Sacrifices

by DBKate

Category: AU, Angst, Romance

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: For all movies, including TPM, and the JA books and our previous fanfics "Exiles" and "On The Willows" Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em, we don't. Damn.

Summary: 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?

As Jedi we'd never wanted for material possessions, either as a matter of desire or availability. We owned next to nothing besides the clothes on our backs but we wanted for nothing either, as the Order was funded by the Senate . . . generously so. Whatever money was needed was given to us and we spent it as necessary in the fulfillment of our duties.

Not so anymore.

Now in our third year on Tatooine, I find our finances are in precarious order. It's not for lack of thrift -- if anything Qui-Gon and I lead a life that most would find uncomfortably frugal. But when what goes out exceeds what comes in, there is only one outcome . . . need.

It rankles me to have this anxiety added onto all our other ones, but I hide it as best I can, not wishing to upset Qui-Gon with yet another unexpected concern. Instead, I simply plod through our meager accounting, continue to take stock through our virtually nonexistent possessions and spend many hours in meditation trying to devise ways of getting us through the next harvest season.

It's a very un-Jedi like use of my concentration, but one must do what one must do.

So on this morning I go through the list again, taking stock and coming to much the same conclusions I do every other time. The ancient speeder we must keep as there is no other mode of transportation to be found in these barren wastes that would not cost us more than the value of the vehicle itself. Our harvesting equipment is hardly worth the metal it's made from as is our spare power source.

Selling our light sabers is akin to selling our souls and therefore out of the question.

The various other items we own are intrinsically worthless, save as antiques, but there isn't much of a market for such aesthetics on this barren, uncivilized planet. More's the shame too I think, feeling crankier by the minute.

This hive of filth could use a bit of culture.

While rifling through our small box of belongings, I notice Qui-Gon's meditation beads and smile as I hold them against my palm. They're a brilliant combination of crimson and black and worth a fair amount of money on most markets. The weight of the focus stone is impressive enough for most gem traders and their value as a historic curio even greater.

But to Qui-Gon they are priceless. He beams when he holds them to the light and tells me the story of their origin and acquisition for the umpteenth time. They are his most valuable material possession, if only for their sentimental value. The thought of his parting with these stones is one that I refuse to even contemplate, so I carefully place them back into the box.

"You're thinking about money again."

I can't help the smile that crosses my face when I hear Qui-Gon's voice in my ear. There's not much use hiding anything from him; we simply know each other too well. Usually this is a good thing, a better than a good thing, but sometimes a man would like to have a thought or two left to himself.

But, alas, not this time.

Reaching behind me, I tug gently on a bit of soft silver hair that is draping over my shoulder. "Well, yes," I sigh. "I think we are in a bit of bind this year, love, but it's nothing for you to be concerned with. I'll figure something out."

His fingers begin to knead into my shoulders which are shockingly tense. With a pleased groan, I roll my head back and let him work out the knots and sore muscles that have accumulated over the past few months. He finishes with a kiss against the back of my neck and feel refreshed enough to smile at him even through the uneasiness.

"Maybe I can bottle that and sell it," I joke, then grimace as I realize even my wit has taken on a one track theme . . . money.

Slowly he sits beside me, reaches into the box and holds up his beloved meditation beads. Regards them thoughtfully. "Perhaps these will bring us a bit of money, love. Shall I try and find a buyer for them?" His tone is even, but I'm aghast at the very notion.

"Absolutely not." I know that I sound clipped and crusty and cranky, but I don't care. "I wouldn't dream of such a thing and neither will you."

"They are just a trinket, Obi-Wan." Mild voice. "I don't even use them anymore."

"You will not sell those." My tone is hard ... unyielding. Slowly, my last unenviable hope dawns on me. "I will see my brother."

"Your brother?" Qui-Gon blinks and shakes his head slightly, as if he's heard me incorrectly.

I nod. "Yes. I will go see Owen and ask him for a loan of water for the harvest. It is regrettable, but it must be done."

Qui-Gon's eyes widen just the slightest bit before he leans back and regards me gravely. "I don't think that is wise, Obi-Wan."

I shrug. "Whether it is wise or not isn't the question, love. It must be done or we shall starve come the next harvest cycle. That is the black and white of it I fear."

He shakes his head. "Nothing is in black or white, Obi-Wan. There are always other options."

Sighing, I put on my cloak and wrap it tightly around me. There were sandstorms earlier and I don't wish to be caught unprepared. "Believe me Qui-Gon, I've meditated on this for a long time now and have come to this conclusion with just as much trepidation. But we simply don't have a choice."

