Chapter Text
It hadn’t been him , Obi-Wan reminded himself over and over as he made the trek back to his home in the desert wastelands of Tatooine. The sand swirled across the dunes as his dewback plodded toward home. He’d pulled his cloak up to hide his skin from the suns’ rays. In the four years he’d spent here, it was still hard to get used to the arid winds that lingered late into the day, threatening to drain dry any living thing it could touch. With nothing to see but sand, Obi-Wan’s mind supplied visions of the last time he’d seen Luke Skywalker, more than one hundred rotations ago. He’d most likely continued to grow like a weed, taller everyday. He frowned, repressing the fond smile that wanted to spread across his face. Luke wasn’t family to him, couldn’t be. It couldn’t have been him, he repeated to himself.
The market wasn’t usually that busy during the day, most customers taking refuge in a cantina or above-ground shelter to escape the sweltering heat of the twin suns. Obi-Wan took advantage of that, passing through the market stalls when merchants were too hot and exhausted to haggle with him over wilted vegetables or the remaining strands of dried meat hanging from the eaves of the shops. Still, despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been alone today in the market.
A woman in layers of brown and tan fabric, her brown hair wrapped neatly in a braided bun, sorted through bins of loose metal pieces. Beside her, a boy no older than four was tugging at her hand, pointing at a glimmering stone on the counter. Obi-Wan’s heart had stopped, his fingers gripping the pack full of supplies until his knuckles were white.
Luke, his heart called out. He couldn’t afford to think it was him. There was more than one family in Mos Eisley. Merely a coincidence.
Owen Lars had told him to stay away, to never step foot on their homestead, to never be a part of Luke Skywalker’s life. Obi-Wan was a danger, just like Luke’s father. And although Obi-Wan knew he would never bring harm to that child, he couldn’t argue with the inherent risk a Force-wielder brought into any space they occupied. No matter how long he sat alone in his hovel—letting the suns wrinkle his skin and the sand sap away his strength, his sadness, his everything—it would never be enough time to make the Lars family forget the threat of the Empire. Nor would they forget the Force and all the destruction it seemed to have wrought.
The Force, so intertwined with Obi-Wan’s soul and a part of himself, was a scarred wound in his heart that was still bruised and bled without warning. He swallowed back bile.
Obi-Wan had turned away, forgoing his last stop for a replacement vaporator flex-joint seal. It would have to wait until next week. Without a last glance back, he had walked quickly to his mount at the edge of town, loaded his things, climbed into the saddle carefully, and led the dewback west toward the Jundland Wastes.
It wasn’t until he’d stored all of his supplies away in the cellar that he stopped to examine his own body. He had unloaded, cared for the dewback, and strung up an entire basket of medicinal herbs to dry without being aware of his motions. He supposed he shouldn’t be affected so much by the loss of yet another person in his life. Another name to add to the list, people he’d never see again, except in his memories. Those who were dead, he had mourned. But Luke was alive—was well —not meant to be grieved, and yet...here Obi-Wan was.
Tears had long since ceased to be a response to his sadness. Water was precious, not to be wasted on emotions. Instead, an overwhelming and familiar emptiness spread throughout his bones, settling into place as if it belonged there. Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose, still holding the string of herbs in one hand.
As he took the carved stone steps up to the main level of his home, the barebones kitchen came into view and sparked a realization in him. Obi-Wan paused, startled by the idea. He looked down at the herbs, various scraggly weeds and wax-coated leaves slowly shriveling in the dry air. Then, his gaze fell on the small kettle beside his nanowave stove. His heart clenched.
Discarding the herbs on the table— they’d be too bitter —and opening various cabinets, he searched for ingredients. From the tiny pots of crushed herbs, he found what he needed. Dried root, earthy and potent. A delicate pink flower, intact with fragile petals curled away from the yellow center. Rind from a pungent fruit, one meant to pucker one’s mouth when they ate it. Green leaves, shrunken but still supplying a fragrant aroma when he opened the container.
