Master Apprentice Archive Tatooine Quick search:

Tatooine

by Flamethrower

Title: Tatooine

Author: Flamethrower (flamethrower@thedeadcat.net)

Archive: Just MA for now, since my site hath been broken. *sigh*

Category: Q/O, AU, H/C

Warning: Desert-y.

Spoilers: ...You know, if it weren't for the books still coming out, this would be a dead category.

Summary: Twelfth story in the Lonely Place `verse.

Series order: All ten parts to date can be found here, as well as on the Archive.

Feedback: Yep. I do so enjoy it!

Thanks: to Merry Amelie, writestufflee, and mrs_stanley - you guys are my awesome beta crew, and I would be publishing horrible, horrible glitches if it weren't for you.

Classic Disclaimer: "Rob? That's a naughty word, we never rob! We just... sort of borrow."
"Borrow? Boy, are we in debt!"

He stood under the dubious shelter of a canvas lean-to, a strip torn from his sleeve tied around his nose and mouth. Goggles protected his eyes, and the leather jacket protected his upper body. Sand scored his hands, his cheeks, his scalp, and abraded his legs even through the thick cloth of his pants. He wiggled his toes - yes, sand in his boots, too. There was shelter available in Mos Eisley, but he was in no mood to share cramped bar space with dozens of sweating strangers, half of them possessed of slippery fingers and inebriated wits.

He'd hated Tatooine the first time he saw it thirteen years ago. He'd hated it when he'd returned, slaughtering an entire tribe of Tusken Raiders for having the audacity to be caught up in a Sith Lord's game.

He really, really fucking hated it now. He still wasn't sure what had possessed him to return to this Sith-forsaken rock, but it seemed part of him was still delirious enough to hope for some chance at a life. If his father threw him out on his ass... then, well, perhaps it would be time to contemplate either copious amounts of drugs or a good, old-fashioned mind wipe. Both were readily available in the Outer Rim. He'd let his decision hinge on which option he found first.




He had plenty of time to regret not emptying the sand from his boots as he made the long trek to the Lars homestead from Anchorhead. His feet had gone from feeling abraded to numb to too warm, which made him suspect that the quartz grains had shredded his skin and he was soaking his socks with blood.

He spent the long walk pointedly not thinking. This was difficult, since the scenery was composed of sand and yet more sand, along with a great blue-white horizon unbroken by clouds. The suns beat down on him, hammering him with the strength of a forge. His cloak helped to keep the worst of the heat at bay, and his hood shielded his eyes. Some part of him recognized that he was an idiot, walking across an arid, inhospitable desert in the middle of the day, but the rest of him wasn't paying any attention.

His vocal cords had healed well (to his intense surprise) and after the third hour he began to sing some of the old, tawdry ballads that Master Tahl had once been fond of. His voice was rusty, and he couldn't remember half the words, but the sounds echoing through the air were better company than the memories he couldn't quite suppress.

The suns were sitting just above the horizon when he spied a dome that he knew was the right place. The spies he'd tasked with guarding the homestead had kept watch, making sure no other lackey of Sidious arrived to set upon his family. Possibly they were still there - silent, watchful eyes in the desert. The bank accounts that dispensed automated payments to anonymous employees had never been discovered. One day he needed to get around to letting the Senate and Council know that over half of Sidious's accumulated wealth was still unaccounted for.

One day.

He stepped up to the edge of the compound, peering down at the courtyard below. No one was in sight; more than likely they were preparing to retire for the evening. His lip curled up as a childhood verse stumbled merrily into his thoughts. All good children found snug in bed; good night, good night, dear lady. All good children lay down their heads; good night, good night, my pretty.

He shook his head at the nonsense and took the stairs down, one at a time, and wondered what he was going to say. Hello, perhaps. Then what? He'd been on the Republic's Most Wanted list for two years. Even on Tatooine, that had to have been news. What could he expect, really?

Well. He had killed Jabba when the worm had tried to back out of a deal with the Confederacy. Leaving Tatooine's economy in a state of utter disarray from the power vacuum that had caused probably warranted him a blaster shot to the head, at the very least. His lip quirked again; he should be so lucky.

He touched a button set into the stone at the bottom of the stairs, and within moments a young man around Anakin's age appeared. Owen Lars. He looked like the father that lurked in Obi-Wan's memories from decades ago, right down to his golden brown hair and pale blue eyes.

They stared at each other for a full minute before Owen narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

Yes, he had expected outright hostility. That didn't mean he'd figured out how to respond to it. He didn't even know how to answer his brother's question. "Hello. It's been a long time, Owen." He had last spoken to Owen when he was nineteen. Fourteen years was a long time to leave an argument hanging.

"Probably not long enough," Owen replied, looking him up and down.

He hadn't tried to hide the tattoos, though only the ones on his face were visible. He was wearing tough brown pants, a simple tan shirt, and a leather freighter pilot's jacket that had survived the obliteration of his things. He suspected that it might once have been Garen's. The pack on his back held what little he'd bothered to purchase to keep himself clothed and fed. He looked like a vagrant, and in spaceports that meant he was left alone. Here, it made him uncomfortable. Just what in the hell had possessed him to come here, anyway? "Where is... our father?"

"He's around," Owen said, giving him a brief, snide smile. "How's that shiny new pardon treating you?"

He clenched his jaw. Hell, no. He didn't leave behind a Temple full of accusing eyes and cold words to put up with it on this fucking planet. "It treats me the way that pardons generally treat people. It earns them more enemies than they had before the damned piece of paper was issued," he snapped, turning around. Option Two sounded like a fantastic idea.

