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by Kass (kassxf@aol.com) & DBKate

Category: A/U, Story, Romance *ANGST*

Rating: R (for adult themes)

Spoilers: For all movies, including TPM, and the JA books.

Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em, we don't. Damn.

EXILES SERIES: In an alternate universe set fifteen years after the events in The Phantom Menace, two Jedi live in hiding on the desert planet of Tatooine, awaiting a child's destiny. Will they survive to see a new hope come to fruition?

HOME: A legacy from Qui-Gon's and Obi-Wan's past comes back to haunt them as a life-altering crisis is met.

The nights are immense here in the Tatooine desert, the darkness shattered as the first of six moons floods reflected light over the endless wastes, rays dancing golden in their fullness.

In the distance, the night creatures sing and fill the thin air with chirps and cricks of warning, hunger and desire. Bright stars shimmer overhead and dry winds blow, chilling the inside of our tiny home, making us shiver even after a day of relentless heat.

It's a strange, harsh world we live in now, Qui-Gon and I.

We are both older, though not exactly wiser, but I think we are slowly learning. Learning how to live the life of ordinary men, men who would deny with their dying breath that they were ever Jedi, finally understanding things most others take for granted.

Things we never needed to understand before.

We now negotiate bleak dunes instead of trade agreements. We fight unreliable machines instead of enemies of the Republic. We battle for our daily lives -- for food and water and shelter, instead of a galaxy's honor.

We survive and claim another war won with every sunrise we see.

Yes, it is a strange, harsh life we live, but it's softened by the comfort we take in each other. Survival is a welcome fight as long as Qui-Gon is by my side and I by his.

My own, my life-bonded and beloved. I welcome his weight and warmth against my chest at night, welcome the sight of him each morning, his sleepy eyes not yet accustomed to the sharp light of Tatooine's brutal dawn.

We rise with the suns because we have no choice. We must move or die, for there is no rest for the creatures who would live on this cruel world.

This morning I watch as he rubs his eyes and glares angrily at his reflection in the wall glass. He's looking at the lines that crease his forehead, at the rough patches along his throat and at the silver mass of hair that's become tangled after another restless night beside me.

He threatens to cut it off as I pick up the comb and quietly bid him to sit. He obeys and I tell him about the day that lies ahead while gently picking through the knots and tangles that plague him.

Afterwards, I braid his hair until it hangs down his back in a single, shining silver plait, until it is softer than kempur silk and twice as beautiful.

He grumbles while I work, then smiles at me via the glass when I'm done, amused by this small ritual of ours.

I return the smile and we laugh, knowing that tomorrow and the day after and the day after that will be exactly the same.

He will threaten, I will braid and then, we'll laugh.

Hopefully, for the rest of our lives.

"Besides," I whisper as I kiss his cheek. "How can I undo it tonight if you cut it off today?"

Qui-Gon laughs even louder at this. He knows what pleasure I take in undoing my morning's work while we lay in bed where he is rewarded for his patience with kisses, then with love, slow and knowing.

Our nightly lovemaking is a far cry from the frantic groping of a decade past but is just as satisfying in its own calm way. We know each other intimately now and this silent knowledge adds a depth to our passion only time can bring.

It adds a peace only we can know.

This isn't to say we lack creativity. Our last adventure outside probably had the night creatures squeaking for days and I doubt the sand now imbedded in our blanket will ever fully dissipate.

But most nights are not for adventurous living. They're a time for peace and joy, a time when I can enjoy Qui-Gon looking at me with his infinite eyes, while his voice and bright body keep me warm. Soft kisses are shared until I want to touch him everywhere, inside and out, then watch as the night whitens his profile with moonlight.

This is what makes me rise every morning and work my hands raw while the furious suns burn my skin and soul until they sear away whatever is left of my youth.

It is for him and for the legacy we have sworn to protect.

A legacy which has finally returned to haunt us.

It's high noon, the hottest part of the day, and I'm struggling with a vaporizer lever that simply doesn't want to budge. I wipe the sweat from my brow and hear a sharp tap of metal against rock. The sound makes me tense but I make no move toward it, instead, I continue to work.

Slowly, I turn and pretend I am reaching for another tool while taking a quick Jedi-thorough check of my surroundings. One can't be too careful on this hostile world -- enemies lurk in every corner, they hide behind every dune.

I squint into the sunlight, my body and mind at the ready. The source of the noise immediately becomes clear and I huff with surprise at the sight.

It is a 'droid.

An old fashioned astrotech repair 'droid from the looks of it, with its squat barrel and three-pronged wheel carriage clumsily huddled into a rock crevice to my left. It's a rather dented and battle-scratched machine and I take a moment to examine it while its single 'eye' returns the favor.

I wave it forward. "Hello. Don't be afraid my friend, I won't hurt you."

It gives a short whistle in reply and hesitantly waddles toward me.

Suddenly, I recognize this 'droid. Kneeling beside it, I search for its identification tag and read its call numbers, just to make sure.

R2-D2 - 1S82DK18.

I'm right, it is Artoo-Detoo, Queen Amidala's 'droid, the one who saved her yacht during that first fateful flight from Naboo. Perhaps I'm assuming too much, but I could swear this faithful machine is more than just a simple bundle of circuits and components, for very often it has seemed much the friend, more so than many of the living creatures we've met in our travels.

"Welcome, little one. Come inside, out of the sun." Rising, I bid the 'droid to follow me and it rolls noisily over desert stones, beeping and humming softly in its own mysterious mechanical language.

We enter the house together and the little machine whistles a loud greeting to Qui-Gon who is busily preparing our supper.

He whirls around and stares at the 'droid. "What's this?" Surprised.

I settle on a workbench and motion the 'droid closer. "Don't you remember? It's our old friend from days past, Artoo-Detoo."

Qui-Gon peers closely at the little 'droid. "Yes, it does look somewhat familiar." He pauses and a flicker of worry crosses his features. "But why is it here?"

I shrug and wipe a bit of dust from Artoo's metal covering. "We'll have to assume it's brought us a message." I lean toward the small 'droid. "Is this the case?"

A soft beep in the affirmative.

Qui-Gon nods and folds his arms uncomfortably over his chest. I can see him biting the inside of his lip in a rare gesture of discomfiture. "Whatever news it brings, it can't be good."

"I'm afraid we won't know until we hear it." I bend down and squint at the 'droid's front panel. Study it for a moment before I make a few standard passes over its minute controls and immediately, a holotape recording flickers to life.

I'm more than a little surprised to see the familiar face of Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan speaking to us from somewhere within his palace, his image cloudy from a bad recording, the projection hazy as if rushed and filmed in dim light.

Bail's voice is slow and measured and it's obvious that his words are carefully chosen. "To Benjamin and Kale, greeting. It is with great sorrow I must inform you that our mutual friend will soon no longer be with us. It is our friend's most fervent wish that one of you will be so kind as to come and ease our friend's mind on certain important matters that are held near to our friend's heart. Enclosed in this 'droid's carry case you'll find all that is necessary to accommodate any needs you may have in regards to this trip. I regret that I am unable to give you this message in person but I'm sure we all understand the need for discretion, particularly in regards to our beloved friend, who, as always, is held dear to us. Salutnus Rex, Bail Organa, Alderaan."

I feel the blood drain from my face and swallow past a tightening throat. It's a convoluted, coded message Bail sends, but to Qui-Gon and myself, its meaning is painfully clear.

Our mutual friend -- Amidala -- is dying.

Quickly, I shut off the holotape before it rewinds and repeats its unwelcome news. Qui-Gon and I knew this day would eventually arrive but like all tragedies, one is never fully prepared for it when it actually comes.

Behind me, Qui-Gon slowly sinks into a chair, his hands trembling. I know he remembers the terrible events that led to this day as well as I do.

When we arrived on Naboo after Vader's rape of Coruscant three years previous, our intentions were simple. We would merely warn Amidala of her husband's betrayal and let her take whatever actions necessary to save herself and her people from his dark wrath.

She was a strong, mature woman by that time, no longer the naive queen we'd rescued from a Trade Federation assault a decade before. The poor woman had no idea that her husband had turned to Darkness -- all she knew was that he'd suddenly and silently abandoned her and their marriage for seductions untold.

Qui-Gon and I both believed she'd be able to take matters easily in hand, thought that the truth would strengthen her and what we thought were her endless reserves of resolve.

But that turned out not to be the case.

We found Amidala on Naboo, thin and pale with grief over the loss of her beloved husband, who had vanished without a word months before. She greeted us running, flung herself into Qui-Gon's embrace and went nearly wild with joy when we informed her that yes, Anakin was still alive and no, he had not found another wife.

She wept with gratitude and begged us to give him a message from her. We were to tell him how deeply she still loved him, how she was prepared to receive him back without question . . .

And that she was pregnant with his child.

How quickly then did our mission of mercy turn into a mission of Fate.

Qui-Gon and I immediately realized that a child of Anakin's might be the last hope of the Jedi, indeed of the Republic itself. If he or she could be kept safe and eventually trained properly, the entire tide of war might one day be turned with the flash of a single youthful saber.

Saving this child would be an investment in countless lives, both present and future, and a chance we may never have gotten again.

We decided that Amidala and her child had to be spirited away and kept safely hidden from Vader and Palpatine, most likely, for the rest of their lives. We would go with them, protect them as necessary and undertake any training required.

It seemed the obvious course of action to Qui-Gon and myself, but explaining this to Amidala was another matter entirely.

I wasn't present during the long talk Qui-Gon had with her that night in her chambers. He'd always been closer to her -- he was, after all, the one who had introduced the couple on Tatooine all those years before. He was the one chosen to witness their bonding years later, thus he insisted that he alone would be the one to tear her hopes away and break what remained of her heart.

I never heard what words Qui-Gon used to tell Amidala of the horror that had befallen her husband, or of the misery that followed in the wake of his fall, but I saw the effects the news bore on the young woman. In one evening she turned from a proud, beautiful queen into a wretched, stumbling creature, her once proud expression suddenly bewildered and numbed with grief.

In the days following, she wandered aimlessly through her palace with us at her side, crying out the same questions, the same protestations, over and over, until she could barely rasp out any words at all. "But how can this be? Surely, Qui-Gon, you are mistaken. Anakin . . . my Anakin, could harm no one. He could harm nothing, not even the insects in the garden. No, this is not true. Obi-Wan, you will tell me the truth. Say this is not true. . . on your knighthood, you will tell me this is not true."

It took a while but our silence finally convinced her of our veracity.

Afterwards, she argued endlessly with us and precious weeks passed as Vader's forces grew closer. Even if what we said were true, she protested, she couldn't abandon her people to such a monster as we claimed her husband had become. Duty demanded she oversee their evacuation, it was the least she owed to them. There were too many things to be done, too many lives that needed saving and there was no way she could leave things as they were.

When we quietly reminded her of the life growing inside her, she became fierce and resentful. It was her child not ours and yes, even if he were a monster, it was Anakin's child as well. Besides, could not the child be used to turn Vader back to goodness? Wasn't it possible to save Anakin with the promise of fatherhood?

Couldn't he be redeemed through love?

Finally, Qui-Gon had enough. He told Amidala in no uncertain terms that she would either come away with us the next morning or he would leave her and her unborn baby to their fate. Vader would come and she would be held and tortured until she gave birth --then disposed of. The child would be taken under the wing of Palpatine and turned to Darkness, thus ensuring yet another generation of misery for the entire galaxy.

It was her choice and if that was what she truly wanted, then we would not stand in her way.

I'd never heard Qui-Gon speak so bluntly, so brutally, before. It was as if a touch of Darkness had overtaken him and I still remember shivering as I listened to him, his voice rough with barely restrained rage and sorrow.

It was a terrible moment, but, it worked.

The next morning Amidala came to us, her entire demeanor speaking of exhaustion and utter defeat. She was dressed plainly, in the clothes of a commoner, and her long and beautiful hair was haphazardly shorn as if she'd cut it off in a frenzy of grief. She left two lengthy locks of it, along with the dress she wore for her bonding ceremony, draped over the footstool of her husband's throne.

She stared at us blankly. "I want to make sure he finds it. Perhaps he will remember."

The skies of Theed were a bright blue the day we left Naboo and Amidala stared out over its horizon for the last time, no doubt saying her final farewell to all that she'd ever known and loved.

Her people, her throne, her husband . . . and her home.

Once in flight, there were few uncertainties. Qui-Gon and I knew exactly where we were going -- a planet called Alderaan. Senator Bail Organa was already the acknowledged leader of the underground movement against the Empire and his home planet would be a perfect safe haven for our charge and the child she bore.

We were confident that once we arrived, everything would be taken care of, but getting to our destination was another, much more difficult, matter.

With Vader's forces on alert everywhere, we found ourselves forced to creep along the edges of the galaxy, bypassing known lanes of traffic, and avoiding well-traveled routes at all costs. A trip that should have taken no more than a few days turned into a hazardous journey that stretched out into months and weariness began to take its toll.

To complicate matters, Amidala was already a good way along in her pregnancy and it soon became apparent that we would not reach Alderaan in time for the birth.

The fact that we would have to assist with her labor didn't bother us -- all Jedi are trained in the art of childbirth -- but the rapidly declining state of Amidala's health did, and greatly.

