Star Wars: From a Certain Point of View (From a Certain Point of View #1)

by Elizabeth Schaefer

Always so damn enigmatic, thought Raymus. Leia never told you more than you needed to know. That was for the protection of others as much as her own. She had learned that lesson well, the princess who had become a galactic senator, the senator who had secretly risked her life countless times to help nurture a fledgling Rebellion from a handful of squabbling, disgruntled star systems into the organized and dedicated Alliance it had become.

That was the most bitter irony of war: The greatest acts of love for your family were the ones that kept you apart from them.

TK-4601 loved the Empire. He believed in it. He knew it could bring order and peace to the galaxy. But he also knew that he couldn’t keep doing what he was doing now…killing rebels while looking into their faces, their eyes, seeing them open and exposed, emotions naked to him, while they only saw flat black and white.

He could shoot them out of the sky, and he would—but not shoot them in the heart.

The point is: I liked helping people, and if they chose to thank me with little favors or gifts or credits, it would have been impolite to say no.

All of these sing individual notes in the one great song of the Whills. No place is barren of the Force, and they who are one with the Force can always find the possibility of life.

Time is a circle. The beginning is the end.

“Battles and wars aren’t the measure of a Jedi. Anyone can fight, given a weapon and an enemy. Anyone can use a lightsaber, given due training or even good luck. But to stand and wait—to have so much patience and fortitude—that, Obi-Wan, is a greater achievement than you can know. Few could have accomplished it.”

Fewer still could have done so without turning to darkness. Sometimes, when Qui-Gon considers it, he is awed by his student’s steadfastness. Every person Obi-Wan ever truly loved—Anakin, Satine, Padmé, and Qui-Gon himself—came to a terrible end.

As the rest of the galaxy burned, his path remained true. It is the kind of victory that most people never recognize and yet the bedrock all goodness is built upon.

But after all his losses, all his sacrifice, all these endless years in the desert, Obi-Wan Kenobi still wants more life. This, too, is a kind of courage. Qui-Gon remembers the vitality of mortal existence—fondly, but distantly.

And normally she would welcome a hectic day to keep her mind off her husband’s and daughter’s absences, but day after worrying day had ground her down. She had never felt old until recently, never found it difficult to get out of bed refreshed and energetic, but now she felt her advancing years keenly.

I cannot use his real name. It would undo me, even after all this time, catching in my throat. The time for talk is at an end. This must be decided once and for all.

“I am not a child anymore, Obi-Wan. Why must we use toys?” “You must be patient, my young Padawan. This is but the first step. We have time.”

And worst of all, Luke, as I am now, an old man, his face creased, his eyes haunted. He’s cut off from those who love him, consumed by regret and sorrow. It is too much to bear, a future I never want to see.

“Mourn them do not. Miss them do not. Rejoice for those who transform into the Force.” But he was lonely. “Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose.” But he was lonely, and old.

“And Obi-Wan?” “Yes, Master.” “Sorry about the pot, I am.” “It was old and ugly.” Yoda opened his eyes. “So am I.” “No, Master.” “Look, Master Kenobi. Look. Old and ugly. What see you?” Obi-Wan leaned down close. “A luminous being,” he said. “Humph,” said Yoda, and closed his eyes again. “Annoying, one’s own words to use against him. A bad feeling I have about that.”