"OWEN!" He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see his brother flinch in response to their father's bellow. "What the hell are you doing out there?"

"We have a guest, Dad!" Owen yelled back.

"No, you don't!" Obi-Wan muttered, managing one more step before the ground tilted. He swore as nausea welled up; it had been a while since he'd suffered from heat exhaustion, but he remembered well what it felt like. He was a thrice bedamned idiot. The last thing he heard was the sound of running feet before the ground tilted back the other way and he fell, his vision graying out as consciousness fled.

He fucking hated this planet.




He woke up in a dark room that was cool, and the air no longer smelled like dust and acid. His feet felt numb, and his head... oh, gods. He groaned and dropped his head back down on the pillow. His head felt like someone had crammed it full of destroyer droids armed with construction equipment. It had been a long time since he'd felt this blasted miserable.

It took him a moment to realize that it was the first time he had awoken in a dark place and not been seized with panic. He couldn't remember the last time waking up had simply been a process, and not something to dread.

"Drink this," someone with a soft, if exasperated, voice said, and there was a straw pressed to his lips. He sipped, expecting water, but it was sweet and tart. Fruit juice, from local produce, perhaps. He'd never bothered to sample any before, but right now it was wonderful. "Heat exhaustion," she said. "I would have thought you knew better."

He found himself smiling. He knew that voice. "Apparently not, Lady Skywalker. Or is it Skywalker-Lars?"

"Just Lars," Shmi Lars replied, a smile in her voice. "And if you call me anything but Shmi, I will be very cross, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

His body must have been soaking up the sugars in the juice in record time, for the headache was already receding. He sat up, relieved when nothing tilted, and found Anakin Skywalker's mother sitting on a chair next to the bed, giving him an inscrutable look. "You look... well," he managed, not sure what else to say. The last time he'd seen her she had been almost unconscious, bleeding from many wounds. There was almost no evidence of the torture she'd suffered remaining, though a long, shallow scar ran down her cheek. He wasn't sure if he felt guilty for that, or if he was grateful. It had been his decision to leave her to the Tuskens' doubtful mercy for several days, making sure her pain resonated in the Force, made sure it attracted Anakin back to the planet he'd once called home.

Plans within plans within plans. He was sick of thinking that way all the time.

Shmi gave him a gentle, understanding smile, so like the one that Jeila Vin had offered him that it made his chest hurt. "Rest, Obi-Wan. Tomorrow, the day is new."



The next day he was fine again, and that surprised him, too. Was he so used to being tired and worn that to be healthy again was a shock?

Apparently, it was. He got up, half-expecting his feet to be sore and was almost gratified to find that they were. There were no wounds, but a container of bacta gel on the table next to the bed that told him there might have been.

He found his pack and dressed in clothes that were less sand-caked. He left the relative cool of the bedroom, stepping out into a bright hallway, and followed his nose to find the homestead's residents. He walked across the courtyard and took two steps down into a kitchen filled with bustling people who, thank the gods, ignored him.

Shmi, he was amused to see, was swearing under her breath at a malfunctioning kettle. Standing next to her was the girl, Beru Whitesun, who Owen had started dating a few years ago. They were still together, which was a sign that either they were good for each other, or no one else was available. She seemed happy, so he guessed it was the former. There were two men standing further down the row, sorting produce into dehydration containers - those would be the workers that Cliegg and Shmi had hired to help run the farm, now that it was running at capacity. His father was at the table, looking as grizzled as ever. The hoverchair had been abandoned; he had two legs, so Anakin or Padmé must have made sure he'd received a prosthetic. Owen sat next to his father, and his hands were busy stripping some weird purple vegetable to retrieve the seeds. Both of them were giving near-identical scowls to the datapad Cliegg held in his hands. Occasionally, though, eyes would drift, and Cliegg would glance up at his wife, while Owen's gaze sought out Beru's.

It was so obvious that they were family they might as well all have the Lars name stamped on their foreheads. He repressed a sigh. Fuck. He felt like more of an outsider than ever. Wasn't it enough that he'd been renamed before being handed over to the Jedi? Did he really need more of a confirmation than this that he did not belong here, either?

"Obi-Wan, can you cook?" Shmi tossed the question over her shoulder at him, still fighting with the obnoxious kettle that was now beeping at her for good measure.

He thought about it, tried to ignore the glare that Owen gave him, or the distant, curious stare from his father. "I haven't tried to in several years. Might be a bad idea."

"That's fine." She lifted the entire unit off of the counter and handed it to him. He grimaced as he took it - just enough autonomy to know how to do its job, and still it had developed an attitude problem. "Can you fix it? I swear it likes Anakin better than any of us, and only works right when he's here to keep an eye on it."

That sounded like Anakin, all right. He'd heard the story about the Temple mouse droids. "I can try, but it might be easier just to blow it up and replace it."

The kettle released a jet of steam into his face. Owen smirked; Beru bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Threatening it doesn't work," Shmi said, her tone just mild enough to tell him that she was laughing, too.

"I gathered that," he muttered, turning the offending device around in his hands. He considered wiping its memory back down to factory specs, but he had the impression Shmi needed it for the meal they were busy preparing. He was not the deity Anakin Skywalker was with machines, but he had his own gift for it. The Force would have helped, but he didn't need the Force for this. He popped the secondary access port with his fingernails and found the culprit. One of the sensors for the thermostat had come loose, leaving the kettle with conflicting readings about cooking time. He was so busy adjusting screw heads with his fingernails and swearing under his breath as it blasted him with another jet of steam that he didn't notice when Owen handed him a multi-tool.



