed, and the young man looked at her. His eyes were pale blue, piercing in a face that was unused to a steady sun. She watched him thank the children and approach her, hands tucked into the opposing sleeves of his loose robe.
Her heart was pounding loud enough to hear. Head high, knees trembling inside her skirts, she said, "Can I help you?"
He offered a small bow. "You are Shmi Skywalker?"
"Yes. I am. What do you want?"
He smiled, a faint easing of his serious expression. "A few moments of your time, if that is possible."
"I have work to do. I am a slave, my time is very rarely my own."
The man glanced upwards. "Surely it is nearly noon, and too hot to be working outside for much longer. Are you permitted a midday break?"
"A short one."
"Then perhaps I could assist you with the remainder of your duties, and then we could talk ... in private?"
"I do not know you. What is there for us to talk about?"
She thought she could see approval in his eyes. He said, "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. And while it is true that we are strangers, still we hold something in common."
Her heart stuttered. Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon had spoken briefly of someone by that name. His ... a word she did not know. Apprentice, he had explained. This was Qui-Gon's apprentice. But where was Qui-Gon? And what of Anakin?
Swiftly, Obi-Wan said, "Be at peace. Anakin is well. But this is not the place for such matters. Let me help you, and then we can talk."
Silent, numb, she let him help her hang the rest of the washing. Then he carried the empty basket as they walked side by side back to her small house. It was a relief to get in out of the heat. With a small smile she took the basket from him and put it away.
"Would you like a drink? Are you hungry?" she asked.
"No, I am not hungry," he replied. "A drink would be welcome, though."
She frowned, examining him more closely. He looked fine-drawn, worn down from within, as people did when recovering from a long, grave illness. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he had the look of one for whom food has become a burdensome chore. "You must eat," she said. "Starving never solved a problem yet. Be seated. I will bring you something."
Startled, he stared at her. Then he smiled, a proper smile, and it was charming. It lit up his face, banishing solemnity and the lingering fingerprints of pain. "Thank you. You're very kind. Qui-Gon said --- that you were kind."
Something in the way he said it, some undercurrent in his voice, stopped the air in her lungs. Their eyes met, and she knew without the words being spoken that Qui-Gon Jinn was dead. What showed in her face then, she never knew ... but Obi-Wan turned away from her, rigid with sudden grief.
She said nothing, but retreated to the kitchen to prepare a light meal, and give them both a moment alone. When she brought the food and drink out to the table he was again master of himself. They sat opposite one another and sipped the precious water.
Obi-Wan said, "He died bravely. Defending good people against a great evil."
"A fitting end for a Jedi Knight," she said. "But a great sorrow, still."
Tears welled. Spilled. He'd rescued her son from slavery. She had loved him for that. Now they would never meet again ...
"He had enormous faith in your son, and it was not misplaced," Obi-Wan continued. "Anakin helped save an entire planet from destruction. To the peoples of Naboo, he is a hero."
She was caught, helpless, between pleasure and pain. "We were not mistaken, then," she said, smiling and brushing away the tears. "He is special."
"He is special," Obi-Wan echoed. "Anakin will become a Jedi Knight. Perhaps the greatest our Order has ever known. I give you my word, as a Jedi."
She reached across the table and touched her fingertips to his arm.
"Qui-Gon's faith was misplaced in neither of you," she said. "I trust my son to you. I know you will teach him well, and care for him, and --" She stopped. Something was wrong. He was staring at the table, and in his face such pain ... "What?" she demanded. "What have you not told me? I must know."
Reluctantly he lifted his gaze to hers. "I have sworn to you that Anakin will become a Jedi, and it will be so. But it is not yet certain who will complete his training."
"Why not?"
For a moment, she thought he would not reply. Then he uncramped his fingers from his glass, and folded his hands in his lap. "I faced the same evil as Qui-Gon," he said, face and voice taut. "I survived ... but not without paying a terrible price. I have been tainted. And until I can prove myself clean once more, I cannot train your son. I am unfit. More than this I will not ... cannot ... say."
He was a man ... but a young one, still, of an age almost to be her son, or a little brother, and he was newly bereaved. Every instinct she possessed urged her to comfort him, offer him the warmth of a caring embrace. She crushed instinct. She had no right, and he would not welcome it. He was a Jedi Knight.