During the prolonged trip, she'd developed a serious case of pregnancy sickness, exacerbated by depression, and she soon became too weak to leave her quarters. For days on end, I listened as she vomited and wept, watched as her entire body trembled with dehydration and distress and was forced to turn away when the crying began again.

I never remembered feeling more helpless and after a week of this misery, I begged Qui-Gon to let us stop and find a planet for her to rest on.

He adamantly refused. Vader was closing in on us, we could feel him breathing down our necks and in my heart, I knew it was far too dangerous to stop.

Even for what could be the galaxy's last hope.

But this is not to say that Qui-Gon didn't try to help our poor friend, oh no, he tried. Day after day he tried every method, every trick he'd ever heard of to restore Amidala's strength and health. From healing trances to soft lectures on the value of hope to simply wrapping his cloak around her and holding her as if she were his daughter.

Every evening he tucked her into the strong folds of his embrace and spent hours gently rocking her while murmuring snatches of story and song. He brushed stray hairs away from her fevered cheeks and continued to hold her long after sleep finally gave her some respite from the pain.

Together, we did all we possibly could and when it was time, we set into orbit around the planet Delore, waiting for her labor to start.

It was the beginning of a long and terrible night.

As the elder knight, Qui-Gon was in charge of the birth and I would assist but only if called upon. Taking great care, he guided Amidala through her breathing, used Force to talk her out of her pain and attended to of all the medical procedures required.

The first baby, a girl, arrived easily enough. She had a head full of dark hair and cried lustily upon her entry into life. I was the first to hold her as Qui-Gon cleaned out her eyes and nostrils and we were overjoyed that the birth had gone so smoothly but a sharp cry from Amidala soon ended our revelry.

It was then we discovered Amidala was not carrying one child, but two.

Twins.

And the second one, the boy, was breech. This was a complication we weren't prepared for and what should have been a simple undertaking soon turned into a fight for two lives, as both Qui-Gon and myself struggled not to let our charges slip away from our grasp and into death.

It was the bloodiest, most difficult birth I'd ever witnessed.

But Qui-Gon refused to give up. He fought for their lives with every bit of courage and strength he'd used to fight any enemy of old and in the end, for the most part, he'd succeeded. The babies, fat and smiling, survived the experience and with a minimal amount of care, they quickly recovered.

Amidala did not.

By the time we reached Alderaan she was near death and it was only our constant entreaties and reminders of her two children that kept her clinging to life. She was but a shadow of the person we'd once known and it soon became apparent that the experience of those long, terrible months in space had maimed her, both mentally and physically, for life.

She was then only twenty-eight years old.

And now, at the age of thirty-two, she is dying. We both grieve for her but I know Amidala's fate is one of Qui-Gon's darkest and deepest regrets. It is the only subject he absolutely refuses to discuss with me and I've never pressed him to.

Now, we have no choice. "Qui-Gon . . . " I begin, hesitating.

He holds his hand up, requesting my silence, his expression grim. "One of us must go. There is no choice in the matter." He swallows hard. "I. . . I think it should be you, Obi-Wan. I am growing far too old for this sort of thing and I fear I should make a mess out of it if I do go." He sighs. "Besides, you're more familiar with the Organas than I am and. . . and . . . "

His eyes shut tightly and I watch as a single tear rolls down his cheek. "Damn it. Damn it all." Hoarsely.

I rise and reach for him, wrapping my arms loosely around his waist. "I will go," I whisper, placing a soft kiss on his shoulder. "It won't take long and it will be all right. She's in good hands and we both know that peace awaits."

He nods but doesn't reply. We stand this way for a very long time and the night that follows is a sleepless one. We lay awake on our pallet, wrapped in each other's arms and wait for the cruel suns to rise.

We are silent . . . but our thoughts are shared and sorrowful. Already we mourn, mourn for the living as well as the dead, no longer knowing which among them is better off.

We mourn our upcoming separation, the first we will know in over a decade. It frightens us and together, we feel shame for that fear.

For we are never truly apart and we should know that by now.

But we can't help the part of our souls that wants to stave off the dawn, stave off our time apart and the inevitable tragedy that awaits.

Our friend's death, so undeserved.

Our galaxy's future, so unsure and shrouded in darkness.

Our own future, so often hanging by thin, tangled threads of Fate.

The night flies by and the suns rise as they must. With them we also rise, for we have no choice. We must move or die, for there is no rest for the creatures who would live on this world.

Or, so it seems, on any other.

I'm getting old. Not merely older, but old. I see it in the lines that increase each day, seemingly, and it troubles me that after all this time, I should be so vain. I see it in the loose skin of my throat, in the way my hair has gone almost completely silver, and I can feel it in the ache in my bones in the chill of the desert night. Obi-Wan is no longer a boy either, of course, but is a man in his prime. I insist that I take on my share of the work, of course, but I see encroaching age in the assessing look he gives me before he agrees on the division of work.

Ah, but he is still my beloved, my lifemate, and if I could single out one regret among the many that crouch in the shadows, I would choose the fact that I've tied him to an old man. Selfishly, I kept him with me instead of letting him free, I could not bear that we should part, much less part in anger.

There are other regrets, of course, and once he is asleep, his warmth easing the ache of the day's work, they come out of the shadows to haunt me. His sleepy smile in the morning does more to dispell them than the rising sun; old men sleep but little, I fear, and lately, I sleep only a little.

Jedi do not take anti-agathics, the drugs that postpone the body's natural aging. Selfishly, vainly, I wish now that I had, and it's not just my vanity, not just the struggle with a body that no longer wishes to obey my every command. It's easy to forget, in the heat of the desert sun, that we are here for a purpose, that we are here to guard Anakin's son from Vader's rage, from Vader's possession.

He doesn't need an old man at his side, he needs a Jedi knight, still strong and in his prime.

This realization hits me with renewed force when Obi-Wan enters our home with a 'droid.

"What's this?" I ask, turning away from the preparation of our evening meal.

He glances at me, arches an eyebrow and settles down on the workbench. "Don't you remember? It's our old friend from days past, Artoo - Detoo."

I feel the old familiar clench of guilt around my heart. Amidala's 'droid. I remember too well, now I've had a closer look at him.

I swallow hard. "Yes, it does look somewhat familiar. But why is it here?"

Obi-Wan's thoughts are with the 'droid. "We'll have to assume it's brought us a message." He leans toward the small 'droid. "Is this the case?"

The 'droid beeps softly.

I nod and fold my arms over my chest, almost hugging myself. Serenity, I remind myself. "Whatever news it brings, it can't be good." He leans toward the 'droid and makes some minute adjustments. After a moment, a holograph appears, as miniature as all such clandestine messages must be.

It is Bail of Alderaan. "To Benjamin and Kale, greeting. It is with great sorrow I must inform you that our mutual friend will soon no longer be with us. It is our friend's most fervent wish that one of you will be so kind as to come and ease our friend's mind on certain important matters that are held near to our friend's heart. Enclosed in this 'droid's carry case you'll find all that is necessary to accommodate any needs you may have in regards to this trip. I regret that I am unable to give you this message in person but I'm sure we all understand the need for discretion, particularly in regards to our beloved friend, who, as always, is held dear to us. Salutnus Rex, Bail Organa, Alderaan."

I stand frozen for a moment, feeling the ache in my chest again. No light thing at my age, particularly after the damage I suffered on Naboo all those years ago. Absently, I rub my left arm, watching Obi-Wan, watching to see if he understands.

Amidala must be dying.

Somehow, my knees feel rubbery, and I turn, pull a chair out from the table and sink down into it. My hands are shaking now, and the ache in my chest is worse.

Guilt, the old damage, who knows.

She is dying because of my actions. Everything I have done, my arrogant judging of Anakin as Chosen One, my training of Anakin, my stubborn insistence to her that she leave with us, my refusal to bring any one of her attendants . . . not even her physician.

Arrogance again. I trusted no one, was certain we would reach safety before her time was upon her.

I ended up delivering the twins myself. I'd delivered babies before, all Jedi are trained to certain emergency procedures, and I had kept current. It would be no difficulty, I told myself, but Amidala carried twins, one was breech, and the placenta detached. I had to be brutal to save both infants, and she bled a great deal, and I am no surgeon.

If we had not reached haven when we did, I believe she would have died then, died from my arrogance and bumbling.

We have never spoken of it, but I remember that my hands and arms were almost bathed in blood by the time I knew she would not die then and there.

My fault. My blame. My guilt to bear.

Bail's best physicians undid the damage I had wrought during the delivery, or tried. It took many lunar cycles before she was recovered enough to hold her babies; as if half-killing her were not enough, I insisted that the twins be separated, hating myself for my cruelty even as I battered her with logic and sense.

She never blamed me by word or gesture. She agreed meekly with me that it was only sensible. She begged me to choose which twin should stay and which we should take, because she could not.

I confess, I could not think, it was purely panic that made me reach out and take the fair headed child, too like Anakin, even as an infant.

She sat propped with pillows, making no move to stop me, but tears streamed uncontrollably, and as I left the chamber, I heard a mother's keen of grief.

I have spent a few years now, refusing to think of these things, but this small 'droid had opened up the tomb in which I had buried them and the reek and stench of my own guilt and fault were enough to choke me.

"Qui-Gon . . . " Obi-Wan begins, almost hesitant.

No, I cannot. I cannot look in those eyes again. And Obi-Wan is younger, stronger, he is still a warrior. If there is trouble along the way, he will be better able to deal with it. "One of us must go. There is no choice in the matter." I swallow hard again. "I. . . I think it should be you, Obi-Wan. I am growing far too old for this sort of trip and I fear I should make a mess out of things if I do go." I say it painfully, despite the truth of my words. "Besides, you're more familiar with the Organas than I am and. . . and . . . " I see the faintest hint of relief in his eyes and have to close my own. I am getting old, I feel salt sting my eyes, feel a tear escape. "Damn it. Damn it all." Hoarsely. And he is there, his arms around me, a kiss on my shoulder.

"I will go," he whispers, "It won't take long and it will be all right. She's in good hands and we both know that peace awaits."

Peace. I manage to nod, but I wonder. She still loves Anakin, I know, and if she could, if I had not hounded her unmercifully, she would likely have stayed.

And the hellish thing is that I still don't know if I was right.

We stay there for a very long time.

Once in bed, there is lovemaking, slow and sweet, as if for the last time. I hold him after, but he doesn't sleep. Tonight, he sits vigil with the old man.

Who knows what the morrow will bring?

My plans are made and with Bail's credit chip tucked safely away, along with Artoo-Detoo perched on the speeder's back, I take the trip to my brother Owen's homestead with much trepidation.

He's warned me in no uncertain terms that I'm not welcome on his land or near his family, but this time I honestly have no choice. Amidala deserves a full report on her child and I intend on bringing it to her, even at the price of further estranging myself from my clan and blood.

Besides, I don't think things could get much worse between Owen and myself.

I try to time my visit to fall during the busiest hour of the day when there's the greatest chance that Owen will be out working the moisture fields. I roll up to his home and notice that his speeder is nowhere to be seen.

This is good news and if I hurry, I might be able to complete this small part of my task unscathed.

There's movement in the doorway and a moment later I see my bond-sister Beru wave me forward, her face lit with the same gentle smile I've never seen her without. She and I have always gotten along well, as she is a strong, opinionated woman and her devotion to my brother does not mean she follows him blindly in all matters.

For this small favor, I am excruciatingly glad as I exit the speeder and bow shortly to her. "Forgive the intrusion, my sister, but I come on matters somewhat urgent."

"Come in, Obi-Wan. Come in." She grasps my arm and tugs me into their small, but comfortable home. She immediately pours me a steaming cup of spiced tea and motions for me to sit. "I'm glad to see you," she says, silencing my weak protests when she pulls out some tarrot bread and marte and serves them to me.

Her expression softens. "I know about the disagreement between you and Owen but I want you to understand that Owen's opinions are his own. You are always welcome in my home."

My throat tightens and I nod my gratitude. "Thank you, sister, but I've no wish to disrupt your household for any reason. I've only come to ask if I may take a holopict of the child. You see . . ." I hesitate, this is a delicate subject, but she nods at me to continue. "The boy's birth mother is dying and wishes to hear news of her son before she passes into the Force." The words are rushed, tumbling out of my mouth, bitter and distasteful in both sound and meaning.

Beru's hand slowly flutters to her throat, her eyes wide and bright with sorrow. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, then shakes her head. "Oh, that poor . . ." She stops, then looks away, somewhere past the sands that have begun to blow and swirl dustily through the courtyard.

I nod and reach out to briefly squeeze her hand. "Yes," I murmur. "It is tragic, of certainty, it is. She was as much Qui-Gon's and my responsibility as is the child and we cannot help but feel our failure keenly. But, as I am to go and visit her, I thought that perhaps a picture would soothe her mind more than mere words could."

Beru shakes her head adamantly. "No, no, Obi-Wan. Wait here. Just wait." She rises and scurries to the back of the house.

I pick up the warm cup of tea and hold it between hands that are surprisingly cold even in the desert's choking heat. From the back quarters, I hear cabinets sliding open, then shut, one after the other, the clink of metal against metal, then a gurgling murmur from the child, sleepy and soft, perhaps just awakening from his afternoon nap. Beru's voice follows in soothing, singing tones and she eventually reappears, clutching something tightly in her hand.