That morning seemed to have set the tone for interactions with his family. When he was around them, Shmi would talk to him, and sometimes Beru would speak, though Owen and Cliegg were both far more reticent. He was always handed something to do, or asked to perform repairs on some piece of equipment. The work kept his hands busy and his thoughts locked on the problems of mechanical failure. It had been decades since his life had been narrowed down to such simple things.

When he hid in the garage, or the guest bedroom that he'd been encouraged to stay in, they didn't bother him. He didn't understand it, but he appreciated it. He worked himself into exhaustion and fell into bed with a sense of accomplishment that was almost foreign, and slept with only the barest hint of bad dreams at the edge of his consciousness. When he did have nightmares, he couldn't stand to be around other people, and he hoped that the stone walls were as soundproof as they looked.

More and more often, though, he could not bear to sit alone in the dark, and the days spent with his erstwhile family began to far outnumber the ones he spent by himself. He walked the perimeter of the farm with Owen to retrieve the vaporator water harvests, and as it grew into a routine they started to swear at each other as they worked. It felt less like fighting and more like a warped form of sibling affection.

He learned enough Jawa chatter to squabble with the junk dealers that stopped by the farm in their giant Sandcrawlers. He had arguments with the family droid, C-3PO, about linguistics, and when the droid huffed and puffed about manners and protocol he realized he had a huge grin on his face.

"No, really. I've been to Malatris'sx. Bowing in respect to the head domo will get you beheaded."

"But... but!" the poor droid sputtered, sunlight reflecting off of his steel-gray casings. "My programming specifically states that bowing in respect to the head domo is of the utmost importance!"

He paused in the midst of fine-tuning the coolant release valve on the family speeder. "Are you sure you weren't owned by someone with a death wish?"

The droid paused, his head tilted to one side. "Well... that might explain how I came to be on the rubbish heap in Master Anakin's place of ...er, servitude all those years ago. I don't remember it, myself, but he did say I was in several pieces."

"At least you weren't melted down," he said, snapping the tool case lid closed and handing it to the droid. "Can you put this in the garage for me? One of the perimeter sensors is acting up, and I said that I would look into it before dark."

"Of course, Master Obi-Wan," the droid replied, and continued to prattle on in the cheerful, whiny way he had, even though Obi-Wan hadn't followed him. He was standing out in intense desert heat, covered in gooseflesh. He shied away from his name as it was, but to hear the words said... He caught himself wondering if Jeila had been serious and squashed the thought.

He shook himself and hiked out to the sensor array, feeling a sharp gust of wind stir his hair. He brushed long strands of dull copper away from his face and knelt down next to the array. Then he swore in some of the more creative Bocce combinations that Owen and the droids had taught him. The array wasn't malfunctioning. It looked like someone had smashed it with a rock. Repeatedly.

He stood back up, scanning the empty desert around him. The wind had been blowing hard enough in the past few days that there were no footprints to be found. Dammit.

He found his commlink and activated it, felt his cheeks burn with that familiar awkwardness. "Father?"

"Bit busy right now, Obi-Wan," Cliegg responded after a moment, and he could hear the sounds of fussy electronics in the background. "What is it?"

"That perimeter sensor you asked me to take a look at - you need to come out here."

"Can it wait until tomorrow, son? We've got a hell of a lot of work to do before sunset, and it's getting late."

For a moment he stared at the commlink in his hands, nonplussed. His father had called him son. Cliegg Lars had barely spoken five words to him since he'd arrived.

He gritted his teeth and shoved that impending emotional storm aside. "Trust me, this is important. You need to bring me the spare sensor array in the garage, and that toolkit Owen's been hiding behind the other speeder." He did not want to spend a night here with one-eighth of the homestead's defense perimeter down.

His father arrived faster than he expected; he had resorted to the hoverchair to make the trip, which was faster than walking out over loose sand with the prosthetic. Cliegg took one look at the array and began swearing in Huttese. "I sure as hell don't like the looks of this," he said, as both of them finished disconnecting the damaged array.

"Have you had any trouble like this before?"

Cliegg shook his head, shoving sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead before squinting at the connections on the new sensor array. "The only trouble I've ever had out here, aside from the occasional curious Tusken male, was that bunch of Sand People who raided the farm and took Shmi." He hesitated. "I never thanked you."

He looked up from the connections he had been piecing together, surprised. Shmi must have told him, or perhaps Anakin had, once there had been no reason to keep his involvement secret any longer. "You... don't have to."

"Hmm." Cliegg breathed out a long sigh. "He explained what was going on, when I comm'd him and asked him to."

He paused in his work and then continued, hooking up the last connection before booting up the terminal. The array made itself known to the security network without a single glitch, and he double-checked the sensors as an excuse not to have to look up again. He did not want to have this conversation, ever. He especially did not want to have it while they were both huddled over a sensor array at dusk, while a saboteur with unknown intent was hiding somewhere out in the desert.

"Tomorrow, you and I are going into Anchorhead. The locals go there to raid the supply depot or have a drink at the only good watering hole outside of Mos Eisley. We can check with the other farmers, see if anyone else has had equipment destroyed lately." He snorted. "It'll be a nice change of pace. Usually we just have to worry about the Jawas stealing it."

Confused by the subject change but grateful, Obi-Wan nodded his acceptance. With luck, they would overhear something useful.



They were in Anchorhead before noon the next day, leaving Owen to run the farm with the help of Shmi and Beru. The two farm workers, Brigath and Tarn, had the week off, and had left to visit their families in Mos Espa. He hadn't been surprised to learn that Anakin had known them as children.

