Chapter Text
The first time you meet him is in a musty cantina on Tatooine, hung with the scent of dried sweat and watered-down alcohol. The air is still. Lazy. Particles of dust spin in the sunlight that streams through the angled blinds of the only window.
A cup of something foul is set before you, but only because the owner will kick you out of the establishment if you don’t buy something. The drink goes untouched. It’s an excuse to sit in a dim corner of the cantina and spend the afternoon inside, away from the thick heat of Tatooine’s binary suns. If only for a little while, you’re content to drift into a glassy-eyed, passive mode of pure observation.
When he steps through the doors of the cantina, stopping just past the threshold as the doors close behind him, the first thing you notice is his boots. They’re clean. Then you take in the surety of his posture, even if he is unmoving at the front of the cantina. A beard, but trimmed; coarse clothing, but neat; guarded eyes, but not cruel. Bounty hunter, you decide, but then again, the galaxy is brimming with so many people it’s impossible to pinpoint whether the newcomer is a trader passing through Mos Eisley or a smuggler collecting a shipment of spice or simply another face in a crowd of people who somehow wash up on Tatooine and end up stuck.
It doesn’t matter where he’s from. Everyone gets used to the sand and the sweat and the sunburn. Eventually, at least.
A cloak trails behind him as he strides through the cantina, boots barely scuffing against the floor. His hands are not hidden nor gloved, you notice, and you decide that he is not a bounty hunter, a smuggler, or a mechanic. He is the kind of riddle that you would like to solve, but your interest is passive.
The stranger disappears from your line of sight, and you lean back against the corner of the wall. It’s getting late, judging by the gold-tinted line of light on the ground, from where sunlight seeps through the sliver of space between the door and the wall.
There’s the slight murmur of voices, and then the cloaked, empty-handed stranger emerges again, escorted by the owner of the bar. You catch him say Jundland wastes and guide, and then your interest is piqued. The newcomer’s clean boots and clothing must have caught the eye of the cantina owner, partly because a newcomer means an easy scam and partly because nice clothing means good coin. Even if the stranger doesn’t know it, whoever the cantina owner presents as a guide to the Jundland wastes will surely charge an exorbitant fee. It’s common practice. Mos Eisley isn’t known for being nice.
But some part of you doesn’t want to let the stranger get abandoned in the middle of the desert, all his earnings stolen, scammed and left for dead. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t fit in with the sand and the scum of Tatooine, even if his clothing is woven of coarse cloth and doesn’t look like it belongs on Coruscant or Alderaan, either. Maybe it’s because he walks without hiding his hands or his face, or simply because he doesn’t seem to harbor much fear. He might be an honest fool. He might not be.
You don’t really know why you do it ― later, a collection of words can quantify your reasons, but for now, you aren’t entirely sure why you stand and cross the short distance to the stranger and the cantina owner.
“The Wastes are crawling with Tusken Raiders,” the owner is saying, in a gravelly rasp, as you draw near. “Five hundred credits is cheap. No one’ll do that work for less.”
“I’ll do it for free,” you cut in, and you’re still not sure why you’ve taken such an interest in this stranger. Are you so far gone that decent hygiene will compel you to stick out your neck for someone you haven’t even met? Still, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about him.
The stranger and the owner have gone silent, both pairs of eyes sliding over to look at you. There’s something murderous in the narrowed eyes of the surly cantina owner, but that’s to be expected. You just foiled his scam. Slowly, you turn to the stranger, as if finally making eye contact with him is like spoiling the end of a story.
His eyes are blue, you notice, and his brow is furrowed in slight confusion. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, as if you are the riddle and not him, and then turns back to the cantina owner.
The owner is indignant, looking you over as if to reconcile your words with the unobtrusive nature of your appearance. “And who’re you?”
You glance at the newcomer, and his eyes pin you there for a moment. You smile. “A friend. Or at least, I’m friendly enough to stop an innocent traveler from being scammed.”
The owner arranges his face into something slightly less murderous. He fumbles for words. Finds them, after a few moments. “Scammed?” He pauses to huff. “It’s dangerous out there. This ― this girl can’t protect you from Tusken Raiders.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but the stranger speaks before you can.