Obi-Wan prepared the mixture, ground the root into a powder, and delicately placed the dried flower atop it. From a container in the corner, he doled out a single portion of water into the kettle and set it on the stove to heat. He stood beside it, staring out the small window carved into the stone wall of the house. The suns were low in the sky, casting an orange glow across the wasteland and carving dark shadows into the crags and cliffs Obi-Wan’s home rested above.
With steady hands, he used a worn towel to wipe a ceramic cup with practiced motions. From one side, swiping both the inner and outer edges, wrist rotating the cup in increments. A final swipe to the inside with a fresh section of the towel. From within one of the stubborn drawers, he found a spoon that wasn’t pockmarked with rust and wiped it clean. Setting both of the items on the table in front of him, he felt the hold of the emptiness on his body start to recede slowly, replaced by a faint warmth, embers of a connection to the Force that never truly died.
Obi-Wan cradled that feeling within himself with great care, letting the hum of the nanowave stove buzz just beneath his skin, allowing the sound of windblown sand to scour away everything else. There was only here , only now.
The kettle began to rumble next to him and he removed it from the stove before it could boil. His movements measured and certain, he poured a small amount into the cup, listening— ah yes, the perfect amount . While the cup warmed, he picked up the container of extra tea leaves and held it up to his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent.
“Where are the red ones from?” Anakin asked, wide blue eyes fixated on Obi-Wan as he plucked a few from a glass container.
“La-Hoh Uchimae, an island city on Cretamalia,” Obi-Wan explained, smiling fondly at the small blooms. They were spiky, like bright little urchins.
“What do they taste like?”
“Be patient and you’ll know soon enough,” Obi-Wan chided good-naturedly. He knew they would be spicy, something Anakin always found amusing in his drinks. Today was a good day. Anakin had perfected his katas and been given permission to advance to the next level of saber training by Master Drallig, an accomplishment worth celebrating—
Obi-Wan gasped, suddenly torn from the memory by a loud metallic clang. He looked around frantically, but there was nothing amiss inside the house. He stood up, looking out the window carved into the wall. Out in the sand, a scrap of sheet metal rolled along with the wind, banging into obstacles as it was carried along. Obi-Wan frowned, too tired from the journey into Mos Eisley this morning to bother retrieving it.
A soft sigh escaped him and his hands returned to the cup of tea, now tinged a blush pink color. The flower bud he’d placed into the cup had expanded, coaxed into an artificial bloom by the warm water. Obi-Wan felt a flicker of something in his chest, as if he wanted to do something. Smile, maybe? His eyes flickered over to the empty seat across from him and suddenly the feeling was gone. Happiness, sapped out of his heart like someone had sent it out of an airlock into the void of space.
For him, the tea ceremony had always been something shared. Not once had he completed it alone, but now, he supposed there wasn’t much of a choice, was there? He could only bow slightly to the emptiness before taking a sip of the tea. The warmth of it mocked him, for it only managed to highlight how cold he continued to be inside.
Focus , he begged. Don’t let it consume you.
He winced away the bitterness lingering on his tongue and in his soul, then tentatively reached out to the Force again.
“Qui-Gon taught me to listen to the water as I poured it,” Obi-Wan said.
“I’m listening, Master. I promise. I just—”
“Your problem isn’t focus, Anakin. You’re just going too fast for your hands to keep up,” Obi-Wan explained, using a cloth to wipe away the spilled water. “Try again, but slower this time.”
A soft rap on his bedroom door.
“Master Obi-Wan?”
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and replied, “Yes, Anakin?”
“Can we have tea?” The way it was spoken had a pitifulness to it.
Obi-Wan had the indignation to think to himself about the absurdity of the hour Anakin was requesting they share tea before he heard a single, muffled sniffle. He was on his feet and opening the door before he could take another breath.
“Oh, Padawan. Come here.” He opened his arms and Anakin barreled into him. “Nightmares again?”
Anakin nodded, rubbing at his eyes.
“Not to worry,” he said, soothing Anakin with a pat on the head. A blend of matricaria and lavandula would do the trick.
A single tear ran down Obi-Wan’s cheek. He kept both hands on the teacup and let it fall, body frozen as the memories filled him to the brim.
