Chapter Text
Obi-Wan tried not to let the cold, sterile air of the ship sit too heavily in his lungs. The bitterness of the mist was sharp, amplified by the frigidity of space, and it seemed to settle in his chest like a weighty stone, burdening his bones with an invisible mass. Since leaving Coruscant the chill had seeped from his fingers to his feet, and when he languidly pressed his palm to his forehead he was startled by the icy touch of his own skin.
He sighed as he once more readjusted his position in the pilot’s chair, pulling the shoulder of his robe tighter over his frame in a weak effort to keep the cold at bay. The cockpit only seemed to grow darker and drearier in response, and Obi-Wan huffed in frustration and discomfort. His odyssey had not lasted even a night, and already he felt as if he’d traveled for twenty years in the stretch of twenty hours. Another sigh escaped him as he lamented the leisurely pace of his journey.
Before him the ship’s flight console flickered with light in uneven intervals, the individual buttons blinking feebly as the shuttle continued to sail through hyperspace. His eyes lazily traced the meek flashes of color, memories filtering through his mind like a stream in the span of the seconds that each light twinkled on and off. Something appeared to glint just beyond his sight, and when he looked, a vision of Anakin’s hands ghosted over the dials and controls, eager and curious. Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan could see him.
No older than twelve, eyes bright and blue, his golden hair catching the scant light like a halo, casting a faint but distinct glow around him. He looked happy, momentarily enthralled by the vastness of space and the sleek design of the ambassador shuttle, the galaxy in its entirety before him.
Obi-Wan almost didn’t dare to breathe, as if the motion would scare away the phantom.
He would have thought it the picture of innocence, but something lingered in the memory of the boy’s eyes that glinted with something more than an awareness beyond his age. Anakin was not as credulous nor innocent as the other padawans at the Temple, he never had been, if not simply for the fact that he was never permitted to be a child. Slavery had taken that from him, among many other things, and early on Obi-Wan had recognized a peculiar entity that rested in his gaze, a worldliness that seemed to exceed his own. It had a sobering effect on him, the look in his eyes, and the shadow within them only seemed to darken as he got older.
If there were some way for him to bear Anakin’s burdens for him he would, in a heartbeat. He would carry them until he broke, until they pressed him into the earth and slowly crushed his body as they did his soul. Until he was nothing more than dust.
Staring at the youthful and spectral image of his former padawan, Obi-Wan felt an aching helplessness fall over him, remembering that this vision was just as intangible as the real man. For the thousandth time he cursed himself for allowing Anakin to venture to Tatooine without him, the pit in his stomach growing into a chasm. The cold closed in on him again, and when he shivered, the ghost turned back to look at him. Obi-Wan blinked, staring back, and Anakin smiled. It was a smile he hadn’t seen in years; not the smirk he used to show Ahsoka, or the grin he flashed for the Holonet. The boy’s lips softly tugged at his cheeks, parting slightly, and his eyes lit with the motion. Obi-Wan reached for the warmth in the memory, but as soon as he did, Anakin’s youthful face disappeared, and all that was left was the blackness of space.
Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat, and he flinched, as if struck. It was an illusion, he knew, it had been an illusion all along, but to see the boy vanish before his eyes sent a spear through his heart, and it twisted remorselessly at the reminder that the man of flesh and blood had been taken from him just as quickly, silently, unceremoniously.
Gone, he had told Padmé, the word like a stone in his mouth. He’s gone.
Disappeared without a trace as if he was simply swallowed by the sand. Perhaps he was. There were a number of stories that could be substituted to attempt to explain how Anakin had gone missing, but each was more painful than the last to consider as the theories were passed around by the Council.
It had been over a year since Anakin had left the Order, but the drive to help those in need, as was the duty of the Jedi, had not yet left him. Obi-Wan suspected it never would; he knew it, in fact. About six or seven months after Luke and Leia were born Anakin began conducting frequent missions to Tatooine, sometimes with the knowledge of the Jedi Council and sometimes without it. While he was no longer a member of the Order, matters of the slave trade were still of interest to its leaders, as well as the Senate, now led by Mon Mothma and her new administration.
Obi-Wan hadn’t been surprised to find that several years’ worth of drafts of antislavery bills, amongst many others advocating for clone personhood, occupied Padmé’s private senatorial files en masse, and though she no longer held a position in the Senate, Mothma had been a close ally and friend of hers for years, sharing many of Padmé’s ideals, and now much of that legislation was beginning to be realized.
While action from the Senate was slow to materialize, it was at the very least becoming more aggressive in its stance against the blight on the Outer Rim that was slavery, and in classic fashion, Anakin hadn’t been patient enough to wait the likely many years that Republic policy would take to make its presence on Tatooine.
But perhaps patient wasn’t the right word. How long had Anakin waited for a Jedi to come, wielding a silver tongue and a sword of light, and liberate him? How long had he waited for the Order, for Obi-Wan, to do something — anything — for those still suffering after he had been freed?
No, Anakin hadn’t been impatient. He had been intolerant, which was more than what most of the Republic could say.
Save for the time a young, destitute, but selfless boy had aided them, the Jedi had never been able to help the slaves of Tatooine. But they had been able to help the slavemasters.
Obi-Wan tried to take some solace in the fact that times were starting to change, if not at a sluggish pace, and the Jedi could shift their attention from war back to their true purpose. Despite no longer being a Jedi, that was the first thing Anakin had done, helping to organize the scattered abolitionist organizations already established on Tatooine and planting the seeds for a planet-wide emancipation.
Obi-Wan knew Anakin desired nothing less than a glorious revolution, a symphony of breaking chains and screams of liberation and the expulsion of oppression from Tatooine forever. But he also knew that it would be a hollow victory if it wasn’t one won by those who had been persecuted. The slaves didn’t need a Jedi Knight to appear from the Core and free them with a clean stroke of the sword. They had to be the ones to deliver themselves; Anakin was merely a catalyst.
From what his friend had reported to the Council upon his latest return from the planet, progress was beginning to move in a promising direction, surprisingly fast, in fact. Already several of the disjointed abolitionist groups had formed a loose coalition, building up their arms and organizing to establish free sections in some cities like Mos Espa, Arnthout, and Bestine.
Things quickly became more complicated from there, however. Not even a month after Anakin had returned to Coruscant, news of Jabba’s death reached the capital, rippling with both excitement and uncertainty throughout the Temple. The Hutt had been assassinated by a woman planted by the anti-slavery coalition based in Mos Espa, masquerading as a pleasure slave in the crime lord’s palace. Quite easily she had been able to smuggle a blaster in with her, and when the moment was right, she didn’t hesitate, shooting Jabba directly in the head, killing him instantly.
