Chapter Text
From all the spaces between times,
from all the gaps in soldiers’ ranks,
from cracks in the wall,
from doors we did not close tight,
from hands we did not hold,
from the distance between body and body
when we didn’t come close to each other—
the great sprawling expanse adds up,
the plain, the desert,
where our souls will walk, hopeless, after death.
From All the Spaces Between Times
By Yehuda Amichai
Translated by Robert Alter
Obi-Wan dies on the Death Star, his life severed by a poisoned red lightsaber, and time ceases to have any meaning.
He remembers Qui-Gon’s lessons and for an eternity, he clings to his sense of self within the Force, directing young Luke to trust his instincts, to go to Dagobah, to train with Yoda. In another eternity, Darth Vader remembers what it means to love and he saves his son, he destroys his Sith master, and Obi-Wan teaches him how to remain a singular consciousness with the Force, even after his body dies.
The Republic rises anew, the Empire falls. The Jedi Order is reborn. Obi-Wan is no longer meant for infinite sorrow and suffering.
Except within the Force, time has no meaning. Time is not linear. In between one endless moment and the next, as long as a blink, a heartbeat, the pitifully short lifecycle of a single-celled creature on planet with no sentient life, everything falls apart again. The First Order rises, and Luke forsakes the Force. Ob-wan’s hope, his bright spark is dimmed and all but lost, shut away from the Force, from Obi-Wan’s desperate pleading voice.
Obi-Wan dies again in the Force, cut down by Darth Vader on the Death Star.
And so he is reborn, to live another life, this time, to stop the inevitable.
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"Get up, scum. This ain’t no holiday on Scarif." A boot kicks him in the ass and Obi-Wan rolls over, everything aching, and there is a sharp, terrible pain in his back. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at the ugliest Weequay he’s ever seen, and he’s seen some ugly Weequays, particularly Hondo Ohnaka.
Everything really hurts, and it’s more than just age, more than old battle injuries. More than the decrepitude of nearly twenty years in the desert.
What in the Emperor’s smelly butthole has happened to him?
"I said, get UP!" The Weequay pokes him with a stick. No, not a stick, an electro-prod. "Slave, if you know what’s good for you, get to your feet NOW!"
Slave?
It’s only Obi-Wan’s finely tuned sense of self-preservation that propels him upright. He doesn’t move fast enough and gets another shock from the Weequay’s prod. The chains that bind his ankles make him clumsy and he almost falls over again, but someone holds him up.
It’s not an act of kindness. The being behind him hisses, "You fall over, you take all of us down. I’ll strangle you if that happens. So if you want to live, you gonna walk."
Obi-Wan has been in worse situations, but not many, and he shuffles forward, keeping his eyes down, trying to figure out what’s happening. It’s only when he sees his own hands that he begins to doubt his sanity.
His hands are young. There’s no hair on them, no wrinkles or scars or popped veins. No 'saber callouses or blaster burns. His hands haven’t been this untouched by life since his Initiate days. Once he’d become a padawan, life had begun to take a visible toll on his body.
The line of slaves halts, waiting for the ship’s ramp to descend, and when it does, they are all hit with a blast of light and heat. A gust of wind sends a barrage of sand into the cargo hold, and the slaves in the front row scream in pain, unable to shield themselves. The slavers have no mercy, using electro-prods and vibro-whips to move the chained mass of beings forward.
Obi-Wan moves, he has no choice, but he’s stunned. The Force is fucking with him - there is no other explanation. He’s eleven or twelve years old and he’s a slave and he’s on Tatooine.
The suffocating heat is too familiar. So is the relentless sunlight. The pervasive sand. The smell of bantha and eopie shit. Machine oil. Desperation.
As his eyes adjust to the light, Obi-Wan recognizes the buildings - they’re at the spaceport on the rim of Mos Espa. Better than Mos Eisley, but not by much.
This is where it all began.
The slavers know that time is the enemy, keeping their merchandise standing in the arid heat is a sure way to lose their merchandise. The slaves are unlocked from each other, better to show off their individual qualities. The bidders walk around, examining the slaves and several times, the slavers need to deploy their whips and prods to keep some of the larger and more belligerent captives under control. A large male Zabrak goes as far as grabbing one of the Weequays by his braid - that bit of rebellion lasts all of two seconds. A slaver presses the kill switch and the Zabrak goes down, his spine severed by the implant.
No one says anything, and all the slaves just stare at the sandy ground, helpless now. Whatever fight they’ve had has evaporated.
The lesson has been learned.
The big male slaves - Zabraks, Ugnaughts, Togrutas, Twi'leks, Humans - are the first ones up for sale, and the bidding is quick. Obi-Wan mentally converts the wupiupi to Imperial credits and he’s astounded at the prices.