He'd barely glanced at the settlement on his way through the first time, and what he saw now left him unimpressed. It was little more than a gathering point for the locals, with bored teenagers making up the bulk of the shifting population. He was doing a better job at blending in today, wearing some clothing that Owen had donated, and a floppy-brimmed, beaten, ugly hat that shaded most of his face from view.

They spent several hours in the local bar, where he nursed a single glass of some of the worst brandy it had ever been his misfortune to imbibe. His father spent his time talking, chatting up locals he was familiar with.

He was left to his own devices, so he listened to the conversations his father had with his neighbors, and to the ones going on around him. In two hours he knew that the sabotage wasn't limited to just the Lars homestead. It was widespread, but the level of damage was so insignificant that no one saw a threat. More often than not, he heard the blame placed at the feet of vengeful Tusken Raiders, though one rare individual wondered if it might not just be a bunch of bored kids. They had them in epic numbers on Tatooine.

He knew better, and he was alarmed. This was not wanton property destruction. He was convinced that someone kept watch, observing how long it took for the damage to be noticed. Someone was preparing to move against the settlements, but to what purpose? There was more finesse here, more planning, than any Tusken clan had ever shown the initiative for.

He frowned and tossed back the rest of that gods-awful brandy. Before he could make up his mind to ask for more, or to demand something drinkable, another man slid into the unoccupied chair across from him. "Hello, sir. Gone native, have we?" he asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard by Obi-Wan and no one else.

He raised one eyebrow in response. He should have expected this, but after spending two months on Tatooine and receiving no contact, he'd begun to think that no one had remained behind.

The newcomer had a tousled mass of light brown hair on his head, a deep tan from the twin suns, calm gray eyes, and a single black sigil tattooed above his left eyebrow. "Not native, Solo. Just incognito."

Jonash Solo grinned at him. "You do it very well then, sir. It actually took me a full minute to realize it was you. Would you like my report?"

"If you're still working for me, then hell yes, I would very much like to hear what you've been up to for the past few months," he replied. "Let's start with what you know about our little instances of vandalism."

"Ah. That." Jonash raised one finger, signaling the barkeep and receiving a glass of Rylothian Ale a minute later. "I didn't see who did it, but the next morning there were Bantha tracks leading away from the site."

Wild banthas were common enough, but he didn't think it was a coincidence. He doubted that Solo thought it was, either.

"Who's your friend, Obi-Wan?" Cliegg said, striding up to stand next to their table. His expression was neutral, but there was a glint of suspicion in his father's eyes.

"Just a long-lost member of the family, Father," he said, keeping his own expression bland. "Would you care to join us? We were catching up."

"Sure," Cliegg replied, eyes narrowing. "I always like to meet long-lost family."

He sat down, and Jonash offered the man a charming grin that oozed Corellian sincerity. "Relax, old man. I work for him," he said, jerking a thumb in Obi-Wan's direction. "If I wished you harm, I would have let his other two employees kill you and the rest of your family while you slept." Jonash's smile didn't dim an iota. "I'm so happy with my current employment that only the gods will ever know what happened to the traitorous bastards."

Well. That explained why he hadn't heard from anyone. "There should be one more of you."

Jonash's smile vanished. "Right before Javat and Fel decided that killing and robbing a bunch of dirt farmers was a good retirement plan, Etarin tried to knife me in the back. I fed him to one of the local Sarlaccs."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. That had been the problem he'd faced time and time again while working to dethrone Sidious. Sometimes you could pay someone enough money to buy a planet and it stiil wasn't enough to make them loyal. "Thank you for dealing with that."

"No problem, sir," Jonash replied, his cheerful demeanor returning. At first it had seemed detrimental for a spy to behave that way, but Jonash Solo had proved able to glean more information with his charm, looks, and roaming hands in ten minutes than most of Venge's spies had been able to manage in ten years. "Now, if I were you, I'd be on the lookout for a war to erupt on this little dustball."

Cliegg's mouth settled into a grim line. "Go on."

Jonash gave Cliegg an appraising look before speaking. "Well, there is definitely someone behind this, and whoever he is, he's good. I've got confirmation on at least three tribes that have joined together under one banner. I think they're going to move soon, and I've been hearing whispers that they will go after the settlements, one farm at a time. Something about territory reclamation."

He frowned. He might not be native, but he'd done his homework ages ago. The Tusken Raiders were notorious for waging war against each other, and alliances were almost unheard of. "When?"

Jonash shook his head. "I don't know. Sooner rather than later. If I were you, I'd consider taking a vacation - or at least finding a nice place in Mos Eisley until this blows over."

Cliegg shook his head, glancing at Obi-Wan. "I can't do that. If I leave the farm undefended one time, they'll just keep coming back."

Jonash shrugged. "Whatever. I'd tell you that you were damned crazy, but my boss here has dealt with crazier shit. You'll be fine as long as he sticks around."

He found himself smiling. "I'll still be here, Jonash - but you won't."

"Sir?" The Corellian's eyes widened in alarm. "Are you firing me?"

"Relax. You're not being fired - you're retiring." He pulled a data disk from his belt pouch, one of eight he kept with him always, and slid it across the table. "Take it."

Jonash palmed the disk and shoved it inside his jacket pocket, still looking confused. "Sir?"

"That's full access to an account on Malastare with the Independent Banking Guild." It was one of the few banks outside of the Core that was still fiscally sound, for they had never allied themselves with the Confederacy. "Consider it a bonus for saving my family, Jonash. Go home and see to yours."

"Yes, sir." Jonash still looked stunned, but he was smiling. "Thank you, sir. I'll send you a message during the holidays." He stood up, paused, and glanced back down at Obi-Wan. "I'm glad you survived, sir. I wasn't just doing this for the paycheck, even though it was a very nice paycheck." He gave Cliegg a two-fingered salute and walked off, disappearing into the boisterous crowd of farmers who had come inside to escape the midday heat.