She sits and carefully unfolds her fingers, bidding me to pick up the small piece of blue ribbon that is lying next to a long lock of bright blonde hair. "I took it from underneath, so its loss won't be noticed," she murmurs as she deftly braids the hair, motioning me to tie off its ends tightly with the bit of ribbon.

"There," she says quietly, handing me the finished braid of hair, silk-soft and still fragrant from the sass root used to cleanse it. "She will understand and appreciate this better I think." Beru peers up at me with sad eyes. "Obi-Wan . . . " She hesitates. "Are you sure that perhaps . . . perhaps a visit with her son might not be in order? It might be all she needs to recover and .. . " She stops and looks down at the table, biting her lip.

For a long moment I am speechless, for I know in truth what Beru is offering. She is offering to return the child she has loved and raised since infancy, in the slight, impossible hope that his presence might save the mother. I can't help the sting that burns my eyes at this realization, for I have rarely seen such selflessness, such compassion, even among those who have taken a sacred oath to be as much.

Indeed, hadn't Vader himself once taken such a vow?

Quickly, I push all such thoughts aside. "No, Beru." Hoarsely. "I think this will be good enough. The child is much safer here and I know that's what his mother would want more than anything else. His safety."

I take my sister's slim, weather-bitten fingers and clasp them tightly between my own darkly calloused ones. "It comforts me to know that Qui-Gon and I made the right choice in bringing the child to you. I know it will comfort his mother as well."

"I wish there was more I could do." She sighs and disentangles her hand from mine. "I wish for many things, not least of which concern that stubborn bondmate of mine and our future, including Luke. But he dwells on the past, day after day, even as the years slip away from us. Even Luke's destiny is tangled like craw-ivy in Owen's impossible, Bantha-headed vision. If only. . ." She stops, blinks, then bows her head. "Forgive me, brother. Forget what I have said. I . . . I speak too much."

"On the contrary. I have overstayed my welcome." I rise and on impulse, I bend to kiss her cheek. "May the Force be with you, my sister and I hope that our paths will soon cross again under happier circumstances."

She nods and smiles wanly at me. "Yes, soon. All things in good time, my brother. You'll see. Owen will bend someday, I have great hopes."

Alas, I do not share these hopes but I nod in agreement anyway. I wrap my cloak tightly around me and wave goodbye as I return to the speeder, making sure Beru's gift is carefully tucked away next to Bail Organa's credit chip.

From there I make my way to the spaceport of Mos Eisley, that wretched hive of scum and villainy, to try and find myself a freighter captain, one who will take me to Alderaan without asking any questions . . . .

While making sure to avoid any Imperial entanglements.

The freighter I hire is an interesting mixture of Corellian fertilizer transport, old-time Academy ingenuity and Jawa scrap heap. The captain swears it can outrun just about anything in the galaxy and I'd be inclined to believe him, if only because I know that no spacer in his right mind would fly in such an ungainly piece of equipment unless it has some redeeming features.

I settle back in the navigator's chair, close my eyes and try to meditate. It's an oddly difficult task and I notice with some surprise that I'm developing space sickness as we make the jump to hyperspeed.

It has been years since I've traveled off-world and I miss Qui-Gon already as the anxiety over our separation nibbles at the edges of my consciousness.

Disastrous scenarios play through my mind in short flashes, all of which I quell and discard immediately. The man is a Jedi Master for Force's sake, I tell myself firmly. He's more than capable of caring for himself, at least for the scant few weeks it will take me to go to Alderaan and back.

He will miss me, certainly but no more than I'll miss him and I plan on surviving our separation as cumbersome and lonely as it is sure to be.

But later that night, it doesn't take long before I realize how large and cold a bed can be without the one you love beside you. Twice, then three times more, I pat the empty space next to me and awake with a jolt, only to remember hazily that I'm alone.

Again, I wonder how Qui-Gon is, pray fervently that he is all right and fall back into another fitful hour of sleep.

I rise the next morning, depressed and irritable and still struggling for my space legs. It takes a while, but I manage to choke down the miserable dry meats that spacers subsist on even in these modern times and peer out the window at the dizzying rush of stars streaking by.

I close my eyes against the staggering tide of light and reach within to find my center. I hate this trip already and it's hardly begun. I have to release my anger, channel some peace and purpose into my being, before I lose my mind all together.

There is a friend who needs me and she is in greater need of my succor than I am of any creature comforts.

Days pass and the bright blue orb that is Alderaan finally fills the ship's view screen. It's a rich world and the last place you'd think would house the heart of a rebellion, which gives me great hope for the future.

Bail is an eloquent and popular Senator who hides his covert activities just well enough to make Palpatine hesitate to destroy him. An attack on House Organa would cause open and complete rebellion in the Senate, so the fledgling revolution is safe for the moment.

As is our fledgling princess, Leia of Naboo.

I wonder about the girl, if she indeed has inherited her father's Force sensitivity, shuddering to think that she might have inherited anything else of his. Part of me hopes she takes after her mother completely but then, if the boy fails . . .

Suddenly, my head hurts. I should know by now that I can't control any destiny but my own, but Anakin, mine and Qui-Gon's great failure, sticks harshly to us. While one might argue we've paid dearly for our mistakes, none have paid so dearly as those whose suffering calls out to us day after day, night after night through the Force.

Death, destruction, starvation, slavery and tears -- we can feel all those things surround us, aching their way through our souls until we wish to crumple and lay down in defeat. Some days I understand why Qui-Gon says it would have been better to die that day on Coruscant but the stubborn part of me refuses to give up trying to correct our mistake, to stop making plans for a brighter future, as unlikely as it may seem.

The captain's gruff voice intrudes on my thoughts. "Strap yourself in, patas, we're making our approach."

Patas. A slightly condescending word meaning "father" or "old man." My lips curl into a wry smile at this as I suppose I must have aged more than I realized over the last few years beneath Tatooine's wretched suns.

"Certainly, fratdi," I reply quietly, without a hint of irony.

The captain glares at me, obviously aware that "fratdi" can mean either "my son" or "fool's ass" depending on the context, which I'll be happy to let him figure out on his own.

Moving back to the navigator's chair, I close my eyes and steel myself against the plunge to follow. As we burn our way through Alderaan's atmosphere, I swallow down my rising gorge, no longer thinking of destinies or rebellions but of the home I've unwillingly left behind to attend to a task as sorrowful as any I could have ever imagined.

The house is empty after Obi-Wan has left. I spend some time in ordinary domestic tasks during the hottest time of the day, only because he has wrung a promise from me. Once that is done, I am outside, checking gauges, making sure that our evaporator is working properly, and that the irrigation is functioning efficiently, and just about any damned thing I can do to keep from thinking of Amidala.

Or, frankly, of Obi-Wan. Who knows when he will be back? After all, despite Bail's assurances, the journey may well have attendant dangers, and I find that serenity is hard to capture again once I think of Obi-Wan falling into the hands of Vader's forces.

So I work. I work into the dusk, and only go in once it is too dark to see. A hurried meal, and I go out again, just to listen to the sounds of the night. Winter will be here soon, and the rains; this summer has been long and bleak and I will be glad to see the suns shrouded by the clouds. Of all the places Owen could have settled, why, I wonder, did he choose Tatooine?

Anakin's home.

Anakin. Anakin and Shmi. Shmi was no longer alive when Anakin was of an age to break free of Jedi strictures and return for her. I wonder if he blamed me, if he blames me still. I wonder if there was anything I could have done, back then, anything my arrogance made me overlook. I was so bloody clever, I thought, making do with Anakin's skills in order to get the funds we needed. So clever, and so fair, rewarding the boy with freedom, and so wise and certain that I knew he was the Chosen One of the prophecy.

So certain that I was right.

My arrogance was the true tragedy.

Bail is already waiting for me when I arrive on Alderaan. He stands at the bottom of the ship's ramp, his face drawn and pale and is alone except for two trusted aides, both of whom I recognize from my days as commanding officer during the first of the Clone Wars. He quickly leads me away from the ship, away from any prying eyes that may be spying and reporting back to the corrupt men who surround Palpatine and Vader.

I follow silently and it isn't until we reach a secure room that Bail reaches out and embraces me tightly, questions and salutations pouring out of him in a long, rushed breath.

How am I, how is Qui-Gon, are we all right, how glad he is to see me and what sorrows have we to face so soon after the loss of the Order -- a river of words tumbles from his mouth as he steps back once, then embraces me again.

Nodding, I answer what I can, even as he takes my cloak and hands me the uniform of an Alderaan general, biding me to put it on quickly, so as to blend in with the rest of the armed forces he's gathered from off-world to camouflage my arrival.

"Though no one could honestly mistake you for any ordinary soldier, Obi-Wan," he says hurriedly, disposing of my shed clothing with a casualness that upsets me more than it should. "It's always better to err on the side of safety. The less questions asked, the easier this will be."

"You've given me six helixes," I note dryly, examining the decorative braid hanging across the uniform's shoulder, its gaudy red and gold cords shining against the austere black cloth of the jacket. "Isn't that a bit much?"

He laughs. "I'd give you a hundred if they made such a thing." His expression turns serious. "You deserve those honors and more, Obi-Wan. Let no one, not even yourself, say otherwise."

I sigh, too tired to argue about any "honors," but it's hard to overlook the irony of such decorations, especially considering the blame for many of the conflicts that followed in the wake of Naboo's trade dispute can be directly placed on the shoulders that display them.

Not least of which was Palpatine's brilliantly engineered but poorly executed ruse, the Clone Wars, where I discovered that fighting three artificially engineered versions of myself was a rather disconcerting experience.

We won that battle and a few of the battles that followed but there was no turning back the tide of Darkness once the seed of corruption had taken hold in the fertile soil of greed and anger that was scattered throughout the galaxy. We'd all been blind to the changing tides of popular opinion, blind to the coming of an age where to be a Jedi to be nothing more than yet another bullying bureaucrat, albeit a deadly one who brandished a lightsaber and strange powers with impunity.

We were branded as religious fanatics, using fear and strong-armed tactics to bend independent governments and sovereign peoples to a will of a Senate that cared for little else besides personal gain for its members. For decades, the Jedi's reputation as guardians of peace had been slowly eroding beneath the Senate's brazen misuse of power and the Order had been far too busy, far too trusting, to notice the dark creature that lurked in its own garden.

Thus, when the slaughter began, the cheers that echoed through the streets of so many worlds were no surprise to anyone but ourselves.

"There," says Bail, interrupting my reverie as he steps back to examine my outfit. "At least my wife will be pleased." A wry smile. "Jedi-style dress never did sit very well with her somewhat flamboyant tastes. Come, Obi-Wan, let us go into the palace proper."

He waves his aides forward and I follow. "Are we to see Amidala now?" I ask as we make our way past the security area into the Hall of Thersbet, Bail's personal residence.

He shakes his head. "No, our friend has had a terrible day and is sleeping at the moment. The healers think it best to let her get whatever rest she can. She is very weak." A sad sigh. "Very weak, the poor thing. I don't know how it came to this, I truly don't. She was never well, that much is true, but something's happened in the past month that's caused this awful and sudden decline. It's as though she's literally willing herself into the grave. It's not only sad, but disturbing as well."

He ushers me into a lush appointed dining room and waves forward a small army of serving 'droids, motioning for me to take a seat.

I obey and am offered a choice of hot and cold teas, exotic soups and freshly made breads. There is a variety of meat and vegetable dishes, all perfectly cooked and the smell of them brings back memories I've long forgotten. The piquant scent of rare seasonings and spices mixes with the headier smell of dark ales and delicate liquors and I am nearly overwhelmed by the sheer richness of it all. I haven't seen a table the likes of this in nearly four years and I'm truly sorry that Qui-Gon isn't here to indulge in it with me.

Bail notices my huge eyes and a glimmer of bemusement flickers across his features. "I can give you a takeaway box if you desire."

An embarrassed flush streaks straight up to my hairline. "That won't be necessary. It's just that such delicacies are much the rarity on Tatooine. I dare say even the local Hutt has never seen such excellent food, as gluttonous as he's rumored to be." I take a small cup of soup and a piece of bread, savoring just the smell, the feel of them in my hands, before taking the first, nearly miraculous, bite.

Bail's eyes widen with surprise. "This is hardly a feast, Obi-Wan. It's barely supper." He gives me a narrow glance. "Is there something you aren't telling me, my friend? Are you and Qui-Gon truly all right? I hope that you aren't indulging in some sort of Jedi self deprivation maneuver, because if you are. . . "

I hold my hand up and swallow a mouthful of bread, which is as wholesome and delicious as I remember it to be. "No, no. We're fine. Please, let's not argue about trivial matters. Remember, I came here on a solemn mission. I would not have come at all if not for Amidala's request."

I take a sip of hot soup, suddenly remembering the last time Qui-Gon and I ate dinner on Alderaan. It was in our bed chamber and we shared the meal while sitting crossed legged and naked on the pallet, talking for a short time, then retreating into a pleasant silence as the food, then the night, disappeared without our notice or care.