But not as astounded or as disgusted as when the young Twi’leks are auctioned. He thinks he recognizes Bib Fortuna, Jabba the Hutt’s agent, buying several weeping teenage girls who beg and plead that they are freeborn from the Core, but he’s not sure - the creepy Twi’lek seems too young. He forgets about that when the children are put up on the block. The bidding is fierce and quick between slickly-dressed brothel owners purchasing the little girls and boys, and Obi-Wan has a sinking feeling this is where he’s going to end up.
One of them, a hard-eyed female Twi’lek, approaches him. "Aren’t you a pretty thing. I think I’ll have use for you. My customers like a little variety and innocence sells so very well in Mos Eisley."
Obi-Wan has no idea how dangerous it could be to use the Force here and now, and getting turned over to the Empire and the Inquisitors has to be worse than servicing customers in some stinking brothel. Or is it? "I’m not the kind of slave you want." He pushes all the power of Suggestion into those words but there is nothing. It’s horrifying, but he has almost no connection to the Force.
The brothel owner chuckles. "Oh, I think you’re exactly the kind of slave I’m looking for." She tucks two fingers under Obi-Wan’s chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her sharp nails scratch his skin and catch against something. "What’s this?"
"What’s what?" Obi-Wan touches his neck, there’s a cold metal ring resting on his neck and collarbone. He feels the nothingness it exudes and now he knows why he can barely touch the Force.
The woman gestures and one of the slavers, a Duros man, joins them. She points at the collar around Obi-Wan’s neck.
"Ach, this one’s a trouble-maker. We had to put this thing on him to keep him from screaming the ship apart. You don’t want him."
The brothel owner gets a sly look, "I think I’ll enjoy breaking him." Then she touches the collar, blinks and shakes her head. "No, I don’t want him."
The Tatooine suns burn their way across the skies as all of the slaves are auctioned, all except for Obi-Wan. He watches as families are sundered, as children are taken into the most horrific servitude - a Twi'lek mother sobs and begs the Mos Eisley brothel owner, the one who had shown interest in Obi-Wan, for mercy. "Please spare my children, please - they are Twi’lek, just like you. We are freeborn, and were kidnapped! How can you betray your own people like this? How can you do this to innocent children?
"It’s commerce. Simple as that."
The mother screams and lunges at the brothel owner. She’s dead before she takes a second step. The children watch and weep as a guard drags the dead Twi’lek woman away.
The auctions continue and the buyers leave to collect their purchases. The suns are setting and Obi-Wan is the last slave left. He has been put up for sale three times but no one has bid on him. The slavers are muttering that they need to leave and they aren’t taking him with them.
Obi-Wan just wants to wake up from this nightmare even if it means his death.
"Ten wupiupi! I’ll buy the boy!"
Obi-Wan tries to see who’s bidding on him. The stands are empty and it’s almost full dark.
"Sold!"
There’s a buzzing around his head and for a moment, it’s the sound of flapping wings and Obi-Wan is back on Geonosis, but then a woman’s soft voice brings him back to this other horrid reality.
"It’ll be all right." Her voice is gentle and soothing. She asks, "What’s your name?"
There’s just enough light left for Obi-Wan to see the woman’s face. She’s Human, middle-aged and worn by hard labor and life on Tatooine, pared down to the essentials. But her face is filled with kindness - she has the compassion of a Jedi in her eyes. Despite the collar, Obi-Wan senses the Force surrounding her, like a green, wispy veil protecting her against the harshness of the desert and the setting suns.
She reminds him of Qui-Gon and for that alone he trusts her. "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi."
"And I’m Shmi Skywalker."
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Obi-Wan sits next to Shmi on a rickety metal cart, while his owner, Watto the Toydarian, flits ahead, tormenting the ancient eopie with a stick.
He’s numb.
That’s really not even the right word for it. He’s dumb, too. Stupid with exhaustion and shock and fear. And even if he’s only physically twelve or so with a Force-inhibitor collar around his neck, he’s also fifty-seven, a former Jedi Master, a High General, a Council Member, the Mad Wizard of the Jundland Wastes…
In other words, he still has a brain and a tongue and can ask questions. "What year is it? On the Galactic calendar?"
Shmi gives him a puzzled look. "Don’t you know?"
"No, not really. I don’t know much of anything. I know my name, that’s about it." Obi-Wan keeps the lies to a minimum. "I woke up on the slaver’s ship a few hours ago, a pain in my back, this collar around my neck, a really ugly Weequay screaming at me. I have no idea how I got there." It’s simpler to pretend he got hit with mind-wipe drugs.
"Oh you poor boy. You have no memory of what happened to your family?"