He found himself staring into space after Jonash departed. It had been the first time he'd touched anything from that part of his life since Palpatine's death. It had been easier than he'd expected to slip back into that role, and he couldn't decide if that was comforting or frightening. He focused his attention back on his surroundings to find his father giving him a thoughtful look. "How much did you give him?"

His lip twitched. "There's enough money in that account to buy a fleet of ships and pay the crew for a decade."

Cliegg whistled. "Hell of a gift for a long-lost family member."

The smile he'd been fighting vanished into the ether. "Solo's family has been destitute for years. When his son was born, Jonash decided he was going to do his damnedest to make sure that he could secure his child's future."

"Why not keep the money?"

He shook his head, a thread of revulsion curling up from the pit of his stomach. "It's blood money. I don't want it."

Cliegg sat back in his chair, a silent counterpoint to the movement and belligerent shouting that seemed to characterize this time of day in Anchorhead. "You know how to make blood money clean, right?"

When Obi-Wan gave him a puzzled glance, Cliegg smiled. "Do something good with it."


**** **** **** ****


Beru woke him one night with a hand on his shoulder. He was awake immediately. It was a measure of how much of himself he'd recovered that he didn't send her flying across the room. A moment of tension, and he could breathe again. "There's a call for you, from the Jedi Temple," she explained, as he sat up and blinked sleep from his eyes. "Owen tried to insist that it could wait, it being the middle of the night here, but Master Windu insisted."

Mace Windu was calling him? Here? For a moment he frowned and thought dark things about family gossip chains. Shmi would have told Anakin, who... well, no. Anakin probably wouldn't have given up his location unless the need was dire.

That thought made his heart clench in near-terror. He had not sensed anyone's death, but what could he sense at all, lately? He swung his legs out from under the covers, pulled on a shirt, and followed Beru back to the communications terminal sitting off the corner of the main room. Anakin at work, that - the station had been refitted and added to until it had full holographic transmitting capability.

When he sat down in front of the screen, Master Windu looked concerned but not grave, and some of the fear left him. "You know, it's three in the damned morning," he said, irritation quickly replacing his concern.

Mace gave him a short, humorless smile. "Good morning, then. I assure you, this couldn't wait. I need information."

He frowned. "What about?"

"Yesterday, at approximately ten in the morning, galactic standard time, the star of the Horuset system went nova. The resulting wave took out the entire system, Korriban included. It's already been confirmed that the star wasn't due to collapse for several million years, give or take. There's nothing left, Obi-Wan."

He stared at the viewscreen, stunned. "Nothing?"

"Well, the system will make a pretty asteroid field," Mace amended, though he didn't look amused. "What did you do?"

That got his attention. He glared at the screen. "I did nothing," he snapped. "Though I imagine Jeng Droga did plenty."

"Jeng Droga?" Mace glanced at someone off-screen, telling him there must be other Council members present. It wasn't every day that the homeworld of the Sith was obliterated, after all. "We don't know the name. Who is he?"

"Droga was one of Sidious's Hands. He was working his way up the ranks when he fell out of favor. Sidious exiled him, and told Droga that if he wanted to earn his place back, then he needed to bring the Sith Lord something of great power. Droga swore he would find it, return, and use it to destroy Sidious. I guess he finally found what he was looking for." And good riddance, he thought.

Mace shook his head. "I thought all of the ancient Sith warships were destroyed thousands of years ago. Force, Obi-Wan. The last thing we need is a madman running around with a ship capable of making more Cron Drifts."

"Korriban was full of unlikely hiding places," he replied. He'd been there once, with Sidious. He'd been forced to stand in the Valley of the Lords and listen to restless, dark spirits chatter and berate and whisper false promises of immortality at him.

That had been the first time that he'd tried to kill Palpatine.

"Regardless, I don't think you have a problem. If Droga found one of the old ships, then he's likely dead and the ship destroyed. They were suicide devices, Master Windu. They weren't capable of building a ship able to withstand the detonation of a star. It's why the Sith were so unwilling to use the ships, themselves."

The Councilor sighed. "Thank you, Obi-Wan. I'll let the watchman for the sector know to keep an eye out, just in case, but I think you're right. Are you all right?" he asked, looking at Obi-Wan with concern.

The question was well-intentioned, but it was early, his dreams had been good (for once), and by the gods, he'd quit the damned job already. "You're speaking to me. That implies some manner of wellness."

Mace only smiled in response. "Yes, it does. I have other news for you, now that I have you pinned down. Do you remember the passcodes to your old credit account for the Temple?"

That gave him pause. "Yes, but what the hell would I need them for? The account should have been deactivated a long time ago."

"It should have. Funny things happen when you leave a little green troll in charge of accounting, though. It still exists, and I discovered yesterday that you've been receiving your hazardous duty pay for the past thirteen years." Mace leaned back, crossed his arms, and gave him a pleased look.

For his part, his mouth was hanging open. "Thirteen bloody years of hazardous duty pay? Master Windu, that has to be obscene." He'd seen greater amounts of money, of course. Hell, he was hiding a literal fortune in bank account passcodes in his belt. But this was different - this was money he could actually consider his.

Mace nodded. "Use it well." He hesitated, glancing off-screen again before looking back at Obi-Wan. "I know it would not have seemed that way to you, especially given the manner of your... departure. But many have been asking as to your well-being. I thought I would pass that along."

He stared at the screen, uncertain as to what to say. He wasn't even sure if he believed it, but Mace, at least, was being sincere. "Tell them I'm working on a farm. That should amuse people."