It is a haunting memory, so different from the reality we know on Tatooine. I remember how healthy Qui-Gon always looked in those days, his blue eyes shimmering with confidence and good humor. We would walk through palaces even more opulent than this one, hardly noticing the riches that surrounded us, taking for granted the most frivolous desires, let alone our basic needs.

But on Tatooine, a mouthful of water can be a luxury and now, as I sit at a huge table that virtually groans beneath the weight of the food it holds, the thought of being so deprived suddenly angers me.

Why should Qui-Gon and I live in such poverty? We've given our lives in service to the wealthy, is it right we should now suffer the ignoble burdens of destitution, protecting the interests of an uncaring galaxy and its leaders while so little, if anything, has changed for them?

Is my beloved's health and future to be sacrificed for tables filled with rich breads and rare wines, while I watch day after day as he swallows recycled water and barely edible meats, forcing himself to smile at me when I grieve at the sight?

No longer hungry, I put my food down with a disgusted grimace. Bail peers at me searchingly and I try to distract him from my obvious ill humor. "Forgive me, the trip here was an unpleasant one," I murmur, feigning a grin. "The freighter captain I hired wasn't used to transporting sentient cargo." I shrug. "Besides, I'm no longer the great adventurer I used to be."

Bail stares at me, unimpressed. "You're a young man," he says with a slight scowl. "And I'd hate to think there's a possibility that you're wasting your potential for an ideal that no longer exists. These are new times and whether we like it or not, the past is gone. The Jedi are no more, my friend. You and Qui-Gon must realize this."

He leans back, linking his fingers across his chest. "The Order had many fine traits but in the end, their self-sacrificing tenets were of no help to those who should have benefited most from their largesse. All have suffered and greatly but the time for suffering is no more. This is a time for action, my friend. It is our only hope."

I wince at the accuracy of his words, but don't reply as my current life consists almost entirely of non-action and constant sacrifice. In my three years on Tatooine, I can't help but wonder if Qui-Gon and I are making the right decision by merely watching and waiting, instead of joining in the battle against the Empire.

Qui-Gon has stressed patience above all else, but I, impatient man I've always been, can't help the blood that boils in my veins every time I hear of each new atrocity, of every fresh homage to Darkness.

Bail watches me closely, then pours me a tall glass of brandy. Squeezes my hand before pressing the glass into it and I take it and drain it without a glance.

We finish our meal in silence and a little while later I retire, allowing sleep to take me and when it does, it's a deep, blessedly dreamless, slumber.

The next morning Bail and his wife lead me to Amidala's chamber which is located in a heavily secured section of the palace. Both are dressed in white, the color of mourning and I wonder if this is intentional or just a morbid coincidence. I follow them through a long hallway decorated with the royal crest of Naboo and it is there I sense death all around me, appearing as a pale gray haze, dampening the Force.

I slowly make my way to her chamber door, blinking as if walking through a curtain of wispy smoke. A young handmaiden greets me, her eyes red from weeping and she ushers me inside before running away and covering her mouth to stifle a loud, choking sob.

The room is thick with the smell of sickness and I am forced to look twice at the creature lying in the bed before me.

It is Amidala, and for a long moment, I do not recognize her.

Haggard, ravaged by illness and grief, bone thin and whiter than salle is she, the woman I remembered so clearly as a strong, beautiful queen. In less than three years she has aged into a hideous thing, her eyes milky and clouded with yellow where there should be white, her lips cracked with dryness and caked with spots of brown blood crusted at the corners of her mouth.

It takes every bit of Jedi control I have to hide my horror at her appearance, but I think I succeed in letting nothing show. Slowly, I make my way to her side, kneel as is her due and wait for her to acknowledge my presence.

She peers at me for a long moment, her gaze sharpening when she finally recognizes me.

Her greeting is a joyless one. "So, Obi-Wan, you have come."

"Yes, Your Highness."

She shifts uncomfortably. "My son. Tell me of my son." It is a command, not a question.

I pull the braid from my cloak and hand it to her. "He is well, healthy and strong. His foster mother sends you her best wishes along with this gift, her personal assurance of your son's well-being."

At the sight of the braid, Amidala's face brightens and she shines with a genuine smile of pure delight. Holds the golden lock up to the sunlight and examines it as if it were a string of the rarest jewels.

"Oh," she says happily. She holds out her trembling hand and beams at me. "Put it on me, please."

I obey, wrapping the braid around her thin wrist and tie off its ends carefully as insurance against loss.

She smiles when I'm done and for a brief moment, she is beautiful again. Her new adornment is closely admired as she touches it reverently to her cheek. "Promise me something, Obi-Wan. When they ready me for the pyre . . . " She pauses, as if savoring the terrible words. "When they ready me for the pyre, you will not let them remove this from my wrist. Promise me now."

I bow my head. "I promise, your Highness."

"You were always such a gentleman, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I often told Qui-Gon he picked himself quite the courtier." She peers at me, her cloudy eyes searching mine. "How is Qui-Gon? Tell me the truth, there's no point in lying to me now."

"He is well. We both are."

She nods and looks past me. "When you see him again, be sure to tell him that he is not to blame." Her expression turns hazy. "No one is to blame. We are but the playthings of Fate, nothing more."

"Yes, your Highness." I swallow hard against the bitterness that is stinging the back of my throat and quickly change the subject. "I didn't see Leia when I arrived. I trust she is well."

Another smile crosses Amidala's face, this one surprisingly sharp and cunning. "She is more than well. She is wonderful."

I rise and take a seat at her bedside. "Indeed."

"Oh, yes." Amidala's eyes gleam with a preternatural shine. "My beautiful daughter. She is fearless, a born leader and destined to be a great warrior. If there is to be a revolution, she will stand at its head. I've foreseen this." Fevered and fervent. "She will shame the men who dare defy her. My darling girl."

I nod and attempt a smile, but Amidala is no longer looking at me. She is staring out the viewglass, out over the gardens where the first blooms of spring have arisen in colors I only vaguely remember. They look strange to me, as strange as this room, as strange as the woman before me, a creature who should be blooming with life and youth, who is instead nearly as dead as the desert Qui-Gon and I inhabit.

She sighs. "I saw him, you know." Tiredly.

I swallow . . . hard. "Saw who?"

A bitter smile cracks Amidala's lips and a tiny drop of blood seeps out from between dry flakes of skin. "Him. My husband, or shall I say what is left of the man who once was my husband. He was standing behind Palpatine and that filthy little traitor Tarkin. They were discussing the small matter of central government with what is left of the Senate and were kind enough to transmit their little get-together through the main emergency channels of all civilized systems."

I gasp aloud and feel the color drain from my face.

Her lips set in a hard line. "It was an . . . interesting sight."

So this is what's killing her. She's finally seen what Qui-Gon could only describe to her with words. Words that no doubt couldn't convey one one-thousandth of the horror that the sight of Vader could convey -- and not one-millionth of the horror Anakin Skywalker has actually become.

The dark creature has triumphed and in what a way.

He has murdered his wife without laying so much as a hand upon her.

She continues, oblivious to my agony. "Yes, my dear husband. The one who swore his love and fealty to me." Her bloody smile slowly turns into laughter and the laughter turns into tears. "Do you know the awful part -- the very worst part of all is?"

I shake my head . . . unable to speak.

Both laughter and sobs begin to wrack her dying frame and what an ugly sound it is, this gruesome parody of joy. "It was at that moment, as I tried so hard to see what small piece of my husband remained behind that horrible mask, it was then that I realized how much I still love him." She coughs and chokes on her tears. "Yes, I still love him, with all my soul, and if I had the strength I would run to him yet." She takes a deep, trembling breath and more blood drips out from between her parted lips. "Yes, my dearest love. My Anakin . . . my home."

I reach for her hand and grasp it, but she pulls it away with a shudder. "I beg of you," she rasps, her face contorted, her chest heaving as she struggles for air. "By all that you hold sacred, I beg only one thing of you, Obi-Wan . . ."

I nod, trembling with misery. "Yes?"

Her request is whispered -- broken. "Don't let my son become his father."

A wave of visions flash before me: Anakin's tumble into the lava pit, Vader's enraged vow, Luke's blood-splattered birth . . .

The braid on Amidala's wrist.

I fight against the flood, breathing hard, willing the apparitions away with a flicker of Force. "I won't, I swear that I won't. I mean, I'll try. But I can make no promises, please, you must understand . . ."

But Amidala isn't listening, she simply stares at me with desperate, pleading eyes. "And don't make the same mistake I did, Obi-Wan. Never leave your home."

My home. That terrible desert, devoid of water, of life . . . of hope. A place that holds no beauty except for my love, my Qui-Gon, and he is slowly dying within its miserable, barren furnace.

Could such an awful place truly be my home?

Amidala falls back against her pillows, drained. Her eyes grow cloudy and her voice is weaker than before. "Tell them to bring my daughter to me," she whispers. "Now."

I rise, realizing our time together is finished. I bow and go back into the hallway where I convey her request to Bail.

A few moments later Leia is ushered in and the child bounds past me, clambers onto her mother's bed and crawls happily into the outstretched arms that await.

I spare the pair a final glance before joining the small group that stands in the hallway, waiting with faces that have turned as white as the clothes they wear. For the next two hours, there is silence, broken at last by a child's questioning voice.

"Mama? Mama . . . wake up. No more sleeping, Mama."

The gray fog lifts away from the Force as the child's voice rises in urgency.

"Please, Mama . . . Mama? Please wake up."

It is Amidala's spirit that is leaving us, leaving to go and be one with the Force. I want to feel contentment as her spirit brushes past me as a breeze blows past a bloom, but all I can sense, all I can hear, is the tiny voice that cries out from within her room.

Pleading with Fate . . . begging anything that will listen.

"Mama!"

Bail pushes past me and runs into the room, followed by his wife and their courtiers, many of them already weeping. I pull the hood of my cloak over my head and slowly make my way toward the lower gardens, shutting out the lamentations that shrill through the palace hallways.

It is in those gardens that I kneel, and turning myself inward, I contemplate the meaning of Amidala's final words and wonder if indeed I will have the strength to heed them.

//Don't make the same mistake I did. Never leave your home.//

Amidala's funeral is held the next evening, in her private gardens. She is laid out in state, in full royal dress, all feathers and finery, gemstones and silk and how I long to comb out her hair and wash the paint from her face, and allow the galaxy to see her true beauty.

Her daughter Leia stands beside me, clinging to my cloak and watches fearfully as her mother's body is transferred from the chamber of state to the funeral pyre. The child's eyes are huge and uncomprehending and I fight the urge to shield them with my hand as the fire is finally lit.

I never believed the pyre was a place for children, they would learn of death and suffering soon enough, but Yoda's lesson chides me.

//Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. Once returned to ashes, our spirit will live on.//

Amidala's spirit will live on for I can already see her fierce strength in her daughter. The child is strong in the Force, and her power is tempered with patience and innate wisdom. She would be a formidable warrior, but part of me hesitates to send her along that path.

Perhaps it would be better to let this one live in peace and prosperity, not as a Jedi, but as a princess, enjoying her status and wealth, never to know of the harsh life that devours those who choose the path of the Old Order.

The path that Qui-Gon and I have chosen.

The fire consumes Amidala's ravaged remains and ashes of feathers and bone spin past, borne on warm spring breezes. The child watches them float away, then peers up at me with her huge brown eyes, looking much wiser and sadder than her years suggest she could.

"Mama said if I'm ever in trouble, I am to come to you, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Yes, little one." I push a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, marveling at how much of her mother I see in her. "If you are ever in need, for any reason, you are to seek me out."

Her expression turns thoughtful. "She said you will always help me, no matter what."

"This is true. I will always help you, child. No matter what."

She peers at me with that searching, honest gaze all children possess then grasps her foster mother's hand and trots away, glancing back at me, as if to make sure my promise was a true one, not made on the whim of a placating adult.

She disappears into the palace and I continue to stare long after she is gone. The great hope of the galaxy that child is, along with her brother. If these two are trained properly there's a chance that the Darkness will once again submit to the Light as it did those five millennia ago.

Of course, if one, or both, should fall . . .

No, I dare not contemplate this possibility. I must have hope and stay faithful to the core tenets of the Code and remain convinced in the belief that the Light is infinitely more powerful than the Darkness, that its triumph is guaranteed.

If I start believing otherwise, then the existence Qui-Gon and I lead now is nothing more than a futile homage to the dreams of all the prophets and weeping wizards who were burned in pyres while still alive.

And this I cannot accept. I will not accept it.

I have to believe.

What other choice do I have?

"But surely you're staying to assist us with the battle, aren't you Obi-Wan?"

The next evening while dining at the Organa's royal table I find myself in the uncomfortable position of arguing with one of my oldest friends, General Dete Mor, who is pressing me to once again join the Rebellion and take up arms against the Emperor and Vader. The battles between Imperial and Rebel forces have become less scattered, more problematic and experienced leadership is now in great demand.

"You know that if Maltora Prime falls half the sector will follow. Nearly a third of the galaxy's bacta trade routes depend on the damned place for refueling. Surely you realize how important it is that we hold onto it, at least until an alternate route is devised."

"It is indeed important. But unfortunately I have more pressing concerns elsewhere at the moment." I take a sip of water, but my throat remains dry.

