A Certain Point of View

Chapter 3: ...But Not That Strong

He wept like a madman that night, when they had taken the power converters away. He had no tears during the exchange, not in his body and not in his heart. But there was nothing else to be done, in the end. It was this, or death; and so, while he had sworn to himself that he would never part out the yacht, it had to be done.

He was surprised, when the spit had returned to his mouth and the first traces of sweat to his wrinkled brow, that there were tears in him after all. Attachment leads to jealousy, Master Yoda had said once. The shadow of greed, that is. But there, in the fading light of twin suns, for the first time in eighteen years, he at last unburdened himself and cried—not for the loss of a stupid spaceship, but for something much more. He wept for the greater, more secret wounds he had reopened by plundering the wreck.

You promised yourself you would never let the ship go, said the voice of his delirium. You swore it in your heart. But then, you have always been a good liar. No Jedi ever lied as well as you, Obi-Wan.

That name.

Obi-Wan.

He did not have to ask where the voice came from. With his own voice hoarse from disuse, in the stillness of the hut, he answered it aloud.

"I will not be tempted," he croaked.

It makes no difference, said the voice. Even the Dark Side will bring you no relief, now that you can never leave. You will die in the sand, now; far from your enemy. Far from your revenge.

He took a long, slow breath of the freshly humidified air. "Revenge is not the Jedi way," he said.

You are strong, old man, said the Dark Side to his heart. But not that strong.

"There is no emotion," said Ben Kenobi. "There is peace."

You know that is a lie, said the Dark Side within him.

And the Dark Side was right.

Ben could not have explained, even to himself, what made him bring the little wooden box up from the cellar that night. But he brought it from its hidden place, and held it in his hands, sensing it. Sensing... him.

You have failed, whispered the Dark Side. You thought you could train him as well as Yoda. How many have died, how many worlds, because you failed?

"You claimed him," said the old man. "You will not claim me."

How many, Obi-Wan? Too many?

"Too many," he said at last.

Is a million lives too many? Is a thousand?

"Leave me alone."

One, then. One life.

With a set jaw, he flicked Anakin's blade to life in his hand. The years had been kind to it. The emitter crystal had aged some, hardened and cured by the desert air, and the searing beam that erupted from his hand shimmered a pale, ghostly blue now, its original richness and colour lost. But the blade was responsive, instantly, after eighteen years.

It had been made by a master. Anakin's natural talent had been unrivalled, after all—in this, and in a great many other things.

The Force was strong in him. So strong. You were too weak to save them, in the end.

Setting the weapon aside, Ben Kenobi looked down at the wealth of supplies the sale of the hyperdrive system had brought him. There was the water, of course—tanks full enough of water to last the drought and well into the safe harvest season. But there was food, too, and medical supplies, and enough spare parts to keep the little homestead running until the storms had gone. It was through these supplies that he rummaged, exploring with the aching hands of age the smallest and most delicate of the all-purpose utility parts.

He found what he was looking for in the third bag, and laid the little pieces out on top of the chest. As the light grew dim, reaching out with the Force more than his own eyes, he skilfully broke down the emitter matrix of his own broken lightsaber, seeking out the point of failure in the weapon. He worked in silence most of the night, until sunlight came again to the hut; but when he lifted the familiar weapon, its fully functional killing blade surged out in a blistering column of searing light. This, too, was the weapon of a master.

"Good," said the hermit.

Good, the Dark Side agreed.