"Whatever you've been up to, you seem healthier. Jale will be pleased. As to the matter of your belongings, the Quartermaster disobeyed your instructions and salvaged what he could, then tracked storage access until he knew what had happened. I can't even tell you that we're holding the culprits responsible - they all died in the war," Mace told him, his face sober. "I'm sorry. If it helps, the attack wasn't personal. Not one of them had ever even met you. They were attacking an ideal, not a person."

His eyes burned. He blinked fiercely, blamed the dry air, and drew in a deep breath. He was going to kick Tanak in his damned teeth. "It ... it only means that Quartermaster el Dram is going to have to deal with more clutter in his stores," he managed to say.

Mace eyed him, but nodded, and even he knew that the Jedi Master didn't believe the casualness of his words. "Take care of yourself, Obi-Wan," he said, and terminated the call.

He sat back in his chair, shut his mouth, and remembered to breathe. He'd probably killed them, the children who'd tried to destroy the evidence of his other life. Or perhaps he had not, and it had been Durge, or Ventress. Perhaps Tyrannus himself had dispatched the children - and he couldn't stop thinking of them as children, as young Padawans who had yet to grow into the mindset of a Jedi.

No. Don't think about that. Don't ever think about that again, he ordered himself. Instead he focused on the news Mace had given him, and tried to do the math based on what had been left in the account at his Knighting. After a while he gave up and decided to check the account in the morning. The amount had to be ludicrous. Astronomical. What the hell was he supposed to do with that kind of money?

Owen walked over, resting a hand on the back of his chair. "Well, rich boy. Now what are you going to do?"

Korriban was gone. Thousands upon thousands of years of Sith history and artifacts, destroyed. The tombs that housed the spirits of the Dark Lords were no more. No one would ever step into the trap that was Korriban ever again.

He smiled. "I'm going back to bed."

Owen nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. "Fantastic idea."


**** **** **** ****


He let the laughter and chatter that he was surrounded by wash over him. Owen was telling some awful joke about a Jawa, a Naboo priest, a Bantha, and a bar, and Beru kept shifting between scandalized and laughing with her hands plastered over her mouth. His father was smoking a long, thin pipe from which fragrant, sweet-smelling smoke rose in silver threads, watching as he and Shmi cleaned up after the evening meal. It was calming work, sorting dishes and leftover food, and he was content to do no more than listen. Shmi gave him a sidelong smile as Beru's helpless laughter escaped despite her best efforts to contain it, while Cliegg grinned and launched into an older, dirtier retelling of the joke.

"Owen's asked Beru to marry him," Shmi confided through the noise, unheard by the others.

"Took him long enough," Obi-Wan replied, handing her the next item to stash in the sterilizer. "They've only been dating for six years."

Shmi shrugged, unconcerned. "As long as I have known him, he has always been a cautious boy, especially where the feelings of others are concerned. He loves her too much to risk her heart on a failed marriage."

He nodded. It had taken him a long time to realize that his family's seeming reluctance to engage him in conversation wasn't reluctance at all. Cliegg had later confided that he had been afraid that the wrong word would send Obi-Wan scurrying for the closest transport off Tatooine, and none of them had wanted that. Owen's hard edges had masked a far deeper concern for his elder brother, and Shmi and Beru had kept watch, giving him work to do when he'd needed it and keeping the rest of his family at bay at the right times. He'd been too gratified by that understanding to be insulted at the thought of being treated like one of Qui-Gon Jinn's pathetic strays. He had been a pathetic stray. In many respects, he still was. He could function during the day, now, even if he still had a tendency to stop what he was doing mid-sentence, caught by a memory that words or sound would trigger. He knew at times that he seemed wraith-like, especially after he suffered through a night filled with crippling, sanity-shattering nightmares. He shook himself, forced himself to attend the conversation at hand. "Do they have a date set?"

"Well, they were planning to wait for Anakin and Padmé to be able to attend, which means waiting until the children are old enough to travel. Leia and Luke were born healthy, but they were still premature, so they are taking no chances." Shmi smiled at the thought of her grandchildren. "It will be nice to hold my dear ones instead of a holo."

He did a quick mental count of the days since their birth. "They shouldn't keep you waiting much longer, then." He paused in his work, amazed. Had he actually been on Tatooine for three months? Time flies when you're skull-fucked, he thought, bemused.

"Hopefully." Shmi gave him a stern look. "No disappearing when they visit. You are a part of this family, and you will be here to greet them."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, surprised to find a pert smile on his face. "Whatever you say, ma'am."

She shook her head, smiling. "He used to talk about you all the time, you know."

"Anakin?"

"No," she said, giving him a look that he couldn't interpret. "I mean Qui-Gon."

His froze for just a moment before handing her the next plate to stack in the sterilizer. "I hadn't realized I'd been a topic of conversation."

Shmi nodded. "Oh, yes. I first heard your name the second night Qui-Gon and Padmé spent in our home, before Anakin competed in the Boonta Eve. Neither of us could sleep, worried as we were about the outcome of the next day, and he passed the time by telling me about you. I..." she paused. "I already knew that Anakin was going to go with him, when they left Tatooine. I didn't need him to tell me about his arrangement with Watto - I could see it." At his curious look, she smiled. "Anakin does get some of his Force sensitivity from his mother, Obi-Wan. I could see his path, though I worried for so long about the parts of it that seemed so dark. I asked Qui-Gon how he could bear taking a young man like you into danger, over and over again, knowing the risks were so great. And he said that you were the very definition of a Jedi Knight, despite not yet having the title. He said that he could always trust you to make the right choice."