"What could be more pressing than the fall of one quarter of the galaxy to Vader, for Force's sake?" Dete glares at me. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"I'm sorry." I push my plate aside, my hunger gone.

"Is there no one else who can take care of this business of yours for a few scant weeks?" Bail's voice is mild, but there is steel beneath his words.

I think of Qui-Gon and his tired eyes and of the terrible heat emanating from the Lower Wastes at midday. Remember Beru and the boy, and the Raiders who still stalk the outskirts, waiting . . . waiting for their chance to attack. I can picture the great Hutt who lies just scant hours away, along with the bounty hunters, those villains who circle the skies like draigons, mad with bloodthirst and greed, searching for the last two Jedi in existence.

I shake my head. "No." Tiredly. "There is no one else."

"Are you absolutely sure? We've all made sacrifices, you remember." Bail's eyes have turned cold and I know he is referring to his own great loss, his only son, who fell in the Battle of Twite, his fighter blown to bits by Vader himself.

"Yes, I remember." Guilty now and wishing I was somewhere far away.

Dete's tone is grave. "I've been counting on your support and expertise, Obi-Wan. Without you, we may as well declare the battle lost before it's begun."

My head begins to throb, aching with conflicting convictions. Qui-Gon is waiting for my return, and I long to be back in his arms.

But, sacrifice. Isn't this the core of The Code? Isn't a Jedi supposed to put aside those ties in the line of duty? It is a hard life, it's meant to be as much, and am I not a Jedi still?

Duty is my family, the Force is my home.

Or so I've always been taught.

I look searchingly at the grim faces of my friends. "Perhaps . . . perhaps if it is just for a few days, but I can spare no more than that even if . . . "

My protests die as a huge smile of relief crosses Dete's face and Bail pounds me on the back, beaming. He calls for another bottle of wine, the finest he possesses and tells me to hand over my glass. The bottle is opened and the wine's aroma fills the room, sweet, fruit flavored and golden.

I take a long sip, then drain my glass until I feel the alcohol's burn crawl down the length of my gut. The battle plans are quickly unfurled and my misgivings disappear with the last of the wine, as I, General Kenobi, begin to plot the taking of Maltora Prime away from the forces of Darkness.

The days pass slowly in Obi-Wan's absence, they stretch out unbearably and I find I sleep less than I did. I wake often from dreams that are born only of guilt and fear and doubt.

I dream of Luke, that small infant, only he turns into Anakin as I hold him in my arms on the way to the ship that brought us here. I dream of Amidala dying, my hands scarlet with her blood, Vader's harsh laughter behind me. I dream of Obi-Wan, my beloved, crushed beneath Vader's heel.

And I dream of Maul and wake to the pain in my chest.

I go into town when I need supplies, the days continue to melt one into another, and when harvest comes I find I am shocked to realize how long Obi-Wan has been gone.

Unable to believe it, I go to the small computer console and bring up the calendar, but the clouds on the horizon tell me just as truly.

I sit at the console, my hands trembling, and realize the painful truth.

Amidala needs a Jedi warrior far more than Luke does. Luke needs a guardian.

All I need do is send to Alderaan, in case of danger.

But Amidala needs a Jedi.

My Obi-Wan is not coming back. I taught him of duty and loyalty and responsibility, and if it were not so painful, I would feel nothing but pride in him for making that choice.

I will feel pride, I feel it now, but the ache in my chest has returned and I rub absently at the thin ridge of scar tissue, my eyes focused on the date.

"Well," I say aloud, "That is that, old man." I rise, refusing to notice the blurring of my vision; there is work to be done, and I must go into town once that is finished.

I must work to keep from thinking . . .

I see Beru in town, which is unusual. Owen must be in a good mood, it was a good harvest in our district. She is alone with Luke, a sunny little boy just past the first stage of toddling. She looks around for Owen before she risks greeting me with a warm smile.

"Is Obi-Wan with you?" she asks innocently. "Has he returned yet?"

I shake my head and crouch in front of Luke. He has his father's coloring, but his mother's looks, I think, which is something of a relief. So much for my nightmares. "What a big lad you're getting to be!"

He clings to Beru's leg, afflicted with toddler shyness, but peeps around to give me a grin.

"Is that why you look so tired, Qui-Gon?" Her gaze is shrewd. "Doing everything by yourself?"

I shrug, smile up at her. "I'm not quite that old, Beru."

"It's hard work for two even with 'droids, and you and Obi-Wan don't have 'droids."

I can't help smiling. Beru is a practical woman, for all her warmth. "It keeps me from worrying about him."

She nods, ruffles Luke's fair hair. "I'm sorry Owen is . . ." Her voice trails off.

"Owen is Owen," I say mildly, unwilling to enter into a discussion of Owen's cruelty to his brother. "It's a pity that he and Obi-Wan were raised so differently, they might have been closer."

She nods, understanding my reticence. "Do your errands and go home, Qui-Gon. You really do look tired."

Reaching out, I pretend to pluck a sweet from Luke's ear, hold it out on my palm. Beru laughs softly, and when Luke looks up at her, all wide-eyed, she nods permission.

He takes it tentatively, pops it into his mouth and grins around it. I laugh, reach out and ruffle his hair before rising.

"Thank you, Beru. I plan on doing exactly that. Winter is a good time for resting."

"The Jawa are predicting another outbreak of fever this winter, take care of yourself." Beru's voice is very soft. "If you need help, call. I doubt Owen will help, but some of our neighbors are good folk."

I wonder again how Owen manages to hold a woman as good hearted as Beru, smile at her and nod. "I will, thank you. And now I had best pick up what I need and get back, those clouds look as if they mean business."

She nods, crouches and picks Luke up. "We need to find Owen, I think. I don't want to take the hover in a winter storm."

We part then, and I pick up the packs of food, make arrangements for the delivery of drinking water, and pick up a few new book cartridges before returning home.

The storm hits halfway there; I shelter the hover under an outcropping of rock until it breaks, just as the moon rises; the lightning is bad enough, but the wind is hideous.

Taking chances will not do for Luke's lone guardian, I tell myself, Beru is right. I must take care.

It's hard to summon the enthusiasm for it, as age sets in, the natural vigor of self-preservation ebbs. But I too have a duty and responsibility, and I will not fail in it.

There is a half-drowned s'ka kit on the doorstep when I get back and for once I'm glad that Obi-Wan is not at home. He loathes the wild felinoids of the desert; furless, with hides that can repel blasters set on low as well as the heat of twin suns, they are not the prettiest of creatures. I like them, though, and this kit is weak, mewling, scarcely out of its shell more than a hand of days. Gathering the small creature up, I carry it into the house and wrap it in an old towel. Rubbing vigorously to imitate the stimulation of the mother's tongue, I manage to rouse it enough to coax mashed vegetables into the small mouth.

It sleeps finally in a small carton lined with rags from clothing we have damaged too badly for repair. I look down at it, feeling just a little less alone.

After a few days, it becomes apparent that the s'ka kit is sick. Its eyes are crusted, and I must dampen a cloth to clean that crust away. Its appetite is good, and it does seem to be recovering, however; I leave it inside when I must go out to check equipment. The rains have come with a vengeance; I check the console several times a day for alarms, and several times a day, I must put on winter gear and slog out into the desert mud.

Usually, we have the rains only in the morning, and the desert blossoms for the short space of winter. This rain is almost torrential, better suited to Kossuth, say, than to Tatooine, and on my trips outside, I find a host of small dead desert creatures, drowned by this unlikely extreme.

The damned rain lasts for several days; toward the end of this time, I sleep on the divan, listening in my sleep for the alarm. I cannot afford to let the equipment go untended, but on the last night, I find myself moving slowly, painfully, and my joints are swollen and sore.

By the time I return, I ache everywhere and my vision is blurry; I strip off my wet and muddy clothing and tumble onto the divan, tugging blankets around my shivering miserable self.

The plaintive mewling of the kit wakes me some hours later, and I lie there, listening to the sound of water dripping. The rains have stopped, for the moment at least. That alone gives me the strength to get up and attend my small charge, who seems to have recovered from what ailed it. It bounces at the side of the carton when it sees me; I feed it and it eats greedily.

It feels as if someone has replaced the marrow of my bones with seltafin acid.

Rising, I manage to shuffle to the medical supplies, find some anti-pyretics I stored up when Obi-Wan was ill last winter, dry swallow the tablets and sink down into a chair, blearily wondering what ails me?

The s'ka plays around my feet, pouncing playfully on them whenever I shift; despite the discomfort, I find the small creature's presence soothing, and watch for some little while until the tablets do their work and I can bear to move again.

The rains taper off finally around meridian, as they usually do; looking outside doesn't lift my spirits, too many dead things and too much mud.

I can't bear to face what must be done--small corpses to be incinerated, mud to be shoveled away from the walk--and lie back down on the divan.

Cocoon ed in blankets, I finally close my eyes, listening to the small s'ka's thrum of pleasure as it explores the room . . .

Weeks pass quickly, turning into months. Like most campaigns, Maltora Prime isn't a single battle, but an endless parade of small skirmishes, each side pressing forward then falling back as territory is gained then lost. It is rumored that Vader himself is unhappy with the work of his Imperial troops and will be arriving to oversee what should be the decisive battle the day after tomorrow.

I've sent only one encoded message to Qui-Gon and kept it as brief and uninformative as possible. We're still outlaws and if Vader discovers my involvement in the Maltora conflict, he will spare no expense in hunting me down.

He lies ever in wait for both myself and Qui-Gon, his rage burning a swath across the stars, and I can't help but wonder what will happen on the inevitable day we meet again.

Bail assures me Vader will never discover my hand in the current battle, the only ones who know of my presence are himself, his wife and a few of my oldest friends and colleagues, most of whom would die before they betrayed me. Besides, Bail says, the galaxy is larger than even Vader can comprehend, and he is still testing his limits within its vast boundaries.

Little does Bail reckon with the power of the Force which is obscenely strong within Vader. He can explore the outer reaches of this galaxy and beyond without leaving the comfort of his quarters. Reach out and decimate entire worlds as a child might destroy a castle made of sand with a kick of his tiny foot. Luckily the Emperor discourages Vader from reaching his full potential, knowing full well that his own position would be tenuous at best once his student realized the true extent of his powers.

Yes, the Light is stronger than the Darkness, but the Dark Side's power is great, incomprehensibly great, in its own twisted way. Why else would a man sworn to goodness abandon everything he's ever known or cared for to let himself wallow in its black grip?

Why else would a sane man abandon the person he loved?

With a sigh, I rub my eyes and try to rethink my approach. Vader has taught his generals well, and the time honored methods of war are no longer effective against a powerful, innovative Imperial machine. They have more money, men and firepower, and with Vader's uncanny sense of the shifts in the Force that surround him, it seems they cannot lose.

He is also sixteen years my junior, and was always willing to take risks I'd have balked at even when I was a younger man, let alone the conservative creature I've now become. It's becoming painfully obvious that I cannot beat Vader by brute force, even with my training and experience, and a frightening chill crawls down my spine at the insight.

If we are ever to battle, hand to hand, face to face, Vader will win.

Of that, there is no doubt.

The sudden realization that I am no help here, that perhaps I am hurting Bail's cause, makes me nauseous. I must be mad to have thought I could return to this life, I berate myself silently. I don't belong here, this is the wrong path, and instead of finding myself, I have truly lost my way.

My duty, my sacrifice, is on Tatooine. With Qui-Gon and the boy.

With a groan, I rise and walk to the viewglass, staring out over the infinite blanket of stars, wondering if I looked hard enough, could I pluck Tatooine out from the galaxy's endless stitches of light.

And if I looked even harder, past the endless wastes, past the burning sands and tired settlements, what would I see?

Tatooine's twin suns have set and I wake later to the sound of rain again, to the night, which has settled in when I was asleep. It's so hot, unbearably hot, and I push myself blearily upright, throwing the blankets aside . . .

Rain. Cool, blessed rain, and I find myself outside, kneeling in the mud, my face upturned. Drenched and muddy and I'm suddenly shivering, aware that I have been half in delirium, and that the fever has broken.

I'm drenched, muddy, and it's hard to get to my feet; I feel woozy and the s'ka kit makes its little chirruping sound in worried query, standing in the open doorway like any sensible creature would.

"Yes, I know," I tell it hoarsely and stumble back inside. I have to steady myself against the wall, but I reach the bath. A shower seems beyond my power, almost, but I sit in the bottom and let the water and cleanser was away the mud.

Emerging again, I manage to stand up in front of the mirror; my hair is tangled and snarled and I feel the first wave of despair. I can't manage it, and Obi-Wan . . .

Obi-Wan is gone.

I find shears somehow, hack at the tangled length without much caring for how it looks, leaving it where it falls. I can trim it later, as necessary, I finally decide, once it is clipped closer to my skull; Beru was correct, I look terrible, but some of that, surely, is the fever. And that I am old, old, ancient.

I do look terrible.

Setting down the shears, I manage to shrug into my bedrobe. The fever has broken, but there is no denying that I am ill. While I can, I must think what to do, what I need to attend to before the fever returns.