The suddenness of this development was cause more for concern than celebration though. Rival Hutt kajidics had squabbled over Tatooine for decades, and now that Jabba was dead, he left a significant power vacuum in his wake. Gardulla had been his greatest and most bitter competitor for years, and she was quick to capitalize on her rival’s death. That left other notorious slavers and criminal bosses vying for power and gain, bringing them into direct conflict with the abolitionists as well as each other. The violence had skyrocketed in barely a few weeks, and to make matters worse, Tatooine was facing the worst drought it had seen in centuries. Water was already as scarce as it could get, but now more and more people were dying of thirst everyday; only the wealthy, in this case the crime lords, had sufficient access to water, and they were shrewdly using it to control the rest of the populace, to the greatest detriment of the slaves.
The water shortage was also provoking vicious confrontations between the native Sand People and Tatooine’s settlers, particularly the moisture farmers — though they had also attacked other major settlements — resulting in further bloodshed. The situation had become dire, and in response, the Republic, in conjunction with the judgement of the Jedi Council, had sent Anakin to negotiate with Gardulla to quell the fighting.
Tatooine had been important to the Hutts because it was a key transfer point between the Triellus Trade Route and the Corellian Run. The planet had become even more economically viable once slavery had arrived there, but that trade was dying out as the Republic became less lax with the Hutts and their unsavory practices. It was the hope of the Senate and the Jedi that in proposing new, fruitful trade agreements with Gardulla in exchange for her abandonment of the planet to Republic control, that the criminal presence would soon fade and the violence would cease.
The proposition of a threat of sanctions on Hutt Space had been made, but neither the Senate nor Gardulla would ever agree to such, and so exclusive trade had been the decided deal from Mothma’s administration.
If Tatooine could formally be inducted into the Republic, or at least be made a satellite state, its people stood a much better chance of survival, and thus freedom. If that could be accomplished, it would make it significantly easier to bring humanitarian aid from the Core and ease the severity of the conditions brought on by the drought.
Obi-Wan only wished it could have been that simple. There was a fair chance that Gardulla would have indeed agreed to the Republic’s terms. Although she had wrestled with Jabba over Tatooine for a great many years, it was a difficult territory to maintain and an even harder one to control; Jabba’s weren’t the only enterprises on the planet she had had to compete with either. The Republic had made a generous offer, one appealing enough that Gardulla had nothing to save face for if she decided to decline. Hutts were savvy enough to recognize a good deal when one was presented to them. While the Republic had little faith in Gardulla’s ethics, they could undoubtedly trust in her greed.
Whether or not Gardulla had ever even participated in any negotiation was unknown, however. Anakin had made contact when he landed on Tatooine’s surface, sending a short transmission to the Council to inform them of his arrival and that he was on his way to meet the Hutt and her court. They had expected to hear back from him some hours later. When a day passed and there was nothing, Obi-Wan immediately commed the base of the White Suns, an abolitionist group that had covertly worked with the Royal House of Naboo to smuggle and relocate slaves back when Padmé had been queen. Her former handmaiden Sabé had led the operation, and referred Anakin to their organization before he left on his first mission to the planet months earlier.
When he was finally able to get in contact with them, Obi-Wan was dismayed to hear that no one there had seen nor heard of any trace of Anakin, reporting that they’d had no communications with him. The Council advised patience, but that was the last thing on Obi-Wan’s mind; it was difficult for him not to immediately fear the worst, and after nearly an entire month had passed, he had done all the waiting he could do.
His stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of the state his former padawan had been in the hour he left. Obi-Wan had walked out with him to the landing platform to see Anakin off, and at the time he couldn’t help but notice that he seemed a little agitated and uneasy. Wavelets of irritation splashed at the edges of Obi-Wan’s own presence in the Force from his apprentice, the waters never quite stilling. He was quick to notice Anakin’s discomfort, however much he tried to hide it, and Obi-Wan gave him the opportunity to voice whatever concerns were bubbling beneath the surface.
“I could come with you if you wanted, you know,” he had offered.
Anakin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m fine,” he answered tersely, looking away and towards the fighter waiting just a few meters from them. “I just,” he hesitated, “want to get this over with.”
“I have to admit I don’t envy you,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling.
Anakin just glanced back at him, failing to return the grin. “Yeah,” was his only response. The word was dull and heavy as it left his lips.
Obi-Wan frowned at his friend, his brows knitting into a concerned knot. He opened his mouth to candidly ask Anakin what was wrong when his padawan suddenly turned to him and gave him a short nod and a tightlipped smile. “I’ll see you in a few days, Obi-Wan,” he said.
“So eager to get rid of me now, are you?,” Obi-Wan tried to joke, but Anakin’s presence didn’t flicker, nor did his expression.
“May the Force be with you, Master,” he replied. A flare of humor Obi-Wan detected from Anakin relieved him slightly, but as his padawan turned his back on him, he felt an odd sense of disquiet. As Anakin climbed into the cockpit, the Temple astromech beeping excitedly from its socket, he at last seemed to manage a real smile for him, giving Obi-Wan a small wave. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised. “And keep an eye on Luke and Leia for me while I’m gone. Ahsoka too, no matter how much she complains.”
Obi-Wan smiled back, returning the wave. “May the Force be with you, Anakin,” he called. Anakin nodded again as the cockpit roof closed over his head, and just like that he was gone, the silhouette of the fighter lost in the blur of Coruscant’s hazy twilight as it fled into the atmosphere.
Obi-Wan had replayed that last conversation over and over again in his head each day since Anakin had officially been declared missing.
I should have gone with him, he lamented sharply. He should never have been allowed to go alone. I should never have allowed him to go alone.
But Obi-Wan could only curse himself so many times.
He rubbed his eyes ladenly, the disappointing sight of hyperspace greeting him once more. His grand-padawan’s energy might have kept his spirits up on this journey, but Obi-Wan hadn’t been keen on bringing Ahsoka to Tatooine, and he certainly didn’t think Anakin would have favored that either.
Anakin had hardly let Ahsoka out of his sight during the war, and though he had since learned to take a step back and let her go as best as he could, Obi-Wan was fairly sure that Anakin would have an aneurysm if he knew that his master had knowingly brought her to his homeworld.
More than that though, Obi-Wan had wanted at least one of them looking out for Luke, Leia, and Padmé, as Anakin had asked. Padmé herself had been ready to head to the Outer Rim to look for her husband; she had been just as, if not more anxious than Obi-Wan, and he had had to talk her out of leaving her children in her handmaidens’ care and escaping Coruscant more than once.
The second time he had had to convince her, Padmé’s fiery determination had startlingly melted into an ill uneasiness and fear, and she had cradled Luke closer to her chest as her bearing fell from proud to defeated.