"So what will you do, now?" she asked instead. "Where will you go?"
"Into the desert," he said. "I must meditate upon my actions until I am shown the path I must take."
She stared. "Are you mad? You cannot go into the desert. You will die. If the heat and the storms don't kill you, the Sand People will. Or the wild banthas. Or the krayt dragons. You cannot."
He shrugged. "I must," he said simply.
Frustrated, she bit into an apple. Chewed it savagely. No one ever thought to mention, when talking of Jedi Knights, that as well as being fine warriors and guardians of peace, they were also reckless and foolhardy beyond sense or belief. "Madness," she declared, indistinctly. "There must be something I can say, or do, to dissuade you."
He shook his head. "There is not."
Clearly there was no swaying him. She'd seen the same look in Qui-Gon's eye, an implacable, immoveable dedication to a chosen course of action. "Then eat," she told him, crossly. "The gods forbid you should die on an empty stomach."
That made him laugh, although she hadn't meant it as a joke. He did as she said, though, and ate the meagre meal. Drank all his water, then carried their plates to the kitchen. Qui-Gon had been the same, self-sufficient and unwilling for her to wait on him. When everything was clean and tidy again, Obi-Wan offered her a smile. "Thank you. For the meal, and your concern."
Recklessly she said, "Must you leave now? Or can you stay a little while longer, and tell me more of my son?" She heard the hunger in her voice, but could not feel embarrassed or ashamed. Anakin was her child, and before her life she loved him. There was no shame in that.
Obi-Wan hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. What would you like to know?"
She smiled. "Everything, of course."
So he sat with her in Anakin's room, which was exactly as he had left it, and told her of her son. How he had passed the Jedi Council's tests. Flown a starship and saved a planet. Made friends. Started lessons. She drank his words like the desert drank rain, greedy for every last drop of her precious boy. When at last there were no more stories to tell, the suns were setting and the air was growing cool. She took Obi-Wan's hand, and pressed it to her cheek.
"Thank you, so very very much," she whispered. "You have given me a great gift. I only wish there was a way I could repay you."
Gently he disengaged his hand from her fingers. "There is no need," he said. "He is a fine boy, and a promising student. When I see him again I will tell him that you are well, and that you send him your love."
"Yes. Please do."
"Now I must go. There are preparations I must make."
She wanted to cry. To fling her arms around him and restrain him with what little strength she possessed. She said, "How I wish you would not do this." And could not understand why she cared so much, except that he cared for her son, and was a good man, and had already suffered enough. The desert was a cruel and brutal place and she could not believe, would not, that anything he had done deserved such punishment.
"Thank you for your hospitality," he said.
It was a dismissal and a warning and a plea. She knew when she was beaten.
"I will show you out," she said, and led him to the door. Opened it. Stood aside and whispered, "May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan Kenobi."
He had taken no more than three steps from her home when a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the alley between the houses, and smashed a stun-gun into his face. He dropped without a word. Her own horrified cry was strangled in her throat at the sight of Watto, buzzing malevolently towards her. His stubby wings thrashed the thin desert air, and his yellow eyes gleamed.
"So, Shmi," he greeted her. "More little secrets you've been keeping, eh? Not such a good idea, I think!" He jerked his head, and two more shadowy figures stepped forward. "Bring them both. Jabba will be very pleased about this, heh heh heh! Maybe now I get him off my back, yes?"
Protest was pointless. Head high, lips pressed tight together, she said nothing as her wrists were secured with binders. As Obi-Wan was dragged upright and tossed over one massive Drolan shoulder. As Watto leaned close, breathing fetid air into her face.
"What did I tell you, eh, after your boy was stolen from me? Is not a good idea to mix with Outlanders! Looks like we both had to learn that the hard way, eh?" He glared at his henchmen. "What are you waiting for? We go! Jabba's not liking to be kept waiting, eh?"
A prod in the back, and she stumbled forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her neighbours, hiding indoors, fearfully staring as she was marched away. Ahead of her, Obi-Wan's vacant face bounced against the back of the Drolan thug carrying him.
Oh well, she told herself, with the resignation of a lifetime's slavery. At least I got my wish. At least he's not going to die in the desert. Unsurprisingly, the thought did little to comfort her.