“Oh, I’m not concerned about raiders,” he says, and his voice is carried by a lovely accent that sounds so...un-Tatooine. There’s some kind of playful music in the tones of his voice, though subtle. Coruscanti, you speculate, but you’ve never even been to Coruscant.
“If you wanna risk it,” the cantina owner says, when he has no response. “I warned you.” He’s met with silence, and his eyes shift to you and the stranger, almost accusatory. “If you’re not gonna buy anything, stop loitering.”
“I bought a drink,” you point out, more out of spite than anything, motioning to your booth in the corner of the cantina, abandoned drink still untouched.
“He hasn’t,” the owner replies, and levels a look at you. It’s not like you threatened his family or tried to steal from him, but then again, in Mos Eisley, hindering business is considered its equivalent anyway.
“Fair enough.” You meet the eyes of the stranger and then nod to the doors, and he follows close behind as you exit the establishment. You won’t be returning to this cantina, but it’s not like you were ever thrilled by the dim interior or the simultaneously tasteless and foul alcohol.
As soon as the doors slide shut and the stranger pulls up next to you, passing a glance over, you speak. “Who are you?”
His eyebrows pull together almost imperceptibly, eyes dropping to the ground and then back to your face. “Who am I?” he repeats, and something resembling a smile tugs at the corners of his lips; but it fades as soon as it appears, along with the look in his eyes that makes you wonder all the more. He finds the words he’s looking for. “Just a wanderer. Now, you can lead me through the Jundland Wastes?”
You nod, still trying to place what his occupation is. Wanderers don’t wash up on Tatooine with Inner Rim accents and clean boots. Wanderers don’t look for guides to lead them to specific places, even if the Wastes are vast and empty.
“There’s something I have to get from my ship,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind.”
You pause for a moment as his eyes search yours. “I don’t,” you say, “as long as you tell me your name.”
His lips curve into a slight smile, and this time it doesn’t fade nearly as soon. And perhaps it reaches his eyes, too. He’s silent for a few seconds before he tells you his name, voice low against the soft hum of Mos Eisley. A single syllable: “Ben.”
You repeat his name aloud, and though it’s just a name ― unobtrusive, uncomplicated ― it somehow feels significant. He smiles again when you say it, eyes crinkling up in the slightest, but he doesn’t ask for your name in return. It could be because you’re just his guide, but you’d like to think it’s because he’s noticed you haven’t offered it and doesn’t want to inquire.
Ben. It’s not the answer to the riddle, but it’s something. For a moment longer, his gaze is warm ― not hot, like Tatooine at midday, but warm. Then he turns back to the road, glances back to confirm you’ll follow, and sets off toward his ship.
You follow close behind, wondering what business he has with Tatooine; what he wants from this world of dust and deserted dreams.
//
The ship is situated past the outskirts of Mos Eisley, and sand whips past your face as you make the short trek to the starfighter that lies on the crest of a sand dune. In the warm light of late afternoon, the ship’s metal ridges glint gold.
He ― Ben ― tells you to stop before you draw near to the ship, and you comply silently, watching as he goes the remainder of the way to his ship, the edge of his cloak dragging in the sand. He’s been quiet for your short journey here, hardly saying more than necessary, but you get the feeling that he’s usually more talkative.
You’re not close enough to the starfighter to decide what kind of model it is, but it doesn’t look like the kind of makeshift, ill-repaired vessel that bounty hunters and smugglers travel by. Perhaps he’s involved in something equally as lucrative but still legal ― at this point, you’ve decided that he’s not a fugitive and not involved in semi-illegal operations. But even though legal and wealthy aren’t usually synonymous on Tatooine, you suppose it’s possible. He isn’t from here, anyway.
Ben returns, arms cradling a bundle of something wrapped in cloth. He holds it close to his chest as he climbs the rest of the way back to you, and then merely nods once. Let’s go, he seems to say, and whatever he’s holding must be important, because the tentative friendliness you built up before is set aside in lieu of some odd mix of caution and haste.
You turn to lead the way back to Mos Eisley ― there, you can buy better transportation ― but a soft cry breaks the silence. It’s simultaneously unfamiliar and universally recognizable.
“Is that a baby?” you say carefully, turning back around to face Ben.
He hugs the bundle to himself, as if you pose some kind of threat. Ben’s eyes search yours, and it’s the first time you’ve seen any kind of uncertainty in him. Even if you’ve only known him for a few hours at most. He clears his throat. “It is.”