“Something’s wrong, Obi-Wan,” she’d said. “We both know it.” Padmé’s fingers unconsciously found the necklace hanging over her chest then, locking around the ivory fragment at its center. “Something’s wrong,” she repeated, quieter.
When Obi-Wan finally made preparations to leave for Tatooine, Ahsoka had been incredulous upon being told that she wouldn’t be coming along. She was quick to demand why, she was a knight now, after all, but Obi-Wan had held firm. They argued for a bit, going back and forth over who was responsible for Anakin, and Obi-Wan had had to grit his teeth in exhausted recognition that Ahsoka was no less stubborn than her master — nor himself, he grudgingly admitted. Only when Obi-Wan had told her that he needed her to stay to watch over the children did Ahsoka finally give ground.
“There is no one I would trust more for the task, nor Anakin for that matter,” he’d said.
Ahsoka suddenly looked sheepish, and after a moment she nodded. “Okay,” she conceded, “I’ll stay. But you better come back soon. Both of you.”
Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile at her terms. “I’ll try not to delay,” he agreed.
The day after their exchange, Obi-Wan had set a course for Tatooine, bidding Padmé and his grand-padawan one last farewell before leaving.
“Promise me you’ll call as soon as you find anything,” she implored.
Obi-Wan’s eyes drifted to where Ahsoka was standing next to the bassinet that held Luke, Leia in her arms. “I promise,” he swore. “I will find him, Padmé.” He smiled. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
She let out a small strangled laugh at that, her eyes wet. “That’s what he said before he left,” she sniffed, a bitter smile on her face. She sighed, her gaze trailing back to where Obi-Wan’s had been just moments before, and then nodded, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I know you’ll find him,” she asserted, “just . . . don’t make us wait too long.”
Now, all Obi-Wan could do was restlessly glare at his own reflection in the glass until he arrived at his destination. The man staring back at him looked tired, and ages older than the young knight who had once existed before the war — a lifetime ago. He drew his eyes over the silver hairs that peeked through the auburn, and couldn’t help a small, amused huff at his own expense. He was fairly certain that Anakin was responsible for a good few of those, and he smiled at the memories that flashed through his mind, letting them warm him in the cold of space.
He still had several hours until he arrived at his destination, and Obi-Wan closed his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him as he sunk deeper into wisps of the past.
It was almost possible to taste the dust on his tongue before he even landed.
The sting of the sand being whipped against his face by the wind seemed to echo over him like a phantom pain, and Obi-Wan failed to hold in a disdainful sigh as the dunes stretched on forever before him.
The ambassador shuttle sped over the endless sea of sand until Mos Espa finally came into view, settled squarely in the midst of bleak nothingness. Obi-Wan had never gone with Padmé, Jar Jar, and Qui-Gon into the city, and he wondered if it had always looked so despairingly congested and disordered. With a pang he recognized in greater clarity the difficulty of Anakin’s upbringing, and memories of Kadavo crept balefully over the walls in his mind.
He swept them away with renewed focus on his mission.
In a matter of minutes Obi-Wan had found a landing port, settling the shuttle within the empty ring just behind a cantina near the center of the city. He had already made plans to meet with Gardulla, the Council having contacted her representatives a number of days beforehand, and as he marched down the landing ramp, Obi-Wan considered the circumstances of his audience with her.
A month had already passed since negotiations had been proposed, at least if Anakin had even seen Gardulla, and Obi-Wan pondered her patience. Would she still be willing to accept the Republic’s offer and its terms of the agreement? It wasn’t unlikely that she would attempt to bargain further benefits for herself, but whether or not she would even stay true to her word was another thing entirely. The presence of another Jedi on Tatooine so soon after Jabba’s death was surely cause for some caution and prudence as well, and Gardulla was sure to be shrewd in her negotiation.
As he stepped out of the space port, Obi-Wan carefully drew his cloak further over his front, mindful to hide the hilt of his lightsaber hanging from his belt. The last thing he needed was attention, and he didn’t doubt that any number of the mercenaries and bounty hunters likely present in Mos Espa were either keen or foolhardy enough to take advantage of such a lucrative target.
He quickened his pace, heading to the upper west section of the city, towards Xelric Draw, where the races took place. Recently lines had been drawn to designate what parts of the city were free and which were not; about two thirds of Mos Espa were labeled as the latter. Anakin had told him that new names had emerged to classify what were now effectively two cities.
The western section, in other words Gardulla’s territory, was dubbed by former slaves and freemen as palaios krator — the old kingdom — sometimes Palaoisgia or Mos Palos for short. The smaller eastern section, Obi-Wan remembered how Anakin had smiled when the word left his lips, was called Eleuthepolis. City of the Free.
Supposedly there existed such a place within the stories of the slaves of Tatooine, but that was as much as Obi-Wan knew about the subject, and he let the thought fizzle and fade as he trekked through the newly ordained streets of the freemen.
As he strode down the path, dust kicking up under his boots, he observed the scurry of the people around him, faces of countless species and infinite worlds. Young and old bustled about, each on their own urgent errand, whether that be work or play. A gaggle of children shrieked in delight as they weaved through the crowd, throwing a woven ball back and forth between one another, high over the heads of the uninterested adults.
Obi-Wan stared after them as they raced past him. They must have been about eight or nine standard years old, maybe older — children from worlds such as Tatooine tended to be of smaller frame due to malnourishment — and Obi-Wan regarded their rapture despite their circumstances with a somber esteem. He imagined Anakin beside them, face dirty with soot and dust and eyes bright with untainted youth. He had been just as thin, just as small, if not smaller, and Obi-Wan remembered with solemnity the day he had been brought to the Halls of Healing for the first time.
Master Che had removed his new initiate tunics, and then his undershirt, revealing a sunken stomach and protruding ribs. His back had been worse. Obi-Wan had felt the healer’s grave alarm and disgust flicker in the Force before he had seen, Anakin’s own shame and discomfort bleeding into the increasingly heavy atmosphere.
His back was a patchwork of severe scarring, the surface still blotchy and red where skin had been ripped off. Anakin had barely held back a whimper when Master Che gently ran a hand down his spine, which itself stuck out just as disjointedly as his ribs.
Anakin had then had an array of injections administered to him, his weight checked, bacta applied to old wounds, and then an examination of his eyes, ears, and mouth. He said nothing during the entire procedure, staring off into space on the exam table as Master Che informed Obi-Wan as to what he needed to do in order to make sure Anakin was gaining weight and getting into a stable and healthy routine. She hadn’t been able to give him every vaccine he needed all at once, but as she detailed the schedule for his padawan’s follow-up appointments, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but notice how Anakin had folded in on himself, his gaze distant. His hands were curled into fists, resting lamely on his scrawny knees.
