Chapter 1: The Rocks Beneath My Feet Begin to Crack
Chapter Text
Obi-Wan Kenobi's world tilts on its axis as a comlink rolls away from the charred body of General Grievous.
Body? Remains might be a better word. Organic matter is not much a part of the infamous droid general anymore.
“So uncivilized,” he mutters, tossing his blaster to the side. Sweat beads at his hairline, the underarms of his tunic soaked through.
Lovely.
Finally, this fiend is dead. Not that he makes a habit of wishing death on enemies, but he will make an exception from time to time. Relief floods through him. Perhaps now, the war might end, or be on its way to conclusion. The comlink spins to a halt, and something feels … off. He can’t name what it might be, exactly. There’s only a pervading sensation of discomfort.
Wiping the sweat from his eyes—and hoping Cody picked up his fallen lightsaber—he calls the comlink to his hand through the Force, and a sudden, terrible throbbing thuds behind his eyes as soon as he catches it. His legs crumple, and he falls to his knees.
Yellow eyes. A lava planet. Bodies strewn on the floor of the Jedi temple. A desolate cave in the desert.
His own voice.
I have failed you Anakin. I have failed you.
Visions are sticky things, but he can’t even make out entire scenes. Just shreds. Fighting with Anakin might not be a terrible surprise, but saying something like that? Old fears claw at his insides and tear out anxieties he thought he buried. Anxieties about not being good enough to teach Anakin. Not being the teacher he deserved. Not because Anakin is the chosen one—whatever that even means—but because Anakin is a talented student, a passionate one that Obi-Wan loves like a brother. He summons his own words of just days ago, reminding himself that he is not the twenty-five year old Knight with a dead master and a ten-year-old depending on him.
I have known you since you were small boy. Taught you everything I know.
That undoes the knot in his chest, but it remains true that he has not let Anakin go in the way masters are meant to. Their bond is something different, a friendship beyond master and apprentice, and who is he to question that?
Despite Anakin’s irritation at his current duty of spying on the chancellor—which Obi-Wan still does not like himself—he thought they left it fairly well the other day when he departed. Not perfectly, after their tense conversation the morning previous, but better. More like themselves. And what of the dead bodies on the floor of the temple? An attack from the Separatists? One last-gasp attempt at victory?
Yoda’s familiar words come to him.
Always in motion the future is.
The thud thud thud behind his eye grows sharper.
What the devil? Exhaustion buries itself in his bones, not just from today’s exertions, but the war as a whole. Satine’s loss. Anakin pulling away from him, lately. Has all of that come to a head now that Grievous is dead, and he can dare, maybe, take a breath? Though, even if the Separatists give in, there is still that matter of the Sith lord.
That particular thing doesn’t give him any room to breathe at all, but he must not over interpret visions. That alone proves dangerous, especially when he cannot see anything fully. He’s not really had a vision before, only dreams he might have thought were such.
The thudding fades.
The images vanish.
The lights on the comlink blink.
A message.
His heart pounds now instead of his head. Anxiety rushes through him and he takes a long, deep, breath. It has been a trying day, and this is only a message on the comlink of a dead man who can no longer torment the galaxy.
Perhaps it will tell him something.
He presses the button, and a robotic voice speaks.
“A message from Lord Sidious.”
What?
Grievous would of course speak to the mysterious Sidious, especially with Dooku gone, but hearing the name shocks him regardless.
"General Grievous," the voice of a man in a black hood says when the holo appears, and the voice tears through Obi-Wan's veins. Shreds them. "Make sure you take care of Kenobi. I need that meddling Jedi out of my way once and for all. I’m meant to be meeting with Skywalker this evening and it won’t do to be interrupted.”
Palpatine. Chancellor Palpatine. Chancellor Sheev Palpatine. That's his voice. It must be. It’s a touch raspier than usual, angrier, but that’s him.
The mention of Skywalker only makes Obi-Wan more sure.
Anakin wouldn’t be meeting with a Sith knowing he was meeting a Sith, and it’s his purpose, right now, to be meeting with Palpatine.
The pieces come together in his mind. He sees himself, just two days ago, standing with Anakin in the halls of the temple.
Search your feelings, Anakin, something is out of place.
He has stayed in office long after his term expired.
But no. Yes? He must know. He must know for certain.
He presses the button, and plays the message again.
The black cloak hides the man's face, but he knows that voice. He knows it.
Has he lost his mind? Entirely possible, given the chaos of the last few weeks, the last few months, as they fought their way through the Outer Rim, but no. No, he knows that voice. He just heard it, when he saved the man’s life. Did Palpatine set that up? And why?
Acid crawls up from the pit of Obi-Wan's stomach to burn burn burn at the back of his throat.
He takes a moment he doesn’t have to contemplate this. To make certain he isn’t mad. The council had supposed Palpatine under the influence of the mysterious Sith lord, but did not suspect him of being the Sith lord himself. It was Palpatine, back at the start of the war, that encouraged HoloNet news reports featuring the Jedi and their hard work on the war effort. Now, as people tire of the conflict, public opinion has turned against the Jedi.
He set the Jedi up to fail.
Obi-Wan’s stomach clenches. Something tells him this has been a plot to destroy the Jedi all along.
The council has long suspected the Sith lord of playing both sides since the start, but if Palpatine is the Sith then the treachery runs deeper than they know.
The Sith do not share power. They barely even share it with their own apprentices.
Dooku. Anakin killed Dooku. Did Palpatine encourage Anakin to do that while Obi-Wan himself was passed out?
Is he …
Obi-Wan shuts his eyes.
What does he feel? Dread. Dread burrowing deeper. It’s been picking and poking at him since the council decided to have Anakin spy on Palpatine against his measured protests. Perhaps he should have been less measured. The Jedi on the council are wise, but they don’t know Anakin like he does, and he was right—Anakin resented the post immediately. Anakin wouldn’t fall if Palpatine tempted him, Obi-Wan feels sure of that, but what lies could the old man concoct? What could he manipulate Anakin into doing all while hiding the truth? He’s always been interested in Anakin. Too interested.
The galaxy is in mortal peril.
And Anakin could be in danger.
He must get back to Coruscant. Now. He whistles to Boga, and the faithful dragon—lizard? He’s not sure which—comes running to him. The battle still rages, the clanking of droids close by.
Once Obi-Wan arrives back at command, Cody hands over his lightsaber with a grin.
“I thought you might need this to take down Grievous,” Cody jokes. “But I heard from some lads who saw off in the distance that you finished him off with a blaster? That’s not like you, General.”
Obi-Wan smiles weakly before sliding down off Boga’s back, giving her a pat and a soft good girl. “Desperate times and all that.”
“Something wrong, sir?” Cody asks. “I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“I am, about Grievous,” Obi-Wan replies, “but I’ve just gotten word of something back on Coruscant. I’m loathe to leave you here, Cody, but I need to go back immediately. Will you be all right?”
“We can take ‘em, sir, don’t you worry about that. Anything I can help with?”
“Jedi business,” Obi-Wan says, not daring to let the truth go past his lips, even to a trusted friend. “Did you comm the council about Grievous?”
“Left a message,” Cody answers. “Neither Master Windu nor Master Yoda was answering, though I did get the main temple frequency, and they said there were some comms issues today. I wanted to ask you before comming the chancellor’s office. Should I go ahead?”
Of course. The comms issue at the temple can’t be a coincidence. But why now?
Something is more than out of place. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
“No,” Obi-Wan says, a touch too fast. “Let’s hold off for now. My business back on Coruscant will allow me to pass on the message. The hyperspace lane we took should get me there in eight hours or so.”
It has to be soon enough. It has to be. He has to stop whatever meeting Anakin is having with Palpatine. Given the local Corcuscant time now, he should just be able to do it before the nebulous “evening” the message indicated. Hopefully.
Cody’s voice draws his attention back to the moment at hand.
“Are you … are you sure you’re all right, General Kenobi?”
Putting one hand on Cody’s shoulder, Obi-Wan leans in close, not wishing to be overheard. “Anakin was given a difficult assignment when we left Coruscant, and I’m afraid something has gone badly wrong with it. But tell the others the council has called me back urgently. The information about Anakin needs to stay between us.”
“Understood,” Cody says with a nod. “If I can do anything to help, I’ll be glad to do it. I know it’s been difficult, sir, for all of us lately.”
“Indeed, my friend,” Obi-Wan whispers, pressing Cody’s shoulder before clipping his lightsaber back on his belt. “It has.”
Guilt seizes him in it’s vice grip as he makes his way back to his starfighter, but even if Anakin were not directly in the line of fire, this piece of information simply could not wait.
Obi-Wan’s blood runs cold.
If he’s right about this, the galaxy will have much more to fear than Separatist battle droids. They’ll have more to fear than planetary blockades and starvation and death, because under a Sith, the starvation, the death, the pain of this war, will only continue. It will morph, but it will be worse. Billions of of lives, the safety and joy of countless Republic citizens, depends upon what he does in this moment. What others do when he tells them this news.
Nothing less than this threat of unthinkable galatic fracture would make him leave the 212th behind.
When he reaches his ship, the matter of strategy arises. Should he try to contact Padme? No. No. That would both worry her and he cannot tell her the truth until he speaks to either Yoda or Master Windu. Comming Anakin is out of the question. He might be with Palpatine, and for all Obi-Wan knows, his communications might be intercepted, or worse, Anakin would refuse to hear this out. Worry, fear for Anakin and what Palpatine might do to him, makes him hesitate. It makes him want to tell Padme to keep him with her. He’s known about them, of course, nearly since the start, keeping the secret for Anakin’s happiness, and Padme’s too, which he told Padme last he saw her a few days ago, coming to her with concern about Anakin.
We … pretend I don’t know. And I was happy to, because it made him happy. You made him happy.
Her smile, the way she took his hand and trusted him to keep their secret, stayed with him. What will be done about their marriage remains to be seen, but he must trust in their friendship now as she trusted in him. They are the two people who know and love Anakin best.
He must be calm. Patient. The Jedi must know this first. Doing this right is crucial, and Palpatine has been nothing but friendly toward Anakin for all his time in Coruscant. Perhaps he will not jump quickly into violence.
Again, he thinks of Palpatine’s motives. Does he want to turn Anakin to his side? It would make sense, given Anakin’s power. Has that been his plan all along? Obi-Wan has worried about Anakin leaving the order, though sometimes, it seems Anakin’s happiness and the rules of the order clash, even if it is the best place for him. He’s worried about the way Anakin’s glanced off the dark side before—more than glanced—and the rage in his eyes, lately. The pain there. Anakin doing something rash and not appreciating the depth of his power is always something that has been on Obi-Wan’s mind. It must be, as his teacher. But Anakin Skywalker would not say yes to a Sith.
Why didn’t he see this? Why didn’t he tell Anakin to stay away from Palpatine? Obi-Wan has never liked the man, though Anakin might not have listened to him on the matter, because he always has.
The weight of the sky rests on his shoulders as his starfighter shoots out of Utapau’s atmosphere and into the cold expanse of space. Alone with the stars and one astromech droid that Anakin designed to be like Artoo—though, really, what droid could be—he wonders what he’ll find back on Coruscant. With a Sith this powerful in play, it is not only Anakin in danger, but the Jedi order. His family. His life. He will not see them injured by an old man hungry for yet more power.
Ahsoka’s words come back to him, the ones she spoke just before he and Anakin left to go rescue Palpatine.
No, the chancellor needs you.
Going back to Coruscant had been vital—about that his grand-padawan had been wrong. As much as Obi-Wan wanted to help Mandalore, the Separatists could not attack the capital without an answer.
But about Palpatine … well, she didn’t know how right she was. The man has been using them like puppets for years.
The blue and silver lights of hyperspace whirl around him after a few minutes, and he pushes the button on the ship’s comlink, hoping he can reach Yoda or Master Windu—he’s relieved that they sent Master Plo Koon to Kashyyyk, because Yoda will need to be present for this. The council’s private frequency goes unanswered, but it is more secure than personal channels, so he has no choice but to leave a message.
This is Master Kenobi. Whoever on the council might get this message, hear me urgently—I am in possession of information about the Sith lord we’ve been searching for. I cannot say more, but I am on my way to Coruscant now. General Grievous is dead, and the 212th is taking care of the remaining forces on Utapau. If this is received, I ask for someone to meet me on the temple landing pad when I arrive. I’ll transmit my estimated arrival time. May the force be with you.
Fear curdles in the pit of his stomach. Why aren’t the comms working? Cody mentioned it too. He shuts his eyes, resting his hands on the ship’s dashboard and slowing down his mind. Creating scenarios will do him no good. He did not expect to hold a galaxy’s fate in his hands, not like this, but here he is, and he must not wear himself out. He must get to Coruscant and find his fellows.
He hopes he’s not too late.
Sunset greets him when he arrives back on Coruscant, the dusky-blue sky cut through with red and gold. The city’s brilliant lights usually signal familiarity. Comfort. Home. Tonight, he only searches the shadows. Nothing seems amiss, at least not yet. Traffic is not lighter or heavier than usual, and he makes his way toward the Jedi temple without a fuss.
Given what he knows, something about it makes the normal scene unnerving.
Despite his best efforts, his heart beats in an uneven pitter patter against his chest. Many might ask, what is one Sith, in the grand scheme of things? But if Palpatine’s treachery runs as deep as it seems, and probably even deeper still, one Sith is everything. The history of them has faded from the common knowledge of the galaxy, and that serves the Jedi ill here. Palpatine set it up that way, didn’t he? Turning the public slowly but surely against the very people fighting the war he has, perhaps, entirely orchestrated. Any Jedi will know the history of the wars between the Sith and the Jedi—the last one a thousand years ago—but that will mean little to any normal person alive in the galaxy today. Despite conflicts on individual planets, what has been know for centuries is intergalatic peace. Jedi were meant to defend that peace.
Now, they are soldiers. They had to be soldiers.
And maybe, Obi-Wan thinks, with a shaky, shuddering breath, it has all been based on a lie.
He won’t let all of it be for nothing.
Twilight has fallen by the time he reaches the temple’s landing area, and he misses the years before the war with a pang. When he was a youngling, a padawan, a new knight with an apprentice of his own, there was always hustle and bustle around here. The landing spot for the bigger ships is away from the temple, but starfighters and speeders and citibikes all congregate in this spot. In days past, Jedi would wave and greet each other, flying off to a solo mission or speeding across Coruscant. With so many of them far-flung across the galaxy, it stands empty.
No one on the council has gotten his message, or one of them would be here. There’s no sign of a problem at the temple, and yet …
Something is wrong. Something is coming, and he has to stop it.
“Good flight, R4,” he tells his droid, climbing down from the starfighter’s seat. “You should go get yourself an oil bath and—”
He breaks off. People are coming. Several of them.
And they are decidedly not friendly.
Footsteps follow seconds later, and when he looks up, a familiar blue figure appears a short distance away.
Why is Mas Amedda walking toward him with five senate guards?
“Master Kenobi,” Amedda says, and the smile on his face is nothing but a mask. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Obi-Wan puts one hand on his lightsaber, then thinks better of it. Whatever happens here, he cannot be seen fighting the chancellor’s right-hand or the senate guards. That he could take them on his own is certain, but doing so out here in public would not do, not when public opinion of the Jedi is already precarious. Force knows what the HoloNet would say.
“Were you?” Obi-Wan asks, remaining diplomatic. “Whatever for?”
“Into the speeder, please,” Amedda replies.
“Don’t take this personally, but I like to know where I’m going before I get into a vehicle. I have business with the Jedi Council.”
In the blink of an eye Amedda has his blaster out, shoving it close against Obi-Wan’s stomach. “The chancellor,” he says, the senate guards crowding around so no passerby will see what he’s doing, “wishes to speak with you.”
Well, if Obi-Wan had any doubts about what he heard, about mishearing the voice, he doesn’t now.
“There is a tracker on my ship,” Obi-Wan surmises. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Now, Master Jedi.”
Obi-Wan complies, though he keeps one hand on his lightsaber, refusing to let it be taken. For that, he will risk being seen fighting Amedda and the guards.
It looks like he’ll be facing a Sith lord alone.
At least he can say he’s done it before, but this is not ideal.
Mas Amedda drives the speeder leisurely through the city. Nothing is wrong. All smiles. There is not a member of the Jedi council riding along with a blaster at his back and information that could break the galaxy in two. The senate building is quiet when they arrive, and Obi-Wan only spots a few stray senators working late. They don’t pass by Bail’s or Padme’s offices, or he would call out to them and interrupt whatever Palpatine has in mind for him—he wouldn’t try to kill a Jedi with senators present, at least not yet. The doors to Palpatine’s chambers loom large in front of him, red carpet bleeding down the private hallway. It is not terribly humble, for a man who claims to be such. Just a servant of democracy.
The kidnappers—that is what they are, after all—push him unceremoniously into Palpatine's office, and Palpatine dismisses them with a flick of his wrist before turning to Obi-Wan wearing a slick smile. That smile has always made Obi-Wan uncomfortable. Unsettled.
Now he knows why.
Anakin isn’t here, and despite the danger, Obi-Wan wishes he was. Facing the Sith Lord they’ve long been searching for is something he would rather do with his best friend and former apprentice at his side, and his absence aches.
"Master Kenobi," Palpatine says, still holding tight to that smile that might shear Obi-Wan in half. "You're back early from Utapau.”
“General Grievous is dead,” Obi-Wan says without pause. “And I found myself needed here, as I haven’t been able to contact the Jedi temple to pass on the news. A trouble with their comms, apparently, according to Commander Cody.”
“Oh, how frustrating.” Palpatine’s smile widens.
He is a predator, and he plans on making Obi-Wan his prey.
“It seems you were indeed the man for the job,” Palpatine continues. “I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan forces a smile of his own, and the tension of it makes his jaw hurt. “Have you been in touch with the Jedi council, by chance?”
“I haven’t,” Palpatine answers.
“I admit,” Obi-Wan says slowly, keeping his distance from Palpatine, “I did not expect … such a greeting at the temple’s landing pad.”
The muscles in shoulders and his back lock up, and he makes himself shake them out. Something is about to happen. Something that will change everything.
“I wanted to be sure all was well when you arrived back much earlier than expected.”
Palpatine keeps his tone light. Breezy. Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.
"You know why I'm here early rather than fighting alongside my men on Utapau." Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, willing himself calm, but the storm of his rage threatens to explode. People all across the galaxy are dead because of this war, clones and civilians and Jedi, and this man stands at the center of it. "Or you at least suspect. If you didn't, you wouldn't have had me dragged here. Or tracked my ship. Otherwise, how would you know I was back early?”
Palpatine moves toward his desk, tapping a button on the front edge.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The security cameras going offline. Of course.
"I am sure I don't know what you mean, Master Kenobi."
"You wanted me sent to Utapau in the hopes of killing me, but more importantly to keep me away from Anakin. He’s part of your plan, isn’t he? Even if he doesn’t know it.”
"Master Kenobi"—Palpatine chuckles, and it sends a shudder up Obi-Wan's spine—"you are one of our most revered Jedi. I simply knew you were the right man for the job. As for Anakin, I have merely been listening to his grievances and concerns. I’m afraid the Jedi have not taken on that mantle well. Not even you, his old master and supposed closest friend.”
The moment Palpatine steps closer, Obi-Wan ignites his lightsaber. It bathes the blood-red carpet blue, and suddenly the room is so red that he cannot help but wonder that if all along, this room Palpatine stole out from under Chancellor Valorum has been a hint.
Red. The color of a bleeding kyber crystal. The color of the Sith.
“Master Kenobi.” Palpatine’s smile slips, an ugly expression marring his face before he rights it again. His voice takes on the raspier quality Obi-Wan heard in the message. “I think you want to be quite sure of what you’re doing before you advance with your blade. The punishment for being found guilty of trying to assasinate the chancellor is death. Even the Jedi can’t save you from that.”
Obi-Wan swallows, drawing in a deep breath. Letting the Force glide through him. Perhaps he is not the man for this job, but he is the man who is here, and he must stay Palpatine from whatever he has planned until help arrives.
“You are not just the chancellor,” he says. “You had me brought here with a blaster at my back. You tracked my ship. Which only confirms what I discovered on Utapau.”
Palpatine reaches for something beneath his robe. “And what is that, might I ask?”
“That you,” Obi-Wan continues, circling toward the door in case he needs an exit, “are Darth Sidious. The Sith lord we’ve been searching for.”
Another saber ignites. A red blade. Laughter comes next, throaty and threatening.
When Obi-Wan looks up, yellow is creeping across Palpatine’s otherwise unremarkable irises until the usual color, whatever it was, is gone.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The laughter twists, amused and angry all at once. “You fool of a Jedi. You are not strong enough to challenge me.”
Obi-Wan moves into his opening stance, one foot back and his lightsaber arched over his head. “I can hold my own.”
