Title: Lost Saint Author: Bimo, translated into English by Eretria Rating: G Time period: Shortly after Episode III Characters: Obi-Wan ============================================= LOST SAINT by Bimo (Original German version translated into English by Eretria ) His third year on Tatooine. The sandstorms don?t catch him by surprise anymore. He has learnt to anticipate them before they even gather. It?s the slight tingling in the air that heralds them, makes the fine hairs on his arms and neck stand on edge. From the rocky crag, Obi-Wan?s gaze strays into the distance. Dunes and rubble all the way to the horizon. Once again he listens to the silence, silence that already carries the wailing and screeching of the wind, then he starts the descent. Swift and concentrated, carefully measuring every step. The rubble is treacherous, full of loose gravel and hidden crevices. The last things he needs is a broken ankle and several days out under the open sky until a group of Jawas finds him, sunburned and almost completely parched. He needs to watch out. Persevere, stay healthy, keep a clear mind. Not for himself, but for Luke. Despite its danger, the desert seems like a friend to him. Grim, indeed, and demanding, but steadfast. When the ghosts of his past are gnawing on his sanity, it?s the desert which holds him in the here and now. Roaming it soothes the wounds. Numbs. Heals. While he finishes the thought, he smiles, almost hears Qui-Gon?s voice. Don?t lose yourself in your fears, Padawan. Mind the moment. He misses the sound of that name more than he can say. Padawan. So consoling, so gentle. Upon his return to the hut, the first dusty eddies are already dancing. Cocoons of loose hard grass slither over the rocky ground, rise and fall in the play of the freshening gusts. One of them follows Obi-Wan inside the building. He crouches, watches the brittle netting of leaves and twigs. Rough. Withered. He could toss it in the fire later on, or give it back to the desert in the morning. The latter, he thinks, and the quiet knowledge that he couldn?t learn this lesson from Qui-Gon, but only by way of war and exile saddens him. This is how far you?ve come, Obi-Wan, searching for enlightenment and friendship in a meagre bundle of tinder. In the darkness of his habitation, the hours are melting away. His body might be tired, but his mind is working overtime. Scraps of memories. They?re passing him by, free running, in wild abandon. Some of them cruel, others merely bizarre. He yearns to end the chaos, yearns for lucidity, for perfect peace. The force is still in him and around him, but he doesn?t dare open up to it. Not yet. The last time he did, he felt the other Jedi dying too distinctly. Small bright lights, adrift in the whispering flow of the universe. Flame by flame, extinguished, snuffed. The anguish almost overwhelmed his soul. One day and one night in which he screamed into the desert. Only one breath away from giving up. Peace. There is no death, only the force. In that case, come, force, and take me. Push this human shell over the precipice. Devour me, my guilt, my pain and let it dissolve in you. Maybe he had to come this close to the abyss to realise. He is the one who has to linger. To guard. Preserve for the generations to come, to keep the end of the lights from becoming eternal darkness. Anakin. Luke. The cosmos gives a new star for every one that dies, Padawan. Wisdom that can?t be measured in truth. Obi-Wan lies completely still, but he whispers those words in his heart, up and down, like a mantra. Until the words dispel the pictures and Qui-Gon?s voice drowns out the wind.