A nervous unease flitted about him, and he seemed still with apprehension. Master Che had just finished with her explanation of procedure and Anakin’s numerous ailments, when he spoke up for the first time, his voice practically quaking with timidness.
He all but whispered, “What about my chip?”
Master Che blinked in confusion, Obi-Wan doing the same. “Your chip?,” she echoed.
Anakin, not looking her in the eye, described the transmitter that was lodged somewhere in his body, as well as its function, explaining that it had never been removed when he was taken from Watto’s custody. Horror and guilt had pooled in Obi-Wan’s stomach like a polluted stream with every word that Anakin spoke.
Master Che immediately fetched a scanner to locate the device, finding it in Anakin’s temple, just above his eye. She quickly retrieved a scalpel and reassured the padawan that she never would have allowed him to carry on had she known exactly what was hiding under his skin. Anakin didn’t respond.
She then told him she was going to remove it, asking if he wanted to be sedated. To Obi-Wan’s surprise, he said no, though their newly born bond betrayed his fear. His eyes were quite set on the knife in her hand.
When Master Che instructed Anakin to lay down so she could extract the transmitter, it was then that he turned to Obi-Wan, a strange faraway look in his gaze. He swallowed, appearing very small, so much so that his presence in the Force seemed to shrink with him.
Obi-Wan, almost without thinking, immediately went to his new apprentice’s side, taking his hand in his own. Anakin stared up at him with uncertainty, but it soon melted into slight ease when Obi-Wan offered him a smile and squeezed his bony fingers in reassurance. Anakin squeezed back, and then a moment later squeezed harder when the scalpel sliced into his skin.
Obi-Wan huffed at the memory, as clear as the day it had been made, watching the children disappear into the crowd. Despite the noise building in the streets, a blanket of quiet seemed to float over him, and he sighed. It was too early in the day to be making himself so melancholy.
He shook himself of the wistful cloud above him, somewhat unsuccessfully, stepping back onto his path. No sooner had Obi-Wan remembered his mission however, when a violent shockwave snapped through the air, the sight and smell of smoke accompanying the blast. An explosion.
The blast site was close if the dry scent of ash and cinders was any indication, and he raced towards the growing plume of smog rising into the cloudless sky.
Panic seemed to radiate through the crowd, people fleeing in all directions, pushing back against him as he wrestled against the masses towards the center of the chaos. The tidal wave of force nearly knocked Obi-Wan off his feet, and as he rounded the corner, more people streamed out of their huts and market stalls.
Skillfully maneuvering around the mass of bodies, Obi-Wan found a smoking pile of ash and smoldering wood, the burning remains of several unfortunate market stands and their capital. People, their faces marred by charcoal and soot, were laying prone against the earth or only just beginning to pick themselves up, their bodies having been thrown by the impact of the blast. The Force failed to knell with that all too familiar ache of death, however, and Obi-Wan gave a silent thanks that no one had been seriously injured. Quickly, he rushed to help them.
Already he was piecing together that this must have been an orchestration by anti-abolitionists or some similarly aimed group, and as Obi-Wan lifted a young Mirialan woman from the hot sand, he looked around for any sign of the culprit. His search yielded only the sight of more people rushing about in panic, a few others aiding those caught too close to the bomb.
Obi-Wan turned to the woman who now had an arm slung over his shoulder, her eyes unfocused and blank with confusion and pain. Her saffron-green skin was blackened by ash and dust, and she gave a few weak coughs as she leaned her weight on him.
“Do you think you can stand?,” Obi-Wan asked gently.
She nodded faintly, dipping her chin in acknowledgement. One of her feet reoriented itself as she pulled the other out from under her, but as she moved to stand on her own, her knees buckled suddenly, and she fell back into Obi-Wan’s arms.
“I think I’ve twisted my knee,” she concluded with a wince.
Obi-Wan gingerly lowered her back down to the ground, surveying the area around him for any further assistance. He was about to ask the woman if there was some nearby clinic or space that offered medical help where he could bring her and the other victims when a shout broke through the fearful chatter, a warily hopeful presence in the smog of unease.
“Cimbri! Cimbri, are you alright?”
Obi-Wan turned his head to see a young man racing towards him, skirting about the people crowded around the wreckage. He was human, with dusky hair and eyes, and dark olive skin that seemed to don a copper sheen in the intense sunlight. A heavy burlap sack bounced against his back as he ran, though it didn’t slow him. He couldn’t have been older than thirty or so, and Obi-Wan absently observed that he probably wasn’t far apart in age from Anakin.
“Cimbri!,” the man called again, kicking up small clouds of sand particles as he abruptly stopped before dropping to his knees to assess the woman’s condition. He wiped some of the soot from her face and let out a small laugh in relief, laying one hand on her arm. “I came as fast as I could when I saw the smoke. You’re not hurt are you?,” he probed.
The woman, Cimbri, shook her head, launching into a coughing fit once more.
“She’s sprained her knee,” Obi-Wan spoke up for her, and the man suddenly turned and stared at him as if he was noticing he was there for the first time. “Do you know if there’s someplace nearby where she can get it treated?,” he added.
The stranger continued his staring, his face having taken on a funny look, as if he were caught up in a memory, like he was trying to place where he had seen something before. After a moment, he blinked, seeming to have shaken himself out of it, and he looked back to Cimbri, who was now clutching her leg in pain.
“Yes,” he began, “I’m a friend of hers. I was on my way to a sick house when I heard the explosion. I can ferry her there right now.” His countenance took on a gracious look, and Obi-Wan could feel a sincere gratitude bloom forth from the man. “Thank you for looking after her, it’s fortunate no one was too badly hurt this time,” he sighed, glancing at the other injured men, women and children, “very few have been so lucky.”
Obi-Wan smiled as the young man helped Cimbri back to her feet, tucking her grip around his shoulder. “Thank you, outmian,” the Mirialan nodded, her voice hoarse. “Such kindness from a stranger is appreciated.”
Obi-Wan bowed in return, and the peculiar look returned to the man's face. He titled his head. “Where are you from, if I might ask?,” he queried.
“The Core,” Obi-Wan answered curtly. He didn’t need to dispense more information than that. One Jedi had already gone missing under murky circumstances. Best not to let any troublesome forces on Tatooine know that there was another one here just yet.
“A long way out then,” the man replied, a curious hint to his voice. He gave Obi-Wan a quick look-over, his eyes lingering momentarily at his waist before finding his face again as his easy smile returned. “What’s the occasion?”