“Soresu.” Palpatine shakes his head, but the next words come out sharp. Condescending. Pure, palpable evil drips off every single one. “What weakness. You want to kill me. I know you do. So you ought to act like it.”
Palpatine spins through the air so fast Obi-Wan barely has time to deflect the blow, and no matter his age, the Sith lord moves at a terrifying speed. Faster than Dooku. Faster than Master Windu. Faster than Maul.
The blades meet once. Twice. Three four five six seven times. Crashing. Crackling.
Obi-Wan’s previously soaked tunic is soaked through again.
Eight. Nine. Ten eleven twelve.
Obi-Wan’s mastery of a defensive form serves him well here, and he parries Palpatine’s blade each time it comes toward him, but the swiftness tires out his already tired body. An opportunity to get a hit in himself has not come. Usually, using Soresu can wear out an opponent, but that is not happening here.
“Good enough for Grievous is not the same as being good enough for me,” Palpatine says, their blades crackling again when they meet in the middle. “Though you have impressed me, Master Kenobi. A talented duelist you may be, but not as much as you may believe. Not enough for Dooku. And certainly not enough for me.”
“Talented enough to take down your first apprentice,” Obi-Wan shoots back, his arms shaking from the pressure of their pressed-together blades. “That he didn’t stay dead was something of a surprise, I admit. I would think defeating him twice would be enough, but he must have learned his stubbornness from his master. What was it you called him a few months ago? My personal problem?”
Palpatine laughs again, his eyes boring into Obi-Wan’s. “You didn’t defeat him well enough, did you?” The mocking raises Obi-Wan’s hackles, but he will not let it bother him. “Too upset about his murder of your fool of a master that you eventually let him kill Satine Kyrze and get away. I was so hoping Maul would do away with you, and get you out of my blessed way.”
Obi-Wan twirls away, their blades sliding off each other with a burst of energy. He swings toward Palpatine’s arm, but Palpatine meets his strike, the air burning.
“I am not a green youngling who will give into your taunts,” Obi-Wan says, planting his feet to take some of the pressure from their crossed blades. Satine’s name cuts him open, scorches his skin, but letting those memories make him stumble here will not do her memory any good. Saving the galaxy from this wretch will. “You’ll have to try something else, I’m afraid.”
He was angry and upset when he fought Maul, and it did affect him, and he does blame himself, but that guilt must not lead him now.
“You know,” Palpatine whispers, and there’s a flash of silver near his boot, “I think I will.”
Before Obi-Wan can move, think, do anything, that flash of silver rushes toward him, stabbing right into his gut before sliding out again. He flies through the air, banging his head on the wall and losing his grip on his lightsaber. The force of hitting the wall throws him forward again, and his hands and knees hit the carpet. Hard. That throb behind his eye from earlier returns, blood bubbling up and dripping from the wound.
That, he was not expecting.
His head swims, dizziness sweeping over him before he rights himself. Surely, surely, someone will hear this, but it is a matter of who.
Where has his saber gone?
Across the room.
Do not vomit. Do not vomit.
How long does he have before he bleeds out? He feels for the wound, which is more to the side rather than the center. That is something, but … his hand goes to it, and comes away smeared red.
Not good.
Beatings he can take, but his body will give out no matter his stubborness if he keeps bleeding like this.
Boots appear in his line of vision. That flash of silver now tinged red. A long dagger.
“It wouldn’t do for you to have a lightsaber wound, now would it?” Palpatine asks, stepping close. “Much as I would enjoy running you through. That might give me away, after all. Or at least be suspicious. But you were so determined to show me you didn’t think of that, did you?”
He crouches down, seizing Obi-Wan’s chin in a tight, painful grip, and yanking his head up. The moment he grasps Obi-Wan's face, pieces of that shredded vision coming rushing back.
Yellow eyes. That must be Palpatine. No lava planet this time. That desolate desert cave again.
Anakin’s voice, instead of his own.
Master, what have you done?
Palpatine might as well be shoving that knife into his eye socket for how sharp and relentless the pain in Obi-Wan's head is.
“Do you know who is due to meet me any moment now?” Palpatine pushes his fingers into Obi-Wan’s cheeks, the grip bruising the bones beneath. “Why, young Anakin. Can you imagine that? What timing. Truth be told I wanted to have him meet me earlier—we did have such an illuminating conversation at the opera night before last—but he’s been hesitant to come again, unti I finally heard that he would agree to this evening. And when he sees you bleeding, dying at my hand, who do you think he’ll choose? I assure you it won’t be his old master, but his new one.”
New master? Has Anakin … no. No. He won’t believe that. He would know. He would feel it. What he cannot deny, however, is the darkness he sensed in Anakin after they rescued Palpatine. After Dooku’s death. He wants to, but he can’t.
I wish we could have captured him, Obi-Wan mused. We might have learned more about Sidious.
I didn’t have a choice, Anakin replied, short, and leaving no room for argument. The way he spoke stood out from their usual easy banter throughout the mission, which is why it’s easy to recall.
Did he have a choice?
Regardless, concerns over Anakin’s ocassional inability to regulate his rage is very different from Anakin joining the Sith.
He won’t let me down. He never has.
Obi-Wan exhales a shaky breath. “You don’t know Anakin if you think that’s true.”
He must get his saber back. There will be only seconds available to him when he does, so he must have Palpatine as distracted as possible.
“I think you perhaps don’t know him as well as you suppose you do,” Palpatine says. “There are things I do know that he wouldn’t dare tell you, or risk your lecturing. I admit, your influence on Anakin has been so strong that I have never been able to pry your fingers off him. But the moment you left he was practically eating out of my hand. He has not turned yet, but he is well on his way. He will do so entirely when I tell him I am the only one who can save his wife. I haven’t told him I’m a Sith, but he knows. He just won’t admit it yet.”
Save his wife? There was nothing wrong with Padme when Obi-Wan saw her last a few days ago. That she might be pregnant he was aware, though her robes did a good enough job of hiding her condition to a passerby, it was obvious enough to him, and he sensed new life, a joy and anxiety from her that was different. The child is Anakin’s, of that he is sure, but the question of what do I do about this will have to wait.
“There’s nothing wrong with Padme,” Obi-Wan argues.
Palpatine chuckles, though it’s half-caught in a growl. “Tell that to Anakin. He didn’t say her name to me, but when I told him a story about a man who could save others from death, he was paying rapt attention. I can put the pieces together, especially given the gossip of her … condition.”
Save others from dying? What Sith treachery. And a lie, too.
A perfect lie for Anakin.
“You stay away from Anakin, you wretch,” Obi-Wan snaps, allowing the flash of rage to crackle in his blood before he puts it aside. “And from Padme too.”
White-hot pain steals Obi-Wan’s breath when Palpatine’s dagger stabs into him a second time, somewhere in the soft flesh of his stomach.
Dammit. Dammit.
He can’t die before he passes the truth on to someone else.
Obi-Wan coughs when the dagger slides back out, blood tasting like copper in his mouth before curdling at the corners of his lips. Pushing Palpatine away via the Force is out of the question now—he will pass out if he tries it. His body is telling him so. Drawing his saber to him will take less energy.
"I've been dreaming about this for so long, Master Kenobi," Palpatine whispers, smooth as silk, his thumb smearing the blood on Obi-Wan’s lips. "I just never thought I'd get to do the job myself."
Obi-Wan coughs again, and he spits blood on the carpet. His vision blurs.
His saber. His saber.
Adjusting his right hand, he keeps Palpatine’s gaze.
“I’m honored,” he retorts, swallowing back a noise of pain. “Though any Sith wants any Jedi dead on principle, so I’m not sure this a special privilege.”
"Master Kenobi." Palpatine clicks his tongue. "You aren't just any Jedi. I've wanted you dead in particular for years and have tried to make it happen more than once. Do you recall that Sith planet you and the esteemed Senator Organa stumbled upon? Geonosis too, might have ended you. That time when you went undercover to save my life I truly thought would do you in. But you have been determined to survive, haven’t you? You are so"—he shakes Obi-Wan’s head back and forth—"terribly good. This will be a pleasure. I’ll take care of your apprentice, shall I?”
Obi-Wan could glance off the dark side tonight. He did it without meaning to when he fought Maul the first time. It clawed at him, tried to cut through the years of training. Instead, he leans into the light.
And sometimes, the light burns.
His lightsaber flies into his hand, ignites, and with his remaining energy he thrusts it forward, the buzzing blade burying itself into Palpatine’s shoulder.
“Stay away,” Obi-Wan says, pulling his saber back out again, “from Anakin Skywalker.”
It’s not fatal, but it’s enough to make Palpatine let go, drop his dagger, and crumple to the carpet.
Obi-Wan can’t get up, though he does move to lean against the wall, one hand going toward the second wound. Blood seeps out like sludge from the wounds, dizziness and nausea starting to take hold to the point where he can’t defeat them.
A presence looms large. Footsteps come down the hallway, and Obi-Wan feels it, Anakin’s anxiety. Panic. Fear. Ever since his vision of his mother’s death turned out to be true, every dream is a threat to Anakin—Obi-Wan’s heard plenty of them throughout the war, when he and Anakin were sleeping Force knows where. Not a year ago he dreamed that Obi-Wan was killed in a battle, and even when Obi-Wan was fine and well, Anakin still watched him like a hawk for some time after, clinging to his every move like a shadow. Anakin had nightmares all the time as a Padawan too. But he hasn’t said anything about a vision or a dream recently. Perhaps he thought he couldn’t, if it was about Padme, but he must know that Obi-Wan knows. His thoughts muddle, pain pulsates through his torso, and then, Anakin’s voice slices sharp into the air.
“Obi-Wan?”
Chapter 2: But Now My Ink's Blood Red
Summary:
Corrupted by fear, Anakin Skywalker teeters on the edge of the abyss, torn between light and dark while a gravely injured Obi-Wan tries to pull him back. Chaos erupts as Palpatine's allies accuse Obi-Wan of an assassination attempt, while the Jedi and Bail Organa rush to try and save the dying Jedi's life. Confronted with the truth about Palpatine's identity, Padme searches for ways to help her friends, keep the galaxy in one piece, and stop her husband from slipping away.
Notes:
There are references here to a few Star Wars books, namely the RoTS novelization (I'm pulling Padme and Bail starting to turn against Palpatine from there--so much great Padme stuff in that book), Wild Space (references to Obi-Wan and Bail traveling to a Sith planet), and Padawan (which I'm currently reading and is very good!) You don't need to have read any of those to understand, just noting it!
It's in the tags, but warning for a lot of blood mentions in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Obi-Wan?”
Anakin’s voice comes out high-pitched. Childish. Questioning. For the briefest moment, all Obi-Wan can see is the ten-year old version of his apprentice sitting across from him at a small table for two he kept in his rooms at the temple. He’d invited Anakin to share meals there whenever he liked, should he want some variety from the Padawan dining room.
I know you got saddled with me. I’m sorry, Anakin said, not two months after Qui-Gon's death, when Obi-Wan, try as he might, was still deep in grief over the sudden and violent loss of his complicated master. His whole relationship with Qui-Gon was complicated, and the sting of his master—with whom he spent nine years—suddenly and without warning saying he was ready for the trials, when days before it had been you still have much to learn, had not yet faded.
Maybe it never really did.
He had been ready ready for the trials, but the feelings, the lack of warning, harkened back to his early days with his master, when he feared Qui-Gon didn’t want to train him.
No, Obi-Wan protested softly. I want to train you, Anakin.
And he did. More than anything, he did.
Because Qui-Gon asked you. Anakin crossed his arms over his chest. You don’t have to lie to me.
No, Obi-Wan repeated. I am here for your sake, my young apprentice.
That his master’s dying request was the initial impetus was not incorrect, and he loved his master and would not deny a last wish such as that, but the truth was that Obi-Wan began to care for Anakin faster than he expected, and wanted to protect this boy who had more power than he realized so that no one could take advantage of him.
Someone had done it anyway.
The mood in the room sinks further when Anakin steps fully inside. Anxiety pulsates around him. Darkness too. Temptation toward the darkness. Anakin is nothing less than a raw nerve.
Purple smears the skin beneath Anakin’s red-rimmed eyes. His hair hangs lank, flat, and oily, his posture hunched. Memories of Mortis brim to the surface. Anakin’s yellow, bruised eyes. Obi-Wan had never known what to make of that experience, the sight of Anakin looking like a Sith. Everything changed so abruptly, Anakin was himself again so quickly, that he assumed it was the strange power of the planet that turned Anakin—however briefly—into that. Sometimes he thought it was a vision altogether.
Now, he cannot help but question that assumption.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, before Palpatine can speak, “He’s a Sith. Whatever you came here to talk to him about, don’t listen. You must not listen.”
Understanding passes across Anakin’s face. Fast. Too fast.
He knows I’m a Sith. He just won’t admit it yet.
Obi-Wan's stomach sinks when Anakin doesn’t come to him immediately. Were it anyone else hurt, Obi-Wan would want Anakin to see to them first, but now …
Anakin has never frozen in his life, and now he stands just beyond the doorway of Palpatine’s office, unmoving.
“What?” Anakin asks, his gaze darting back and forth between the two of them.
“He tried to kill me, Anakin!” Palpatine calls out, grasping at his shoulder with a shaking hand.
His use of the Force in combat has tired Palpatine, though the wound should keep him mostly down. At least Obi-Wan hopes so—his power was astonishing. He’s putting on a show for Anakin, that much is clear. A lightsaber buried in his shoulder would hurt immensely but he won’t die from it. Not in the spot where Obi-Wan stabbed him.
Finally, Anakin comes over, crouching down and ripping off his outer tunic to press against Obi-Wan's wounds, which are now all but gushing blood.
“Did … did he stab you, Master? You’re bleeding everywhere. No. This can’t happen. Padme is already in danger, why did you come here? Why did you put yourself at risk? I can’t …"
“Anakin—”
“Why did you stab him, Obi-Wan? I need him.”
“He’s a Sith, Anakin!”
“He can save Padme!”
More blood creeps up Obi-Wan's throat and he coughs, spitting it out. “From what?”
“Yes, Anakin, I can save your wife. I’m the only one.” Palpatine shifts so he too, is sitting against the wall, though on the opposite side of the room. “Only the dark side can do it. Don’t you want that power? Kenobi has been keeping you back from it. He always has.”
Wooziness sweeps over Obi-Wan. Oh dear. Not good. Not good.
Anakin’s normally steady hands shake as they tighten his tunic around Obi-Wan's middle, but it only does so much to stem the flow of blood. They all have some basic medical training, but they have medics in the field for a reason.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, lifting one of his own trembling hands and gently taking Anakin’s face, their eyes locking together. “Listen to me. If I don’t make it, or if I faint, you must pass on this news to the council. Summon Master Windu and Master Yoda. I haven’t been able to get through.”
Shadows seep into Anakin’s eyes, and they narrow into slits. Tension tips over and spills down Obi-Wan's spine.
For the first time in his life, he pulls away from Anakin Skywalker.
Anakin doesn’t seem to notice.
“You’re not going to die, master.” Anakin runs the back of his hand down Obi-Wan's bloodied cheek, and it is somehow tender and terrifying. “Don’t say that. Hold this tight, stem the blood flow. I know you’re stubborn about being treated, but this time you really need to listen to me.”
A flash of the usual smile. Half a joke marred by Obi-Wan’s own blood on Anakin’s face. Obi-Wan feels like he’s watching Anakin tear himself in half.
“I have to check on the chancellor,” Anakin insists. “I have to …"
He trails off, not indicating what else he has to do. In the thirteen years Obi-Wan has known Anakin, his former padawan has never been like this. Flitting back and forth. Anakin is forthright. He dives headlong into things. He makes decisions—sometimes recklessly.
Anakin hits a button underneath Palpatine’s desk on his way over to the hopefully former chancellor—he will be if Obi-Wan has anything to say about it—and an alarm goes off. That, of course, will summon senate guards and senators, and not the Jedi Obi-Wan needs.
Why isn’t Anakin listening? Not that making Anakin listen isn’t a trial generally, but Anakin does listen about important things. Usually.
Something starts beeping. His comm. His comm is going off and it’s still in his pocket, thank the Force. He feels for his pouch, his hands making it slick with blood.
“No, Anakin!” Palpatine cries out, laying the helplessness on thick. “Don’t let him contact the Jedi. You musn’t. They’ll kill me.”
“He must, chancellor,” Anakin says, examining the lightsaber wound, though there’s really nothing he can do. “He needs medical help that the Jedi can best provide. He’s my best friend. I ….”
“You don’t care about your wife. About me.”
“I do,” Anakin insists, and Obi-Wan's heart clenches.
Obi-Wan hits the button on his comm, and Mace Windu answers, Yoda at his side.
“Obi-Wan,” Windu says, immediately, “I just received your message when I stepped outside the temple and we saw your droid on the landing pad, what—"
“I’m in the Palpatine’s office,” Obi-Wan cuts in. “Anakin is with me, I—”
The comlink rips out of Obi-Wan's hands and goes flying, smashing against the wall. Across the room, Palpatine breathes hard, his hand shaking.
“That was thoughtless,” Obi-Wan taunts, the words coming from low and deep in his throat. “Now they’ll know for certain where I am.”
Before he knows what’s happening, before another thought can cross his mind, blue lightning cracks into the room. Obi-Wan holds up his lightsaber with both hands, and the lightsaber catches it, but he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to manage. The pressure of the lighting against his saber, against his trembling hands, against his body that fought Grievous and now Palpatine, is too much. His bloody grip gives way. The saber crashes to the floor.
“Master!” Anakin cries out. He sounds young again.
Obi-Wan screams.
The electricity splits his bones. It zaps his organs and makes them buzz, and one of them might already be bleeding. Internally and externally.
Is he going to die here in a senate office at a Sith’s hand? It would be darkly poetic, he supposes. After he thought he killed Maul, he was lauded around the temple as the first Jedi to conquer a Sith in a thousand years. He didn’t want that praise. Didn’t ask for it. Would rather have not stood on the other side of a ray shield as a Sith murdered his master. A Sith trained by the man trying to kill him now.
Palpatine and his treachery have set the trajectory for so much of Obi-Wan's life. Qui-Gon's death, which led to him training Anakin. The war. Satine’s death. Anakin now, teetering on the edge of falling into darkness. Anakin has been a bright spot in all of that loss, and Palpatine wants to take him too. Obi-Wan shouldn’t think of it that way, but right now he can’t help it. The galaxy is what stands to matter more than anything, the fate of so, so many people, and he will die to protect them, but Force knows, he doesn’t want to lose anyone or anything else.
Not Anakin. Please not Anakin. Anakin deserves more than the terrible life being a Sith would grant.
Fear curls into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. He wants to fight against it, to shove it aside, but a long life of Jedi training has taught him that he must be aware of his feelings, he must accept them to not let them cloud his judgment. To not drown in them. To let go of fear that might destroy him.
Be mindful of your feelings.
Search your feelings.
He taught Anakin that. He tried so hard to teach him that, and now is the evidence that it didn’t stick.
More shreds of a vision come, but they’re different than before. Still no lava planet, and this time, no desert cave. Instead, there are blasters pointed at him. A blindfold in his hands. Anakin, leaning over and listening to a whispered comment of Palpatine’s.
And his eyes …
His eyes are not the blue Obi-Wan knows so well.
They’re yellow.
The vision twists, it whirls in a kaleidoscope of nauseating color, and Obi-Wan well and truly almost vomits.
A warm Coruscant day. Padme’s lovely veranda. A tow-headed boy and a brown-haired girl in braids each tucked beneath one of his arms.
Anakin and Padme’s children. Those are Anakin and Padme’s children he knows it.
Don’t read too much into it, he warns himself. You musn’t.
A stop rings over the roar of the lightning. Finally, it fades.
Palpatine wheezes, having, Obi-Wan thinks, overplayed his own strength with such a wound. He’s no doubt been shielding as well, and for years, which takes no small amount of energy.
“Master,” Anakin frets, coming back over to Obi-Wan and smoothing the shoulders of the ruined, smoking tunic.
Obi-Wan groans, words eluding him.
“Anakin,” he tries. “You need to restrain him until Master Windu and Master Yoda get here.”
“I’m the only one who can show you how to save her, Anakin.” Palpatine all but purrs there, and it makes Obi-Wan shiver. “Do you really want to make me face the Jedi like that? They’ll kill me. The Jedi don’t care about Padme, I can promise you that. I do. I always have.”
Anakin stands up again with a growl of frustration, running his hands through his hair until he might tear it out. Rage comes off him in waves, and no matter the comfort Obi-Wan tries to send through their connection in the Force, it doesn’t work.
