Sand | Obidala

8.

I learn of the true extent of my ignorance from a little girl. It's not her fault; my make-believe world was made of nothing, built on sand.

I enter the shop, and Rani greets me with her usual dimpled smile.

"Hey, Mister Kenobi, how's everything down at the farm?"

"We're glad the drought's ended," I reply. "Did it rain here last week, too? It was our first. Green was sprouting all around the farm just an hour later. Chordè was astonished."

The girl looks disappointed; talking about the weather and my supposed wife is effective. I must tread a fine line between hurting and encouraging with her.
I pick out the items I want, ignoring her bold stare.

She stops me just before I leave, and places an old holoviewer on the counter.

"A customer paid with this, yesterday. I've always wanted one, but I can't make it work. I guess it's broken."

She makes our fingers brush giving it to me, and I can't suppress my disapproving Master's glare. Anakin used to do this when he was her age, 'accidentally' touching me whenever he could. I did it with my own Master, sometimes. Teenagers are always the same.

I turn the device on, and it gives out static. It just has to be set to the right frequency, and Rani knows this. I fix it, and she thanks me with worshipful eyes.

We watch the holonews together, our heads close to capture the crackling voices and tiny, grainy images. Both engrossed, for different reasons.

The shameless, condescending propaganda of any dictatorship - this too is always the same. The word Empire alone sickens me.
Red flags and synchronised salutes. The slow walk of the Emperor between fields of white armour. I wonder if my men are there.
The tall, black figure that follows.

I'm racked with nausea.

"Ben?" Rani whispers.

I'm at the door, shivering in the oppressive midday heat.
The air has gotten dense as quicksand.
I stand in the midst of the deserted marketplace, staring at my speeder and repeating to myself that they are not in danger. My hand reaches for a lightsaber that's not on my belt.

Rani comes outside and tugs at my sleeve, asking me if everything is alright.
I nod and stumble away, my blood pounding in my ears.

At the Weary Traveller, I'm blind in the dim light.
I grope for a stool and call for an Aldeer I do not touch. The music and the people's chatter soothe me.

His name plays on a loop inside my head. I try to imagine Anakin's body, his pain and hatred.
All I see behind my shut eyelids is the slightly odd walk of the unnaturally tall man.

I made him this way.

I'm suffocating when I attempt to centre myself. It's like solving charades in the middle of a sandstorm.
I try to reach for my Master, but I can't see past the turmoil inside me. I persist, cutting off noises, wiping out thoughts and feelings with stubborn desperation.
I breathe with the Force, forcibly slowing my pace to match it. This is not how it works, but it's all I can do. I purge anger, fear and guilt from me until sorrow alone remains.

All we went through these months is pointless. Somehow, he's further from me now than when I thought he was dead.
I have just lost him again.

It's dark when I finally leave.
Above my head, the faint, milky ribbon of the Galaxy rim blazes across the night sky. I'm on its border, and the rest of it is inside that stripe.
Anakin's in there, too.

That's not Anakin.

Is that my excuse for not telling Padme?
Lightening my burden would only bring her pain, whatever she might decide to do. She will break, and it'll be all my fault. She'll hate me for what I did to him, to them.
I have no idea if I'm protecting her or myself.