"No. Nothing." Well, nothing except your monstrous son killing the Younglings and whatever Jedi he could find, then going on a twenty-year murder spree across the galaxy before cutting off my head…
Obi-Wan breathes in and steadies himself in the too-familiar Tatooine air. "Do you know what year it is? It would really help to know what year it is - I guess how the Core reckons things." Obi-Wan is careful not to say Republic or Imperial - he might be eleven or twelve-ish, and he might be talking to his former padawan’s mother, but time seems to be running differently and there could be an Empire out there.
Shmi laughs. "Well, it’s not as if Tatooine keeps a calendar. We mark the years by the Hutt’s big festival, Boonta’s Eve, which just passed, three days ago. You know we’re on Tatooine, right?"
"Yeah. Strange, but I do know that."
Shmi shakes her head. "I remember seeing something about a big celebration, must have been last year or the year before that, about a thousand years of peace in the Republic."
Obi-Wan processes that bit of information with so much relief he’s almost nauseous. It’s still the Republic, there’s still time. The Jedi Order is still out there.
Qui-Gon…
Then Shmi laughs bitterly, "But peace? Really? What does that even mean when pirates still raid and enslave, take citizens from Republic ships and worlds and no one does anything about it. Slavery may be illegal inside the Republic, but the Republic doesn’t lift a finger to help its citizens who are abducted and taken outside its beautiful walled garden."
"I’m sorry." Obi-Wan says helplessly.
"Why are you apologizing? You’re just a little boy who had this happen to you, too. This isn’t your fault. And I should be the one apologizing, for unloading my anger on you."
Obi-Wan can’t tell her that he’s is apologizing for all the times he didn’t listen to Anakin telling him about his nightmares about his mother, about knowing that slavery still flourished outside of the Republic and doing nothing about it, about letting the Jedi Order be handcuffed by the Senate and the corporate interests that seemed to dominate its every decision. "I can still be sorry for your pain, Lady Skywalker. Just as you can be compassionate for mine."
"For a little boy, you speak so well. I think you must have come from the Core. A good family gave you a good education."
Obi-Wan, confused between his lives, buries the pain he always feels at the mention of his murdered and lost Jedi family - even though at this moment, they are alive and well - and just shrugs. "Maybe. But I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to cry."
"No, crying is very bad on Tatooine. You can’t afford to waste even a drop of water here." Shmi drapes an arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulders, hugging him. "I won’t mention it again."
At the edges of Mos Espa, between the rundown slave quarters and the city proper, Shmi pulls on the reins, bringing the cart to a halt in front of an old stable. "We get out here."
A Dressellian comes out of the stable, grumbling, "Ye’r late. Just about to close up. Gonna have to charge ye for an extra day."
Watto screams in outrage, but Shmi hops down and tells the hostler, "The second moon hasn’t set and your stable isn’t closed." She points to the sign on the barn door that clearly sets the rates. "Besides, the eopie you rented has a lame back hoof and if he walked any slower, it would have been faster if we put the beast in the cart and dragged it ourselves."
The hostler backs down and unhooks the cart.
"Our deposit, Kre. If you please." She holds out her hand and the Dressellian drops a coin into her palm, which Shmi promptly gives to Watto.
Obi-Wan is stunned at Shmi’s bravery, and really, he shouldn’t be. Like mother, like son. Anakin was many things, but no one could ever accuse him of cowardice.
The hostler pulls the eopie and the cart into his stable and turns out the light, leaving the three of them in darkness.
Watto flits around Obi-Wan and Shmi, and for the first time, talks to Obi-Wan directly. "You better work hard, boy. Ten wupiupi is a lot of dosh and I don’t like wasting money. Pull your weight and we’ll get along fine, slack and I’ll sell you to the brothels or worse. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" Watto flies in close, staring at him.
"Yes … sir." Obi-Wan will not call this creature "Master".
The Toydarian hovers for too many seconds, but finally flits off. "Shmi - he’ll live with you. I’m not paying for separate quarters for the boy. Bad enough I’ll have to pay for another water ration."
Shmi squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder, "Come on, follow me. It isn’t too far."
He trudges behind her, every step feels like it could be his last, until she stops at a small one-story building that looks the same as every other one on the unlit street. The door isn’t locked, but Obi-Wan supposes there really isn’t anything worth stealing inside.
"Take the bed, you need to sleep."
Obi-Wan should argue but he can’t. He does manage to pull off his footwear - and he falls onto the mattress - straw and bantha hair, exactly the same as what he’d slept on for nineteen years, and he takes a strange kind of comfort in the familiarity.
A hand strokes his hair and murmurs something Obi-Wan can’t quite make out. He falls asleep wondering if he’ll actually wake up.
But of course he does. Shmi shakes him, "It’s time, Obi. We’ve got to get to the shop."