“Why did you stab him, master!” Anakin shouts. “I need him. Don’t you see I need him? Don’t you care about Padme?”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan shoots back, and oh his limbs are heavy, aren’t they? Sweat drips down his back and yet he’s … cold? Pain comes in waves, sharp and acute and unbearable if not for the Force, which helps him leave it behind just enough to manage. “Anakin, there’s nothing wrong with Padme. I know about the two of you. I know, and you know I know, don’t you? If something was wrong with her I would help you. Don’t let this man make you destroy yourself.”
“She’s going to die if I don’t stop it,” Anakin insists.
“I know she’s pregnant, Anakin, but there’s nothing—”
Anakin spins on his heel toward Obi-Wan, the next words barely more than a growl. “You didn’t believe me about my mother either! Dreams pass in time, you said. Well, she’s dead now. I won’t let it happen to Padme.”
The accusation rings in the room, a thin crack running through something deep in Obi-Wan's soul. It beats against that place behind his eye, and he is swiftly reaching levels of physical pain that he can tolerate.
The HoloNet bestowed on Anakin, back at the beginning of the war, a moniker—The Hero Without Fear. And Anakin was fearless, when it came to a fight. Astoundingly so. But when it came to other things, deeper things, fear entwined itself into the crevices of Anakin Skywalker. And it was one fear, in particular.
Fear of loss.
Obi-Wan knows how that is. As a new Padawan, when his friendships with his youngling clan morphed and changed, when it seemed as if he would never gel with Qui-Gon, those losses almost destroyed his relationship with the Force. It has only been through constant emotional work, given everyone he has lost since those early days, that he hasn’t let that ruin him.
His breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and it could be the wound or the latent heartbreak. He isn’t sure. No. He must not let this happen. He cannot.
If he had been able to save Anakin’s mother, he would have. He would have. Anakin hadn’t given any indication that his dreams were anything other than just that, and visions are … well just the past few hours have shown how quickly the future can change. The shreds he’s seen have morphed each time.
“That’s right, Anakin.” Palpatine grins at Obi-Wan. “He doesn’t care about Padme. He doesn’t care about you. Only the Jedi and his precious code. The Jedi are holding you back. From your true power. From saving your wife. The Sith would never do such a thing.”
The irony is that here, when Obi-Wan most needs to be the diplomat, the negotiator—which has now become his moniker—when he must bargain for the galaxy, for Anakin’s soul, his wretched, wounded body betrays him, words and arguments slipping off his tongue before he can catch them.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan tries again, his frustration, his disbelief, mounting even as he tries to speak calmly. Anger comes, and he lets it. He accepts it, even if he cannot let it go yet, but he tries not to let it hold sway, because it won’t do this situation any good. “There is nothing wrong with Padme. You cannot risk the galaxy over a maybe. It’s what he wants. It isn’t what she wants.”
“If the dark side can save her—”
Footsteps cut off whatever Anakin might have said next, but those words send Obi-Wan's too-quick heartbeat crashing to a halt.
If the dark side can save her.
Mas Amedda comes running in first, along with some of the senate guards, Palpatine’s chief of staff Sly Moore and then …
Bail Organa.
Obi-Wan has never been so glad to see his friend as he is right now.
Behind Bail are Mon Mothma and and Orn Free Taa, the senator from Ryloth.
“Chancellor!” Mas Amedda shouts, and Obi-Wan’s not sure he’s heard him shout, before.
“The Jedi tried to kill me,” Palpatine says, making his voice shake, and no matter how tired the old man looks—close to fainting—that is put on. “He stabbed me right through with his lightsaber.”
The Jedi.
“What?” Bail asks, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Chancellor,” Mas Amedda says, a hint of panic in his voice. “Chancellor stay with me.”
Palpatine does, indeed, faint, slumping against the wall but still very much breathing.
“Anakin,” Bail says. “Go get the clone medics on the first floor. Now, please.”
With this, Anakin does not argue, though Obi-Wan doesn’t know if it’s to help him or Palpatine. Anakin does press Obi-Wan’s shoulder before he goes.
But he doesn’t look him in the eye.
“You see!” Mas Amedda shouts again. “This is nothing less than an assasination attempt.” He gets up, pointing toward Obi-Wan. “You might as well let him die here, because that’s what his fate will be soon enough.”
Obi-Wan should, perhaps, be afraid of that threat, especially given the successful smear campaign Palpatine has run against the Jedi, but too much of his energy remains directed toward staying conscious.
“Sir—” Bail jabs a finger into the air, his worlds curled hot with rage—“this is the Republic, and we do not behave in such a way. I am also telling you that this is not possible. Obi-Wan Kenobi would not attack the chancellor for no reason, if he did attack him.”
“So you’re accusing the chancellor—”
“I don’t know of what specifically,” Bail interrupts, “other than holding onto his power for far too long, but yes. I am accusing him of something.”
“We all know you and Amidala and Mon Mothma have been going around, Organa,” Mas Amedda hisses. “Collecting names to turn against the chancellor.”
Something loosens in Obi-Wan’s chest. Amidala. Padme. If she already has concerns about Palpatine, she will believe him without pause. Even if …
No. He must give Anakin his chance. Anakin is not lost. Not yet.
Bail ignores that, kneeling down and tilting Obi-Wan’s face toward his own. “My friend, what happened?”
A wave of pain ripples across Obi-Wan’s torso and he coughs again, blood stuck in his throat before it comes up and lands on Bail’s shirt.
Fantastic.
He wants to wait for Master Windu or Yoda, but he can’t, and he knows Bail will understand, after their own traumatic experience on that Sith planet a few months after Geonosis, before the war dragged on and wore them all down. There are silver strands in Bail’s hair, aren’t there? Those weren’t there before.
“He’s a Sith,” Obi-Wan says, and the room tilts. “The chancellor is a Sith.”
Bail’s eyes pop, his mouth falling open.
“I came … back—” Obi-Wan tries.
Dammit, why can’t he speak correctly? Every sentence is sludge in his mouth.
“From Utapua?” Bail prompts him, and his hand shakes now, too.
Obi-Wan nods. “I saw … a message. On Grievous’ comlink. After I killed him. And I knew. They forced me here after I landed … landed at the temple. There was a tracker on my ship. Palpatine and I … dueled.” An idea floats into his head, and he just manages to catch it. “He had a saber. Stabbed me. Not with the saber. A dagger. Long. Threw me across the room with the Force. Said he was going to kill me. Then I stabbed him with my saber.”
Where did Palpatine’s saber go? He supposes it barely matters. They’ll accuse him of planting it.
“What nonsense,” Mas Amedda argues. “Kenobi is looking for a way out of attempted murder and I will not allow it. This is treason.”
“Why would a Jedi do this?” Mon Mothma questions, stepping further into the room to stand closer to Bail’s side.
“Why not?” Orn Free Taa asks. “What good have the Jedi done us, lately?”
“Are you quite serious?” Bail shouts. “The Jedi saved your planet, senator, from the Separatists. Master Kenobi himself was on that mission. And you just heard him say he killed General Grievous. That is barely the beginning of what Master Kenobi has done, has risked, for the Republic.”
“This is folly,” Sly Moore says. “We have long feared a Jedi coup. This is just proof.”
“Is it?”
Just as the arguing started to tangle in Obi-Wan’s head, Mace Windu’s voice cuts through the din. Deep. Authoritative. He doesn’t need to shout to make himself heard.
He never has.
No matter the agony, no matter the blackness creeping in along the edges of his vision, for the first time since he saw that holo message, Obi-Wan breathes. He might be a youngling watching the great masters walk by him in the hallway.
The Jedi are here.
“I’d be very, very careful before you accuse the Jedi order of wanting to overthrow the Republic when we’ve spent our lives defending it,” Master Windu begins, giving a grateful nod to Bail before crouching down next to Obi-Wan.
“Master Windu.” Obi-Wan can barely hear his own voice, and he’s cold. He’s so cold. Is he shivering? Yes. How embarassing.
“Obi-Wan, you’re going into shock,” Windu says, perhaps softer than Obi-Wan’s ever heard him say anything, and maybe thinking that an explanation of what’s happening will help. Obi-Wan does like it when things are explained. “I need you to hold on. Just hold on. We’re going to get you to the halls of healing.”
“He’s a Sith,” Obi-Wan says, and then Yoda is there too. “Palpatine is a Sith.”
“Know we did,” Yoda replies, “as soon as we heard your message.”
“Comlink.” Obi-Wan forces out the words. “Grievous’ comlink is in the pouch on my belt.”
The clone medics come soon after, two going to the passed out Palpatine and two more to him. Everything spins. Smears. Nothing is real. The clones are gentle as they lift him onto a stretcher, placing an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. All the clones have different personalities, but their voices are the same, and he misses Cody and Rex, all the 501st and the 212th, with a pang. There’s a sharp prick in his arm, and something sliding in. What’s it for? All basic medical knowledge escapes him at present.
He hears arguments. Feels sensations. Sees things but it’s all blurry. Much of it is not coherent. Only shards.
Who is more wounded here? Master Windu says to Amedda. You’re telling me you think there’s nothing odd going on when a supposedly defenseless older man can take down one of the Jedi order’s most tenacious masters, a member of the council, who just finished off Grievous?
The chancellor is unconscious, Amedda shouts back. It was self-defense, nothing more.
Master Kenobi is dying.
Is he? Yes. Probably.
A flash of red in his blurry line of vision, swirling up through a tube.
Blood? A transfusion. Yes. Yes that makes sense.
Bail’s hand on his shoulder.
Anakin’s hand, also. Yes. Obi-Wan senses his presence in the force, in their bond, even if he can’t fully see his face.
Hold on, master, Anakin says, but then he’s pulling away, he’s asking about Palpatine’s condition, and all Obi-Wan hears from the clone medic is he’ll live and I’d be more concerned about Master Kenobi.
A different hand on his forehead, wiping back his sweaty hair. Yoda’s hand. He was very ill once as a boy, and Yoda, with his love for all the children in the temple, came to see him.
“Good you did, youngling,” Yoda whispers. “Rest. Rest.”
After that, all Obi-Wan knows is white noise. Jostling. The faraway knowledge that he is being loaded into a speeder, and then, the familiar and comforting warmth of the temple. If he dies, at least he will die in the place he has called home since he was six months old. If he dies, at least the Jedi know the truth. Anakin’s presence remains through all of it, at least until Obi-Wan is through the front doors to the halls of healing, sensing, even if he cannot fully fathom, the horror of the Jedi inside.
Then, Anakin’s presence is gone.
Padme Amidala jumps when the front door of her Coruscant apartment comes open. She rushes toward the entry way, knowing, of course, who it must be, as soon as the key card clicks. Nerves curl beneath her skin, tickling her in a constant, unpleasant way. Every time Anakin has gone to speak with Palpatine he comes back less and less himself, or at least, trending toward the man she’s only seen glimpses of since the terrible day on Tatooine. Haunted. Those shadows creeping across his eyes. A glint of something sharp. Those things don’t scare her—she accepted them when she married Anakin—but they are born from a fear she cannot seem to soothe.
He simply will not let go of these dreams he’s having that he thinks are visions. It makes emotional sense—he had them about his mother, and she did die. But Padme doesn’t want to walk around frightened of a dream. She doesn’t want to walk around thinking she might die without any kind of medical proof, not when the galaxy teeters on the edge of disaster. Not when she is already, it seems, at odds with the person she loves most over a man who refuses to let go of his power. A man she trusted, once.
And now Bail’s confusing message about this same man, that came in only twenty minutes ago.
There was … an event in Palpatine’s office. Obi-Wan was involved and I have news I dare not share over a message. Come quickly, when you can, to the Jedi temple. The chancellor’s cronies know about our petition to remove him from power. Be wary.
“Anakin,” she breathes, finding her way into his arms without pause. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” His breath is warm against her ear, and those words sound like him, half-caught in a joke, but his voice is … odd.
“I got a message from Bail, just a bit ago,” she says, sliding out of his embrace. “He said something happened in Palaptine’s office with Obi-Wan, and I know you were headed there.”
There’s that glint in Anakin’s eyes, the skin beneath baggy and bruised. “You trust Bail Organa too much.”
“Bail is my friend,” she shoots back, and she doesn’t want to be angry, but it’s simmering not so deep beneath the surface. “You only are frustrated with him now because he’s at odds with Palpatine. But so am I.”
Anakin opens his mouth to argue, but Padme speaks again before he can.
“What happened in Palpatine’s office?” she asks. “Is Obi-Wan all right?”
“He and Obi-Wan fought, and—”
“Fought?” Padme cuts in, bewilderment getting the better of her. “As in a shouting match?”
Anakin shakes his head. “No.”
“As in with weapons?” Padme clarifies. “Palpatine barely knows how to fire a blaster.”
“The chancellor sustained a lightsaber wound.” Anakin goes on, as if he might be reciting uninteresting facts rather than shaking the foundations of her life. “Obi-Wan—” He swallows, softening as his beloved former master’s name passes his lips. “Obi-Wan was stabbed twice.”
“Stabbed? I don’t understand. Did Palpatine take his lightsaber?”
“A dagger. By the chancellor.”
Padme gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth as the air turns sharp in her lungs. How does this … none of this makes sense. How could Palpatine possibly overcome Obi-Wan Kenobi? Obi-Wan might prefer diplomacy—they have that in common—but he is a skilled fighter, a renowned general, and a talented lightsaber duelist. She’s seen it herself, and Anakin has said it a thousand times over. There’s a reason he’s on the Jedi council at not quite forty.
"Is he going to be all right?" Padme asks. “Obi-Wan, I mean? How bad is it?”
Anakin runs a finger over the small table near the door he's taken up residence by, dust sliding off onto his thumb. "Obi-Wan is always all right,” he mutters, and this makes the anger Padme was trying to hold back prick and poke and prod at her.
“Anakin, please tell me the truth. Will he be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Anakin admits. “He was losing blood. Going into shock. If they got him to the halls of healing fast enough he’ll pull through.”
There’s a chilling flatness to Anakin’s tone. Where is the man who needed to be wrenched away from Obi-Wan’s bedside any time he was hurt? She remembers back toward the beginning of the war, and the bombing on Coruscant Obi-Wan was caught in the middle of. He did almost die that day, and to say Anakin was distraught was putting it lightly. His gunship crashed during the second battle of Geonosis, too, and Anakin left her a panicked holo message, desparately needing reassurance that Obi-Wan would be all right from someone who wasn’t Obi-Wan, who always said he would be.
“I … why aren’t you there?” she asks, her heart thump thump thumping in her chest. “I can’t imagine you being anywhere else. You’ll never forgive yourself if he doesn’t make it and you aren’t—” She breaks off, blinking away her tears. She can’t imagine Obi-Wan dead. Not Obi-Wan. She remembers the padawan she met all these years ago with the shy smile, the mischevous eyes, and the sharp wit.
This doesn’t make sense. None of this fits with anything she knows about her husband.
A smile slips onto Anakin’s face, the shy one from when they were first reunited that she still sees sometimes in place of his more flirtatious, cocky grin, but even as it does, it’s a ghost. A specter. Like he’s putting on a show.
“I needed to be here with you.” He puts one hand on her growing belly. “And our child.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Anakin,” Padme protests. “Aren’t you worried about Obi-Wan?”
"Of course I am!"
The words burst out of Anakin's mouth, and Padme's stomach plunges to the depths of her body. Anakin has never yelled at her other than when they fought over Clovis, and she did her fair share of shouting then too.
"Don't yell at me, Anakin."
"Of course I am," Anakin repeats, more quietly. "But he hurt the chancellor.”
“Yes, let’s discuss that.” One hand goes to her hip when she eases away, Anakin’s hand falling back to his side. “How did Palpatine overcome Obi-Wan? And why was Obi-Wan there? Did he suddenly become a wild-eyed murderer? He was meant to be on Utapau. You’re not telling me something.”
“I’m trying to protect you, Padme”
“I will tell you if need protecting, Anakin Skywalker.”
She stares him down, and he looks at the floor, moving the toe of his boot in a circle.
“Anakin, please,” she pleads, and this draws his gaze back. “If you want to protect me, you need to tell me the truth.”
Anakin heaves a sigh—more Obi-Wan’s trait than his own—and what he says next makes Padme certain she must have lost her mind.
“Grievous is dead,” Anakin says. “And Palpatine is a Sith.”
Padme’s world, her entire life, screeches to a to a halt. For a moment, she can’t hear anything but ringing in her ears. Thoughts push against her brain, but she can’t formulate words. Palpatine, a mentor. Palpatine, from Naboo. Palpatine, Anakin’s friend. Palpatine, who slowly but surely seized power. Palpatine, suddenly her enemy, even before she heard this unfathomable news.
Anakin takes her hands in his, firm but gentle, and this is the man she knows best.
She wants to hold on to him, but he’s already slipping away.
“They’re accusing Obi-Wan of trying to assassinate the chancellor,” Anakin continues, as if this is not earth-shattering. “I’m not sure what will happen. It was chaos. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if the senate makes Obi-Wan stand trial.”
“Trial?” Padme asks, shaking her head and trying to think. “Palpatine is a Sith. He should be on trial. Whatever Obi-Wan did was to defend himself and protect the Republic.”
“Proving that won’t be easy,” Anakin replies, squeezing her hands. “The security cameras in the office were turned off, so the only proof is a comlink Obi-Wan found on Grievous.”
“And his word.” Padme tugs on Anakin’s hands, trying to anchor him to her. To what’s happening, and away from his fear. “Your word too.”
Though, with public opinion of the Jedi dipping lower and lower as the war drags on, she wonders if a Jedi’s word would mean anything at all.
To this, Anakin does not answer.
“You said the Jedi council thought there was a Sith lord behind the war, manipulating it all.” Padme’s chest constricts. “I—”
The implications of that are far too many to think on, but she, Bail, and Mon Mothma were right.
Palpatine is trying to seize power. And while she might not be a Jedi, she knows enough about the Sith to understand the terrible danger the galaxy is facing. This is more than a power-hungry politician, this is …
“I don’t understand,” Padme says, releasing Anakin’s hands even though part of her doesn’t want to. “Why aren’t you furious? Why aren’t you upset about this? A Sith, Anakin. Your friend has been using you this whole time. He laid the groundwork for the war itself. Played both sides. He tried to kill one of the most important people in your life. In my life, too.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Anakin turns away from her, his voice going deeper.
“It doesn’t matter?”
“He can save you,” Anakin continues, hands resting on that same table again, though he angles his head to look at her. “He told me he could teach me that power. The Jedi say it’s so difficult to touch the dark side and come back from it, but I could. I could do it. They’ve always underestimated my power. Even Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan never has, Padme wants to say. He has tended to it, tried to protect it and Anakin as best he could, but mentioning that will only draw out Anakin’s ire. It won’t make him listen. It won’t make him come back to her.
“Even if this power existed,” she whispers, stepping closer and putting one hand on his shoulder, “a man like that won’t give it to you for free. If he’s a Sith, if he’s consolidated this much power, he wants to use you to wield it. He’s manipulating you. I know he is. He’ll ask you to do something terrible.”
“Maybe so,” Anakin says, and there again is that flat tone. “I don’t care if it will save you. That’s all that matters. I won’t lose you and our child.”
Padme’s blood runs cold.
“I’m not dying, Ani,” she says, soft as she may, “but even if I was, I wouldn’t want you to sacrifice the galaxy to save me.” She dares something, even if she isn’t sure she should. “What happened to your mother was horrible. I know you think it’s your fault. But not every nightmare is real.”
He slides out from beneath her touch, and his face, now, is nothing but a sneer.
“You sound like Obi-Wan.”
“Normally you would say that’s a good thing.” Padme puts a hand on her stomach, the child inside giving a little kick like they might know their parents are fighting. “He needs you, Anakin. He is the one in real danger. Not me. Even if he lives today, if they put him through a trial, smear his name, his life will be at risk. We can’t let a Sith do that to Obi-Wan. To the galaxy. We've fought too hard. Lost too much.”
“Obi-Wan will be all right,” Anakin murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “He’s always all right. Plenty of people have tried to kill him and not managed it. This will be the same. I know it will.”
“Then the fact remains that he’ll need you, Anakin.”
“I’m going out,” he says in reply, and the kiss he leaves on her forehead is tender, but his flesh hand on her arm is cold. “I need to be alone for a while.”
She wants to shout. She wants to scream at him to stop, but it won’t do any good. She knows it won’t. And if Palpatine is a Sith, if Obi-Wan could be dying, she must go now to the Jedi temple as Bail requested.
And she must go now.
Threepio helps her get out out the door, and then, she too, is gone.
What Padme finds when she reaches the halls of healing, she'll never forget.
Jedi, gathered outside the main doors. Quite a lot of them. Some she knows and some she doesn’t. For all the work they’re doing across the galaxy, most of the ones still on Coruscant seem to be right here. Bail’s talking to one woman, Siri, a friend of Obi-Wan's from his youngling days.
“Padme,” Bail says upon spotting her. “You came.”