Water in plenty, near the divan, the medi-kit, not that we are oversupplied with medicines. I make some of the tea that the Jawa have recommended, manage to gag it down, holding my breath against the bitter taste.

The little s'ka chirrups again at me, pauses to stretch and lick its front paw.

I look sadly at him. "I had best make sure there is food in plenty for you, little one." Mashed p'eti will not go bad, although it may dry a bit, but I cannot be sure how I will feel, if I will be able to attend to him.

Once I have made certain that there is food in plenty and water for the s'ka, I decide that it might be wise to send a message over the comlink to Beru. The sensation of acid in my bones is returning, and I keep the message brief, just a note that I am ill and asking if someone can check our equipment sometime during the next few days.

It's the best I can do. I have as much strength as the s'ka kit, and sinking back onto the divan is only scant relief. The anti-pyretic tablets will help, but not for long, and as I feel the fever rising, I wonder if I should bolt the door against any delirium induced desire to stand in the winter rain.

I decide I should, but the lassitude of illness is upon me again; I take a drink of water again instead and roll over, deciding to wait until the tablets do their work.

But I fall asleep before that.

"Qui, wake up." Beru's voice is almost harsh, and it is that which makes me squint at her blearily.

I cough, and it is as if Maul is there again, thrusting his lightsaber through my lung, I cannot breathe, I cannot catch my breath and it goes on and on until I am certain that I will suffocate . . .

But the cough releases me finally, and I wheeze and peer at my beloved's sister by marriage. "Beru." Dry rasp of a voice, and my mouth is as dry as the Tatooine wastes.

She holds a cup to my lips, something sweet with the faint bitterness of something medicinal beneath that sweetness. I drink, fighting the cough that wants to take hold again, swallow again and again, but the sweetness is no replacement for water and I push the cup away. Or try. My hand flails weakly, ineffectually, but Beru takes the cup away, brings another to my lips.

Ah, sweet water, cool and I drink again, almost greedily.

"Qui," Beru says again, softly. "You had me worried." I let my head fall back against the pillow. There is a small shape against me, a very small shape, and I look to see the s'ka kit tucked up against me. I can feel the thrumming of contentment against my thigh. "How long?"

"Too long," she tells me.

I close my eyes for a moment, open them again when I realize that I am in bed. Alarmed, I look at her. "Is Owen --"

"He's not here, I didn't tell him. I got M'ganna and her husband to bring me over. They got worried when they checked the equipment and didn't see any sign of you."

M'ganna and her husband, Toth. Good folk, both of them, and kind; I gave them an herbal remedy for their daughter last winter during a bout of rubic virus. "Good of them," I rasp.

"I rode back with them the next day, we found you outside in the rain, Qui. You were burning up with fever. They've been staying at night, I come during the day. Owen thinks I'm helping M'ganna with her weaving."

Beru takes a cloth from a basin, wrings the excess water out and wipes my face. I can't help but sigh in pleasure; it feels wonderful. "Beru, I don't want to cause you trouble."

"Mama?"

I turn my head to see Luke, and another spasm of coughing racks me. I'm going to die, I think, and Obi-Wan must be told, somehow, that Luke will have no guardian. The trouble is, I'm not sure how to reach him safely.

I'll have to think on it, I tell myself, and my eyes close again, weighted by sickness and age. "'m sorry, Beru."

"Hush, Qui." Her fingers are deft and gentle and cool.

I have only the time to be grateful that we placed Luke well, with people who would love him, and then I slip under again.

I dream of Obi-Wan, young Obi-Wan, a younger me, as if somehow time had gone awry and we were of an age.

Sweet, so sweet, and when I wake to the burn of fever and the tearing pain of the cough, I want to weep for the illusion of it.

If only it had been true.

It is midnight in the palace of House Organa, and I can't sleep. My eyes are closed, my body is relaxed, but still, I can't sleep. My spirit is restless; something is calling to it through the Force, a call I can't deny.

Rising, I pace for a few moments before deciding to go into the gardens behind Amidala's former quarters. The Force was strong there, and upon reflection, perhaps there is still more contemplation needed on the events of the past few months.

I make my way to the gardens and kneel before a small fountain, concentrating on the clear, rushing water. I try to feel it within my mind and lose myself within its hypnotic flow, allowing the Force to fill me as my conscious mind drifts aside.

I am kneeling for less than a moment when I feel a tickle of Force whisp by me, the tell-tale sign of a living aura. It brushes past, warm and alive and I tentatively lower my shields, bidding it to make itself known.

The light scent of passionflower surrounds me and I immediately recognize the source of my call.

It is Amidala.

I am stunned. I'd once suspected she had a certain amount of Force sensitivity, but to traverse the planes that separate the living and the dead takes either great training or, more disturbing, an even greater desire.

I open my eyes and see her, barely visible, just a whisper of a blue aura. I relax my focus and stare at her ghostly outline, its shimmering edges fading in and out of my view.

Her outline suddenly sharpens and I see her more clearly as her huge solemn eyes search mine until there is nothing but their dark, clear pools. I let myself float within them and silently ask her what she desires from me.

She says nothing but I can feel the emotions that surround me. Disappointment, sadness . . . anger and fear. For a moment, I wonder if this is a trick of Darkness, some temptation I hadn't noticed upon my arrival, but no, there is a desperation mixed in as well . . .

A desperate desire to tell me something.

She mouths a word at me, beckons at me with her hand and I strain to make out what she is trying to say. There are volumes of meaning in her gesture and I force myself to concentrate more fully on her message which, finally, makes itself clear.

//Home.//

Home? Again, I ask for clarification, but her outline vanishes and my trance suddenly comes to an abrupt end.

//Home.//

Suddenly, a cold wash of fear envelopes me.

Home is Tatooine, Luke . . .

Qui-Gon. The fear turns to terror. I've not heeded Amidala's last wish, to never leave my home and she has returned to warn me of some calamity, to tell me that something has happened.

Home. Qui-Gon is my home and I've abandoned him. No, not for the Dark Side, not for power and glory, just for my own pathetic vanity. Proud foolish man that I am, refusing to believe that my days as a warrior are long past.

Stubborn, impatient . . . unfaithful fool.

I'm still cursing myself, even as I run, run away from the gardens and straight to the Great Hangar, calling to Bail over my 'com and tearing the helixes from my shoulder, even as the small sea of Vader's troops fill the skies over Maltora Prime with their deadly light.

"Mama make him better?" A childish voice wakes me again. I'm not sure how much time has passed, or even if it's a new day. I've slept and awakened several times, and each time I wake either M'ganna or Beru is there, holding a cup of medicine to my lips.

M'ganna tells me it is something her people have used for centuries to clear the lungs and break the fever. I can vouch for the anti-febrile qualities, but the painful cough makes me doubtful about the lungs.

Beru gives me an almost amused look when I tell her this. "That's what the coughing is for, Qui, to clear out the congestion."

Given that I have been coughing up fluids that are decidedly unpleasant, I accept this, albeit with reservations.

It's difficult to feel this helpless, but decidedly a relief when Beru matter of factly bathes me against my protests. "You don't have anything I haven't already seen, Qui-Gon Jinn, so just lie still and behave yourself."

Is it age or sickness that makes me surrender to that tone in her voice, I wonder.

Or perhaps it's just the simple desire to avoid looking like a fool.

"We should send for Obi-Wan." Beru gives me a keen look. "It's going to be a while until you're on your feet again, Qui."

"No." The word is out of my mouth before weakness can make me agree. "He has work to do, Beru, and if we send to him, there is little he can do but worry."

Another keen look, but she nods. "Well, it's winter, thankfully, and Toth has already said he doesn't mind riding over to check on things here for you. By spring, you should be up and around again."

Maybe I'm not dying, I think, and almost smile. Beru, I suspect, will not allow it; there is a great deal of sentiment beneath her practicality. "I look forward to that," I tell her, and put my hand down to scratch the s'ka's small chin.

She gives the s'ka a look that isn't quite disapproving. "We'd have had to drown it to get it away from you; it keened and keened when I shut it in the other room."

"I believe it thinks I am its mother," I tell her and sigh. "I found it half-drowned already when I returned from town."

She finishes an embarrassingly thorough wash and tugs the bedclothes over me again. "Well, I'm going to let you explain it to Obi-Wan." Lightly. "I know how he feels about your menagerie."

We both smile, sharing the thought. Mine fades faster; there will be no need to explain, I know, but I haven't the heart to tell her.

The kit, oblivious to this exchange, thrums happily, tilting its small head back to let me scratch its throat.

"Mama!" Luke is back at the door. "Mama, you make him better?" Bright eyes peer at me, as if assessing his mother's skills.

"Eventually, Luke." She drops the cloth in the basin and turns to look at him. "You go back with Toth, you hear?"

"Yes," I agree huskily, "Keep him back." And a terrible thought strikes me. "Beru, you shouldn't be here, either, what if you take ill--"

"Hush." She gives me a narrow look. "M'ganna says you aren't contagious any more, she thinks you got it from that kit. She's seen it before."

Rising, she helps me lean up so she can plump the pillows. "And since the gods-forsaken kit is well now, thanks to you, we won't get it. You don't need the bother of Luke's questioning, that's all. He's reached that stage, you know. Why this and why that, and I swear, it's enough to drive a Jawa mad." But despite the exasperation in her tone, there is affection and even pride in her expression. "He's a bright one, always wanting to know why."

"I'm not surprised." I sigh at the comfort she has given me, already sinking back into torpor. "I knew you would be a good mother, Beru. But you have surpassed that, I think."

She flushes a little. "We do our best." Suddenly hesitant. "You know, Owen is--he's difficult with Obi-Wan, but the suns rise and set with Luke as far as he's concerned. You needn't worry--"

I raise a hand weakly. "I know, Beru. Or we would not have brought him to you. Owen--he's a good man, however angry he makes me at times." I see relief flicker in her eyes, feel sorrow for a change instead of anger. Reaching for her hand, I squeeze it gently. "And perhaps it's better this way. No one will ever associate Owen with Obi-Wan."

She glances away briefly, squeezes back and releases my hand; bending, she picks up the basin. "Try and sleep, Qui. It's the best thing for you."

Hilarity threatens; my own words come back to haunt me. "Yes," I tell her meekly, but in fact, sleep is not far away. Putting my hand on the little s'ka's head, I close my eyes, sinking gratefully back into the velvet darkness.

The trip back to Tatooine takes less than four Standard days, a new record. I throw an obscene amount of money at the ship's captain and take off running from the Mos Eisley spaceport.

I hire a speeder at twice its usual cost and the damn thing doesn't move nearly as fast as I want it to. I'm tempted to use Force to push it along, but I resist. Everything is fine, I chant silently as the hot sands fly past, and if not, then everything will be fine.

I will make it fine.

The familiar dunes that surround our homestead edge closer and my lower lip is nearly bitten through with impatience and fear. Ice cold fingers of dread trace their way down my spine and settle somewhere within the shaking recesses of my soul.

I can't feel Qui-Gon, but there is nothing to that. We voluntarily quelled our bond years ago, so as not to emit anything untoward in a world where the slightest trace of Force use could be a death sentence.

We finally roll up to the front of my homestead and I leap from the speeder, with surprisingly agility. Fear has given me strength and energy beyond my years, and I can feel the barest trickle of Darkness lurking behind my movements.

But now is not the time for serenity, especially when I stumble into our bedroom, the smell of sickness nearly choking me as I finally catch sight of the person who is lying in my bed.

It is Qui-Gon, and for a long moment, I do not recognize him.

Haggard, ravaged by illness, bone thin and whiter than salle is he, my bondmate and love. In less than three months he has aged into a hideous thing, his eyes milky and clouded with yellow where there should be white, his lips cracked with dryness and caked with spots of brown blood crusted at the corners of his mouth.

And his hair . . . his hair is gone.

Gone is our braid -- our ritual morning bond. Qui-Gon's hair is shorn raggedly as if chopped away in a frenzy of sickness or grief and what's left of it, the beautiful silver plait I'd spent the last fifteen years tying, then undoing, lies forgotten, scattered in a heap near the 'fresher door.

My love peers at me for a long moment, his gaze sharpening when he recognizes me. "Obi-Wan. You've come back." Marveling, as if he cannot believe I've actually returned.

"Of course." I am shaking so badly, I can hardly stand. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

Confusion contorts his features. "No," he says hazily. "I . . . I just thought that you'd be wiser not to. Or, so I supposed."

"How long have you been ill?" I reach for the medicine chest, cursing my trembling hands. "Do you know what day it is? Where in the hells is that damn hypoderm we had? Damn it . . . "

He shakes his head slowly and brushes his hand against mine. It is ice cold, cold enough to push me into complete panic as I ravage the medicine box, throwing things to the floor in my terror and haste.

"Be careful, love. We can't afford to lose any of . . ."

"Be quiet!" I cry and immediately, Qui-Gon's face crumples with hurt.

He turns away and faces the wall as I continue to struggle with the small wooden chest, shaking and cursing, wishing that I could die of guilt and be done with it, as it will no doubt kill me soon enough.

A voice comes from behind me. "Obi-Wan?"

The medicine box falls from my hands as I whirl to see my bondsister, Beru, standing in the doorway, with baby Luke tucked tightly against her hip. She puts the boy down and calmly slips off her robe.