He doesn't reply, but I can see that he remains unconvinced. I bestow a quick kiss onto his forehead and make sure I'm out the door before he can call me back inside for an endless debate on the matter. I'm in no mood for one and besides, he needs his strength for other things.

Not least of which I hope is another massage. Perhaps tonight, in our bed.

With this pleasant thought, I fire up the speeder and make my way to the moisture fields of the north, where my brother will no doubt be plying his workday trade.

I've been told I look like my mother while my brother Owen has more of my father in him. I couldn't say if this were true or not, for I have no memories of either of my parents. Taken as a toddler by the Order, I was raised by a succession of masters who were both mother and father, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles.

I had no ties to blood besides Owen and that tie was always tenuous at best. After the final black days of the Order, he and his wife Beru were the only safe place I could think of to hide Anakin's son. Both Qui-Gon and I decided he would be much safer with a couple known to us, but unrecognizable to anyone else, even any scattered Jedi who might still be alive.

We never even considered raising him ourselves; it was much too dangerous and besides, we may have been Jedi, able to wield a lightsaber against opponents a hundred strong, but changing dirty swaddling on a daily basis was another matter entirely.

Besides, Beru was childless at that late point in her life and she was thrilled beyond measure when we presented her with the boy. Owen was slightly less thrilled, but the smile on his wife's face convinced him quickly enough. All in all, Qui-Gon and I were pleased and felt it worked out for the best. We stayed in the shadows, didn't interfere and lived our own lives . . . watchful only in the most general sense.

But today, things have taken an unexpected turn.

Owen is exactly where I expected him to be, at the top of the North Ridge, yelling at one of his worker 'droids and shaking his head at the sky in that half-angry, half-pleading way all farmers have. I drive up slowly, and he stops in mid-rant to stare at me.

It's not a pleasant stare; in fact it makes my stomach tighten, but I greet him as cordially as I can without stepping into over the lines of common familiarity. For my brother and I are not close, and I have a bad feeling that he might not appreciate my visit, even if I weren't going to ask him for a loan.

But he greets me politely enough, with a proper handshake and a short nod. Tells his worker 'droid to take a few moments worth of shut-down time and bids me gruffly to state my business.

The bluntness of his question nearly throws me off-track, but I press on. He was never one for small talk, so I carefully explain my situation, making sure I keep my demeanor appropriately humble. Tell him how ashamed I am to have to come to this pass and that any help he could provide would be received with gratitude.

A grunt. "Huh. Out of water, eh?"

"Yes," I reply, as humbly as possible.

"Well, that happens to quite a few folks out here in these wastes. It's a hell of a land out here -- a hell of a land. Unfortunately, the loss of one is the gain of another, eh?" A wry attempt at folksy wisdom and it doesn't suit him. "Hate to say it, but it's a damn good business this moisture farming. I think Luke will like it when he comes of age."

He's watching my expression closely and my well-trained shields descend. "I suppose that remains to be seen." Keeping my voice mild. "You never know. He may not want to be a farmer, Owen."

His cheek twitches, all pretense at good humor gone. "Oh, he's going to be a farmer all right." A hoarse proclamation, full of angry conviction.

I struggle to keep my tone neutral. "I believe that decision will be his to make."

I receive a real glare, this one bordering on an emotion I don't wish to contemplate. "That's damn straight. And he's going to want to be a farmer," he snarls, the threat in his voice clear.

An angry retort is poised on the edge of my lips, but I bite it back, knowing very well that this argument isn't about loans or water or whether the boy will grow up to be a farmer or a Jedi.

This is about me. About what Owen sees when he looks at me.

What he thinks other people see in comparison to him.

They see Obi-Wan, Master Knight of The Order versus Owen Lars, the younger and nowhere near as distinguished. Just an ordinary man, going from job to job with his sweet, but plain wife forever at his side. Struggling to make ends meet on good days, eating spacer's drymeats and hard bread on the others. Working his fingers to the bone for everything he's ever owned while Obi-Wan The Knight was eating from silver plates in royal halls, his pockets bulging with credits freely flowing from an endless Council treasury.

General Kenobi, decorated by queens on palace stairs, making love nightly to countless courtesans and willing men, all devastating in their methods and brutal in their beauty. Obi-Wan the Venerated. Obi-Wan the Wondrous . . . Obi-Wan -- the Lucky.

Oh my brother. If you only knew who the lucky one truly was.

For a long moment there is silence between us, broken only by the winds that blow the stinging sand past our eyes. He breaks it with a quiet rage in his voice that tells me I must either accept his offer or suffer my fate. "You can have the water and some cash, but only on one condition."

I nod and wait silently, but my heart, oh how it hurts.