“As fast as I could. Master Skywalker came to tell me the news about Obi-Wan not long after I got your message.” Padme inhales a deep breath through her nose. She must be calm. She must. “I was told Master Kenobi was hurt badly?”
“Very,” Bail answers, his face pinched and drawn. “I was just telling Master Tachi.”
“Hello, Senator Amidala,” Siri says, momentarily grasping Padme’s hand and tucking a strand of her silver streaked fair hair behind her ear. “I had just returned to the temple myself when they brought Obi-Wan in, saw them carrying him on the stretcher. He was asking for Anakin. Do you happen to know where he went after he saw you? I was surprised when I didn’t see him here.”
Padme resists biting her lip. “I’m not sure. I know Anakin is very worried, and wouldn’t be away unless he had to be.”
“Obi-Wan is resilient,” Siri says, though her voice quavers. “He has been since we were children, anxious as he used to be. I’m sure he’ll pull through.” She leans in close. “And this news, about the chancellor. It’s astonishing.”
“He was asking for you as well, Padme,” Bail adds. “Insisted upon it even though I was sure he was going to pass out. Let’s get you in there.”
Padme squeezes Siri’s hand, then follows Bail, her stomach churning.
What’s inside Obi-Wan's room is worse than the sight of of dozens of Jedi waiting outside the doors to the halls of healing, waiting to hear the fate of one of the order’s most powerful and good-hearted masters.
Blood-soaked sheets. A scanning machine. Someone running the wand of said machine over deathly pale skin. Wires tangled together, one with blood running through, the other with fluids. Saline. Something. A small knot of medically-trained Jedi surrounding someone with sweaty, snarled ginger-brown hair.
Padme gasps, something gurgling in the back of her throat. Then Mace Windu is there, though she didn't see him at first, and the steady, stoic Jedi puts a hand on her arm.
"Why isn't he in the Bacta tank?" she asks.
That came out more high-pitched thatn she intended. Seeing Obi-Wan like this is …
"Lacerated liver," Windu explains. "And another wound to the stomach. They're trying to stabilize him out of shock before they put him in. He lost a lot of blood. They say he has some electrical burns too. The concussion he has is the least of his worries.”
"And the chancellor?"
Windu's face twists, and he removes his hand.
"That wretch—"
"I don't mean I'm concerned for him," Padme clarifies. "I mean what state is he in? I know that the Sith are capable of much, as you all told me back when I was queen."
Windu shakes his head. “Just the one saber wound to his shoulder. Not pleasant, but it didn't hit any arteries. Did Skywalker tell you? He said he wanted to give you the news. I know you value your friendship with both him and Master Kenobi.”
Padme nods, and thank the Force, he doesn’t question them being anything more than friends, though that will soon have to come out. A day ago that particular issue was at the forefront of her mind. Now, it’s the last thing. Keeping the galaxy safe for her child, keeping her husband from whatever dark things Palpatine has planned, and saving Obi-Wan’s life. Those are her concerns.
“Senator Organa also called me,” Padme adds.
“I’m grateful for him,” Windu says. “The chancellor and his allies wanted to deny Obi-Wan care. Senator Organa took up for him, and the Jedi, before Master Yoda and I arrived. If he hadn’t summoned the clone medics, Obi-Wan might be dead already.”
Padme’s eyes widen. “He would die without care.”
Windu looks her straight in the face. “I think their intention is for him to be dead. They believe he tried to assassinate the chancellor for nothing and want everyone else to believe it too. I appreciate you believing us, Senator Amidala. You have long been a friend to the Jedi. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“I always will be, Master Windu.”
What will he think of her, if the truth comes out about her relationship with Anakin? Perhaps with all of this, and whatever might be coming, it won’t even matter.
If the chancellor is a Sith lord, even if they defeat him, everything will be different.
Her thoughts drift back toward Anakin as a refuge from the beep beep beep of the various machines in the room. Anakin should be here. He should be here. Abandoning Obi-Wan Kenobi when he’s hurt? When he could die? That is not Anakin Skywalker. Whatever darkness she’s seen in him, and she has, leaving the side of his grievously wounded master who was nearly murdered by a Sith, is not something she ever saw coming.
What has Palpatine put in his head? What is this false choice he’s forced upon Anakin, this choice between her, and Obi-Wan? Between her, and maybe the galaxy?
"Padme."
Obi-Wan’s raspy voice draws her from her thoughts even as Master Vokara Che tries shushing him.
"Padme," Obi-Wan says again, not heeding her. "Is Anakin with you? I felt him leave and I ..."
"Master Kenobi, please," Vokara Che reprimands. "Lay back down. Keep your oxygen mask on.”
“Please,” Obi-Wan echoes, and the pleading threatens to break Padme’s heart. Obi-Wan Kenobi does not plead. “Just a moment. I need to speak to the senator.”
The famous Jedi Twi’lek healer shakes her head. “You have two minutes. That’s it.”
The medical team steps away, and Padme hurries up to the bed. Obi-Wan looks worse up close. Sallow skin that’s green around the edges. Stained, ruined robes that reek of smoke and sweat. Bloodshot blue eyes.
“Obi-Wan,” she chides, reaching down and grasping his hand, which is slick with his own blood. “You stubborn man, you need to be treated. What’s the matter?”
“Where’s Anakin?” he asks, his hand shaking so hard that it makes her arm tremble too.
“He—”
She doesn’t want to lie. But she can’t tell Obi-Wan the truth right now. She can’t let him know that she doesn’t know where Anakin is. It will have to wait until he’s better. Never, not in the entire time they’ve known each other, has she seen him like this, and it scares her. Obi-Wan is so steady, so sure, always ready with kind advice or a funny quip. Always there for Anakin. For her. Her words from days ago come back to her. The ones Anakin brushed off.
Maybe Obi-Wan can help us?
He’s known for so long, admitted as much to her, and still kept their secret even though he’s on the council. If that isn’t love, Padme doesn’t know what is.
"He's just talking to some of the other Jedi outside," Padme replies, the lie bitter on her tongue. “Your friend Siri is out there, did you know that? She wanted me to give you her best.”
Obi-Wan tugs her closer, a faint smile on his lips at the mention of his old friend.
“Palpatine wants to turn Anakin to the dark side,” he whispers in her ear. “And he’s using this false specter of your death to do it. He wants to make him a Sith, Padme. And Anakin … we must be careful, we must—”
The machines start screaming. A cough rattles Obi-Wan’s body, bright red blood spewing onto the sheets.
“If we don’t get him into the Bacta now he won’t make it!” Vokara Che shouts. “Excuse me, Senator Amidala. You’ll have to talk to Master Kenobi later.”
Padme watches helplessly as the Jedi medical team rolls Obi-Wan away, and Mace Windu steps back up to her, this time with Yoda and Bail in tow. She looks at her hand, sticky with Obi-Wan's blood. Anakin should be here. She can’t believe he isn’t here.
“Was he asking for Skywalker?” Windu asks, though he doesn’t prod.
Padme can only nod, hot, incessant, unstoppable tears filling her eyes.
“Outside he is not?” Yoda asks
"No." Padme's tears fall despite her best efforts. Despite Bail’s gentle hand on her shoulder. For the first time, she does feel truly lost. "I don't know where he is."
Notes:
Never fear we WILL be getting an Anakin POV in the next chapter! And you'll start to see more familiar faces joining the cast of characters in this fic, as well.
Also, I know in Legends Siri dies during the war, but in canon there doesn't seem to be a mention of her death, and I've been reading Padawan, so I wanted to include her here!
Chapter 3: Wring Those Embers From My Broken Heart
Summary:
Anakin, torn in two and desperate, speeds through Coruscant in search of answers as the darkness creeps closer. Still healing from his wounds as Palpatine begins the work of setting him up, Obi-Wan, aching for his missing former apprentice, works with Bail, Padme, and the Jedi to hold the galaxy together. Ahsoka and Rex, on their way back from Mandalore, get an unexpected message.
Notes:
I got this chapter done faster than I expected! Hoping to update every couple of weeks, though it may be faster if time permits (working on a novel and a multi-chapter fic is a fun exercise, but outlining beforehand helps!) Thanks so much to everyone for their lovely comments! I'm having such a fun time writing this fic.
My only general lore note for this chapter is that there's quite a bit of Clone Wars stuff in here, but should be understandable if you haven't watched it.
Also many of you were concerned Obi-Wan might die, but I promise he will indeed live! :D
Chapter Text
Anakin Skywalker speeds through Coruscant.
Where is he going?
Even he doesn’t know.
Maybe the Force is leading him. That's what Obi-Wan would say. His head pounds when he thinks of his former master's tunic soaked in blood. The way he screamed when the Sith lightning struck him. But thinking of Obi-Wan is excruciating. Intolerable. A persistent, vague pain pounds behind his right eye, and the farther he gets from the Jedi temple, the less it hurts.
The farther he gets from Obi-Wan.
Still, despite the distance, it doesn’t vanish.
If he helps the chancellor take power, if he does whatever he asks in order to save Padme, can he ask to spare Obi-Wan's life? Obi-Wan would hate him. Hate that. What would Palpatine ask him to do?
Hurt the Jedi. His mind offers him this scenario, and rage shoots through him. Unchecked. Uncontrolled. At Palpatine and the Jedi.
The Jedi don’t listen to him. They don’t respect him.
Then why do they keep giving you commands? Why did Master Yoda entrust you with a Padawan?
The Jedi won’t protect Padme.
And Palpatine will?
Palpatine didn’t spell it out, and Anakin doesn’t know the specifics, but he doesn’t need to. Palpatine is the Sith they’ve been looking for, so doing some harm to the Jedi must be in his plan.
But if it could save Padme ….
Will he turn the galaxy upside down for her? He told Padme that he could come back from the dark. That he could learn this power and remain himself, but that was a lie, wasn’t it? Even if he wanted to come back, maybe it won’t be possible, from whatever atrocity Palpatine would ask of him.
He bangs his hand on the speeder steering wheel, stopping at a light just in front of one of Coruscant's Holo News screens.
He finds his own face staring back at him.
The Hero Without Fear Saves the Chancellor from Separatist Captors!
What these Holo reels don't know, what no one who gave him this name knows, is that Anakin Skywalker has a secret.
He is terrified.
There is no mention of Obi-Wan in the reel, though there was before. Anakin slides back toward the numbness of earlier. Yes. Yes, that's easier.
His comlink beeps. And beeps. And beeps. Someone is calling, and not for the first time. The third, at least. Two of those calls are Padme—he knows because her comms are set to a special sound. The other might have been the Jedi temple.
Obi-Wan or Padme. Padme or Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan will never give in to Palpatine, so choosing to help Palpatine means losing Obi-Wan. It means Obi-Wan will hate him. It means Obi-Wan might die, even if he lives today. Padme said she didn’t want him to sacrifice the galaxy for her, but how can he do anything else? Except he’s fought for three years specifically to save the galaxy. The Anakin Skywalker of months, even days ago, would not have ever given over to a Sith.
Or would he?
Padme. Their child. Padme. Obi-Wan.
He smooths that numbness down into his bones. Yes. Yes. That’s better. That’s better. He doesn’t want to search his feelings. If he does, he might explode.
He stops his speeder without quite knowing why when he arrives in CoCo Town, an industrial, working-class part of Coruscant, and then, he realizes where he is.
Dex’s Diner, the open-late sign burning bright red against the night sky. It blinks once. Twice. An electric snap pops into the air. Were this a different day, a different life, he would offer to fix it. He’s always been good at fixing things, and now he is wondering whether he ought to break the galaxy.
A memory swallows him whole. A memory of maybe six months or so after he first came to Coruscant and found himself as Obi-Wan's new Padawan learner. Obi-Wan brought him here, claiming that it was just because Dex made some of the best food in the galaxy, but Anakin could tell, even at ten years old, that this beat-up old diner was important to his master. That he didn’t show just anyone.
This doesn’t seem like a place Jedi go, Master, Anakin said then. This looks like an old Tatooine joint, just little shinier.
A smile tugged at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth, slowly but surely growing, and Anakin had been pleased at the amusement in his mentor’s eyes.
Jedi go all over, my young apprentice.
Master Yoda wouldn’t go here.
Master Yoda has his own Coruscant secrets, I’m sure.
A tall, laughing Besalisk man threw open the door then, greeting them both with a laugh.
Obi-Wan! You’ve brought your youngling, I see.
I’m a Padawan, Anakin insisted.
Of course, Dex said, clapping Obi-Wan on the back. Of course.
Anakin liked Dex immediately, and his food too. When he finished eating, he pestered Obi-Wan into a piece of the Sic-Six-Layer cake he’d seen advertised in the window despite his master’s muttered protests that he hadn’t come here to buy cake, but all right, fine.
Once he had said cake, he got down to business.
You've known Master Obi-Wan since he was sixteen, he exclaimed. Tell me everything!
Dex, much to Obi-Wan's dismay, eagerly complied.
The Force led him here, didn’t it? The Force was telling him to go back to Obi-Wan. But what did the Force know, anyway? He was the Force’s child more than any Jedi that ever lived, and yet as often as he used it, as much as it’s been a part of him, he’s never felt connected to it in the spiritual way Obi-Wan does. Even Ahsoka, who enjoys meditation much more than he does.
The Force has always been a skill to master.
Palpatine wants him to use it as a weapon.
His feet carry him inside the diner, the bell on the front door ringing distantly when he steps inside. It’s more crowded than Anakin would have expected at this hour. But Coruscant never sleeps. The low buzz of chatter meets his ears, but it doesn’t soothe him.
Nothing can.
“Anakin?” Dex’s voice comes next, always half-caught in a laugh. “What brings you here?”
“I need a drink,” Anakin says without pause, and he hears how monotone he sounds. Flat.
“All right,” Dex says slowly, gesturing him over to the counter. “I can do that.”
Dex pours something once Anakin sits down—Anakin doesn’t know what—and it burns when it he swallows it in one fell swoop.
“Not to pry,” Dex says, pouring another serving, “but is something wrong?”
“Obi-Wan’s hurt.”
One set of Dex’s hands clench over the counter. “He still back in the Outer Rim? I’m hearing some Separatist droid units are shutting down. That Grievous is dead. Did you do that?”
“Obi-Wan did.”
“Okay. So, is that why he’s hurt? How hurt?”
Tears burn Anakin’s eyes as much as the liquor did his throat. He should go back to the temple. To Obi-Wan. But no. No he can’t. If he goes back to Obi-Wan and the Jedi, they’ll keep him away from Palpatine. Even Padme will. Then Padme will die. Their child might die too. And if he goes to the senate, Palpatine will eventually wake up, and he’ll tempt him. He’ll tempt him to rip the galaxy apart. To ruin Obi-Wan. Maybe even kill him. He needs to think. He can’t think here.
“Might die.”
Dex’s eyes go as wide as they can, and he calls out to his waitresses.
“All right! Everything’s on me, I gotta shut early. Gotta go to the Jedi temple.”
Anakin pours himself yet another shot. “They won’t let you in at this hour.”
“And since when have I obeyed the rules, kid? Why aren’t you there? You could have commed me and let me know.”
Dex jolts when Anakin seizes his hand. Too tight.
“Don’t tell anyone you saw me. You can’t.”
“Anakin--”
Anakin throws back the liquor and gets up, pushing his way out the door and ripping down that annoying fucking bell before he goes.
“Anakin!” Dex calls out, but it doesn’t matter.
Anakin gets into his speeder, headed back toward the temple, but not to go and wait in the halls of healing like he should.
No. He needs to get his starfighter.
The lights on his comlink blink and blink and blink, but he won’t listen to the messages right now. He can’t. He can’t. The only thing he does is alert Artoo to meet him at the temple.
The liquor warms him against the cool Coruscant night, and hits him fast. He leans into the Force, letting it lead the way as his senses—and his emotions—dull further. Were he not Force-sensitive, driving a speeder right now would be irresponsible at best. Perhaps it still is, but he doesn’t care. Caring got him here, after all, caught between unfathomable loss and earth-shattering disaster. He needs the liquor to even think about going where he’s thinking of going.
Tatooine.
He needs to think. He needs to go back where all this started. He needs to sit in front of his mother’s grave and beg her to tell him what’s right.
You know what’s right.
That voice sounds like Qui-Gon Jinn, a man who lives large in Anakin’s memory but who he never really knew. Even Obi-Wan, who was with him for a decade, has admitted that his old master was inscrutable. Hard to read. But the memory of the Jedi whose death led to Anakin’s placement with the teacher who would shape his life, is bound up too, with Tatooine. Qui-Gon began this.
Maybe Qui-Gon should have left him there.
It wasn’t Qui-Gon’s interest in him as the Chosen One that made Anakin long to leave Tatooine—it was the draw of being a Jedi. The adventures he could go on. The places he could see. The people he could help, slaves like him, that maybe, one day, he could free.
He’s never known what being the Chosen One even meant, and Obi-Wan didn’t plague him about it, was only honest about the how powerful he was and the responsbility of that power. That tending to it required discipline and training and humility.
If a day comes when things are clearer, we will sort if out together, Obi-Wan said when Anakin was fourteen and they were marking his birthday at Dex’s. I think as long as you let the light side lead you, everything will be all right.
The light of another HoloNet News screen spills down as he speeds past, a crowd gathered around it as the disembodied voice of a reporter echoes off a nearby building.
Assassination attempt! Chancellor Palpatine was nearly killed tonight by rogue Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, and has been taken to the Grand Republic Medical Facility in critical condition. Questions remain about whether other Jedi were involved.
Irritation prickles at the back of Anakin’s neck. Critical was a better word to describe Obi-Wan, as opposed to Palpatine.
The temple comes into view, and much to his chagrin, the landing area is not empty. Several Jedi are also parking speeders there, looking as if they’ve just arrived home from the field, and Padawans are guarding the area, lightsabers in hand.
What’s going on?
His speeder squeaks to a halt, and he spots his starfighter across the way, Artoo already rolling up. Blood stains the handles when he hops off, and he lifts his palms to see fingernail shaped cuts in the skin.
“Master Skywalker,” Master Depa Billaba says, her young Padawan—Caleb, Anakin thinks is his name—at her side when she comes over, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he answers curtly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“When we got the Holo message summoning us home,” Caleb pipes up, the sleeves of his olive-green robe fluttering in the breeze, “we heard Master Kenobi was badly hurt by--” he lowers his voice--“a Sith lord. Is he all right?”
They don’t know who the Sith lord is yet, then, Anakin surmises. That might be too dangerous to share even over a secure Jedi comm channel. Regardless, they’ll soon find out. If Palpatine is going to wage a smear campaign against Obi-Wan, the Jedi will wage one back. They’ll have to.
“The message said he discovered who the Sith lord we’ve been looking for was,” Master Billaba continues. “Do you know--”
“I have to go,” Anakin cuts in.
“Jedi from planets where Separatist droids are shutting down have been called home, and clone commanders left to manage should anything start up. The Separatist command structure is in dissaray,” she says, tilting her head in concern. “We aren’t meant to be going off-world. We’re meant to be coming home. I know how close you are with Obi-Wan, are you sure...”
“I have to go,” Anakin emphasizes, pulling away before she can put a hand on his shoulder and running running running toward his starfighter.
One of the landing bay workers chases after him, calling out a similar warning.
“Master Skywalker!” he calls out. “Jedi aren’t meant to be leaving Coruscant unless being called back out to emergencies on the front.”
Anakin reaches his starfighter, and Artoo is already there, ready to be loaded in. “This is an emergency.” He dares at a glance at the worker. “I’m sorry, I do have to go. Do you … is there any news on Master Kenobi?”
“He’s in the Bacta, I heard last,” the worker answers, looking nervous. “I really must insist Master Skywalker...”
Anakin ignores him, loading Artoo and jumping in before anyone can stop him. See? Obi-Wan will make it. He always makes it.
The engine rumbles beneath him, and no matter the liquor in his blood, flying is second nature. The starfighter takes off, Artoo scrambling to put in the flight plan, and asking him a perplexed question in binary.
Tatooine?
“Tatooine, Artoo,” he confirms.
Artoo beeps back in a slightly irritated manner, as if to say you don’t have to be short with me.
“Sorry, buddy.”
He lets his faithful droid do the flying for now, because the liquor is too heavy in his veins. They shoot through Coruscant’s atmosphere, and agony shoots through Anakin’s numbness in tandem. He wants to talk to someone. Needs to. But he can’t talk to Obi-Wan. Not Padme. Not Palpatine. Certainly no other Jedi.
An image appears in his head. Orange skin with white markings. Blue and white lekku.
Ahsoka.
He could talk to Ahsoka.
She’s not a Jedi anymore. Not technically.
Before he talks himself out of it, he uses the ship’s comms system to contact her. She’s on Mandalore with Rex to go after Maul, but maybe she’ll pick up. Maybe through the Force his Padawan will hear him.
When she doesn’t, his mind sliding in and out of coherency, he opts to leave a message.