“I’m actually here to meet with Gardulla,” Obi-Wan responded, and surprise overtook the companions’ expressions. They exchanged quick glances, and he felt the atmosphere between them shift.
“Gardulla?,” the man repeated.
“On behalf of the Republic,” the Jedi finished. “The Senate is very much hoping to end the Hutts’ reign over Tatooine.”
He was answered by two bewildered blinks from the Outer Rim natives, as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head.
“The Republic wants to absorb Tatooine?,” Cimbri murmured.
“Did someone find gold here?,” the man quipped. It was a joke, but some truth rang from it.
For so long the Senate had been motivated by profit — by greed — and the slave trade had made a great many senators wildly wealthy. Tatooine, among several other Rim planets, had no more economic value than the suffering that showered other worlds in riches. For years, it had been perfectly acceptable to pretend that the trafficking of millions upon millions of sentients simply didn’t happen. After all, slavery didn’t exist in the Republic.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “No,” he started, “we want to end the slave trade.”
The young man’s face sobered, and for a moment he was silent. But then his hard expression dissolved and his smile reappeared. “Gardulla then?,” he began, “I should wish you luck. And be careful. I have some choice words for her kind. Don't let her talk you into any of her schemes.”
Before Obi-Wan had a chance to respond, the man was already talking again, murmuring to Cimbri that it was probably time to get her out of there. He then turned back to Obi-Wan.
“Thank you again, stranger,” he said. “It’s been a long time since anyone from the Republic has been here on our behalf. Good luck negotiating with Gardulla,” his eyes sparkled, “Jedi.”
With that he immediately turned and led Cimbri away towards the sick house, and Obi-Wan could only stare at their retreating forms as they disappeared into the crowd.
He glanced down at his hip when they finally vanished from sight. His lightsaber was still hidden beneath his cloak, but one way or another, the man had deduced who he was, and without much effort it seemed. He had never even given his name, and yet the man had looked at him and immediately seen a Jedi. Obi-Wan felt a heavy sigh escape him. The desert was a crucible for many strange and unexpected things.
Another mystery to add to Tatooine.
It didn’t take long for him to reach Mos Palos after leaving the bomb site in the eastern city. The suns were already beginning to set by the time he found Gardulla’s lavish palatial residence, bathing the desert in an ethereal vermilion twilight.
Obi-Wan was escorted in by the Hutt’s majordomo, a Theelin woman by the name of Diva Funquita. She wasted no time in presenting Obi-Wan to the crime lord’s court, rushing him to the main hall where the rest of the entourage enjoyed their many pleasures. After all, for Gardulla, time was money, and as Funquita had already brusquely explained, Obi-Wan was late.
The court was an abundantly decorated atrium, gilded in bright drapery of exotic and expensive dyes, opulent architecture, and luxurious patrons, no doubt their own breed of high class scum like Gardulla herself. There even seemed to be beings, themselves decorated in jewels and striking apparel, strategically placed around the hall to act as living ornaments. With a glance at a few of the Twi’lek servants, Obi-Wan bleakly supposed that wasn’t likely too far off.
The loud and lively music that had filled the room all but died upon his arrival however, and the court seemed to stiffen in response to the presence of a Jedi.
Gardulla was seated on the far end of the hall, near its center, her girth spread sumptuously over the length of a massive throne of cushions and bolsters. The lowlights cast an unnatural glow over her slimy skin, a pale and unsavory green that mimicked the dull hue of a dying plant.
When Gardulla finally saw him, approaching behind her majordomo, she began to laugh. It was a hearty, throaty sound, and it drew the rest of her court into a raucous uproar, as if they had never seen a more hysterical sight. Funquita took her place at her master’s side, and Obi-Wan was left to bear the weight of the Hutt’s amusement, her dark eyes dripping with mirth. After a moment the laughter finally subsided, but Gardulla’s crude smile remained.
“Chowbasa, Jedai,” the Hutt welcomed him. She eyed the protocol droid behind her, as if to offer a translation in Basic, but Obi-Wan simply replied in her own native tongue.
“Greetings, mighty Gardulla,” he responded in perfect Huttese; at least he thought it was perfect, Qui-Gon had always chided him on his accent. So had Anakin for that matter. The language prickled unpleasantly on his tongue, so harsh and jagged as the words clashed together in a distasteful mix of sounds. Obi-Wan couldn’t stand it when Anakin swore.
“So, the Republic has sent me another Jedi,” Gardulla drawled, inciting further amusement from her audience. “One wasn’t enough?”
Obi-Wan ignored the bitter swell of revelry that seemed to dampen the air around him. “Mighty Gardulla,” he began, “I am here to ask about the whereabouts of the other Jedi. We lost contact with him soon after he arrived on the planet, and as you must know, that was nearly a standard month ago.” The Hutt appeared bored as he explained, but Obi-Wan continued. “You were his last known point of contact,” he affirmed, “I need to find him.”
For a moment Gardulla studied him silently, her smile disappearing. Her tail flicked up as if in agitation, and she leaned backwards to recline slightly, eyeing Obi-Wan like he was some kind of vermin in her home, and his mere presence was an offense to her.
“I have no idea where he is,” she finally answered, her tone blunt.
Obi-Wan was about to press her for any other information when her smile abruptly returned, and Gardulla opened her mouth to speak again. “But you must imagine my surprise and subsequent pleasure upon seeing him again.”
Obi-Wan blinked. Again?
Gardulla could obviously detect his confusion, and her smile grew wider. “Skywalker,” she started, “he belonged to me not so long ago.”
Obi-Wan’s heart dropped into his stomach. “A shame I lost such a lucrative good,” she continued, but the Jedi barely heard her.
Anakin’s discomfort, his ill mood before leaving. They had sent him to negotiate with the creature who had once possessed him, had held the trigger to his detonator. Why had he never said anything?
But Obi-Wan could only feel responsible himself. How had he not known? Guilt settled in his chest.
Because he had never offered to ask.
Gardulla chuckled again, the ugly sound scattering his thoughts, and Obi-Wan looked up to find her glinting eyes slitted in an expression of interest and dark enjoyment. “I lost him in a bet,” she lamented, but Obi-Wan could see it was the forfeited profits she mourned. “He was a scrawny little thing then, useless for any real labor.” She laughed again. “I didn’t realize I was giving away such a prize!” The rest of the court laughed with her. It made Obi-Wan feel sick.
The images of his former padawan’s scarred and broken back flashed in his mind, and the sound of a whip — another memory from Kadavo — burned in his ears as he pictured Anakin’s small, mangled body beside the form of his dying master. He swallowed. Was Gardulla responsible for those wounds?