"You'll get out of here and never come back, especially not as Obi-Wan Kenobi, do you understand? Obi-Wan is dead, he died with that maniac Skywalker on Coruscant. You're just Ben now, just a crazy old wizard who lives in the dunes." The triumph in his voice is fierce. "And it's going to stay that way as far as Luke is concerned, do you hear me?"

I nod. I've known many defeats over the years, but this one stings as a whip might -- random, sharp and cruel. I don't blame Owen for his anger, for he is only a simple man, a man who believes he has lived his life well enough and deserves the right to defend his family.

Of which I am not, nor will ever be, a part of.

"You can have all the water you want but you stay away from us, you hear me? I don't want you or any of your "friends" near my wife and my . . . " He hesitates, but the implication is clear. " ... and Luke. You may be some fancy wizard you bastard, but you just try and mess with me. You might be surprised, just like that bastard Skywalker surprised you, you and your arrogant wizard friends."

I begin a short bow, think better of it and nod my head instead. "I will bother you no more." I hesitate, but the word is insisting to be said. "Brother."

But Owen is gone, long gone over the ridge and across the bitter sands. His voice sounds sandstorm rough in the distance. "Take care that you don't, you bastard." A howling wind carried over burning dunes. "You'll get your water, but you just stay the hell away from us, you crazy wizard bastard, you hear me, or you might end up surprised."

I shut my eyes for a long moment and try to swallow the band of grief that is tightening around my throat. Oh, I'm not surprised at your rage my brother; I think I've expected it all along. But the sorrow -- the sheer ache of it that surprises me more than I ever would have imagined.

I've been trained not to feel such emotions, to let go of those weak ties of flesh that bind lesser men to their familial bonds. Perhaps it is age that has softened me, or my attachment to Qui-Gon, but whatever it is, it hurts, yes, it hurts badly and I find myself not much liking the pain.

My vision blurs as I make my way back to the speeder and I tell myself it is a bit of sand caught in my eye as I wipe it dry with an edge of my sleeve. Starting up the engine, I catch myself wiping it again, not bothering to lie to myself about its cause.

After a while, I no longer even bother to wipe the tears away at all. Instead, I let them trickle down my cheeks, and fall away, giving the sands surrounding me the only bits of water they may ever know.

My head is aching brutally when I return home.

Qui-Gon is standing quietly at the stove, cooking a bit of vegetable in broth for our supper. We've forgone meat for a while now, and I've grown accustomed to it rather easily, especially considering its usual reptilian sources.

He greets me with a nod and his eyes fill with concern at the sight of my long face. As I've said, we know each other far too well to hide any pain for very long. Or keep any secrets.

Such as the one I see written clearly in his face. I scan the room quickly and notice that the water meter attached to our power source has gone from nearly empty to nearly full.

My mouth drops but I quickly find my voice. "What have you done?" I snap. "Where did this water come from?"

He doesn't look away, no, that was never his style, but looks me straight in the eye when he goes ahead and decides to break my heart. "I sold the beads, love."

No. Thrice, hells and damn no. "I told you not to." My jaw clenches so tightly I can hear my teeth grind, my head is splitting apart and my heart hurts for reasons I dare not speak of, lest the pain never leave.

"It is already done." He continues to look at me with that infuriating blend of stoicism and innocence and something inside me snaps at the sight.

And not in a good way either. "I told you not to!" I bellow furiously, at the top of my lungs. "By the Force, Qui-Gon! Will no one ever listen to me? Will I never be heard?" I am screaming at him as I have only once before and that was on Coruscant, during that final black battle, when I told him that he would join me in retreat or I would take him bodily by force.

He doesn't flinch and at once, I am horrified by the sound of my voice. Regret floods me, but Qui-Gon regards me with a softness -- a kindness I do not deserve.

He opens his arms and before I know it, I am weeping in his embrace, listening as he murmurs the oaths of our lifebond softly to me. "Let me be with you, in this as in all things. In times of need always, no sacrifices shall we make alone." A whisper against my cheek. "You don't always have to be the strong one, beloved. Let me take some of this burden away, allow me to me share it. It is only right."

I can't reply for my tears are choking me and he rocks me in his arms, knowing my grief, and allowing it to flow between us in a shared sacrifice of pain. His care quickly softens the blow of hardships endured, erases the humility of our poverty and in a flash, the ache of our losses disappear beneath the kisses he brushes along my cheeks, my forehead and eyes.

It is, and will be all right, for he is with me in this as in all things -- and no sacrifices shall we make alone. It is all right. It will be all right. In this I have to believe.

For, in some ways, hope is the only thing we have left.

fini

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