“Ahsoka,” he says, and his voice is slurred, isn’t it? “Ahsoka, I need you to pick up. I don’t … you know I hate needing things. But I need you to tell me what to do. To talk me out of doing something. I don’t even know if it will work. It probably won’t. Palpatine is a Sith. Obi-Wan is hurt, and Padme …" Even in this state he trails off there. Ahsoka doesn’t know, in that he hasn’t told her, but maybe she does know. No. No. That’s enough. This was a bad idea. His vision blurs. “Stay safe, Snips,” he whispers. “Stay away from me.”
Nausea sweeps over him when he clicks off, and he rests his head between his knees, swiping the sweat from behind his ears.
The stars greet him when they fly into space, and so too does a sob. Grief, rage, the thousand agonies ripping him to pieces tears it out of his throat, and with only Artoo to hear him, he doesn’t hold back.
Shouting summons Obi-Wan from his slumber, and he is, all things considered, surprised to find himself alive.
“What the hell is the need for Senate Commandos in the Jedi temple! In front of their medical facilities, of all things. This is absurd!”
Bail? It sounds like Bail.
He should open his eyes, but they’re heavy still. Sticky? He senses a presence. A hand covering his atop the sheets.
“Master Kenobi is considered a danger to the Republic, Senator. We are doing our job as requested by the chancellor’s office to ensure he is watched by someone other than the Jedi at all hours.”
Right. Yes. Eyes open. There can be no rest for enemies of the state.
Pain pulsates in his torso. Not overwhelming, but a stubborn, pesky throb.
The first thing he sees is that hand holding his.
The second is Padme Amidala’s sleeping face.
And he knows, without a doubt, that Anakin is not here, or it would be Anakin shouting along with Bail outside his door. It would be Anakin asleep next to Padme in the empty chair.
Pressure builds in his head. Hot tears well in his eyes and he lets them come, hoping he can manage himself before Padme wakes up, but denying the depth of his feelings will not do, or he will not be able to think. They will cloud his judgement. A clear mind is essential.
Anakin’s absence aches. The wound of it festers, and no Bacta injection will fix it. He cannot let Anakin turn. He cannot let him fall. Equals though they are now, Anakin will always be in some part, his student. The younger brother he swore to protect. It doesn’t matter that Anakin Skywalker is the most powerful Jedi in a thousand years—Obi-Wan doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t playing that role. That, he knows, is not correct. He should let go of it, and he has, in some respects. Trusting Anakin to take care of himself on missions is no matter—he is an astonishing warrior, even if he doesn’t always follow orders—but other things, deeper things, are at play here.
Anakin’s apology before Utapau comes back to him, his own I’m very proud of you ringing in his ears.
Why didn’t Anakin tell him the truth then? He would have heard him. He would have helped.
All of this remains true, but something else is even more so—Obi-Wan simply wants his friend. It is a small thing in all of this mess, it is personal and childish, but he wants Anakin here with him. They have done everything together, and now…
“Obi-Wan.” Padme yawns as one more of Bail’s shouts punctuates the air, her hand sliding out of Obi-Wan’s to run through her tousled hair. “There you are.”
Mid-morning sunlight spills through the window of Obi-Wan’s room, gilding the glass.
How long was he out?
“You were in the Bacta tank until the middle of the night,” Padme says in answer to his unspoken question. “You’re due again today, sometime. Are you in pain? I can get Master Che, I don’t think she sleeps.”
“Just one moment,” he replies, adjusting the tube of supplemental oxygen now running through his nose. These blasted things always make him itch. “Thank you for sitting with me, Padme. It’s very kind of you.”
“Obi-Wan,” she chides.
A beat. A space between them that feels impossible to breach. In the silence, Obi-Wan senses what is coming from Padme: anxiety, determination, and … life. New life. Not just one but … more? Maybe he’s simply hazy from everything. She hasn’t said anything about twins, just child singular. Those slippery shreds of a vision did show him twins. He wants to believe in that future. Desperately. Whether Anakin will be allowed to stay in the order when this comes to light barely seems important now, he just wants Anakin to be Anakin. If Anakin comes back, if he pushes off the darkness in this world where the chancellor is a Sith and everything is under threat, will the council bend the rules to keep him? Obi-Wan would, but that goes without saying. If Anakin is going to learn how to love without this possessive attachment, the Jedi order is the best place to do it.
“Obi-Wan,” she says again, but differently.
“I know he’s not here.” He takes Padme’s hand again, enfolding it within his own. “That’s not your fault.”
Padme blinks back tears, one hand going to her stomach. “He should be here. I can’t believe he’s not here. How dare he leave you like this? I’ve commed him five different times. I’m so angry, but I want him to be all right. You don’t think—”
“No.” Obi-Wan cuts her off gently. “He’s not hurt, or dead. We would know. Both of us would know.”
“He’s so sure I’m going to die,” she whispers. “I was meant to have a scan this morning because he made me so paranoid, but I didn’t want to leave you. And you actually could have died, last night.”
The truth of that crash lands on Obi-Wan’s head. It heightens the remaining pain, which grows more persistent. If not for the excellent Jedi medical care, he would be dead, no doubt.
“I’m sure the Jedi here would assist, if you were amenable. If it would set your mind at ease.”
It would also tell him if he’s right about the twins.
She nods, agreeing to this proposition.
Obi-Wan sits up, a groan slipping past his lips despite himself.
“Obi-Wan,” Padme says, reaching over to prop up the pillows behind him. “Easy, you’re not well yet. We can talk about this later.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No. It’s important. Padme—” he swallows, his heart picking up speed—“your secret is safe with me, about your relationship with Anakin, but we will need to tell the council that Anakin is at risk of turning. That Palpatine is manipulating him. It’s important that they know.”
Hours ago he’d thought that Anakin Skywalker would never fall to a Sith, and he still believes he can come back from this, but he must be clear-eyed.
Anakin’s yellow eyes from his vision snap back into his mind, and he winces. Probably visibly. This is not about the vision, but about everything that happened in Palpatine’s office. The fact that Anakin is not here now.
Padme bites her lip, smoothing his covers. “I feel like perhaps Master Windu already suspects, given the state of me,” she admits. “But I can’t tell them the whole truth unless Anakin is here, and agrees. About telling them that he is at risk, well. Yes. I think we have to. For his sake and everyone else’s. I hope they can help him.”
Her face falls, and he has never seen her like this before. Near the edge of defeat. That he feels in his bones. He killed Grievous. He discovered the Sith lord. He was so close, and now Anakin is missing, the galaxy under threat, and the Jedi too. Still, he knows neither of them will give up.
“You’ve been distrusting him since before last night,” he surmises, and this draws her gaze back. “Haven’t you?”
“Bail, Mon Mothma, myself, and some other senators started what we call the delegation of the 2,000,” Padme says softly. “To attempt to make Palpatine give up his special powers. We met with him the day before yesterday, and it did not go well. And when the others asked what Jedi we could trust with our thoughts, I didn’t think of Anakin. I thought of you. Because Anakin was on Palpatine’s side.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, and Obi-Wan’s heart, trampled on and sore, skips a beat. To be pregnant and holding the galaxy on her shoulders, and then to have Anakin insist with no evidence but a dream that she might die? To disappear? It’s too much. He will give Anakin his chance, but even more than his own hurt over Anakin’s absence, he is angry about what Anakin is putting Padme through.
“There’s still good in him,” she insists, wiping her eyes. “I know it.”
“I know there is.” He runs the back of his hand down her cheek, and she clasps it in her own with such affection that it steals his breath. No one but the two of them can understand exactly how this feels. “He’s not lost yet.”
She takes in a deep breath and exhales, sitting up straight. “We need to be worried about you right now. Master!” she calls out, spotting Vokara Che. “He’s awake.”
“Master Kenobi,” Master Che says, a syringe in hand. “Wonderful to see you awake. Let me give you something for the pain.”
“I don’t—”
“Need it? Yes you do.” She inserts it into the IV line without furthr argument. “You will also need two more rounds in the Bacta before you are healed to my satisfaction. Though I’m afraid that scar on your neck will only fade. It’s a stubborn thing, Sith lightning.”
Obi-Wan glances down, moving aside the neck of the medical tunic. Oh. There is indeed a lightning-shaped scar running over the right side of his neck down to his shoulder, red weals popping bright against his paler than usual skin. This causes him to examine his torso, and he spots some residual bleeding through the white material of the sheets, and while the area where his stomach was stabbed feels mostly fine, the side wound he initally thought would be less serious hurts to the touch.
“You have always been one of the most stubborn Jedi in the order when it comes to letting yourself heal,” Master Che says with an indulgent smile. “But I must say, insisting on speaking to Senator Amidala while you were bleeding out with a lacerated liver really did raise that to new heights.”
“Apologies,” Obi-Wan begins, only to be interrupted by the door to his room swinging open and banging back against the wall.
“Absurd!” Bail exclaims. “Absolutely heinous.”
“Senator Organa,” Master Che reprimands him. “Your voice, please. And mind you don’t leave a hole in my wall.”
“Bail?” Obi-Wan asks. “What’s the matter?”
“They are insisting on putting you on trial in two days time,” Bails answers, getting straight to the point. “The full military operation, with senators as the jury and Tarkin as the prosecution. Palpatine is claiming he can preside, which is outrageous. Master Windu and Master Yoda are having it out with someone from his office, I’ve just heard from them, but they should be here soon.”
“What charges?” Padme asks.
“They haven’t finished deciding,” Bail says, the words curling with sarcasm. “We’ll know soon.” He softens, offering Obi-Wan a smile. “How are you feeling?”
Obi-Wan wants to reassure him. He wants to say I’ll be all right, yet he can’t force the words past his lips. Were it just himself at play here, that would be one thing, but it’s Anakin. Padme. Their child—children? The Jedi themselves. His family. Some plot against the Jedi as a whole is in the cards. He’s sure of it.
The galaxy sits on his shoulders, and he’s felt that through this whole war, every lost battle a crush of emotions he didn’t have time to tend to. The gray hair at his temples is a testament to it all.
He settles for a smile and a shrug.
Bail presses his shoulder. “I’ll be representing you. I already told them. And Padme I said you as well. I took the liberty of speaking for you.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’d be angry if you hadn’t.”
“I don’t want you two to risk—” Obi-Wan tries, falling silent when Bail and Padme both shoot him a glare that is not to be argued with.
Obi-Wan’s about to ask more about the specifics of the trial, though it sounds a great deal like the one Ahsoka was put through. Ahsoka. He’ll need to get through to her, or ask another Jedi to do so, or she might not be safe. Maul might not be involved with Palpatine directly anymore, but he is, of course, not to be trusted.
How to tell her about Anakin is another story.
Obi-Wan’s burgeoning question dies on his lips when there’s more arguing outside the door of his room, and a voice he knows well.
“I’m not trying to break him out, you nerfherder,” Dex shouts. “I’m going inside. Out of the way.”
Obi-Wan can only assume the senate commando didn’t want to argue with a Besalisk, because Dex comes pushing through the door seconds later, carrying a box in his hand.
“Trying to die on me, eh?” Dex calls out in greeting. “I see your prime survival skills have struck once again.”
“I do try,” Obi-Wan replies wryly. “Dex, this is Senator Bail Organa, and I’m sure you remember Senator Padme Amidala.”
“I do indeed.” Dex winks at Padme, and it brings color to her cheeks for the first time all morning.
“You’re the friend of Obi-Wan’s who told him about Kamino, right?” Bail shakes Dex’s hand. “The Republic owes you a debt.”
“Whatever people may think and misunderstand about the war,” Dex says, “the Separatists have committed atrocities I’m not willing to let slide. Obi-Wan told me about Ryloth and those Zygerrian slavers too. Glad I could help find those clone lads.” He searches the room. “Is Anakin here? He came to the diner and told me you were hurt last night, and I tried to come then but the temple was locked down.”
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, sitting up from his place against the pillows only to be punished immediately by a nausea-inducing tug of pain despite the medication. “You saw him?”
Dex’s eyes flit back and forth between them. “He was in a strange way, I admit, but is that so odd? I guess I shouldn’t have given him that drink.”
“We’ve sent him messages,” Padme supplies, “but haven’t gotten any answer. You seeing him is the first we’ve heard of where he is since he left here after the chancellor stabbed Obi-Wan.”
Dex’s eyes go wide. “Palpatine stabbed you? They’re saying out there on the news that you tried to kill him. I assumed you must have had good reason.”
Several Jedi pass through the doors, subverting any further line of conversation. It’s not just Master Windu and Yoda, but Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Quinlan Vos, and Luminara as well. Obi-Wan’s heart swells to see them, though he’d supposed most of them out on the front—Master Plo must have just arrived back from seeing the Wookies.
“Jedi business incoming,” Dex says, leaving the small box on the table next to Obi-Wan’s bed. “Some cake for you, my friend. Should brighten up the place.”
Padme leaves a kiss on Obi-Wan’s hair, going with Bail to do some preparation for the trial and see what other senators might be on their side. They both promise to come back in a few hours, and he exacts a vow from Padme that she’ll let the Jedi do a scan, if only to set Anakin’s mind at ease should he return to them. Dex follows, and Obi-Wan whispers to Bail to let his friend know the truth. That he can be trusted.
Because right now, Obi-Wan needs all the friends he can get.
“I didn’t expect to see some of you,” he says to the six Jedi huddling around his sickbed.
“We’ve called as many Jedi as possible home,” Master Windu tells him. “With the Separatist chain of command broken up, many of the droids have been shut down. Clone battallions have been left on the planets where droids have ceased their attacks. I have … concerns about too many Jedi being out in the galaxy at the moment.”
“Bad news we have,” Yoda begins, leaning heavy on his gimmer stick. “About the comlink you gave us. It self-erased before we could transfer the message from Palpatine to Grievous.”
Obi-Wan leans back against the pillows, drawing in a sharp breath through his nose before exhaling. “Of course. So it’s my word against Palpatine’s.”
“Or Skywalker’s word,” Master Windu adds, the tension tight in his voice. “He is a Jedi, but his friendship with Palpatine would give his testimony weight. Have you heard from him?”
Obi-Wan’s grasps his bedsheets with a slick, sweaty hand. “No.”
How does he defend Anakin’s actions here? How does he explain without giving away Anakin’s secret and still keep the rest of the Jedi safe? Anakin’s place in his heart is singular and immovable, that will never change, but he cannot, will not, let him destroy the galaxy at Palpatine’s side.
Resisting the urge to cry, he runs a hand over his face, trying to center himself. The war has depleted the well of calm and hope from which he draws resilience, and now he must scrape the bottom and place himself fuly in the light. Small things anchor him. The soft sheets beneath his fingers. The relief of not being in absolute agony, even if he is still in pain. The concern of his friends around him.
A knife cuts through all of that, dragging slow across his calm and bleeding his anxieties out into the open. It is impossible to hide things from most Jedi, and especially the ones in this room. He wants to be worthy of his place on the council. He wants to do the Jedi justice. Palpatine’s voice taunts him. Reminds him that maybe he has failed Anakin and the Jedi.
I’ve been dreaming about this for so long, Master Kenobi.
I’ll take care of your apprentice, shall I?
Anguish claws at his insides, ripping them to shreds, and it is only Master Plo’s kind hand on his shoulder that eases things.
“Master Billaba and Caleb arrived shortly before I did, and said they saw Anakin,” he says, his deep voice a comforting lilt. “He was taking off in his starfighter.”
A memory comes back to him, smeared with blood as a cough builds in his throat.
His own voice, calling out one name as he was carried into the halls of healing.
Anakin!
Scarlet warmth floods his cheeks. Force knows, that’s mortifying—every Jedi nearby would have heard him. That cough longs to be let out, itching itching itching. Luminara hands him a handkerchief and he releases it, spitting out red-tinged mucus.
“Easy, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan says, clapping him on the back. “If you’re going to cough up blood, you ought to go do it on the chancellor.”
“How is he?” Obi-Wan asks, taking the glass of water Master Plo hands him.
“Awake and perfectly fine, as far as we’ve heard,” Kit Fisto says, crossing his arms over his chest. “One round in the Bacta healed him just fine, but you’d think from the Holo News he was barely holding on.”
“So it’s a war for hearts and minds then,” Obi-Wan mutters.
“It might have been that from the beginning,” Master Windu answers, sitting down on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed. “Obi-Wan. What’s going on with Anakin?”
Obi-Wan sighs, that sharp pain behind his eye returning with a vengeance.
"Palpatine has his claws in Anakin's mind," he says, massaging his temple. "Anakin has always struggled with loss, and his mother’s death, the visions that he had about it only to have it truly occur, have haunted him since. The war, Ahsoka’s exit from the order, the losses we’ve all suffered, have not helped matters. Palpatine has told him that the Sith can prevent death. Anakin wants to believe that, especially if he could save anyone close to him. I assume the situation with myself is complex, given I would not approve, quite obviously, of him turning to the Sith to save me.”
In the silence, Obi-Wan can tell at least Master Windu and Yoda know he is leaving something out, but they don’t pester him over it.
“Came to me, he did,” Yoda adds, “to talk about what he thought was a vison of the loss of someone close to him. Not long after you left for Utapau.”
“Anakin never entirely took to heart the difference between love and attachment,” Obi-Wan says softly. “And that is my fault.”
"Your fault it is not," Yoda insists. And he, Obi-Wan supposes, would know, after Dooku. “An excellent teacher you have been, and friend to him always.”
“He’s right, Obi-Wan,” Luminara adds quietly, and Obi-Wan blinks back tears when she brushes a stray hair away from his forehead. “Sometimes our students do things we never could have predicted.”
Barris’ memory gleams in Luminara’s eyes, and no matter how well she adheres to the Jedi ideals of letting go, of caring deeply but not destroying over it, Obi-Wan feels her pain in his own chest. That she would still carry it in some way is not surprising.
"The question is, do you believe young Skywalker can make the right choice?” Yoda asks. “Listen to you, we should have, when you warned us against putting him with Palpatine."
"It's been a complicated time, Master," Obi-Wan says, putting away the irritation he felt when they didn’t listen. Palaptine would have found a way, regardless. "But yes. I believe he can. I know he can. But we must be careful. He was not in an enviable state of mind when we were in Palpatine’s office. I’ve not seen him like that before and there is—” the ghost of Palpatine’s knife twists in his gut—“danger that he will turn. It is imperative, whatever happens to me, that we bring the truth about the chancellor to light before the galaxy is ripped apart.”
Before he ruins and wrecks the most important person in Obi-Wan’s life.
The doors to his room burst open, and Mas Amedda strides in with clones from the Coruscant guard following behind, the shoulders of their white armor painted red.
Obi-Wan can’t help but wonder if that’s always been on purpose, a sign that Coruscant belonged to Palpatine. To the Sith. But this is his home, and he will fight for it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Master Windu asks, standing up.
The other Jedi surround Obi-Wan’s bed, none drawing their sabers, of course, but the message is clear.
Mas Amedda shoves a data pad beneath Windu’s nose, and Windu tears it from his hand, Yoda whispering a barely audible Mace in gentle reprimand.
Obi-Wan feels the pop of rage from his friend a moment before Windu’s eyes fly open.
“Treason?” Windu says, his voice rising. “Attempted murder was enough of a farce, but this?”
“I made myself perfectly clear about the seriousness of this situation last night,” Amedda replies cooly. “Master Kenobi, you are formally under arrest under the jurisdiction of the Grand Army of the Republic. I requested the Jedi remove you from the council and the order, but they have refused. You are to stay in this room unless and until we move you. There will be guards outside at all hours. You are stripped of your status as High General, and the clones in the 212th are no longer under your command. CT-2224 and the rest of the battallion are being summoned back to Coruscant to ascertain just how much they knew about your plan.”
“Leave Commander Cody and the 212th out of this,” Obi-Wan snaps, unable to control himself. “They haven’t done anything wrong. They are brave men who have fought your master’s war for far too long. Died for it.”
The smirk sliding onto Mas Amedda’s face makes Obi-Wan sick to his stomach. “Understand, Master Kenobi, that the prosecution is seeking the death penalty, should you be found guilty. Keep that in mind should you opt to maintain such an attitude toward me. I thought you were meant to be so … diplomatic.”
“You can’t do this,” Quinlan growls, clenching his fists. “The Jedi have some jurisdiction. Obi-Wan is a Jedi.”
“You have no power when it comes to crimes committed on senate property, against a member of the senate, Master Vos,” Mas Amedda answers, smooth and unfeeling. He makes for the door, turning his head once more before he goes. “No Jedi is to leave Coruscant from this moment forward. They may only return. And Master Kenobi—” that smirk reaches his eyes, and they glint with dark joy—“you should know that Anakin Skywalker has come to us. He won’t be testifying on your behalf, I’m afraid.”