The conversation left him unsettled. When Shmi and his father retired for the night and Owen asked him to stay and share a drink with himself and Beru, Obi-Wan accepted. "It's not that slop they serve in Anchorhead, is it?" he asked, not sure if he was up to another glass of that - brother or no brother.

Owen shook his head. "Hell, no. I save that for people I don't like."

He sat down in the chair across from Beru, who was busy unbraiding her hair for the evening. "I thought I was on that list."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "My gods, you're an idiot."

"That's true, but..."

His brother slapped his hand down on the table. Obi-Wan jumped; Beru gave her fiancé a reproving glance. "Dammit!" Owen snapped, glaring at him. "Argue with me! Tell me to shut the hell up -- say anything other than repeat this soulless head-nodding you've been doing!" He went on, his voice growing quiet again. "I miss my brother. I'd like to have more of him back than just this shell that came home from the war."

He hesitated, watching as Owen poured three glasses of a violet-colored liquor that smelled potent and was probably illegal in Republic space. "I don't know how much of your brother is left, Owen," he said, feeling weary, weighed down by more than just a long day's work on a desert moisture farm.

"Try," Owen said tersely.

He was tempted to roll his eyes. "I haven't run screaming into the desert yet. Can't you be content with that?"

To his surprise, Owen grinned. "That's better. Now: do you want to ask, dearheart, or shall I?"

Beru smiled. "After that little display, I think I'd better." She turned back to Obi-Wan with a serious expression, but her eyes were dancing. "It would honor us both if you would stand with Owen during our wedding."

He blinked, not expecting that. "I would... of course I will. But I don't know where I will be six months from now, so if you keep dragging your feet..."

"Hey, we already took the slow path," Owen interrupted, giving his future wife a brilliant smile that she returned in full measure. "You think after six years, we're going to put this off any longer? We're getting married as soon as our step-brother and his wife decide to put in an appearance, and I know you've already been ordered not to miss that."

"Padmé is bringing me a dress as a gift. Considering her wardrobe, I imagine I could sell it after the wedding and buy a new homestead with the money," Beru said, ducking her head. "There will be less than ten people at this ceremony, and I don't need anything that fine."

"And I keep telling her that weddings are for wearing uncomfortable, scratchy, frilly things that you'll toss in your closet afterwards and never look at again, but she doesn't believe me," Owen said, raising his arms in an exaggerated shrug.

For a moment he looked at them, and wondered at the pair the two of them made. Owen was boisterous, outgoing, temperamental, and swore like a smuggler. Beru was quiet and demure, painfully shy, but stiff-spined when the situation called for it. Once, she had knocked a Tusken on his ass with the warrior's own gadaffi staff when he had come a little too close to the homestead.

Really, they couldn't have been more well-matched. "Wear the dress. You'll be able to shut him up without saying a word."

Beru grinned, pleased, while Owen muttered something about being ganged up on. He smiled. For the first time in ages he felt like he wasn't screaming into the wind. He no longer had a desire to rip everything he'd done from his own mind, no longer felt like he was clinging to a ledge over an endless abyss.

Sheb'zalt had been right, damn the man. Distance brought healing. He just didn't think the Healer had meant for him to flee to the edge of the galaxy in order to find it.



When Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Naberrie Amidala-Skywalker, and the twins arrived three weeks later, he found himself lurking in the garage instead of greeting the ship. He had no reason to fear their presence, but he wasn't yet ready to seek them out. He had not seen them since Byss, though he'd been told by Jale Terza that they had both been by to ask about him while he was in bacta.

He spent the time trying to repair the rock-crushed sensor array. No other acts of vandalism had occurred, but he didn't think that meant they were safe. Far from it - the quiet of the last few weeks made him nervous. Conflict was coming, and he didn't have so much as a blaster to his name. It was hard to prepare for a fight when the identity of the opponent was unknown.

He had the array disassembled, swearing about the lack of replacement parts, when Anakin joined him. They didn't speak; Anakin merely eyed the mess, walked over to the shelf for a fresh bundle of wiring, and settled down to help him put the blasted thing back together.

It felt wonderful. The last time they had puttered with broken machinery, Anakin had been just shy of his tenth birthday, tugging constantly on his new Padawan braid. Obi-Wan had been tempted to pull on it, too, since his own had been gone, gifted to Qui-Gon Jinn. It was the last night he had seen either of them before leaving the Temple to seek out the Sith.

When they closed up the sensor array, the control panel lit up green when he ran a basic diagnostic. Anakin smiled, and the scar that ran down his face served to make him seem less boyish and more roguish. Anyone who knew Anakin Skywalker would know that it was just superfluous - on the inside, the Knight was still happy to be a wide-eyed kid from a backwater planet. "Well, you're out of work," Anakin said, giving him an amused look. "Guess you'll have to meet my kids now."

"I suppose so," he said, letting Anakin give him a hand up from the floor. "They don't scream at new people, do they?"

"No," Anakin said, leading the way back to the main part of the house. "They just throw up on them."

"Ah," he said, not sure he knew what to say to that. He'd served his time in the creche, of course, but this was different. These children were his niece and nephew, by marriage if not by blood. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be liked, or if he wanted to get as far away from them as possible, still pressed by a mad desire to protect them from the Sith.

Shmi was holding one of the twins in her arms, smiling down at the baby with joy in her eyes. He caught a hint of near-white blonde hair on the infant's crown, but could see little else, clustered around Shmi as everyone was. Then Padmé saw him, smiled, and pressed a swaddled white bundle topped with fluffy dark hair into his arms. He cradled the baby and froze, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

"This is Leia," Padmé said, as the baby woke up. He stared down into tiny features, pale and perfect. Of course, Anakin and Padmé would make gorgeous children. Leia blinked up at him with inquisitive, muddy brown eyes. Not quite Padmé Amidala Skywalker's eye color yet, but approaching it fast.