A litany of questions threaten to spill from your lips, but you notice that he doesn’t offer any more information. You can’t help it, though. You have to know. The question is blunt, and it even makes you cringe, but you ask it anyway: “Are you a slaver?”
Ben recoils almost instantly, looking from you to the baby, still hidden from your view by layers of cloth and the extra fabric of his cloak. “No,” he says, and the word is forceful but not forced. “Why...why would you think that?”
You shrug, shift nervously for a moment, and then decide that you might as well tell the truth. You motion to him with a vague hand. “You’re not poor, obviously, and you have a nice ship. You’re not from Tatooine, but you’re passing through, looking for a single location. And you carry a baby, though something about it makes you uncomfortable.”
The last part was a guess, but you didn’t anticipate that he would react with a visible flinch, features twisting for barely a moment. It’s brief, but you suppose there is something important about this infant that he carries so protectively and yet so wearily.
You’re met with silence, if you don’t count the constant blowing of wind over the sand dunes or the soft noise of Mos Eisley nearby.
“I apologize,” you say, when the pause extends a beat too long. “I overstepped my bounds. Come on. We should leave now to get to Anchorhead before dark.”
He nods, almost imperceptibly, and you lead the way back to Mos Eisley, silently berating yourself. There could be a number of reasons why he has a baby, and an even longer list of reasons why there might be complicated feelings surrounding the baby. It’s not your place to pry. You offered to take Ben through the Jundland Wastes free of charge just because he intrigued you, but now you wonder if it would have been better had you stayed silent.
A few minutes later, you’re surprised to hear his voice. “He’s not my son,” Ben says, and you turn to look at him, faltering in your steps for a moment, though his gaze is fixed ahead firmly. “His father was killed. In the war.”
Oh. You know people who were affected by the war, of course, but there are some things that are too tragic to reconcile with words alone, some things that go beyond your capacity for comfort. What’s left is a void of numbness and dumb silence, and you scramble for something to say. How do you give your condolences for a son who will never know his father?
“I…” you start uncertainly, because you know that you have to start somewhere, but words still fail you. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Ben’s voice is soft and low, and he looks at the face of the baby in his arms. “So am I.”
You wonder if this is the end of the story, the answer to the riddle; if this sorrow is what marks him apart from the rest, if this burden is what renders him alone. Perhaps there’s more ― he hasn’t told you his occupation, or where he comes from, or the model of his ship ― or perhaps there isn’t.
“What’s his name?” The question tumbles from your mouth, clumsily, and you immediately wonder when you’ll finally learn your lesson to stop prying.
But just as surprising as before, Ben answers. “Luke,” he says, and like his own, the name is simple, a single syllable, a lone note on a sheet of music.
You don’t know what lies behind either of their names, but there is a brand of steadfastness in the quiet solitude of the wanderer and his ward and the names he has given to you. It’s more of who he is ― his voice, his eyes, his disposition ― that intrigues you than the names themselves. He could have given you any name, you realize, and his voice would have made it sound like the first note of a song. You would have wanted to hear more, either way.
Before, when he told you his name, there had been some kind of wistful nostalgia associated with it ― he had smiled, even ― but his eyes are more sorrow than memory. The Clone Wars are over, now, but only within the last week. You wonder where Ben comes from, how he knew Luke’s father, whether it was Separatist or Republic forces who orphaned a child in the last days of the war.
“Come on,” you say softly, picking your feet up off the sand and angling yourself toward Mos Eisley. The sun hangs between the horizon and the sky overhead. “We should get going.”
“Alright,” Ben says, even if you have the inkling of an idea that things aren’t.
But you remind yourself that it’s not your place to pry, so you tear your eyes away from his, trying to ignore the contrast between the clear blue of his eyes and the endless expanse of sand and sun. You forge ahead toward Mos Eisley, but you can’t forget the still image of Ben framed in the glow of two stars, the edge of his face traced in waning gold sunlight.
You also can’t shake the feeling that he is meant for far more than still deserts and oppressive suns and seas of sand. You try to picture him somewhere else and you can’t place an exact location. But you’re almost certain that in some other life ― in a parallel universe, perhaps ― he is more than just a wanderer.