No. That can’t be true. Dex saw him. Master Billaba saw him. He took off. He left. Obi-Wan would rather him be off-world than swept to Palpatine’s side. But that was last night. Could he have changed his mind? No. No. They’re just trying to break him. That must be it.
Right?
Shouting starts. From Mace. Quinlan. Kit. Yoda’s saying something, but Obi-Wan can’t make it out. A breath-stealing pressure squeezes his lungs. The jagged edge of Mas Amedda’s words rips his heart open.
Anakin Skywalker has come to us.
He puts his hand against his wound, something wet coming off on his fingers.
He’s bleeding. Of course. The squeezing sensation grows worse. It crushes down against his chest until someone might be stepping on him with the firm press of a boot heel. Air comes in short, shallow gasps. A tremble creeps through his fingers, over his hands, up his arms, until his whole body shakes.
“Get out of here right now!” Master Vokara Che shouts at Mas Amedda and the clone guards, running into the room with two younger Jedi Knights behind her. “Master Kenobi is still my patient.”
The oxygen mask from last night goes back over his mouth. The world spins. Someone says something about putting him back in the Bacta tank. Everything is unreal when the liquid that will finish healing his wounds envelopes him, one old, crumpled memory that set the course for his life flashing before his eyes.
A small, sandy-haired boy.
A handshake.
A smile on his face, despite any reservations he might have had.
Qui-Gon’s voice.
Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Anakin’s higher-pitched, childish tones, enthusiasm in every syllable.
You’re a Jedi too? Pleased to meet you!
Consciousness steals away into the brilliant Coruscant morning, and Obi-Wan’s eyes fall shut, plunging him into darkness.
Ahsoka Tano’s arms hang heavy by her sides, a persistent ache running from shoulder to wrist. No surprise, she suppposes, after fighting Maul, who is locked up tight in the back of the ship. Still, something else feels off. Wrong. Her prickling chest. Her sinking stomach. Maul has been stopped. Master Obi-Wan has been sent to take care of Grievous, and if he can prevent Grievous from getting away this time, that might stop the war altogether.
Obi-Wan’s face from when she spoke to him a few days ago lingers. The silver hair shining near his temples, illuminated by the blue light of the hologram. The dull eyes. The worry for Anakin cutting through his usual warm amusement. Her heart picks up speed when her thoughts turn to Anakin, attention drawn down toward her comlink. In all the chaos, she missed a message.
Anakin appears in holo form when she hits the button, slumped in the pilot’s chair of his starfighter.
Ahsoka, I need you to pick up. I don’t … you know I hate needing things.
Is he drunk? She’s only seen him like that twice—once after the Zygerrian slaver experience, when Obi-Wan and Rex insisted they were fine but obviously weren’t, and then again when they they thought Obi-Wan was dead but was really undercover.
But I need you to tell me what to do. To talk me out of doing something. I don’t even know if it will work. It probably won’t. Palpatine is a Sith. Obi-Wan is hurt, and Padme … Stay safe, Snips. Stay away from me.
What?
What?
Why would she want to stay away from him? Stay safe from what? Anakin wouldn’t hurt her. Not ever. That she needed time apart from her old master after she left was true, and going back, seeing him again, scared her, because part of her missed that life and part of her was still angry. But he looked awful. Sounded broken in a way she’s never heard before.
Palpatine is Darth Sidious.
The Darth Sidious Obi-Wan warned her of. The Darth Sidious about whom they hoped Maul could provide insight.
Palpatine has been Anakin’s friend, though Ahsoka, not knowing him well, always felt odd about him, and Anakin always seemed to argue with Obi-Wan more after seeing him. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan had been worried about Anakin being sent to spy on Palpatine when they last spoke, and she’d snapped at him about the council.
The council is not always right, Ahsoka, he said.
Everything that happened with her trial, with leaving the order, clouded her judgement when it came to her grand-master, and now she realizes he was reaching out as much as he could without stepping on her newfound path.
Somehow, this makes sense. Horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching sense.
Maul warned her about Anakin. He warned her and she couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t. The cuts on her arms from the blown-up Mandalorian window still remain because she hasn’t had time to tend to them. She barely noticed them. How could she, when Maul was saying her master, her brother, her friend, would join the Sith? But has he? In his message he said he wanted her to talk him out of doing something. But why her? Why not Obi-Wan?
Obi-Wan.
Did Obi-Wan get hurt fighting Grievous? But no. Anakin mentioned it right after the news about Palpatine with no mention of the infamous droid general. Mostly droid, anyway. How hurt is he, if Anakin is not going to him about this terrible choice? Did Palpatine pit them against one another? Anakin would be there if Obi-Wan were seriously hurt unless he … unless …
No. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t. That is not the Anakin Skywalker she knows.
What’s wrong with Padme? What has fallen apart the few days she’s been on Mandalore to make Anakin sound like that?
A thousand questions, a million, swirl through her mind, and there are no answers, only that niggling, prickling pain in her chest telling her that the man who taught her might be slipping into the darkness.
The heaviness from earlier becomes a real burden, and she leans against the dashboard of the star cruiser. Darkness edges into her line of vision and she blinks it away, trying to focus on the spinning blue and sliver whirl of hyperspace on their way to Coruscant. Thank the Force they’re going to Coruscant already or she would turn this ship around. She has to get there. She must. Whatever mistakes the Jedi council have made, Anakin, Obi-Wan, the Jedi as a whole, will always be her family.
Footsteps come, and the voice Ahsoka most wants to hear.
“Ahsoka,” Rex says, and then his hand is on her shoulder, “you need to come see this. There’s something on the HoloNet News. Are you all right?”
“No,” she admits, the word bursting out of her mouth. “I got this message from Anakin.”
She plays it again, and Rex’s eyes go wide.
“No word on where he’s gone?” he asks, staring at the comlink like it might tell him what he wants to hear.
Ahsoka shakes her head. “No. Nothing. Have you heard from Cody? Anything about Grievous? I didn’t know if that was why Obi-Wan was hurt.”
It isn’t. She knows it isn’t, but she wishes it was. Anakin couldn’t have hurt Obi-Wan. He wouldn’t. It was Palpatine. It must have been.
“Haven’t heard from him,” Rex says, gently taking her wrist and leading her through the hallway. “I assumed he was busy on Utapau. Come on. You need to see this.”
Rex tells the other 501st members that he needs a moment alone with Ashoka before he flicks on the HoloNews recording in the room where they were gathered.
Assassination attempt! Chancellor Palpatine was nearly killed tonight by rogue Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, and has been taken to the Grand Republic Medical Facility in critical condition. Questions remain about whether other Jedi were involved.
Bile crawls upward, scorching the back of Ahsoka’s throat.
They’re setting Obi-Wan up. They’re setting him up and Anakin is … where is he? Is he already with Palpatine? But no, he seemed to be on a ship when he called. Betraying Obi-Wan is not in him. Betraying the Republic is not in him.
Then why did he tell you to stay away from him?
“Now, even without hearing that message from General Skywalker,” Rex begins, “when I saw this report the first time, I knew something couldn’t be right. General Kenobi isn’t an assassin. And this—” he releases a breath, and Ahsoka swears his eyes are shining with unshed tears—“isn’t the first time I’ve heard something about the chancellor. When I told you Fives died, I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
Rex sits down, resting his elbows on the table where the holo projector sits. Ahsoka joins him, one hand on his shoulder this time.
“Rex,” she says, and her voice shakes, “what is it?”
“Fives said—” Rex runs a hand over his face, clearing his throat—“he said there were chips in our brains. Chips meant to make us kill Jedi. Chips put there by the chancellor. But he was so … he wasn’t himself. At all. And it sounded so impossible. He kept saying the chancellor tried to kill him. I—” Rex breaks off. “I should have believed him. I should have. I knew something wasn’t right.”
Ahsoka grasps Rex’s hand, and both of them are trembling as they hurtle through space.
“I don’t know what happened with Anakin and Obi-Wan and Palpatine,” she says, holding tight to Rex so she doesn’t slide off the face of the galaxy, “but I do know when we get to to Coruscant we need to go right to the Jedi temple. That’s where we’ll get the truth.”
As everything they know, the foundation of their lives, the past three years, cracks beneath their feet, Rex and Ashoka don’t let go.
Chapter 4: Let the Rain Come Down, Darling
Summary:
Anakin arrives on Tatooine. Padme finds a shred of joy in the chaos. Obi-Wan is dragged from the Jedi temple to be locked up in the Republic Military Base on Coruscant before his trial, missing the friend who has never let him down, until now. The Jedi band together. Rex and Ahsoka share information with Cody that might change everything.
Notes:
Phewww this chapter got longer than I expected! I had planned for several more scenes in here, but ended up needing to split it in two, so the fic is estimated to be 9 chapters now, though it may stretch to 10.
Thank you so much for all your lovely comments!
Warning for medical procedures without consent in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The relentless twin suns swallow Anakin whole when he arrives on Tatooine.
Padme always teases him about how easily he gets cold after growing up in the desert, but he certainly doesn’t miss the desert.
He hates this hot, Force-forsaken place.
His hands shake when he brings the starfighter to a halt on the outskirts of Anchorhead, which hasn’t changed a bit, because nothing here ever changes. Grief wallops him head to toe, thudding beneath his breastbone. He hasn’t been here since …
Since …
So much for the vow he made that day that he would never come back here. Seeing his stepfather, or Owen and Beru, cannot happen. No, the twin suns will need to be longe gone before he can set out for his mother’s grave. Treasured memories of Shmi flit in and out and in and out of his mind’s eye. She’ll tell him what to do. He knows she will.
Half of him wants to storm toward Watto’s broken-down junk shop and break everything in there, if there’s anything left. To erase that little boy he was from existence so he doesn’t have to make this choice. But he can’t. He can’t because sacred things happened in that dusty, decrepit place. What anyone means by the will of the Force he’s never been sure—Obi-Wan doesn’t use that turn of phrase like Qui-Gon had—but if such a thing exists, surely it led to Padme stepping through the doors that day. It didn’t just lead him to Padme, though, but to Obi-Wan too.
Again, he’s caught between them.
He tosses off his outer brown robe with a frustrated growl, letting it land on the floor of his ship, and unclips his lightsaber—he doesn’t want any nighttime prowlers seeing it when he goes out. With hours to pass before dark, he dares to check his messages.
Padme’s first message is worried. Desperate.
Anakin, where are you? Come back. I need you to come back. I’m not dying, but Palpatine killing what we have left of the Republic isn’t something I’m going to let happen. You don’t want to let it happen. I know you don’t. I need to know if you’re hurt. If he’s hurt you. I’m fine. I promise you I’m fine.
Her second message is panicked.
Anakin, you need to pick up. Obi-Wan is in very bad shape. I’ve just seen him and lied about you being outside because he was so desperate to have you with him. I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Please come. You’ll never forgive yourself if he dies and you’re not here.
Anakin’s heart leaps into this throat, anxiety seizing him in a vice grip. But no. No. He would know if Obi-Wan was dead. He would feel it in the thick tendrils of the Force tying them together across the galaxy. Those tendrils would snap. He would know.
Her third message is angry.
Anakin Skywalker, you need to come to the halls of healing. Now. Obi-Wan is out of the Bacta, he should make it, but he’s hurt badly and Palpatine’s people are circling already. You should be here. You know you should be here. I can’t believe you aren’t here, Anakin.
The fourth is full of grief. Her hair is rumpled, like she might have slept in a chair.
Anakin. We heard from Dex that you went by the diner. And from Master Plo that you were seen in your starfigher. Did you leave Coruscant? Mas Amedda said you’d gone to Palpatine. I wasn’t there when he said it, but Obi-Wan told me. I don’t want to believe you would do that. Please don’t make me believe you would do that. I love you. Obi-Wan loves you. We love you. Come back.
The last is short. Padme has her face in her hands.
They’re putting Obi-Wan on trial for treason.
There’s three more left.
The first from Ahsoka. She must have gotten his message.
Anakin, Rex and I got your message. We’re headed back to Coruscant with Maul and to see what’s going on with Obi-Wan. The news is … we’re worried about both of you. I’m not scared of you, you know. I won’t ever be. I hope I find you when I get to the temple. Rex has some information I won’t share here, but it could change everything. Let me know where you are.
And then another message from someone he least expected. The message from the Jedi temple.
Yoda.
He’d expected Mace Windu with a firm you need to get back here, Skywalker. Or another member of the council. Not the grandmaster, who no doubt, right now, must have more to think of than him.
Frightened you are, young Skywalker. Understand the depth of your fear well enough when we spoke, I did not. Think Obi-Wan should train you in the beginning, I did not, but a fine pair you have become, and friend and teacher to you he is. Getting through this without you, difficult, it will be for him. Trust you, he does, to make the right choice. Trust you, I do. A strong Jedi you are. Of my lineage both of you are, and together, I would have us, to face this.
Anakin slumps back into the pilot’s chair, and he can’t even answer when Artoo beeps a question in binary.
Are you all right?
That tantalizing numbness tempts him once more, and he gives in to it. His emotions dull. His brain goes to low-power mode.
All these people caring about you, looking for you, and you’re betraying them all. For what?
To save Padme. Their child.
Padme didn’t ask you to save her.
But he has to. He has to. What he did after his mother died, when grief and rage ripped him apart, he was too ashamed to tell even Obi-Wan. What terrible thing will he do if Padme suffers the same fate as Shmi?
What terrible thing will you do to save her?
Palpatine knows about the sand people. Palpatine helped him believe that what he did that day was not so bad, they were just monsters, after all, but deep down, he knew it was wrong.
Or he would have told Obi-Wan.
He would say he hasn’t had that awful vision about Padme’s death since everything that happened in Palpatine’s office, but he hasn’t slept since then, either. Does that mean it was a nightmare, and not real at all? But no. No. He thought that about his mother too, and she died. Palpatine can teach him to save Padme.
There is, Anakin realizes, one last message. The newest one.
Chancellor Palpatine appears in holo form, the wound from Obi-Wan’s lightsaber healed up, at least as far as he can tell. He might need a second Bacta round to get rid of the soreness, but while saber wounds are no small thing, they melt and they burn, Obi-Wan had kept this one as minimal as he was able, not, Anakin is sure, because he wanted to, but to keep Palpatine alive for proof. Obi-Wan likes diplomacy where he can get it, but Sith cannot be bargained with.
Or can they?
Dark thoughts collect at the back of Anakin’s mind, and he lets them take root and dig into the soil of his psyche.
Is that just another lie the Jedi told him?
Anakin, Palpatine says, in that easy, friendly way Anakin knows well, the one where he makes Anakin feel like he could tell him anything. I do hope you’re all right with everything going on. Your old master has betrayed you so thoroughly. It must be painful for you. I hope to see you soon. The Republic is counting on you.
There’s nothing direct in this message. No mention of the Sith. Of Padme. Of any of that. There is only the implication of things Anakin already knows. A play on his emotions.
Palpatine used him. Lied to him. There’s barely been any time to even think of that. His mentor—his other mentor—is a Sith. How poetic it is, to now have to choose between the two men who have taught him the most, upon whose shoulders he has leaned. Between light and dark. Sith and Jedi. Who would he be now, if Obi-Wan hadn’t been in Palpatine’s office when he arrived?
Answers await in this place where it all began, where he was just Ani, and nothing more.
Sleep tugs at him, and he slides into a broken slumber.
"Master Kenobi," Master Che says in exasperation. "I beg of you to finish eating instead of watching this. It won't do you any good."
Obi-Wan mutters an apology, holding his spoon halfway to his mouth while he watches Padme and Bail give a live interview for the HoloNet News. He slept again after his second round in the Bacta tank, waking up again last evening to them both sitting by his bed preparing for this. Gratitude doesn’t seem strong enough a word to encompass what he feels about what they’re doing for him, but he is grateful.
"The reports do not give the entire picture of what occurred in Chancellor Palpatine's office," Bail's saying, standing just outside the main temple doors. "I am not at liberty to discuss the details until tomorrow's trial, but I will mention that General Kenobi," he continues, emphasizing that first word, "very recently put an end to Grievous, which has caused the war to come to a grinding halt. There is some talk of returning to diplomatic solutions. Does that sound like a man who would then return here and attempt to murder the chancellor? I’ve taken note that news of Grievous’ death has not been broadcast.”
"Are you accusing the chancellor of something, Senator Organa?" the reporter asks.
"We are accusing the chancellor of holding on too long to his power and of attempting to set Master Kenobi up for something in order to hold onto it even if the war may be coming to a close," Padme answers. “Master Kenobi was terribly wounded, which if you’ve watched the HoloNet News reports throughout the war, you know is not easily done. The chancellor is hiding something. And we intend to make what that is known. Even before this happened, Senator Organa and I had serious concerns about Chancellor Palpatine’s actions. Holding on to his term for so long. Sending governors to planets throughout the Republic. It all adds up to a power play.”
"Perhaps it will distract you to know that some of my best healers looked at Senator Amidala's scan," Master Che says. "We saw no signs of any issue, though I don't envy her carrying twins for the next two months."
Obi-Wan, finally having taken a spoonful of broth, sputters, some of the liquid going down the wrong pipe.
"Twins? I ... I had a vision where ..."
"A vision?" Master Che interjects. "You didn't know?"
"She doesn't know."
"Well then. She'll be in for some news. I suppose a lesser medical professional could have missed it if she had a scan earlier, but this far along, there is no doubt.”
Obi-Wan turns back to the interview on the holo, hardly able to process this news, even if part of him suspected. A scan is more concrete.
“You said Master Kenobi was wounded,” the reporter’s saying. “Can you elaborate?”
“I am saving the details for the trial,” Bail replies, “but he very nearly lost his life. Does that seem like mere self-defense on the chancellor’s part to you?”
The interview cuts off then, switching to another reporter talking to Orn Free Taa outside the senate building.
“I was there,” he’s saying, “and I saw the terrible state of the chancellor, with a lightsaber wound burning right through his shoulder. Master Kenobi was also wounded, but it seemed odd to me that the chancellor would begin a fight. Why ever would he?”
To think Obi-Wan spent so much time on Ryloth, built community with their people, only to have their senator be so damned frustrating.
“And do you have a good relationship with the Jedi? the reporter asks.
“Cham Syndulla has a stronger relationship than I do,” Orn Free Taa answers. “No surprises there, given what a reactionary he is.”
The reporter is about to respond when another voice, a voice Obi-Wan knows, cuts in.
“Don’t anyone watching this believe this drivel,” Quinlan Vos says, looking directly into the camera and stepping in front of the senator. “Obi-Wan Kenobi is a good man and an even greater Jedi, fussy though he may sometimes be.”
Obi-Wan bites back a smile. Oh, the council is going to love this. Well, he’s on the council, and he appreciates it, even if it is not … the best course of action.
“Master Jedi!” The reporter shouts. “This is—”
The holo switches off, and Obi-Wan jerks in surprise, barely avoiding spilling the rest of his broth.
“You are agitating yourself,” Master Che says, more gently than usual. “The senators will tell you the outcome of this when they come see you in a short while. There’s no need to watch now.” Surprising him, she sits down on the edge of his bed, her blue eyes glistening a touch. “I’m certain this will all get sorted, Obi-Wan. And I’m sure Master Skywalker will turn up.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan mutters, his reserved nature brushing up against the innate Jedi ability to read people. “Yes, hopefully.”
“I remember the two of you, after Geonosis.” She smiles, annoyed and affectionate all at once. “Refusing to let yourselves heal, so intent you both were, on seeing the other. I’m going to make sure the Bacta tank is ready for what I hope is your last round,” she continues, patting his knee. You do need one more, I’m afraid to say. There’s still some bleeding from that liver wound up on the surface even if the organ is healed, and it should take care of the pain other than some lingering soreness. He got you deep, and you will need rest for several days, regardless. It’s a testament to you, you know, that you survived him.”
That he likely won’t get said rest neither of them say, but Obi-Wan accepts Master Che’s care for him, finishing his broth and not scratching at the scar from the Sith lightning, which is more a scar now than the raised welt from before, though it’s still red against his skin. Hopefully, one day, if he lives to see it, it won’t be so noticeable. Being electrocuted is nothing new for him, but the power of that lightning was beyond anything he’s experienced—which is saying something.
He searches again for Anakin’s presence in the Force, for that sun-bright signature. It feels far away. Cast in shadow. It doesn’t feel nearby at all, but is that only because it’s so cloaked in darkness? Not entirely descended, but falling? But he left. Mas Amedda must have been lying.
Right?
Never has he wished more for Anakin Skywalker to burst into a room with one of his harebrained schemes in tow, somehow making it go off beautifully with just a touch of chaos for good measure. Obi-Wan has plans for his plans, but Anakin has taught him that sometimes, a little bit of … what would he call it? Winging it is required. Every Jedi who has trained a Padawan says that the master learns from the student, and Obi-Wan has certainly found that to be true.