“I tried to buy him back after the Boonta Eve race,” the Hutt continued, “but you can imagine my surprise when Watto told me the shag was taken by Jedi.”
Watto. The Toydarian who had owned Anakin and his mother after Gardulla. Obi-Wan recalled Qui-Gon’s description of him, a being whose shrewdness and cruelty were shadowed only by his greed.
“As soon as he came before me, though, I knew who he was,” Gardulla went on. “You can always see through a slave.” She smirked. “His name all but confirmed it. Skywalker doesn’t belong to any being that is free. And certainly to no Jedi.”
She spoke Anakin’s name like it was a barb on her tongue, like it was a bile that rotted in her mouth. Obi-Wan kept his face neutral, a difficult task as he couldn’t help but imagine what Anakin had been put through when he stood where Obi-Wan did barely a few weeks before. Humiliation and degradation to match the sharpness of a whip against bare skin, no doubt.
Anakin, I’m so sorry.
Another curious rumble rose from Gardulla’s chest, her expression drifting into one of intrigue, and she smiled at Obi-Wan again, her gaze hungry and vaguely devious.
“We never did find his sire,” she said, the tip of her tail once more flopping up and down. “His mother never gave him up, and he didn’t particularly resemble any males in the slave quarters at the time. But perhaps that is because you humans all look alike.”
More laughter sounded from behind him, and Obi-Wan tuned it out.
“Mighty Gardulla,” he pressed, “please, if there is any information you have that might lead me to his whereabouts, it would make the Republic immensely grateful.” This continuous barrage against his apprentice was starting to wear him down, and he was impatient to begin his search. He didn’t think he could last another moment in Gardulla’s court.
The Hutt raised an eye, then huffed, her apparent boredom returning. “I sent your Jedi away to put some pressure on the Republic to make me a better offer,” she grumbled. “I told him to come back when he had more favorable terms to deal, but I’ve seen nothing of him since. However, I did hear talk of him leaving Mos Espa. Supposedly, he was headed into the Western Dune Sea.”
Obi-Wan absorbed her account with numb relief. For now, he had a lead.
He bowed. “Many thanks, Lord Gardulla,” he professed. “The Republic is most grateful for your time.”
Gardulla narrowed her eyes. “I’m still waiting for the Senate’s new offer, Jedi,” she reminded him. “Tatooine is mine, despite what the shags in the lower city may tell you, and if the Republic wants it, they need to offer me what it’s worth.”
Obi-Wan bowed once more. “Of course, Mighty Gardulla. Thank you.”
And with that, Obi-Wan took his leave. He had never been more happy to escape a Hutt’s virulent gaze.
The desert was cold at night, and though the suns had not yet dipped entirely below the horizon, Obi-Wan couldn’t deny the chill in the air. He wandered down the streets, now practically empty, back towards eastern Mos Espa, where he had left his ship.
His mind was buzzing with speculation after what Gardulla had told him, and while it was entirely possible that she could have been lying, Obi-Wan sensed no deception from her. It seemed that she was telling him the truth.
Why Anakin had left the city however, was a complete mystery to him, what’s more without contacting them or notifying the White Suns or their allies. Then again, Anakin had never done things by the book, but his possible motivation escaped him. The Western Dune Sea was empty of any towns or settlements or activity. It was empty, period. Nothing but sand for miles upon endless miles. Certainly not the direction Anakin would want to head in.
Another shudder passed through him as the wind blew, and Obi-Wan watched his shadow flicker against the pale orange color of the earth, tinted by the dying sunset.
When Anakin had been a padawan, there were numerous occasions, early on in his apprenticeship, when he would crawl into bed with Obi-Wan. He would often get freezing at night, and Obi-Wan suspected he was having trouble adjusting to the temperature difference. Sometimes it was because he was cold, and sometimes it was because he was scared, woken suddenly by a nightmare of some sort, not helped by the fact that he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar place. But each time, Obi-Wan lifted the blanket for him, allowing him to curl into the crooks of his body in a deliberate effort to preserve warmth.
It was a ritual for them, of one kind or another, and though Anakin had stopped returning to his room as he got older, Obi-Wan had never truly closed his door.
There had been one time he remembered, during the war, not long after Ahsoka had left. They were on campaign in the Outer Rim, had been for months, and the circumstances were miserable. Rain pelted down on them every day of the siege, and their camp was little more than a disheveled collection of worn tents and weary men, increasingly tired and despondent under the conditions. The skin that met Anakin’s prosthetic at his elbow had gotten infected, and for a week he’d been afflicted by a harsh fever, despite Kix’s best efforts to quell his symptoms.
When his temperature finally began to mellow, Obi-Wan was beyond relieved, but exhaustion had worn Anakin down to his limit, and even though his fever had alleviated, he was hanging on by a thread. He could barely move as the Separtist forces neared, dangerously moving closer day after dismal day. Their situation was dire.
One night, the rain worse than ever, Obi-Wan had collapsed on his bunk, not even bothering to drape his military-issue blanket over himself. He was too tired to do anything more than sleep, but of course, his body refused, still high on adrenaline despite his exhaustion.
For hours he sat slumped on the bunk, the damp air hanging over him like a thick haze, bloating his lungs and weighing them down like stones in water. The calluses on his palms burned from how tightly he had gripped his lightsaber, and over and over in his mind he replayed the image of his men falling to bombs and blaster fire. More of them died every day, and Obi-Wan felt the loss like an open wound, forever moldering in his heart.
After some more time had passed, a second presence entered the makeshift room of his tent, and Obi-Wan languidly lifted his head to see Anakin, barely holding himself upright at the entrance to his quarters. He was frighteningly skinny, almost as bony as when he had first arrived at the Temple, and his hair stuck to his skin, which bore a sweat-stricken sheen.
Neither of them said anything, and after Anakin gathered himself to walk the few steps between the tent flap and Obi-Wan’s bunk, he ungracefully sank down next to him, shakily setting himself on the bunk and stretching out his legs next to his former teacher’s. Obi-Wan shifted to accommodate him. The space was slightly too small for the both of them together, but neither much cared. Obi-Wan gathered Anakin’s limp upper body close to him, bracing one arm over his apprentice and holding him against his own chest. For a while he simply stroked his hair, preserving the small flicker of warmth between them through their bond. Eventually both of them drifted off, each finding some peace for the first time in months.
The memory seemed so far away now, and Obi-Wan’s melancholy returned, more bitter now with the accompaniment of the cold night air.
Suddenly however, he was torn from his thoughts as a familiar voice cut through the quiet, and Obi-Wan turned to see the young man with the dark eyes from before, still bearing his burlap sack and light demeanor.