"Hello," he whispered, not sure what else to say to the tiny girl in his arms. He was distantly aware that the rest of his family was watching in silence, observing his interaction with the baby. No sense of fear, no hawk-like watchfulness. Just... interest. As if something important were going on, something he couldn't quite see.

She yawned in response, smacking her tiny lips before waving her fist in the air. He shifted her enough to free his other hand, and she grabbed onto his finger and cooed. He smiled, looked into her eyes, and time stuttered-

"Master, you are being overprotective again," Leia said, giving him an impish smile.

He yanked on the long brown braid hanging down behind her ear. "I am not."

"You are! You don't know anything about Han-"

"Correction, dear one. I knew his father, and hence, I know the Solo clan. They're quite a bunch of charmers."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Master. But perhaps it's the charm I'm interested in? Force knows you don't have any."

"I do too have charm."

"Master, your version of charm is usually accompanied with a lightsaber."

He drew in a deep breath, shaking off the unexpected vision. Leia hadn't let go of his finger. She cooed at him again, content with her place in the universe. "Gods," he whispered. "Take her, take her, I can't do this, I can't-"

"Easy," Anakin murmured, taking Leia from his now shaking arms. "It's all right, Obi-Wan."

"No it isn't," he whispered, his teeth beginning to chatter. The Force had ignored him for months, only to dump the impossible onto his head. That could not be. It would never be.

He turned and stumbled away from the others, not sure where he was going, but only certain that if he didn't get away from that possibility right now, he was going to fall apart. He staggered across the courtyard, made it to the bed in his room, and collapsed next to it, trembling and unable to stop. Why? Why now? Why the fuck now? Not when he'd begged or pleaded to gain some part of his life back, no. He had to hold a child that could have been his Padawan, see a future that would never exist.

The next thing he knew, Anakin was in front of him, gripping his face with hands that felt like brands. "Look at me," Anakin ordered, his tone full of the authority he'd learned to wield as a Knight. "Right now, Obi-Wan. Look at me."

He stared into Anakin's eyes, though he couldn't stop shaking. Blue. Blue and he could sense Anakin's presence, sharp and strong, filling the room. "Oh, shit," he whimpered, because it fucking hurt.

"You're in shock, you idiot," Anakin told him, maintaining his grip on Obi-Wan, keeping him from lurching away. "Is that the first time you've touched the Force since you scared those Healers witless?"

He managed a nod, reaching up to grab Anakin's wrists, trying like hell to center himself. Focusing on the supernova in the Force that was Anakin Skywalker was possibly not the best idea, but Anakin was the brightest, most stable point that he had.

"Breathe," Anakin said, nodding encouragement when Obi-Wan pulled in a fresh lungful of air. "I had to walk Master Qui-Gon through this, too. Remember when Ventress had him on Rattatak?"

The inhibitor, the torture that he'd had to turn a blind eye to. He'd wanted to tear Ventress apart for that, but Qui-Gon had survived despite it all. Anakin had rescued him with Ki-Adi Mundi at his side, Padmé Amidala guarding their backs, and the rest of Arc 17's squad tearing up the sky. "Y-y-yes."

"Right. Long-term absence from the Force, following it up with everything coming back in a rush. Healer Terza explained it to me, once. Your mind starts to forget how to deal with all of the input after enough separation." He smiled. "Now, keep breathing, keep your focus on me, and we can get through this. Padmé?"

He tried looking up, but Anakin redirected him instantly. "No, no. You keep your focus right here where it belongs," he said, snapping his fingers in front of Obi-Wan's eyes for good measure. "Ground and center, right here. I know you can do it. You've been doing this longer than I've been alive."

A blanket was draped onto his shoulders and then tucked into place around him. He recognized then that he'd been shivering as well as shaking himself to pieces. Warmth helped, eased some of the shivering, and he tightened his grip on Anakin, fighting to attain the calm center of the Force.

A memory of Yoda struck him, from a time when he was still too small to worry about earning a Master. Focus you must have. Determines your reality, it will. Calm your thoughts, younglings. Center yourselves, touch the Force. Do this, you must, or a Jedi Knight you will not be.

"I am... not... a Jedi Knight," he growled at the memory.

"You are a Jedi Knight," Anakin insisted. "You were a Knight before Sidious. Now he's dead, and you're still a Jedi. Don't let him take that from you."

He found himself staring into Anakin's eyes again, no longer glaring down at the caring, yet demanding, teacher he had once had. "There we go. No backsliding, you," Anakin said, nodding his approval as Obi-Wan began to relax. "Stop fighting it. The Force is your ally, not your enemy."

Stop thinking about it, Padawan. Just feel. The Force will guide you.

He managed a smile. Anakin gave him a suspicious look. "What?"

"Just... thinking," he said, as the tremors started to fade, as long-lost warmth began to fill him. "You... need a... Padawan."

"Ohhhh, no. No way. I already told Master Yoda that I'm not taking a Padawan until the twins are out of diapers. I have enough crazy in my life, thank you," Anakin retorted.

He felt a laugh bubbling up and tried to suppress it. Then he wondered: why? He let it free, and despite the shaky, tremulous nature of it, it was a joyful sound. He literally couldn't remember the last time he had laughed. It felt... odd. Freeing.

The Force was dancing under his skin, long lost but found, bringing him the peace that he thought had deserted him forever. Not abandoned. Not forsaken. He was just walking the slow path.

"Welcome back, brother," Anakin whispered.