But the longer Anakin is gone, the more he wonders what Anakin has learned from him. A piece of that first vision, that confrontation on the lava planet he hasn’t seen since, comes back to him. His own voice.
I have failed you Anakin. I have failed you.
No more of those shreds have come to him, and perhaps that’s because the two futures—if the morphing vision is to be believed—are both still in play. He would tell someone about it, but the person he most wants to tell isn’t here, and they all have enough to be going on with, besides.
Twins. Anakin and Padme’s twins. He loves them even just from the snatch of a maybe in his head. He wants to know them. He wants to be alive to see them. He wants the galaxy to be safe for them. He wants their parents safe. Padme is at least physically well, even if her emotions are understandably in turmoil. Anakin, on the other hand …
A spike of anger at Anakin, the anger he hasn’t fully let live—other than for Padme’s sake—sparks in his chest. Anakin knows better than whatever he’s doing at present, whether he’s far away or if he really did betray them.
No. No. He would know if Anakin had gone to Palpatine. And there’s no time, no place for his own personal sense of betrayal, his grief over Anakin’s absence. Not when the galaxy is at stake. Not when Anakin has left Padme in this untenable lurch. Tamping down feelings is not the way, but he doesn’t have the space to sort through them and let them breathe, so keeping them at bay is all he has. Still, a small voice speaks inside his head.
I don’t know how to do this without him. How could he leave me now?
Even Grievous, the enemy he so recently put down, knew that where Kenobi went, Skywalker followed.
Except this time.
As if drawn back here by this thoughts of the twins, Padme comes through the door to his room, looking as regal as she always does when doing official senate business. Yesterday she was asleep in a chair, her curls mussed and her green velvet cape serving as a blanket. She was just Padme, then. Today, she is Senator Amidala, former Queen of Naboo. Unflinching bravery has always been her quality, ever since she was fourteen, and now, despite her fear, despite the pinch around her mouth and her paler than usual skin, it still shines through.
Was it irresponsible of him, as a member of the council, not to tell them about Anakin and Padme’s marriage? Perhaps. It is, indeed, the cause of Anakin’s temptation now, though the root is something deeper, and specific, really, to anyone Anakin loves. But what would telling the council have done but ruin his relationship with Anakin and Padme both? He didn’t have it in him to do that. He didn’t have it in him to ruin their happiness together, Jedi code or not. Anakin might have left the order, which is where he belongs, as much as he also belongs with Padme. It’s clear to him now that Palpatine has been planning to turn Anakin for years, and as much as that might help his climb to power, it is a desire to have the most powerful Jedi, the Chosen One, rather than a lynchpin to his plan. Palpatine goes through apprentices like they’re nothing.
Even in this gaping, aching absence, Obi-Wan Kenobi is still thinking of Anakin Skywalker’s happiness.
“You were very good out there,” Obi-Wan says by way of greeting. “Or at least you were until Master Che turned off the holo. Though I think that had more to do with Quinlan bursting in on the esteemed senator from Ryloth’s interview.”
Padme rolls her eyes, tossing herself down into the chair next to Obi-Wan’s bed. “I could cheerily strangle him. The senator, I mean. I’ve had a message from Ahsoka. She and Rex are on their way here, with Maul in tow. And with news for us she didn’t want to risk sharing, but they hoped it would help with your defense.”
The news about Maul should be everything, and yet it barely makes a blip. All he feels is a heavy sense of grief. For Qui-Gon. For Satine. It sits beneath his ribs as it always does, just sharper than usual. Should he live to see next week, he does want to hear how Ahsoka and Rex managed it.
“Well, at least one Sith is off the streets.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe catching the former apprentice will give us luck with the master. Where’s Bail?”
“Pulling Master Fisto away from a reporter who pretended not to be a reporter in order to get an interview with a Jedi,” she answers, adjusting the twisted cord of his supplemental oxygen. “Master Windu and Yoda have things locked-up tight. Other than Quinlan. Though Master Fisto had some … choice words to say. On your behalf of course.” She pauses, scrunching the fabric of her navy-blue dress. “I still haven’t heard from Anakin. I don’t want to believe he went to Palpatine. I’d rather believe he’s off-world. He must be.”
“Speaking of that,” Obi-Wan replies, reaching for her hand.
She perks up. “You heard from him? Someone in the temple did?”
“No,” he says, hating to crush that gleam of joy in her eyes. “But Master Che got your scan back and there’s nothing to be concerned about. Several of the healers studied it. But there is … something.”
Now it’s Padme’s turn to raise a single eyebrow. “Something, Obi-Wan?”
Good lord, he is not the right man for this job. But in the middle of everything, Padme must know.
“I didn’t,” he tries, sorting out how to say this. “Master Che assumed you knew, so she assumed I knew, which—” He stops, exhaling a breath and slowing down. “You’re … having twins.”
Confusion passes across her face, her lips twisting into a frown, though she keeps hold of his hand. Obi-Wan doesn’t sense disappointment from her, only bewilderment.
“Twins.”
“Indeed. Master Che doesn’t tend to make mistakes. I—” he winces as the worst of the two wounds twinges—“well to tell you the truth I had something that seemed like a vision. It kept changing. But I saw twins. A little boy and a little girl. And normally I don’t give visions credence because they’re difficult to trust, but I sensed quite a powerful amount of new life around you.”
Padme stares at him, a smile playing at her lips. “You wanted me to get this scan to prove your theory.”
“No.” He raises a finger in reprimand. “It was meant to ease your anxiety, and Anakin’s, should he return to us.”
The smile she was holding back wins out, and it lights up her eyes. “And to prove your theory, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “I thought I felt two very different kicks. I suppose I should have known. Twins.” Her free hand goes to her stomach, her voice going soft. “Anakin did say he thought it was a girl, and I said a boy. We were both right.”
Quiet falls, and Obi-Wan tugs on Padme’s hand, drawing her gaze.
“If he doesn’t come back, and I still hope he will,” he whispers, “if I survive this, I will help you, Padme. I promise. It goes without saying, I imagine, that those children are dear to me already. And you are as well. With everything going on, I did want to say it.”
She takes a shuddering breath, pressing a kiss to his hand. “I know. I know you will.” She tilts her head back, blinking furiously at the ceiling before fixing a piece of his mussed hair. “Bail and I will get you through this, Obi-Wan. And the Jedi will. I’ll smuggle you out myself if it comes to it.”
Anakin looms over them, and out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan swears his friend is standing there with that blazing, lopsided grin. His pulse pounds, making the machine next to the bed give a beep, but that falls away when shouts resound from the other side of his door. Rage spills in seconds before people do. Danger cracks the stolen peace he and Padme managed to find in all this dark chaos.
Bail comes first. Then Mace and Yoda, followed by Mas Amedda and five members of the Coruscant clone guard.
Ah. That would be the reason for the rage, then. And the danger.
“What is the point of this?” Mace asks, and as usual he commands attention without needing to shout, though there is a shout coming, Obi-Wan thinks. “For a trial that is meant to take place tomorrow morning? These proceedings are already happening far more quickly than they ought to be, and now you are removing a Jedi, a member of the council, a soldier because the chancellor demanded it, away from proper medical attention?”
“Chancellor Palpatine does not feel that himself, or the Republic as a whole, is safe while Kenobi is not securely locked up.”
“Become a happy assassin so suddenly Obi-Wan has not.” Yoda narrows his eyes, and the usual serenity surrounding him is nowhere to be found. Obi-Wan’s never heard that bite in his voice. “From his reputation, know that, you should. The most insightful negotiator in the Jedi Order, he is.”
That pain behind Obi-Wan’s right eye blooms to life again, and he can barely process this immense compliment from the Jedi grandmaster. His blood buzzes beneath his skin. His heart beats erratically. Everything in his body screams alert alert alert there’s something very wrong.
“You have summoned three-quarters of the Jedi from across the galaxy here to the temple,” Mas Amedda shoots back, “because of the Separatist droid shutdowns. Without full approval, I might add, given you also told them to leave parts of their clone battalions behind. Regardless, do you think I trust that one of those thousands of Jedi wouldn’t try to break Master Kenobi out?”
“To go where?” Bail asks, exasperated. “You aren’t letting any Jedi ships off-world. This is needless cruelty.”
“I’m sorry, what’s going on?” Padme asks, getting up from her chair.
“We are moving Master Kenobi,” Mas Amedda says. “And please, Senator Amidala, do spare me a lecture on what the Republic is supposed to stand for when you are opting to defend a man who attempted to murder the chancellor.”
"He's not fully healed," Padme protests, breezing past the insult. "He is due another round in the Bacta tank. Master Che will not allow it.”
"What the Jedi will and will not allow is not a concern here," Mas Amedda says. "Master Kenobi is stable enough to be moved and will receive smaller doses of Bacta while in custody as needed."
Obi-Wan shuts his eyes, reciting part of the Jedi code to himself. Trying to anchor himself to it.
Emotion, yet peace.
Chaos, yet harmony.
Always, this has served him, but now, here, when Palpatine has wrecked and ruined the Jedi’s clarity, Obi-Wan cannot connect fully. He can’t see.
Master Che returns at that moment, hands on her hips. “Stable?” she retorts without hestitation. “Vice Chair Amedda, he may not die if you move him, but he will be in pain. One more round of immersion is what he needs. Smaller doses are slower, as you know well enough. Would you like him to bleed all over your jail cell?”
Mas Amedda raises one hand. “Enough, Master Che. We were kind enough to grant you the second round in the Bacta before. Master Kenobi will survive.”
"Where are you taking me?" Obi-Wan asks.
"To the Republic Military Base," Mas Amedda replies in a clipped tone. "It is the only place secure enough for someone like you. The central detention center is not meant to hold force-sensitives.”
"Someone like me." Obi-Wan laughs darkly. "Planning to put more Jedi in there are you?"
"If needed. Thanks to your actions, the entire order is now under suspicion.”
"This is atrocious behavior," Master Windu says. "A Jedi will ride with you, so I may ensure you are not attempting to murder Master Kenobi in the interim."
"We are not the murderers here, Master Windu. And no. Master Kenobi will be allowed no Jedi visitors while imprisoned at the base. Only his senate representatives and others as permitted on a case-by-case basis.”
“You can’t do that,” Windu shoots back.
“I can,” Mas Amedda says breezily. “If you attempt to argue the point, I’d think twice. I’m not certain what the Jedi need right now is to be seen barging their way in to Coruscant’s main military installation, do you? What would the HoloNet News make of that?” He gestures at Obi-Wan with two fingers. “To me, Master Kenobi. Now.”
A reluctant Master Che removes Obi-Wan’s oxygen cannula and slides the IV of pain medication and fluids out of his arm, helping him up from the bed with Padme’s assistance. Putting one hand briefly on Master Windu’s shoulder, Obi-Wan steps toward Mas Amedda as requested. Giving the people who would see him dead more ammunition against the Jedi won’t do, but he may not be able to do anything else if this keeps up. He would have had someone go to his room and retrieve a change of clothes, but they’re going to force him out in this white hospital tunic and loose pants. Lovely.
Two clones put him in stuncuffs—one set around his wrists, the other around his ankles, joined together by a sparking, thin blue cord.
“If you attempt to move too quickly, or use the Force, rest assured these will shock you, Master Kenobi. They were created by the teams at the Citadel before it fell into Separatist hands.” Mas Amedda takes a syringe out of a case one of the clones hands him, pushing up Obi-Wan’s sleeve.
Obi-Wan moves away out of instinct, and the stuncuffs do, indeed, shock him.
“Easy,” one of the clones warns.
"What is that?" Padme asks. “I know it isn’t Bacta.”
"A half-dose sleep inducer," Mas Amedda replies. "We can't have a powerful force-user attempting anything during a transfer. This will dull his senses without rendering him unconscious."
Obi-Wan shakes his head, and his intentions to keep calm elude him. “You were ready to go after the Jedi. I'm just the start, aren’t I?”
Mas Amedda sniffs sharply. "It's as I said when you so viciously attacked the chancellor. We have long feared something like this from the Jedi. Our mistake, I think, to give you so much power during the war. You will consent to this.”
“I do not consent,” Obi-Wan argues. “You have my word I will not struggle.”
“Your word,” Mas Amedda snarls, dropping the cool, collected façade of a moment ago, “means nothing, Master Jedi.”
Potent panic fills Obi-Wan up to the brim. Air sticks sharply in his lungs. A deep breath will not come. The Force surrounds him, but he cannot bring it into himself. Not correctly. It comes like a leaf caught in the breeze, and he cannot catch it.
“No,” he protests.
“This is egregious,” Master Windu tries, interrupted by Mas Amedda seizing Obi-Wan by the arm. Hard. Tight.
“I do not consent,” Obi-Wan bites out. “Until you manage to kill me, I do have rights. Let go of me, sir.”
“Master Kenobi,” the clone captain warns again, and he sounds like Cody. He sounds like Rex. “Calm down.”
The tip of the needle presses against Obi-Wan's skin, and something deep deep deep down boils over. Everything that’s happened. Qui-Gon. The war. Maul. Satine. Every dead clone and Jedi. Anakin. Anakin. Anakin. The fear and the rage and the grief he has trained himself to accept and manage and let go of.
All of it explodes.
He raises his hands ever so slightly to keep Mas Amedda away, and for the first time in his life, he loses control of his power.
Mas Amedda goes flying, tumbling onto the floor with a thunk. The syringe clatters to the clean white floor, though there is a spare glinting in the silver case. A glass tube of something blue shatters, liquid splattering all over. The cuffs shock him again and he draws in a breath through clenched teeth, stumbling before Bail catches him, helping him lean against the nearby bedframe.
His legs won’t hold him.
The floor greets him when he slides down, sweat beading at his hairline.
“Easy, Obi-Wan,” Yoda says, one green hand resting on the side of Obi-Wan's face. “Easy, my friend.”
He’s given only a moment to rest, snatched up again by the clone captain and his underling, who pin his arms, another grasping the back of his tunic.
“You violent Jedi wretch,” Mas Amedda says, backhanding Obi-Wan full in the face. “On your knees. Right now.”
“Hey!” Padme shouts when one of the clones kicks Obi-Wan's feet out from under him, bone hitting tile so hard that he makes his lip bleed holding back a cry of pain.
Mas Amedda snatches at the front of his tunic, squatting down and hauling him closer, the needle going in without warning. The chancellor’s lackey is no practiced hand, and injection is painful.
“Out of the way!” Windu orders the clones once Mas Amedda is done. “Right now. Move.”
The prospect of further anger from Windu makes the clones back off, and he pulls Obi-Wan to his feet before Mas Amedda can protest. A small bit of blood seeps through Obi-Wan's tunic, the yet unhealed wound jostled when he fell.
“Master Windu,” Mas Amedda protests.
“You will give me one minute,” Windu snaps. “The HoloNet crews I know you have on either end of this can wait.”
“You might want to examine your loyalties more closely,” Mas Amedda says. “If you wish for the Jedi Order to remain in any kind of good standing. Even Master Kenobi’s former apprentice has opted to leave his side. What does that say to you?”
Windu doesn’t answer, but Padme does, saying something like what proof do you have that Master Skywalker has chosen to help you, but the words slip out of Obi-Wan's grasp. Windu puts one hand on his shoulder, and Obi-Wan's breathing eases, the Force like a golden thing between them. Safety. All the light in the universe.
“I will not let them get away with this,” Windu whispers, so only Obi-Wan can hear. His eyes flit down to the stained tunic, and he adjusts the fabric so the blood might be more visible to passerby.
Or to the news crews waiting outside.
“I intend to make the galaxy see what these people are doing to you,” Windu continues, barely audible. “And Skywalker will be back. You said it yourself—he has never let you down.”
Obi-Wan nods, but his heart clenches even if he still wholly believes in his student. His brother. His best friend. Anakin has let him down for the first time, and it hurts.
“All of this”—Bail’s black eyebrows furrow, his good-nature vanished and his temper on full display—“will be mentioned at trial. Every minute. This treatment of Master Kenobi and the Jedi as a whole is not to be tolerated.”
“Let’s go.” Mas Amedda turns, and the clones gather around Obi-Wan from all sides.
“With you we are, young one,” Yoda says, “even if we are not present. Trust Senator Organa and Amidala. Consult with them, we will.”
“Obi-Wan.” Padme’s hand juts in-between the clones to grasp Obi-Wan's.
And something happens, then. A burst of comfort. Calm. A Force connection bound by blinding light. Even stronger than Master Windu’s. Raw. Pure. Powerful.
But … how?
A flash of that vision from the other night swims before his eyes. Padme’s veranda. Himself. The tow-headed boy and the brown-haired girl in braids again. It extends and they’re laughing, they’re calling him Uncle Obi-Wan, and there is a little more silver in his hair but he laughs, too. Burning blaster fire rips the happy vision to shreds, and it is only the anchor of Padme’s touch that keeps him from tipping over.
Padme’s eyebrows furrow. She must have felt it too. Her hand slides away when the clones push Obi-Wan forward, but the love left behind remains.
Have the twins made their mother, albeit temporarily, force-sensitive?
There’s no time to contemplate.
He’s lead through the halls of healing, and behind him Master Windu mutters something to Bail, something like ride with him, I don’t trust this, to which Bail agrees. When he steps out of the doors of Master Vokara Che’s domain and into the main hallway of the temple near the front entrance, he sees ….
He sees …
He blinks, making sure he is not, once more, caught in a vision.
Hundreds of Jedi line the walls. Thousands, maybe. They spill out through the open doors and onto the landing platform.
“We’re with you, Obi-Wan,” Dep Billaba says, standing right outside the entrance to the halls of healing with her Padawan, Caleb.
“May the Force be with you, Master Kenobi,” Caleb echoes, his eyes caught on Obi-Wan's cheek.
Force knows, he’s probably bleeding.
“Thank you,” he says softly to them both.
One of the clones prods him in the back with a staff. “Move along.”
“Obi-Wan!” his old friend Siri calls out from the crowd.
He spots her, giving a smile and a nod before he’s pushed forward once again.
A murmur builds through the temple, dozens of cries of we’re with you, Master Kenobi. A hundred wishes of may the force be with you. Tears well in his eyes. His throat closes up. The Jedi are his family, and nothing, nothing will ever change that.
Gunships hover over the landing area, the force of them creating a breeze that ruffles Obi-Wan's hair. Speeders, too, further away, with what look like reporters ready to follow them to the base. The noise of it all makes the ground rumble, the whirring of the engines loud in his ears.
A group of younglings are are just outside the door to the temple, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure they’re supposed to be here, but there’s no stopping a group of determined Jedi initiates. He certainly had plenty of hijinks, when he was that age.
“You can do it Master Obi-Wan,” one of them chirps. “I know it!”
“Thank you, little one.” Obi-Wan goes to tussle the boy’s hair, but he’s shoved once more, to which the group of children protest loudly, kept back from the clones and Mas Amedda by the Jedi Knight charged with watching them.
When he passes the younglings, there’s someone different in the crowd. Not a Jedi.
Cody.
Cody is staring at him. Just staring staring staring, his helmet with the yellow visor tucked under his arm.
“Cody.” He charges forward, the drugs making him careless already. But Cody must know. Cody must be careful or they’ll use him. Blame him. The clones have been through enough and Obi-Wan will not stand for it. He may not be their commander anymore, but he will always be their friend.
“Cody,” he repeats, before one of the less friendly clones guarding him can pull him back. “Be careful. You must be careful.”
Cody stands stiff. Straight. Unmoving.
“Sir.”
He clenches his jaw, meeting Obi-Wan's eye with distrust. No other words pass his lips.
Oh no. What have they told him? What have they done?
“Cody,” Obi-Wan tries again, but he’s dragged away, jerked by the collar of his tunic, his heels scraping against the ground before he can get properly on his feet.
Cody reaches a hand out and then pulls back again, but it’s too late. Obi-Wan can’t get over to him again without suffering the consequences.
Three speeders wait on the landing pad—one manned by the Coruscant security force, one by yet more of the Coruscant clone guard, and a third with a senate commando in the driver’s seat. Obi-Wan searches the crowd for Master Windu and Yoda, who have been barred from coming any further by four of the senate commandos on the platform.
“Turn around,” Mas Amedda orders. “Your back to me.”
Obi-Wan complies, the drugs seeping through his veins now and making him drowsy. How funny, for them to talk about a Jedi coup, when so many powerful people are standing right here, in a crowd, people who could easily make a show of said power, and yet are not. Before he can think further on it there’s a rough piece of cloth being shoved into his mouth and tied tight around the back of his head in an unforgiving knot.
“No mind tricks from you today, Master Jedi,” Mas Amedda spits, before leaning close to his ear. “You were meant to die when you rescued the chancellor, you know. Maybe you should have obliged. Get in the speeder.”