“Jedi!,” he called, waving to him, a tired smile on his youthful, yet weary face. Obi-Wan supposed life on Tatooine must have aged one quickly.
He smiled back, allowing the stranger to catch his breath as he ran to meet him, waiting for the man to gather his bearings.
To Obi-Wan’s surprise, the first thing he said was, “Do you have a place to stay?”
The Jedi blinked, nonplussed, but humbled by the hospitality of a man who didn’t even know this strange offworlder. But that had been Anakin’s first instinct too, something for which Qui-Gon had much to thank him.
“I was just going to sleep in my ship,” Obi-Wan confessed, a little bashful. “The accommodations are spartan, but—”
“My home is always open to those seeking a warm bed,” the man interrupted, though not unkindly. “Especially to those who willingly give an open hand rather than a closed fist,” he added. “Kindness is hard to come by out here.”
Obi-Wan was silent, pondering his offer; when he didn't say anything after a moment, the man spoke up again.
“It's customary for freemen to open their doors to anyone left out in the cold,” he said. He shared a thin smile. “We know too well what that’s like after all.”
Obi-Wan raised his brows. This man was a former slave, and as the desert wind blew down on him once again he realized what it would mean to refuse. He found himself nodding his head.
“Then I am most grateful for your generosity,” he replied, returning the smile.
The man beamed, but then suddenly, it was his turn to look bashful, and he let out a small laugh.
“Oh, fierfek,” he amusedly cursed to himself under his breath, apologetic as he looked back to Obi-Wan. “You probably think I have no manners,” he said, though his smile remained. He stuck out his hand. “Kitster. Kitster Banai.”
Obi-Wan extended his own hand, happily shaking with him. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The freeman’s smile widened. “The other Jedi talked just like you,” he observed, and Obi-Wan blinked. Kitster had obviously crossed paths with a Jedi before, and Obi-Wan found himself wondering if his old master had befriended more than just one slave child all those years ago. Before he had a chance to chase the thought, however, Kitster was already leading him back to his home, into the heart of the burgeoning free Tatooine.
For a man who lived on what Anakin affectionately referred to as a dustball of a planet, he seemed quite happy.
On their way there, the man talked animatedly of the meal he’d prepare — a particular repast was apparently traditional for a stranger or outlander’s invitation into the home — and he showed Obi-Wan the contents of his sack, a ripe and rare fruit known as a Pika, only able to grow in oases.
“I have just one left,” he explained as they reached the entryway to his home, little more than a compact clay dome swelling from the earth. “That’s why I was on my way to the sick house in the first place. I distribute goods and supplies to outposts like the one here. A lot of newly emancipated slaves end up there, and they have nothing but the skin on their backs. Any small luxury I can afford goes to them.” He smiled, more softly this time. “I like to think that if I were in their place, which I easily could have been, that I’d be so fortunate to receive some small kindness too.”
Obi-Wan nodded his head as he followed Kitster into a makeshift kitchen, the night sky visible through a tiny window. “That’s immensely compassionate of you,” he remarked.
Kitster’s warm countenance faded though, and he huffed, setting his sack down on the counter and gesturing for Obi-Wan to sit at the adjacent table. “They don’t have anywhere else to go,” he murmured, knuckles braced against the rough surface of the bench. “Nobody cares about slaves, about what happens to them or what they’re supposed to do if or when they get freed. What can they do?” He shook his head. “They go back to their former master,” he sighed, “because they don't have another choice. They’re paid enough to feed themselves and not a scrap more. All over again they’re chained to the will and the gain of someone who couldn’t even be bothered to see them as more than property.”
His shoulders sagged with another sigh, and his eyes looked faraway for a moment, clouded and joyless.
“That’s not freedom,” he murmured. “That’s no life.”
Obi-Wan frowned as the picture became clearer for him, and he suddenly had a most un-Jedi like distaste for Gardulla. Not that he favored her much before. But Tatooinian society was built on a vicious cycle, one that was only propagated by the criminal activity of the Hutts and others like them. One that made Anakin’s and countless millions of other being’s lives miserable. He was about to ask Kitster what he thought could be done when the man’s jubilance returned, and he tossed the Pika fruit up into the air before catching it in one hand.
“You must be starving,” he said, and without waiting for an answer he began to fetch pots and sauces and spices and started preparing a curry, so engaged and fluid in the preparation that it was almost like a performance.
Obi-Wan offered to help, but Kitster politely told him that he was his guest, and he was more than happy to provide for him.
“Are you sure?,” Obi-Wan had asked. “I don’t care to take a working man’s food, little of it that he has to give.”
Kitster laughed again, and he turned around to face the Jedi. “You are a visitor at my table in my home, one that I have come to claim of my own merit,” he said. “And I am happy to have you here.”
Obi-Wan recognized the unspoken words that permeated his answer.
I was a slave, but now I serve you because I wish.
He shallowly dipped his head. “Alright,” he conceded after a moment, and he let Kitster get back to his work. When a few minutes passed without conversation, Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, curiosity prompting him to speak.
“If I may ask,” he began, “how was it that you earned your freedom?”
“An old friend of mine,” Kitster smiled, “he shared with me some money he won and that got me enough of an education to secure me my first paying job at the Three Moons hotel in the center of the city. For years I saved credits, and eventually, when I was about eighteen or so, it was enough to buy my freedom. I owe it all to him.”
Obi-Wan nodded, recognizing how Kitster was repaying kindness back to his fellow slaves. Hopefully, it would be men like him who changed the face of Tatooine.
“I have a question for you too,” the freeman said, stirring the contents of his pot. Obi-Wan raised his head. “What did Gardualla have to say? Is she ready to give up her stranglehold on us yet?”
His tone was light, joking almost, but Obi-Wan sensed the anticipation behind his words. He sighed. They hadn’t much discussed negotiations with the Republic, only Anakin, and it sounded like Gardulla was going to squeeze Tatooine drier than it already was until she got what she wanted.
“Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to care much for the terms the Republic offered,” Obi-Wan answered. “She wants the Senate to make her a better deal.”
Kitster scrunched up his nose. “What a karking amcuum,” he spat, pouring the curry into two ceramic bowls. Obi-Wan didn’t bother asking for a translation.
“We also thought she might have been behind the disappearance of another Jedi who was sent here a few weeks ago,” Obi-Wan added numbly. Kitster tilted his head. “He was meant to negotiate with her, but then failed to make contact back with the Council. She knew nothing of his whereabouts though. Only that he seemingly left town.”
“There was another Jedi here?”
Kitster set one of the bowls before him, as well as a wooden plate with the Jika in the center of the table. The curry smelled hot and peppery, piquant bantha meat simmering amongst herbs and beans. Obi-Wan gave him a small smile as he sat down across from him.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know, given how fast you were able to pick me out from the crowd.”