"It's all right. I've got the medicine right here." She retrieves a small package from her cloak's inner pocket. "It's a good thing the healer decided a bottle of Cythrian brandy would be appropriate payment for a week's worth of intrabact."

I stare numbly at her. "Intrabact?"

She nods and peers into the fallen box. Pulls out the lone hypoderm and carefully begins to prepare the spray. "For the fever." She sighs, not meeting my gaze. "Don't worry, we'll get it under control. Go, sit down and rest for a moment. It will do you good."

I obey, blindly sitting not even checking to see if a chair waits behind me. Luckily one does and I lean my arms onto the table, trying to regain my sense of control.

Luke climbs up beside me and pats my cheek with his tiny hand. "Good now. We make him good. You see."

"Yes," I murmur, staring past the child. The heat is shimmering off of the furious sands and the tears begin, silent, hot and endless. The child traces his finger along them, then touches the dusty table, dotting it with the first, and last bits of water it will ever know.

"It will be good, now. You see," he whispers and I nod in reply.

Even as the racking sounds of Qui-Gon's cough fill the air around me.

Days pass, and I am asleep when an angry voice jerks me back to awareness. I am nearly struck dumb by amazement, it is Obi-Wan, back from Alderaan and clearly very angry, although the cause is not clear. "Obi-Wan, it's you," I say, and then things fade in and out and I'm not sure of when or where I am.

He is rummaging through the medicine box and I try to say something to him, alarmed at his haste. He snaps at me; I suppose it is a sign of how ill I've been that his tone makes my face burn with shame.

I've failed him and badly. I can't think how Beru has reached him, but she must have, else he would not be here. No wonder he's angry.

Beru arrives and explains that I've been ill, confounding my reasoning; it becomes apparent that she has not corresponded with him, and I'm at a loss to understand precisely why he's so angry.

While Beru draws Obi-Wan aside, Luke climbs onto the bed to pet the s'ka, who has now been named Jepta. "Jepta make you better, too," he tells me.

I can't help but smile, despite the tightness in my throat, despite my shame at this weakness. "Well, perhaps." I touch the silky blonde hair; Luke is a sweet natured child, and there are no shadows when I look into his eyes.

I don't know what I'm going to tell Obi-Wan. If it weren't bad enough that I've brought an animal into the house, that animal doubtless was the cause of my illness, an act of stupidity that I cannot deny.

I risk looking over in that direction and his expression is stony as he listens to Beru. It isn't encouraging. Luke watches me, and I see his desire to reassure me. "Mama will fix."

I only wish she could. "Come, Luke," Beru says softly. "It's time for your nap."

He looks askance at that, but climbs down obediently. I ruffle his hair as he goes, grateful for the chance to know him even this little bit. Obi-Wan returns, sits down on the edge of the bed in Luke's place. "Amidala is dead," he tells me abruptly. "I think--I think she died of grief, truthfully."

The news hits me like a blow to the gut. I turn my face away, closing my eyes to hide my guilt and grief. So young, so lovely, and in more than just the physical ways. Whatever damage Anakin did by turning to the Dark Side, Amidala's death can be laid at my door, Obi-Wan's diagnosis not withstanding.

"You didn't get my message, did you?" Roughly, almost accusatory.

Message? "No," I tell him faintly. "You shouldn't have risked sending one, Obi-Wan." He touches my shoulder.

But I cannot look him in the eye. "Why did you return?"

He doesn't answer; I finally turn toward him and see sadness has replaced anger. "Oh, Qui, do you really have to ask?"

I'm confused again, and very tired. "I need to rest," I tell him, almost stammering.

He looks sadder if anything, and his fingertips graze my jawline. "Rest, then." Softly. "I'll be here."

I can't stop myself, I reach for his fingers, lightly squeezing them. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan, I've failed you."

He gently folds his other hand over mine briefly. "Rest."

I do my best. But sleep is long in coming.

Night has fallen and I am curled around Qui-Gon, my chest against his back and my arm tight around his waist. I listen for every breath, mark every rise and fall of his chest and my own breathing soon mirrors his in reflexive imitation.

Guilt eats away at me, devouring my sanity one small piece at a time. How could I have stayed a moment past Amidala's funeral? What was I thinking agreeing to stay and fight some hopeless battle and put my bondmate, myself and the child we've sworn to protect in danger?

What in hells was I thinking?

Qui-Gon murmurs hoarsely in his sleep and I tighten my grip on him. "It's all right. I'm here."

"Obi-Wan? Is that you?" He sounds rusty, his voice thick with sleep and confusion as I reach up to feel for a fever. "I had the most terrible dream . . ."

"Yes, love, it's me. Forget your dreams, they are but shadows. You know that as well as I."

"I do?" Rustily and again the guilt rips into me. He would not have fallen prey to illness if I'd been here, and even if he had, it would have been swiftly taken care of.

For a terrible moment I wonder if Qui-Gon grieved my absence and allowed himself to get this ill, allowing himself to die.

I'm horrified afresh, and I run a shaking hand along his shoulder and back. "Go back to sleep, love."

"Yes," he says wearily. "I think I should." He turns toward me and I fight not to wince at how ill, and sad, he still looks. "And you as well. You will stay, won't you, my love? Stay beside me for a little while longer?"

I swallow hard, past a tight throat. "I will never leave your side. Never again. This I swear, Qui-Gon."

"Don't swear," he replies blurrily before nodding back off.

A wave of affection warms me and I bend over to kiss him. Take a moment to smooth damp hair away from his forehead, and mourn again for its loss. It will grow back, I tell myself firmly as I settle in beside Qui-Gon and close my eyes.

And with it, all else will return to as it was before I left.

I will make sure of it.

The next morning arrives with its usual herald of heat and blinding light. To my surprise, I see a small s'ka perched at the end of our bed, peering at me closely. I grimace at the sight . . . I'm not fond of these desert feliniods, to me they are a few steps above womp rats, but only a few.

It pads up to Qui-Gon, first sniffing, then gently licking his cheek. I'm just about to push it off of the bed when Qui-Gon stirs awake.

"Now, now Jepta," he mutters sleepily. "You can wait for your breakfast for a few minutes." He closes his eyes and curls back against me. "Time and enough for all that, little one."

I sigh and look at Jepta, the s'ka. It appears that Qui-Gon has taken in yet another stray, one of a sort I'm not at all fond of, but what of it?

That is his way, and I will not have him change for anyone or anything, least of all his selfish and foolish bondmate. The one who left him alone for so long, and forgot his true place.

Forgot his home.

I rise silently, careful not to wake Qui-Gon. The s'ka peers at me suspiciously, then leaps off the bed and follows me to the cooking area.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as it curls hopefully around my ankles. "But I have no idea what he's been feeding you and where it might be. You'll have to wait."

It immediately uncurls and slinks off with what I swear is a disgruntled expression. It leaps back onto the bed and burrows in next to Qui-Gon who is still deep asleep.

I turn back to the cold'keep and peer inside. I'm surprised to see that it's packed full of various liquids and foodstuffs, some of which I've never seen in our house before. It takes only a moment to realize that Beru must have brought these things with her and again, a wave of gratitude washes over me.

I owe you much, my sister, I think, as I pull out a container of sweet grain, along with a small square of Cadarian spice. Mix them together and place the dish in the thermalcooker, along with some not-quite fresh bread which I hope will at least make a suitable toast.

While I wait for the food, I carefully measure out water for tea, sighing at the sight of our meter which has once again run low. I try hard not to think about Alderaan and its torrential rains, sparkling fountains and endless baths.

Poor Bail and Dete wouldn't last very long on my world, I think wryly as I keep watch over the heating water, making sure that as little as possible evaporates.

My world. How strange that these words comes naturally to me, so much more naturally than while on Alderaan, even with all its majesty and importance.

"Obi-Wan?"

"In here," I call out. "Breakfast is almost done. I'm waiting for the tea." I tap my fingers impatiently against the counter as the water comes to a boil. I quickly pour it over the green leaves and let them steep while pulling our food out from the cooker, cursing loudly as I burn my palm in the process.

"Obi-Wan? Are you all right?" Concerned.

"I'm fine." I pick up the tray and carry it into the bedroom. "Just being my usual oafish self."

He blinks, still looking slightly confused. "You aren't an oaf."

"I'm joking, love." I set the tray down and sit beside him. "My nickname at Temple was Oafy-Wan, don't you remember?"

He slowly shakes his head and a sharp tingle of fear crawls down my spine, as I take a moment to look closely at him. With his shorn hair and beardless chin and thin, sad face, Qui-Gon no longer looks middle aged or slightly older . . . he simply looks old.

I force a cheer I don't feel into my voice. "Well, I suppose I'd remember such things more clearly than you. Besides, I'm quite sure you were never portrayed to your peers as graceless."

A smile creeps onto his tired features. "In truth, my nickname at Temple was "Trip." Along with "LankyLard," "Skyhigh," . . . and my all time favorite "Nosebleed." He picks up a cup of hot tea and holds it tightly with both hands. "And that was before I broke it."

I take up a bowl and fill it with sweet grain. "You know, you never did tell me how you broke it." I raise an eyebrow at him. "It does our oath ill to have such a momentous secret between us, Qui."

He laughs. It is a rusty, creaking laugh, but it warms me nonetheless. "But if I tell you that, I will have no mystery left and then . . ." He pauses and the laughter fades from his eyes.

"Then?" I prompt gently.

"Nothing." He picks up the bowl with trembling hands. Takes a bite and nods at me. "This is good. Very good indeed."

Again, my eyes are burning. Whatever this illness was, it has taken a huge portion of his strength away -- strength I wonder if he will ever regain. He is no longer young, and this harsh life is draining away his years at an unnatural speed.

He sees my sad expression and the bowl tips forward, then slips out of his hands, hitting the floor with a clatter. "I'm sorry," he whispers, staring at the spilt grain. "I'm so sorry."

Hastily, I wipe away a bit of the mess and retrieve the bowl as the s'ka jumps down and begins to lick up the remains. "It's just an accident, Qui, there's no need to be . . ."

He shakes his head. "No, Obi-Wan. I have made many mistakes, and I can't excuse them. My pride -- my arrogance has caused great grief, especially for those closest to me . . . especially for the ones I love more than anything else in this life." He peers at me, his cheeks wet with tears. "I've failed you miserably, I allowed myself to get ill, I was careless and stupid."

"We've both made mistakes," I reply sternly, hoping to rouse the warrior that I know lies within. "Neither one more or less than the other. Your mistakes are mine and mine are yours. Even these we share." I reach out and cup his pale cheek. "But you've always told me that mistakes were to be learned from and that the future is destroyed when one does nothing but dwell on the past." I look into his eyes, practically begging him to return to at least a semblance of the strong, willful man I'd always known and loved. "When you are well again, you will see that I am right."

But Qui-Gon isn't listening. "No, I will never be what I once was. I am an foolish old man and I am keeping you here, tying you selfishly to me," he rambles weakly. "They need you, this Rebellion needs you . . . they need a young warrior to fight for them and give them hope. I no longer am needed, I am useless to all, even myself."

I force a calm I don't feel into my voice. "They don't need me, Qui-Gon. If anything, this trip has proved at least that much. My presence on Alderaan changed little or nothing. Amidala is still dead, battles are still being lost . . . and Vader is still winning."

He peers at me, silent, his expression broken and my heart sinks at the sight.

I take a deep breath. "The tide of Fate is yet with the Emperor, he is stronger than he's ever been and a lone Jedi is not enough to turn that tide. Yet." I take his hand and squeeze it fiercely. "You were right from the start, Qui-Gon. Patience is our only hope -- it's one of the few things the Darkness can't comprehend and we must take advantage of it. Together, we will outwait the Emperor, outlive him if possible, but if we can't, we have still have our hope, that tiny boy whom I now believe more than ever is the future of this galaxy." Another squeeze. "We are taking the right path, I am sure of it now."

He looks at me carefully, as if gauging the veracity of my words. Perhaps thinking if I'm merely trying to coddle or sooth him.

I can only pray that he knows me well enough by now to sense my honesty. I do believe in our path, with every ounce of my soul, finally and absolutely understand that this is my destiny.

That this world, this world we share, is my home.

I see him swallow hard and then, slowly, the light once again fills his eyes. "If you say it, my love, so it must be." Softly.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief as he curls into my embrace and try not to wince when I feel how much weight he's lost. I will make him whole again, I silently swear as I rock him gently to and fro.

I will make us both whole again.

After a short time, I gently disentangle myself from his arms and smile at him. "And now, I hope you'll forgive me, dearest one, when I say that at least one of us is in desperate need of a bath." I wink as he scowls at me.

"Not enough water," he grumbles, but his eyes are twinkling.

"Nonsense," I reply briskly. "Plenty of water." Humming, I make my way to the 'fresher and set the controls for a bath.

"It's a horrible waste," he calls out, imitating me, and doing a shockingly good job of it. "We can't afford it, and I absolutely refuse to take it, so you may as well turn it off."

I weigh the bottles of bath oil in each hand. "Do you prefer sassroot or chardak?" I ask, returning the favor by imitating him.

"Neither. Turn it off." I hear the amusement in his voice, even as he tries for sternness.