Consciousness returned hand in hand with a crushing headache that had him on his knees and retching his guts up without regard for where he was, what we was vomiting on, or who might be watching. When the spasms finally ended, and everything he'd eaten in the last month had been forcibly ejected, and all that remained were a planet sized hollow beneath his ribs, a vile aftertaste in his mouth and a pain in his skull that annihilated thought, he unsquinted his eyes and looked up.
Feet. Lots of feet. Boots and toes and claws and tentacles and brightly painted hooves. It would seem he was surrounded. Without warning, someone or something kicked him in the side. Hard. He gasped, caught unprepared for the strike, which ignited a fire in his kidneys and threatened to blow the top of his head right off.
"Nawa da Thunga!" a booming voice above him decreed.
"Jabba says: Welcome," another voice translated. It sounded tinny. A droid.
"De wana Jedi chee oluglo," the Jabba person continued. "Hute gorubo, nee tando toro!"
"Jedi have no authority here," the droid translated. "On your feet, scum, and learn your fate."
Jabba. Jabba. Where had he heard that name before? His head was hurting so much he couldn't think, couldn't remember. But he knew it. Or should know it. Shouldn't he?
Rough hands grabbed him, dragged him upright. He would have fallen straight back down again if they hadn't maintained their grip. Gods of Corellia! What had they hit him with? His face was on fire. His bones were jelly. All he wanted to do was crawl into a dark hole somewhere and stay there, groaning. He opened his eyes properly. Yes, he was surrounded. By a large group of singularly unfriendly looking folk. Directly before him, reclining in luxury on a huge divan, was a Hutt. Jabba the Hutt? Seated beside him was another one. A female. Memory stirred. Gardola? Jabba and Gardola?
Now he remembered. Qui-Gon and Anakin both had spoken of these two. Jabba was known to be vicious, vindictive and oblivious to any kind of rule or regulation. Gardola was just greedy. And stupid. And spoiled rotten, the current jewel in Jabba's crown.
Jabba spoke again, and the droid translated. "Where is the boy?"
He cleared his throat. "What boy?"
Wrong answer. One of his captors rammed a highly illegal nerve-pulse into his neck. All the faces disappeared in a sheet of flame and he was on his knees, half fainting, unable to suck air enough to scream. Millenia passed, and with them the pain. Then he was hoisted upright again.
"Where is the boy?"
Dazed, he lifted his head. Opened his eyes, and his mouth, and signed his death warrant. "Beyond your reach, Hutt. He is with the Jedi on Coruscant, and you will never have him."
Jabba threw back his enormous head and roared. The stunted arms flailed. The elongated tail thrashed. Then the kicking began in earnest, and the beating, and the burning. He stayed conscious just long enough to wish he were dead ... and then darkness descended, and what they were doing to him was no longer of any concern at all.
He dreamed, and in his dreams he saw Yoda, and Mace Windu, and others of the Council. They sat in a circle and they watched him and their faces were poignant with sorrow. He held out his crushed and bloodied hands. "Masters, help me! Please help me!" he cried to them. "I am dying. Help me!" But they said nothing, and they did nothing. Just sat in their circle with their sorrowful faces and watched him bleed. Watched him die.
The second awakening was far, far worse than the first. It was so awful that he wept, but even that hurt, the salty tears on open wounds. So he moaned instead, like an animal. He felt like one. Stripped of all his humanity except the capacity for pain.
Then someone touched his hair, and a soft voice said, "Shhh, shhh, Obi-Wan. It's all right, it's all right."
It was a woman. But no woman he knew, had ever known, would speak to him like that. That was the way a mother spoke to her child. He had no mother. Confused, he tried to open his eyes. But it was too hard, and he hurt too much. Easier by far just to lie there and moan for oblivion. So he did.
The third time he woke it was still bad, but somehow more bearable. Or perhaps he was just growing used to it. He opened his eyes. Guttering torches cast a sullen, murky light. The air was dank, thick, clogging his nose and throat. He was on a stone floor. He was naked. He was cold.
"Do not move," Shmi Skywalker said. "I don't think anything is broken, but I cannot be sure."
Slowly, with great effort, he searched within himself. "No," he whispered at last. "Nothing is broken ... just a little bent."
A soft chuckle, with tears in it. "I was afraid they had killed you."