Kitster chuckled. “A Jedi came to Mos Espa a long time ago,” he said. “When I saw you, I thought for a moment that he had come back.”
Obi-Wan didn’t know quite how to respond to that, feeling oddly transfixed by the statement.
He was broken from his trance when Kitster reached across the table to pick up the Jika and cleanly break it in two, juice dripping from the fruit onto the plate. “Alright,” he announced, placing it back down, “now we can eat.”
Before the Jedi could ponder the significance of the halving of the Jika, Kitster was already engaged in his meal, stirring the aroma of the curry into the cool air of the house.
“I’m sorry you aren’t able to meet my family,” he lamented sometime later, sipping what was left of the broth.
Obi-Wan had by then moved on to the fruit. Its cool yellow center spilled droplets of juice onto his fingers as he worked to tear pieces of its flesh and bring them to his lips. It was almost decadently sweet, not tart but softly saccharine, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but wonder when the last time had been that Anakin might have eaten one.
“My wife Tamora is offworld with our two children,” Kitster continued. “As you saw this morning, it’s getting worse around here. With the drought and the constant attacks, I didn’t think they were safe.”
“You didn’t go with them?,” Obi-Wan asked.
“If I did, I’d be abandoning my people in their darkest hour,” he answered. “I may be free, but they are not.” His expression was sober. “Tawaelmet agmat den anezial. Mes yuman Ab’atat rei, an mesen’a mmaesten nos nidelyal.” At Obi-Wan’s confused countenance he translated. “We are all the children of the desert. Ab’atat watches over us, and we must watch over each other.”
“Is that . . . Huttese?” It didn't sound like it. It was alluring, composed, and nothing like the coarse and often vulgar noise that muddied the words spoken by those who knew the language.
“The tongue of Tatooine’s slaves,” Kitster replied. “A simple and obscure language, not so eloquent sounding, but the masters can’t understand it.” He smiled. “That’s what makes it beautiful to us.”
Obi-Wan was inclined to disagree with his earlier statement. The sound to him was light and inviting, ringing with some distant familiarity. Had Anakin spoken it once or twice? Guilt suddenly returned as he considered it. Anakin had been all but disciplined to forget his old life, to shed any and all traces of it. This tongue had probably been one of the first things to go.
Kitster finished his curry, taking a knife and slicing into his own half of the Jika, placing that in his empty bowl and walking towards the window sill. “Excuse me,” he said.
Obi-Wan watched as he laid the bowl in the open window. From the counter he pinched from a small jar of spices, sprinkling them over the fruit.
“May I ask you another question?,” Obi-Wan queried as Kitster retrieved a lighter.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Who is Ab’atat?,” the Jedi probed.
Kitster smiled, and he let the dry spices on the fruit catch flame, crackling quietly as the smoke perfumed into the sky. “Ab’atat is the watcher and the protector of the slaves. She’s invisible save for her eyes, the twin suns, and at night when they set, her daughters, the moons, watch over us for her. She is everywhere and nowhere.” His smile deepened. “It’s been said that she can grant special powers to the ones she favors to help them escape their masters. Then they may free their brothers and sisters as well.”
Obi-Wan absorbed Kit’s explanation, and he looked towards the Jika, still smoldering.
Kitster followed his gaze. “This is for Ghomrassen, Guermessa and Chenini. The spirits in the moons. They protect Ab’atat’s children while she travels the desert in mortal form. She could appear as a meager peasant beggar woman, a slave boy toiling under the suns,” he smiled mischievously, but reverently, “even as a mighty Krayt, as tall as the mountains of the wastes, as swift as the winds that blow across the dunes, as beautifully terrifying as the desert itself.”
Kitster laughed softly, humor visible in his eyes as he looked at Obi-Wan. “That’s also part of why we invite the needy into our homes, for we never know if it is Ab’atat herself. She has many names, and even more shapes.”
Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched, finding some appreciation for the man’s colorful explanation of the folklore. “I’m afraid I’m no desert spirit,” he said, “but I’m grateful for your hospitality nonetheless.” He looked again to the offering to the moons, burning in silent reverence. “I hope the daughters of Ab’atat will protect you in these turbulent times.”
Surprise suddenly overtook Kitster’s features. “Oh, it’s not for me,” he began, “it’s for you.” Obi-Wan blinked, confused. “The moons are guides, they light your path through the desert,” Kitster explained. “I’m asking them to lead you to your lost friend.”
Obi-Wan stared at him as he sat down at the table again. He glanced between him and the night sky through the window, humbled by the generosity of the man before him.
“What was his name?,” Kitster asked.
“He was born here, actually,” Obi-Wan began. “He was sent because he knows Tatooine. His name is Anakin Skywalker.”
Shock and startlement burst like crackling embers in the Force, and Kitster stood straight upright, his mouth slack. “Anakin?,” he echoed. He was still for a moment before he raised a hand to his brow and began to shake his head in disbelief, a small, incredulous smile appearing on his face. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “I remember the day he left. With the Jedi.” He looked back to Obi-Wan, his jaw set.
“I can help you find him,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”
“You knew him?,” Obi-Wan asked.
“I did,” Kitster affirmed. “When we were kids. It was his winnings from the Boonta Eve podrace that got me where I am today. If I can help you find him,” he smiled, “then I’ll have repaid my debt.”
“Then I’d once again have to say I’m grateful for your help,” Obi-Wan replied. “The Force seems to have brought us together for a reason.”
“Ab’atat herself must have aligned the stars,” Kitster chimed. He looked like he wanted to ask Obi-Wan a million questions, what Anakin’s life had been like all these years, whether he really fought in the war, what he was like now. But he seemed to recognize the exhaustion hiding just behind the Jedi’s eyes, and instead he stood, motioning for Obi-Wan to follow him.
“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll show you to a bed.”
After Kitster had done just that, he himself retired for the night, promising to wake early for the coming day so they could begin their search. He seemed excited at the prospect of seeing his old friend again, and it eased some of the worry still gnawing in Obi-Wan’s stomach.
He looked out the porthole window as he sat down on the creaking mattress, gazing up at the moons. He wondered how often Anakin had stared at them each night, hoping for them to one day lead him and his mother to freedom.
His thoughts drifted to Shmi Skywalker then; he and Anakin had barely spoken of her death, and he questioned if Kitster knew what had happened. He hadn’t seen Anakin in over a decade though, and it was unlikely that the man knew much about it.
He turned his attention back to the moons, recalling the smell of the burning fruit and the spices smoldering in the night air. He sighed.
Please, he invoked, as if there might be an answer to his calling, please help me find my brother.