"Chardak it is. If you don't mind, I think I'll double it, love. I used sonics all the way home and had my heart set on a good soak."

"Double it?!" he roars indignantly, and when I don't reply, he finally, bursts out laughing. "Yes, I think I'd like that very much, my heart."

"Good." I go back into the bedroom and hold out my hand to him so as to steady him when he sways. My arm is tight around his waist as we make our way to the 'fresher and I help him undress before he slowly lowers himself into the bath.

I strip and follow, carefully lowering myself opposite him and smile to see a warm, rosy flush fill his cheeks. "I like this," I say softly, brushing my thumb along his lips.

"Even better than the great baths of Thersbet?" he teases.

"Oh, much better." I pick up a bathcloth, wet it and pour some bathing oil on it. "For one thing, I didn't have anyone to share them with."

"You could have." His solemn eyes search mine.

I stop what I am doing and look up at him. "Never." Firmly. "Whatever Fate holds in store, there's one thing that will never change and that is my bond to you Qui-Gon. There will never be another -- not now, not ever." I lean in and brush my mouth against his. "Please don't think so little of me to believe otherwise."

He blinks and looks down. "No. Forgive me, love. This fever has rattled whatever was left of my good sense." He smiles weakly at me. "I suppose I'll never be used to having such a beautiful young man by my side."

"Pshaw, you speak as if I were some sort of adolescent." Mildly. "I can assure that no one else was of the opinion that I'm still a youth in my prime. Why even the damned fool who flew me to Alderaan called me patas." I return to washing Qui-Gon's chest, scowling at the memory.

"Patas?" He looks astonished and I watch as he bites his lip, trying very hard not to laugh. "He called you patas?"

"Go on, laugh," I growl. "It won't be so funny in a year or two."

"Oh, no," he chuckles. "Patas . . . oh, my."

"By then, I'll have no doubt lost every hair on my head." I use a tickle of Force to call another bottle into my hand and squirt it at him, watching as he laughs and ducks beneath a spray of foam. "My teeth will soon follow, and you can be quite sure I'll expect you to chew my food for me. So prepare yourself, Qui-Gon. You're in for the long haul."

"I look forward to it." He hesitates, merriment shining in his eyes. "My own patas."

I slide toward him and pull him close to me. Kiss him once hard, then again with a passion that has never flagged, not once in the fifteen years we've been as one. "A fine pair we'll be then," I gasp, rising and pulling up with me. "A fine pair of old bastards."

He laughs and allows me to help him out of the bath. I grab a bathsheet and quickly dry us off before tugging him toward our bed. I slowly tumble him down upon it, taking extra care to be gentle, but not so gentle as to let him think I no longer desire him.

Because nothing could be further from the truth.

The proof of his arousal isn't present, no, not at first, but I take my time, paying slow, careful attention to his most sensitive spots while reminding him of times past he'd particularly enjoyed.

I recall for him a mission on Symmetra, where we were given a decedent room, complete with a huge pallet covered with scarlet synthsilk and days to idle away before we had to appear in the Sharet's court.

With a whisper, I ask if he remembers it, remembers how he'd tied me to the pallet and spent what seemed like hours watching me twist and beg for release. Wonder aloud as to exactly how many times he'd taken me that night, whether it was in my mouth or elsewhere, and how I'd finally turned the tables on him, and how he'd ended up bound beneath me, thick white sashes wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

He arches up against me with a moan, and I finally feel him, hot and hard against my leg. "Old man indeed," I scoff gently.

"Well, I'm old, but not dead," he gasps and I chuckle against his skin, still warm and sweet-smelling from our bath. I take plum colored nipple and worry it gently between my teeth as he groans breathlessly. "Not yet, but soon, I think."

I squirm up and lick the whorl of his earlobe. "No such luck." Whispered. "I have you now as I had you then, love." I slide down the length of his body, kissing every spot as I work my way toward his shaft, which is rampant and beautiful, waiting for me. "In fact, I think this my be your new job from now on." A long, slow lick up his pulsing length. "I'd always thought you'd make an excellent bedslave."

Another groan and he squirms beneath me. I tease him a little longer before finally giving into his entreaties and taking him in my mouth, gently licking the hot velvet, taking my time and waiting for him, waiting for the spiral of ecstasy I know as well as my own. I can feel his heartbeat quicken as he arches beneath me, protesting at first, then murmuring my name, until he finally calls out to me, silently, over our bond as he used to, so long ago.

That is enough to set me off and I explode against the bedlinens, even as the warmth of his orgasm fills my mouth, salty and sea-sweet. He shivers against me as I slide up and embrace him tightly.

"I am so glad you've returned, my love. So glad."

I pull him to me and hold him, unwilling to ever let him go. "As am I, Qui-Gon. As am I."

Hours later we lie together, entwined and sated. His head rests easily against my chest and I rub my cheek against what is left of his hair, the spiky strands tickling my skin.

"It will grow back," he murmurs. "It always did."

"I know. I've just grown used to it as it was, that's all." I hesitate. "Of course, if you wish to keep it short . . ."

"No. It will grow again."

There is silence after that and I watch as the fifth moon rises over to the west of our homestead. It's my favorite of Tatooine's six moons, Kurnos, The Blue Giant. If I look long enough, it's not hard to imagine its green mountains, surrounded by trees and the lake beds that cover half of the upper hemisphere. Kurnos lies in such a strong contrast to its barren mother planet, and for a moment, I wonder why the entire population hasn't abandoned their hard life on Tatooine to take advantage of the lushness that lies just leagues away.

I then look at the quiet face that rests against my chest and again, I remember why.

My bondmate's quiet voice interrupts my reverie. "In regards to our friend . . . Amidala . . . " He is stammering slightly and I can feel his grief as if it were my own.

I decide to be honest with him. This has been a source of sadness for him for far too long, and the time for closure has come. "It was a difficult death, as her pain was of the kind that couldn't be treated with medicine." I gently stroke his forehead. "But she did have a message for you. She said that you were not to blame, that we all were the plaything of Fate, nothing more. That our paths are sometimes forged before our birth, and fighting against them is useless."

"She loved him still, didn't she?" Hoarsely.

I close my eyes, the memory of Amidala's tearful confession painfully clear. "Yes. She admitted as much."

He takes a shuddering breath. "And I'm the one who took her away from him. I . . . I thought it was for the best. I wanted to save her, wanted to save all of us, but . . . again, I must be quite the arrogant creature to think that I can save the universe without the slightest cost." A short, bitter laugh. "What a fool I must be."

"I don't think her life would have lasted much longer with Vader than it did on Alderaan," I reply drily. "And I think it would have been decidedly more unpleasant. And the children . . . no, Qui-Gon, you did the right thing."

Painfully, he lifts his head and props himself onto his elbow. His eyes search mine and they are as solemn and grave as I've ever seen them. "Obi-Wan, if you'd been the one who had fallen to Darkness, no power in the galaxy could have made me leave your side. I was wrong to take Padme away from her husband, wrong to force her to leave her home against her heart, no matter what dark fate lay in store."

I swallow hard and nod. "Perhaps. But the past . . ."

He slowly sinks back down and rests his head against my heart. "The past is to be learned from, stored aside, but not forgotten. We are to be mindful of the present and wary of the future." He closes his eyes. "I will learn this lesson some day, I hope. But for now, I must be mindful of my failures."

"She waits for him," I blurt out. Qui's eyes open and he regards me curiously. "I saw her, saw her in shadow form after her death as it was her who bid me to return to Tatooine. I know she is there still, waiting within the Living Force for Vader."

He blinks. "But, but when a fallen one dies . . ."

"I know." I shake my head. "Vader cannot join the Force if he dies in Darkness, but still, she waits for him. Her faith must be great."

"Or perhaps her foreknowledge." Qui-Gon's eyes widen and I see a wild spark of hope fill them. He sits up and runs shaking hands through his shorn hair. "Perhaps this is a portent, perhaps she'd been given a glimpse of the future. If he can be saved . . . saved through love . . ."

I prop myself up and give him a warning glance. "Qui . . ." But he isn't listening to me, instead, he is smiling at the thought of Anakin's redemption, and is suddenly looking much healthier, his eyes and face glowing with hope.

"Yes. Not defeated, but saved." He slowly lays back down, smiling senselessly. "Ah, my dear queen, my little Padme. I think there will be a happy ending after all. For all of us."

I sigh and pull him to me. "Well, either way, we shall do what we've been sworn to do. Watch and wait."

"Yes. Watch and wait, my love." He burrows against me and with a sigh, I pull the comforter over his shoulders, making sure the night chill is keep far away. Over our bond, I no longer feel the grief he has held onto for so long, instead I feel the warm flicker of hope shining where there once was nothing but sorrow.

I wonder if I can share in that hope, but instead, I will reserve my judgement. The present demands other things of me, not least of which is repairing the damage I've done by my absence.

While remaining vigilant to uphold my oaths and ever protect . . .

Ever cherish my home.

My Obi-Wan is home. Although I am still not permitted up and about, he has graciously given me leave to lie on the divan this afternoon, and I am watching him work in the kitchen, no doubt preparing something to tempt an old man's appetite.

Despite the sorrow of Amidala's death, I feel new hope that Anakin may not be lost after all, that the Emperor will be defeated and the Force balanced. I know Obi-Wan thinks of it as an old man's last rag of hope, but it feels true, and he--as he always is--is kind enough to allow me that hope.

He is home.

Just watching him move around the kitchen as he mutters under his breath, trying to slice vegetables with Jepta underfoot--I have to swallow hard, I had not thought to see him performing the daily, homely tasks of our life here. I had not thought to see him at all, although I didn't begrudge him. Imagine, he is now convinced that he's aging because a wet behind the ears transport pilot called him 'patas'. A chuckle wants to escape my throat, but he would only come to see what it is, and I like watching him too well to disturb him at this moment.

There is time for holding one another later, and this moment is too precious, too unexpected.

He was hurt at first that I had not expected him to return; I tried to explain, and I think he understands. I hope he understands. I'm not immune to self-doubt, of course, but it wasn't simply that, it was the certainty that he was needed elsewhere. As is so often true, though, he was wiser than this old man, he recognized that his duty was not in leading a fleet, but in guarding the future. If that also means he recognized this was his home, well, I am a lucky man, ancient or not, to have this man love me so well.

He looks up and gives me the sweet smile that shows so seldom, the smile that reminds me of a younger, more mischievous, more carefree man. My throat tightens at seeing it; it seems we've both been too careworn for too long, and the warmth in his gaze and smile ease the last of my shame and sadness over failing him, over aging, over being ill and helpless.

Outside, the first sun has reached the horizon and begun to set. He moves out of the kitchen and comes to nudge me up for a handful of raw l'it roots. "These are good for the chest, M'ganna says," he tells me. "So get used to eating a lot of them."

I can't help laughing a little. My authoritative love, I swear, it's quite humbling these days to be cared for. "It's a good thing they're tasty," I tell him and take one, biting into the slightly peppery root with relish. I'm tired of the bland invalid's diet, and the fresh l'it is wonderful. He absently bites into one himself, leans across me to peer, squinting, through the sunshield. "Almost sunset."

I nod, absently reaching down to scratch Jepta's ears; he has taken a liking to Obi-Wan, which is a great trial to my beloved. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan is kind to the little creature, and has somehow managed to hold his tongue about the obvious stupidity of bringing a sick kit into the house when I was already exhausted.

"It's good to be home," he murmurs, still peering outside; his gaze comes back to meet mine and I see his worry for an instant before that smile returns. "Very good to be home." Then, because he is still Obi-Wan, he adds, "Of course, it would be better if I had not found you ill." Pointedly.

"I hardly did it deliberately," I say mildly.

He leans forward to embrace me, to hold me hard against him for a moment. "I know that." Muffled voice, and he draws back, manages another of those treasured smiles. "Nevertheless, I don't think I'll be leaving again if this is what happens." The smile ebbs and he traces my jaw with a fingertip. "Not for all the riches of the universe, Qui." Softly.

I blink hard. "Well, I never thought you tempted by that."

"Nor for any other temptation," he tells me firmly, and cannot resist rolling his eyes. "Besides, who knows what else might have taken up residence before my return. At least Jepta is clean."

"S'ka, S'ka are."

"You know what I mean." He leans forward and kisses me, his mouth warm and gentle. "If I have to use Force to bind you, you aren't to work this cycle."

I must have looked as mutinous as I felt. "Or at least, nothing more than light things here in the house." Sudden wicked grin. "And, of course, my pleasure."

I can't help laughing. "You've strange tastes in bedslaves, my love. Surely someone younger, more virile--"

But he stops my mouth with fingertips. "You are all that I need." Simply. "And this is all I need." A gesture around the room.

There is some strain gone from around his eyes, some tension gone from his jaw. And some pain or burden is gone from my heart: the surety of Vader's loss, and more, the certainty of Obi-Wan's misery.

He looks around the room, but his gaze comes back to me. "You were right, beloved." Smiling a little. "This is our home now. And we are doing our duty here, unrecognized and in patience."

My vision blurs and I have to swallow hard. "Welcome home, beloved. Oh, welcome home."

He folds me back into his arms, and I am content. Old man or not, I have everything I could ever need.

He is home.

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