The floor of the ship was cold. Anakin had been too. Their first battle with the clone troopers had gone smoothly, but not without casualties. Death was no stranger to either of them, but it also wasn’t a friend. The loss of their men clung to Obi-Wan and his former Padawan like apparitions, ghostly hands pressing down on their shoulders and chilling their veins with ice.
“Sit with me,” Obi-Wan asked, looking at Anakin. His eyes no doubt begged despite Obi-Wan’s best effort to sound composed. Anakin was pacing back and forth in the cabin, wringing his hands and mumbling to himself. The younger man raised his wrist to his mouth as if to issue an order through his commlink, but then thought better of it.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan asked again, firmer this time.
“Okay,” Anakin breathed out, deflating into a cross-legged position across from Obi-Wan.
“We cannot carry this loss with us. It will only hinder our ability to lead our men.”
“I know,” Anakin answered, frowning. He didn’t seem to have accepted that fact even if he knew it in his heart.
“But we can honor their sacrifice,” Obi-Wan suggested, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to catch Anakin’s attention. The idea caught Anakin by surprise.
“You brought—”
“Always,” Obi-Wan chuckled, reaching into a pack and revealing a sachet of dried tea leaves. “Nothing extravagant but it will be enough.”
“I’ll prepare it this time, Master.”
“Of course.” Obi-Wan smiled at him, feeling the weight of their responsibilities in the war be lifted from them, however briefly.
Obi-Wan’s hands clenched around the teacup, eyes unfocused. He bit his lip, willing the tears in his eyes to fade. They didn’t.
Ahsoka was preparing tea for both of them, her small hands moving carefully over the utensils in order. She wore a determined smile on her face, much the same as when she was practicing her combat skills or learning new tactical formations. Obi-Wan said nothing, content to simply watch her. The space between the three of them was peaceful in a way he cherished more than anything. It reminded him of how things had been before the war. There were so few things untainted by it now.
He was proud of her.
He caught Anakin’s eye and shared that feeling in the bond between them. It was returned ten-fold. Anakin’s face brightened with a wide smile.
“What?” Ahsoka paused, looking at them. “Did I miss something?”
“What? No,” Anakin sputtered.
“Liar,” she said, fondly. “You and Obi-Wan are grinning like that time you pranked Master Windu in the Temple Gardens.”
“We don’t speak of that, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, stroking his mustache mischievously.
She just tilted her head at him and raised an eyebrow before returning her attention to the tea powder. Anakin looked at him again and the smile was back.
He couldn’t see now, the tears streaming down his face. Obi-Wan wouldn’t allow himself to be defeated by the grief, couldn’t bear to make a sound. He stifled the urge to sob by pressing a wrist to his mouth, then wiped his nose.
Eventually, a sad laugh escaped, followed by a sniffle that made him wince. There was no one watching. It didn’t matter if he was upset, but he’d thought after so many years, he’d grown used to losing people.
Some people, it turned out, left wounds not by how they disappeared, but by how they had carved their names into his heart with each act of kindness. To never get another chance to hear Ahsoka’s laughter, or look into Anakin’s bright eyes, to never sit amongst the Council members and meditate until they couldn’t distinguish themselves from one another—it killed him, but he couldn’t let the memories fade.
They were proof of something good, something real and worth fighting for. He kept them buried deep inside where the dark void could never reach. Obi-Wan wiped more tears from his cheeks and took a drink of the tea.
Somewhere out there, Ahsoka was alive. He knew she was, although he couldn’t explain how. He’d never attempted to tug on the threads of their connection to one another, he couldn’t. No one could know he had survived, but the hope of her survival was all he needed.
Anakin was...gone. That would never change. Not even tea gave him the courage to dwell on the shorn connections of that bond. Yet so much of him remained in his son, Luke.
Luke, with his blond hair and bounce in his step. Already obsessed with ships and tinkering, just like his father had been. In the Force, he was a shimmering beacon of light. Obi-Wan was so proud of him already.
Obi-Wan took the last drink of tea and dried his eyes, allowing himself to smile softly. So much had been torn from him, but he hadn’t lost hope. There would be balance one day, even if he wasn’t around to see it.