"For a moment or two I was wishing that they would," he admitted. "Are you all right?"
She was sitting on the floor behind him, level with his hips. "Yes. I have not been touched."
"Good." He looked around as much as his abused body would allow. "Where are we, exactly? Do you know?"
"In Jabba's villa. The dungeon."
"The dungeon," he repeated. "Of course, the dungeon. No well appointed Hutt villa should be without one. Do you know what time it is?"
"Not exactly. Well after midnight, I think."
So he'd been unconscious for hours. Not very good. Without thinking, one hand groped for his belt, for the reassuring weight of his lightsabre.
It was gone.
The loss of it hurt worse than the beating. Qui-Gon's lightsabre. I've lost his lightsabre.
Jedi owned few possessions. Most precious, most personal of all, was their lightsabre. And this one doubly so, for it was all he had left of his Master. His last solid, tangible link with the man who had taught him everything worth knowing.
It was a pain beyond sound, beyond tears. Trembling, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and made himself stay with this devastating truth, hold it in his heart and mind until the piercing sharpness of it faded enough to let him breath without burning.
Shmi said, "Obi-Wan?" Her voice was uncertain, etched with worry.
"I'm all right," he said, although he wasn't, and probably never would be again.
Haltingly she said, "Thank you. For protecting Anakin."
"I would be lying if I said it was my pleasure," he replied. "But --"
"Yes," she said. "I know."
"What does this Hutt want with him?"
He heard her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shift a little so that her rough-spun skirts made a swishing sound against the flagstones.
"Jabba had been watching Anakin for some time. He was looking for a podracer pilot, one that was good enough to win the races on Malastare and earn him a lot of money. After Anakin won the Boonta Eve race, Jabba decided he was the one and ordered Watto to sell him. But it was too late. Qui-Gon had secured his freedom, and you'd all left Tatooine. Jabba was furious with Watto for losing him. He's been making things very hard ever since. Watto suspected the truth about Qui-Gon. He must have been spying on me, hoping perhaps that Anakin or Qui-Gon would return to see me. When he discovered you, instead, he must have realised you are a Jedi, too, and --- I swear, Obi-Wan, I did not know this would happen. I only learned of Jabba's plans after you had left. I never would have kept you --"
"I know," he said. "It's all right. None of this is your fault."
Soft as sunlight, she touched his bare, bloody shoulder. "They have given me rags and some water. You cannot remain as you are, covered in dirt and blood."
He felt his face heat. "Thank you, but I --"
"No," she contradicted kindly. "You can't. Don't be embarrassed, Obi-Wan. I bathed my boy child for many years ... and you are not the first naked man I have seen, either."
So he let her bathe him, and it hurt a great deal. When at last she was finished he was colder than ever, and the bucket of water was crimson. Exhausted and shivering he watched her go to the cell door and bang her fists on it, shouting. After several minutes it was opened, and a squat, pig-like guard, heavily armed, glowered at her and grunted.
"I must have clothes for him," she said. "And blankets. Jabba won't be pleased if he dies of exposure before morning."
More suspicious grunting. The guard withdrew, slamming the heavy door shut. Eventually he returned, carrying blankets and a bloodstained pile of familiar looking clothes.
Shmi eyed them with disgust. "It wouldn't have hurt to give you something fresh."
His teeth were chattering so hard he was in danger of biting his tongue.
"Doesn't matter. I don't care. Give them to me -- please."
She helped him dress, then wrapped one of the verminous blankets about him. Spread the other on the floor next to a wall, and sat down with her back braced against the rough bricks. Moved her legs apart, and held out her arms. "Come," she said. "Sit. Use me as a pillow. My body heat will help to keep you warm." When he hesitated she said, sharply, "This is no time for ceremony. If you take chill, you could die. Where there is life, there is hope."
She was right. And he needed to get warm, to ease his discomfort if only a little, so that he could sink into trance and undo some of the damage Jabba's thugs had inflicted. The Force alone knew what he would have to face in the morning. Recumbent against her, head pillowed on the soft place between shoulder and breast, her arms wrapped tightly about him and her legs supporting his, he felt almost safe. Drifting, he felt her hand come up and press gently against his cheek. Felt her lips against his temple. Softly she said, "Peace, brave warrior. Rest. Tomorrow is another day." The room disappeared, and he slept.