Star Wars - The Last One Standing Read online

  They had tortured Anakin’s mother for a month. Just to test her resolve. Was it any wonder that Anakin had been left with such a deep, festering wound?

  He could do this for Anakin. His Padawan was dead, his brother, his son, his friend. He could give him this. A fearsome anger unleashed. Vengeance. Vengeance against the beings in the world with so much darkness inside them that life meant nothing to them. They swallowed life and hope. That was what the Sith counted on, beings like these.

  They had taken over the galaxy. They had won.

  But not here. Not today.

  He stopped. His stillness intrigued them. He held his lightsaber in a way that any Jedi would recognize as the beginning of aggression. He had no hesitation, no doubt that he could vanquish them all, destroy this camp and destroy every breath of life in it.

  He felt his anger rise, and he took pleasure in it. It was growing inside him and obliterating everything else. He wanted to be overtaken. He didn’t want to be careful. He wanted only the white heat of satisfaction.

  Do not become your enemy.

  Qui-Gon was like static in his brain. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to remember him right now.

  But the memory was too strong.

  Qui-Gon’s compassion had been infinite. His Master had been impatient, to be sure. He could be brusque. But his connection to the Living Force had never faltered. He did not take away life if there was an alternative.

  The alternative.

  What had Qui-Gon always said? If you know their weakness, you can defeat your enemy. Expose them for what they are.

  The anger was still there, but he turned his face away from it. He reached out for what he knew and treasured — the Force. It was here, even in this place of darkness, of grasping evil. He soared above the heads of the Tusken Raiders, enraging them. They swiped at him with their gaderffi, missing him by a centimeter of grace.

  He called on the Force and it moved around him, propelling him over the tents. As he flew over their tops, he slashed down with his lightsaber, one, two, three times, then landed and leaped again. The tents collapsed in a gust and a clatter of sticks.

  Women and children blinked. Some of the women weren’t wearing their face masks or their gloves. They shrieked and clawed at the sand, trying to bury themselves. Some threw tarps over their children. They moaned and howled with the shame of their unmasking.

  Obi-Wan landed. He took advantage of the stunned reaction of the men. Using the gaderffi stick he’d pried from the hands of a Tusken Raider, he charged forward, slashing at utility belts and face masks. In his hands the stick became as elegantly precise as a med droid’s scalpel. Sandshrouds peeled back, skulls were exposed, fingers, limbs.

  They couldn’t fight now. Their centuries of rules and rituals defeated their need to strike. Exposure meant death. The men ran to their tents to protect their women, to find cover.

  Obi-Wan knew he was now more than an opponent who dared to invade the camp. He’d become something supernatural, a wraith that had blown away the concealment they prized, fiercer than any wind. He had no doubt the news of this would spread among the tribes. Perhaps it would buy him a mystique that would offer him a degree of protection. They’d be wary of him now.

  He leaped onto the bantha and urged it into a gallop, the cries of the exposed echoing in his ears.

  He brought Lars and Beru the vaporators that night.

  He wasn’t expecting anything, but the coolness of Owen’s response did surprise him. His face was stony as he looked at the vaporators. Beru hung back. He could see the battle of emotions on her face from the light of the open homestead door. She was relieved that Owen would not have to fight, but she didn’t want to owe Ben Kenobi a favor.

  “I told you to stay out of it,” Owen said.

  “It was something I could do,” Obi-Wan answered.

  “It’s not that we’re not grateful,” Beru said. “It’s that…”

  “We can take care of our own farm,” Lars completed. “We’re a family here.”

  They stood close together, Luke between them, nestled against Beru’s body. Obi-Wan saw with sudden clarity the baby’s fingers, small and perfect. His mouth opened and he gave a baby sound, something like a whimper, a sound Obi-Wan didn’t know how to interpret. The Living Force was one thing. Babies were quite another.

  Beru extended a finger, and Luke grasped it, making, this time, a sound Obi-Wan recognized as contentment.

  “I’ll be going,” Obi-Wan said.

  Stiffly, Owen Lars inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  Obi-Wan turned his back on the open door. He climbed out of the homestead and trudged away. The sand sucked at his boots. He felt the wind pick up in the sudden way he’d become accustomed to on Tatooine.

  Sand pelted his cheeks. This was his life now. To protect a baby who didn’t know him, might never know him. To have no one by his side, ever again. To be Master to none, to have his life linked to no one.

  To coexist with memories that he could not live with. To have the memory of Anakin be like living fire in his gut.

  To get up every day, to stand, to watch, to live, when so many had died.

  And keep on walking.

  [hereticdeanima]

  11.6.18.15.14.5-1