He blinks, trying to sort out dreams and nightmares and realities. "All right, I’m awake."
She shows him what passes for a 'fresher, and when he comes out, she gives him a small earthenware cup of water.
Obi-Wan remembers what Anakin had told him about Tatooine hospitality, how important it was to share water. He gives the cup back, "Please, slake your thirst first, Lady Skywalker."
She nods and takes the tiniest of sips before giving him back the cup. Obi-Wan sips slowly, letting the water absorb into the parched tissues. He gives Shmi the last swallow, "Please take, with my thanks."
"Are you sure you haven’t been to Tatooine before?"
"Maybe I’m from a desert world?"
"Perhaps." She sounds skeptical. There are two wrapped parcels on the counter. "You are probably hungry, but let’s wait until we’re at the shop. Watto won’t come down from his nest for hours and there probably won’t be any customers until well after the second sunrise."
Obi-Wan recovers his footwear and lets out a tiny, mournful sigh. Good boots and socks have been the material things he had missed the most from his life as a Jedi. He had reconciled himself to so many losses during his years in the desert, but every kriffing time he had repaired his last pair of boots, he’d wept. Had the Inquisitors actually been practical, they would have looked for Jedi boots, not Jedi compassion.
"Obi?" Shmi’s getting impatient.
"Sorry." He pulls on his cloak. "Just - well, you know."
"Yeah, I do."
Obi-Wan trudges behind her, memorizing the path from their quarters to the shop. In the bright morning daylight, he can see that there are some differences between the mean little houses. Some doors are painted, some windows have curtains. These are peoples’ homes.
Watto’s shop isn’t in the best of neighborhoods, but there’s plenty of foot traffic, and despite Shmi’s earlier comment, there are a handful of customers waiting for her to open the place up.
Business is brisk, and it takes Obi-Wan over two hours to get enough time to eat his first meal. He’ll have to get up earlier and eat before heading out to the shop, that’s for certain.
Watto flits down about an hour before the second sun crosses the meridian, complains thoroughly about everything, and goes back up to the rafters to nap. The rest of the day is just as busy, not giving Obi-Wan much time to think, although in the odd, quiet moment, he’s struck again through the heart at the realization that all the Jedi are alive.
Qui-Gon is alive.
His brain whirls with ideas and schemes how he could reach out to the High Council to let them know about the Sith. And he keeps coming to a dead end. Even if he could get a message to the Temple, it would be pointless. No one would believe him.
If the High Council is still composed of the same members as it had been in his last life, any mention of the Sith would be greeted with the utmost skepticism. They all but laughed Qui-Gon out of the chamber when he’d insisted that their attacker on Tatooine had been a Sith, and hadn’t they respected Qui-Gon enough to offer him a seat on the Council just six years earlier? The Council would look at an anonymous message as little more than a prank.
As Obi-Wan pushes a broom across the floor, trying to tame the endless mess of sand the creeps in, he tries to organize the differences in the now and the then. The biggest difference is the absence of Anakin. In the little time that he’d had this morning, Obi-Wan looked around Shmi’s house, but saw no sign of a child. And she’s made no mention of a son. How can he ask her? Hey, Lady Skywalker, where’s your child? Didn’t you have a little boy?
A customer comes in and Obi-Wan puts the broom aside. "How can I help you, gentle being?"
Watto doesn’t come down until the first sun is starting to set. Shmi is out in the yard with a customer.
Watto checks the cashbox, emptying it into a pouch, and is pleased. "Not bad, kid. You can live until tomorrow"
Obi-Wan swallows against the urge to rip the pest’s wings off. Instead, he just says, "Thank you, sir."
Watto laughs, as if he knows just how much Obi-Wan despises him. "Here, your money for food and water for the week. Don’t forget to share it with the old witch." Watto drops two wupiupi onto the sandy floor and waits for Obi-Wan to pick the coins up.
Obi-Wan doesn’t move.
Watto glares at him before flying out the door.
And only then does Obi-Wan bend down to retrieve the dosh.
The metal is cool against his palm, but it burns like a blaster bolt.
Shmi and the customer come back inside the shop, and they complete the transaction for the large hunk of metal he’s hauling out. Shmi notices the empty cashbox and gives Obi-Wan a worried look. She doesn’t say anything until the customer leaves.
"Obi?" She holds out the cashbox.
"Nothing to worry about. Watto came down and emptied it. He left these for our week’s food and water." Obi-Wan offers her the two coins.
She sighs in relief. "Do you want me to hold onto yours?"
"Please - you’ll do better procuring what’s needed."
"Thank you for your trust in me."
"Lady Skywalker, you’re the only being that’s standing between me and oblivion." Or another turn on this Force-forsaken wheel…
Shmi ducks her head at that.
The bell over the door rings and another customer comes into the shop.
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