Obi-Wan does oblige that order, and Bail whispers something to Padme before slipping in beside him. Sunlight dapples across the roof of the temple as the speeder starts up, and Obi-Wan sears the image of all these Jedi into his memory. Whatever happens to him, the order must live on. It must. Destroying it must be Palpatine’s game. He knows it must be, he just doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know how much he’s managed to get in the way of.
The drugs take full hold, and the ride is not much more than a series of sensations. Bail’s steady hand on his arm. Roaring engines. Hovering ships. The breeze. The sun beating down on him. He’s hot? Cold? Both. His own beating heart and the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Comfort and courage sent to him by the thousands of Jedi he just left behind. Nausea and a sinking stomach.
What awaits him at the base is a storm.
The overbright light of cameras making him see spots. Yes, that’s what he needs right now. The imposing black and silver building juts up up up, gleaming with ominous shine against the swirling white clouds and brilliant blue of the Coruscant sky. Red flags whip in the wind.
Red. Again.
Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of clones. Willhuff Tarkin on the landing pad with a gleeful grin. Holoprojectors and reporters. Senators. Coruscant locals, come to see what all the fuss is about.
“Master Kenobi!” Two of the HoloNet News reporters rush over to him when he’s yanked roughly out of the speeder by Mas Amedda against Bail’s righteous protests.
Don’t they know he can’t answer questions? Can’t they see he’s not even allowed to open his mouth?
He stumbles when his feet hit the ground. Something rips. A bandage? One hand goes to the wound that was most serious, the one that caused the laceration of his liver, and his palm comes away smeared with red so bright it seems unreal. Like paint. It was bleeding before, wasn’t it? Yes, after he fell, but only a little. Master Windu moved his tunic so that the news crews would see it, or at least, Obi-Wan assumed.
Who is more wounded here?
“He’s bleeding,” someone says. Maybe one of the news crew.
One foot in front of the other. One. Foot. His legs quake and shake and shudder. Bail’s arm goes around his waist, keeping him upright. And then, up above, a presence.
Dark. Amused. Hateful.
Palpatine.
Palpatine standing on one of the balconies with his arm in a sling. Not necessary, Obi-Wan thinks, if he had a round or two in the Bacta tank, but a show. It’s just a show. All of this is.
“Citizens of our fine Republic,” Palpatine calls out, a false, nasty grin making his lips curl like a wisp of smoke in the air. One of the ships with a holoprojector hovers close to his position. “I hope today you will see that I will not be intimated. Wounded though I am, I will assist in bringing Master Kenobi to justice, and ascertain whether he acted alone or as part of a larger Jedi plot. Our democracy will be protected from any further schemes to seize power, I assure you.”
A roiling wave of potent nausea crashes over Obi-Wan, and he stumbles again despite Bail’s help, willing himself not to vomit. Not here. Not now. Force knows, he has been humiliated enough these past few days. He must look green, because Bail tugs the gag out of his mouth over the shouted protest of Senator Organa from Mas Amedda, and just in time for Obi-Wan's stomach to revolt entirely.
He loses the broth Master Che so badly wanted him to eat all over the ground.
“You said it was a half-dose!” Bail shouts at Mas Amedda. “He can barely stand up.”
“They drugged him?” one of the reporters asks.
“For everyone’s safety,” Mas Amedda snaps. “This man nearly killed the chancellor.”
“What’s that mark on his neck?” one curious passerby asks. “It looks like he got struck by lightning.”
“He’s bleeding rather a lot,” someone else adds. A Senator. Red hair.
Oh. It’s Mon Mothma.
Obi-Wan snorts. Bleeding rather a lot. They should have seen him the other night. This is nothing, really, in comparison, but then he supposes Mon Mothma did see him the other night, didn’t she?
“Why is your face cut, Master Kenobi?” a reporter asks.
“They hit him.” Bail steps right in front of the holoprojecter, and whether it’s live or recorded, the point will get across. “Put that in your report.”
A murmur goes through the crowd. Obi-Wan puts his hands on his knees, leaning over and attempting to gain back some dignity, the ability to keep his legs stable beneath him at all. The wave of nausea passes, and a hush falls. A memory slides into Obi-Wan's head. It was only a few days ago, but it seems like a lifetime.
Oh, I’m not brave enough for politics.
Everyone’s watching him, and he knows the role he needs to play. He straightens his shoulders, tilts his chin up in defiance, and glares at Sheev Palpatine. Bleeding. Barely able to stand. Half-drunk from drugs.
It is enough, just enough, to make the wretch pull back ever so slightly from his perch, pursing his lips when he moves his hands from the balcony railing.
“Master Kenobi.” One of the braver reporters sidles up to him, no matter that no one else has moved yet since he lost his lunch. “Do you have anything to say?”
“Just one thing,” he answers, and Bail does not stop him. “The Jedi love the Republic, they love the people of this galaxy, more than themselves. Everything they do is in service of holding together our treasured democracy, imperfect though it may be. Whatever happens to me, I hope people will see the truth of that.”
Mas Amedda ushers him to the front doors, and behind him, Obi-Wan hears Mon Mothma riling up the crowd of onlookers as she talks to yet another reporter.
“Heinous treatment of a war hero and Jedi master,” she saying. “You’ve all seen the holo reels of Master Kenobi, of course.”
Whatever else she might have said fades away, and so too, do Obi-Wan's senses. That scares him, but he’s so heavy, so tired, that he can’t worry just now. Things come in and out. Mas Amedda and Bail arguing. Being gracelessly deposited into a cell apart from all the others. The stuncuffs, blessedly, coming off. Another clone medic, gentler than the Coruscant guard, with a fresh bandage and a Bacta patch. The constant crackle of the ray shield as it comes to life, locking him in. He’s rather tired of ending these dramatic moments by passing out, but the drugs tug at the edge of his mind, his eyelids heavy as consciousness fades. So much for a half-dose.
“Rest,” Bail’s saying, but he sounds so so far away. “Rest, Obi-Wan. I’ll be back in two hours with Padme. I promise. We have some things ready to discuss for your defense.”
Obi-Wan only nods, and the last thing he knows before darkness comes is the itchy fabric of the hard cot beneath him, and one thought slithering into his mind.
Anakin wasn’t with Palpatine on the balcony.
But he still isn’t here.
Rex spots a familiar face as soon as he and Ahsoka arrive at the temple. Several Jedi are back where they landed the star cruiser, sorting out the best—and safest—way to transport Maul. Where they’ll keep him Rex isn’t sure, but he’s glad to see the back of him. With the news about the chancellor, they certainly don’t need two Sith loose in the galaxy. He’s heard enough about them from General Skywalker and General Kenobi and Ahsoka to know that.
"Cody!" he calls out, hopping out of the speeder with Ahsoka close behind.
Cody will know what's going on. Cody will make sense of this. Understand all the facts.
Except Cody looks … bad. He’s just staring at the Jedi temple like he’s never seen it before. Blood smears the ground near Cody’s feet, yet Cody himself seems uninjured. Normally, the gardens around the Jedi temple, the whole place, really, emanates peace and serenity.
Today, there’s nothing of the sort. In fact, all of Coruscant feels on edge.
“Cody?” Rex repeats once they’re closer.
Cody jumps out of his skin, eyes flying open wide. “I … I thought the two of you were on Mandalore.”
"We were," Ahsoka says. "We brought Maul back. But we got a concerning message from General Skywalker, so we wanted to come right to the temple."
She’s careful with what she says, Rex notes. She’s more careful now than she was at the start of the war. He can’t say he isn’t the same.
“We thought you were on Utapau,” Rex adds. “Is Grievous dead?”
“Mhmm.” Cody nods, toying with his helmet before setting it down beside him. “General Kenobi finally took him out. But me and the rest of the 212th got called back here not too long after to ask what we knew about General Kenobi. They told me … well they told me General Kenobi tried to assassinate the chancellor. That he wounded him pretty bad. I assumed that was what General Skywalker told you on his message. It's been on the holo.”
“We saw,” Rex confirms, but he doesn’t like Cody’s flat, far-away tone. It isn’t like him.
“Have you seen Anakin?” Ahsoka asks.
"I haven't seen General Skywalker since I've been back.” Cody tilts his head. “Actually, now that I think of it, it’s odd he wasn’t here when they took General Kenobi out of the temple. I didn’t see him anywhere.”
Rex’s stomach twists. He’s no force-sensitive, but he also knows when something isn’t right. General Skywalker not here? Him being anywhere but at General Kenobi’s side during this situation is unfathomable. His message was odd to say the least, but Rex had taken it as upset over what was happening.
“Took him out of the temple?” Ahsoka asks. “Why? Wasn’t he hurt?”
Here, Cody frowns, one hand clenching into a fist. “He looked it when I saw him. Like he hadn’t healed all the way.” He points to that blood stain on the ground with the toe of his boot. “That’s his. He looked drugged too. And like someone had hit him. I still can’t … I don’t know what to make of what I’m hearing. When the general left Utapau early he said he had Jedi business, but I don’t—”
Cody doesn’t go on, and Rex sits down beside his old friend.
“Cody,” he asks softly. “What did they tell you?”
“Just what I told you,” Cody answers. “That General Kenobi tried to kill the chancellor. I assume he was wounded in the process, but I don’t know how badly. Just that he didn’t look all that great when I saw him maybe two hours ago. And they said it might be part of a larger Jedi coup. I don’t know what to make of it. Do you think someone did something to his mind? The Seppies or someone? Like what happened with Tups? I just can’t imagine him doing this.”
Ahsoka sits down on Cody’s other side, and she looks older than her years. Age is a funny thing, for clones, but that shine she had when she was younger has dulled, and Rex doesn’t like it.
“Cody,” she says gently. “I spoke to Senator Amidala, and she told me that Obi-Wan was very badly hurt. That he almost died.”
“But how would the chancellor be able to wound him that badly?” Cody asks. “I’ve seen what General Kenobi can do. We all have. How could a man like Palpatine nearly kill a Jedi, let alone one of the general’s caliber? What are you saying?"
"The chancellor is a Sith lord." Ahsoka glances at Rex, but there’s no way to ease into this conversation. "He used to be Maul's master. And Senator Amidala was telling me there’s a group of senators who have been trying to stop him from taking more power, even before this came to light. Obi-Wan figured it out. That’s why he came back here. The Jedi council thought a Sith had been playing both sides of the war since the start. Caused it. That Sith is Palpatine.”
Cody’s mouth drops open. "The Sith are essentially dark Jedi, right? That's how I understood it from the general."
Ahsoka nods. “Basically. They use only the dark side.”
Cody puts his face in his hands, and for a long moment he doesn’t say anything, holding himself tensely and making an odd sound when he takes a deep breath, like he might be keeping back a sob.
“I was cold to him,” Cody says, the words muffled. “I didn’t try and help him. Or even smile at him. I just said sir, when he called out to me. I don’t—”
“Propoganda is a nasty thing.” Rex puts one hand on Cody’s back. “The Seppies are pretty good at it. Makes sense the chancellor would be too, if he was playing both sides this whole time. They gave you half the story and a lie to go along with it. You couldn’t have done anything anyway, Cody. Not then. But we do have something that might help now.”
“What’s that?” Cody replies, pinching his nose and looking at the sky with great determination, and it is this, more than anything, makes Rex’s own hands shake.
During this whole war, he hasn’t seen Cody cry. Be angry? Sure. Be upset? Definitely, but in his usual, reserved sort of way.
He’s never sounded desperate.
“When Fives died, I didn’t … tell you everything,” Rex admits, his friend’s death still a hole in his heart that won’t heal, because it never felt right, what happened. “I didn’t even tell the whole 501st, because I didn’t know what to make of it. I—”
He breaks off, gathering his thoughts. How does he tell his brother that maybe, just maybe, they might have been created specifically to kill the Jedi they were assigned to fight beside?
“Fives said there were chips in our brains,” Rex continues. “Chips that have been there all along. Chips that were made, in the end, for one purpose most of all—to make us kill the Jedi. And Fives died because he figured it out. Fives died because … because the chancellor wanted him to. I thought maybe he had a breakdown because of the war. I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t want to believe it was. But it is. It might be. General Kenobi … he wouldn’t do what they’re saying he did. He wouldn’t try and kill the chancellor with no reason. All three of us know that.”
At first, Cody doesn’t say anything. At first, he only gets up from the bench, running a hand back and forth and back and forth over his hair, mussing it out of it’s usual tidy style.
“Cody?” Rex prods.
Cody turns back toward them with a glint in his eye. A glint Rex knows.
“They took General Kenobi to the military base,” he says, already walking toward their speeder. “Senator Organa and Senator Amidala are his counsel. No Jedi allowed in there. We need to find them and tell them this. It might save his life.”
It might save everything, Rex thinks, following behind Cody with Ashoka at his side. And still, one question nags at him?
Where in the galaxy is General Skywalker?
Notes:
Anakin WILL get it together, it's just ... gonna take a bit, but bear with me!
Chapter 5: A Face I Don't Recognize
Summary:
Anakin goes to his mother's grave. Padme, Bail, Ahsoka, Rex, and Cody, help prepare Obi-Wan's defense. Obi-Wan leaves a message for Anakin.
When an unexpected visitor comes to Obi-Wan's cell the night before his trial begins, reality becomes a question.
Notes:
Got this one done faster than I expected! Thank you all so so much for the lovely comments! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic--it's a joy to write.
The fic is now going to be 10 chapters according to my outline (it just keeps getting a little bit longer!)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Despite all the fighting in the Outer Rim, Tatooine remains untouched by the war. Unchanged. Ensconced in its own never-ending problems. Poverty. Slavery. Crime families the Jedi once fought against before the Clone War stole away every last minute of their attention.
There are only about 10,000 Jedi in a galaxy of billions, Obi-Wan explained once when Anakin was eleven and asked why the Jedi couldn’t just free every slave or wipe out every crime family like the Hutts—who are now, unfortunately, a shaky ally in the war. The Jedi have torn down slaving empires before—Zygerria comes to mind. It frustrates me too, that we can’t free everyone. But we are helping people, my young apprentice. You’re helping.
Anakin Skywalker hates this place.
Anakin Skywalker hates himself.
Sometimes, anyway. Right now, definitely. The Sith encouraged and built power upon slavery, yet here he is, a former slave himself, considering joining the Sith.
Things are not so simple now, as they seemed when he was a child.
Artoo beeps another concerned message in binary when Anakin steps out of his starfighter.
Are you okay?
“I’ll be all right, Artoo.”
You don’t look all right, Artoo beeps back, and it almost, almost makes Anakin smile.
Fear has left a hollow, aching maw in the pit of his stomach, and sleep did not wash it away.
Leaving his starfighter behind, he traipses into the night with his outer robe pulled snug around him.
If only he could disappear inside it.
If only.
Artoo beeps one final something that Anakin doesn’t process, and as he moves away from the ship, his comm rings. And rings. And rings again.
Someone else is calling him. Not Padme. It’s not the sound for her. Not Obi-Wan, but then, he can’t send any transmissions, can he? At least not from his usual frequency. Perhaps it’s the temple. Perhaps it’s Palpatine. Or Ahsoka. Or Rex. Perhaps it’s him from a past life, him from days ago, calling him back to what is right.
Is letting Padme die right?
Images tug at him. Sounds. Sensations. A syringe. Shattered glass. Hovering ships. Bright lights and smeared faces. The chaotic buzz of too many voices. A pinch of pain. Blood, fresh as wet paint, warm on his skin before it spatters on the ground. Exhaustion. Grief. Steady determination.
Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Obi-wan.
He keeps walking. Something in the Force, in his bond with his master, yanks him by the collar. It’s more powerful than ever before. It pulses around him, almost tangible.
Go back.
Turn back.
But he must go. He must speak to his mother.
Tatooine is nothingness, especially out here. Even Mos Eisley is tiny compared to all the places he’s been, but in the thick of the wastes outside the Anchorhead Outpost, there is simply endless empty space. It made him ache, as a boy, that emptiness. He craved more. He craved life. Adventure. Anything but this place where nothing happened. Leaving his mother broke his heart, but staying here might have destroyed him.
The Lars homestead lays silent. Without his saber it is only him, the light of the silver-white moons, and the desert still in his blood. A great and terrible grief plummets down onto his chest when he reaches his mother’s grave. It cracks it open. It falls to his stomach. Pins and needles prick his skin and he crashes to his knees in front of the simple, unassuming tombstone.
Shmi Skywalker, beloved mother and wife.
“Mom,” he begins, and he’s already hoarse, somehow. “Mom, I need your help. I miss you, and I … the two people I love most are in trouble. Padme … you remember Padme, don’t you? I married her. And she’s—” he swallows, the words as weak as a flickerig candle flame in a sandstorm. “She’s pregnant. And she might die. She can’t die, Mom. I can't—” A sob tempts him. It builds and bubbles in his throat, and he forces it back. There is no time, no time for this weakness.
“I couldn’t save you,” he whispers, tears pushing with too much pressure behind his eyes. “I should have. I can save her. Someone can teach me how.”
Palpatine’s presence claws at him even lightyears away. Cold clamps down, cold like the deepest parts of space where warmth seems impossible. This is not the man Anakin thought he knew—warm, approachable, like a grandfather of sorts—but he is the one who can save Padme.
Padme.
Their child. A girl. He’s sure it’s a girl.
A different presence comes next. A gentle white light. Anakin doesn’t need Obi-Wan to be near to sense him reaching out through the Force, because his master’s fingerprints have been smudged on his soul since he was ten-years-old.
“My master, the Jedi who trained me,” Anakin continues. “You didn’t meet him, but you’d like him. He tried so hard to teach me manners like you did, though I’m not sure he succeeded. He’s in trouble too. He might die, too. All because we trusted the wrong man. A man who stands for everything I’ve been fighting this war to stop, but he can save Padme, Mom. Tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do.”
Nothing comes. He stares at his mother’s tomb and nothing comes. No burst of realization. No direction. No wind in his hair he can make something of.
Nothing.
A feral scream tries to burst past his lips, but he shuts his mouth against it, and a high-pitched half-sob comes out instead. He stands up, kicking sand into the air again and again and again.
Despair and dread are all he is. There is no Anakin Skywalker as he sits here staring death in the face. There is only death. And fear of death. That awful numbness from before returns. Anxieties spin around and around and around in his head, a mish-mash of what-ifs and nebulous certainties his mind has convinced him are true. And why wouldn’t they be? What are visions for, if not to tell him what might happen?
Always in motion, the future is.
He can’t do this.
He can’t do this.
You must. You will. One of them will die.
But Obi-Wan might be all right. Obi-Wan survived the stabbing if Padme’s messages are true, and they must be. Padme wouldn’t lie to him about this. The Jedi will save Obi-Wan from this trial. From this charge of treason.
The Jedi might be dead soon.
Anakin can bargain for him. Yes. Bargain. Obi-Wan will be all right. Obi-Wan is always all right.
What if he’s not?
He picks up a rock laying near his boot and throws it against a larger one nearby, the sound echoing against the starry sky.
A memory comes back to him. That day in the Lars’ garage where he decided to fix things in his grief.
It’s all Obi-Wan's fault! He’s jealous! He’s holding me back!
A strange smile curls at his lips. Not his own, exactly, but some creature inside of him. The creature who scraped at his insides in Palpatine’s office, begging to be let out. Begging to let him fix his fear, whatever the cost.
Yes. Yes, if Obi-Wan had listened, Anakin could be more powerful. He could have learned how to stop people from dying like he swore he would that day. Obi-Wan has been tempering his impulses, reigning in his passions, and for what?
That is foolishness, Anakin, a fictional but all-too-real Obi-Wan says in his head. You must let go of this notion that you can control life and death.
Soft, sinister laughter slips into the silence.
Let go. No. He will never let go. He can’t.
Palpatine won’t hold him back. Palpatine will show him power beyond anything the Jedi can imagine. How to save Padme. How to save anyone, really.
In a world where he can stop death, Anakin Skywalker could be invincible.
What was he thinking, coming here? What did he think this damned place could offer him but memories of the worst day of his life? In this place full of slavers and sand, there is no peace.
Why did he think he could find it?
The breeze kicks up, brushing against his shoulder. Close. Like someone might be touching him. He spins around, the creature inside no longer scratching, but still growling. Low. Deep. The wounds its claws left behind are fresh. Bleeding. Unhealed. Maybe they can’t be healed. Maybe it’s too late to turn back.
Ani, the wind whispers. Now I am complete.
No. He’s hearing things. Re-treading memories.
I wouldn’t want you to sacrifice the galaxy to save me.
That’s just a memory too. Not a ghost. Just Padme not understanding that she was going to die.
Might die.
Will.
Will?
You're a greater Jedi than I could ever hope to be, and I am very proud of you.
“Shut up,” he snarls.
Obi-Wan doesn’t need him. Padme needs him. Wasn’t Obi-Wan asking for him? Padme said so. Yoda said so, in his way. But Obi-Wan survives everything. Slips out of tricky places.
And who’s usually there to help?
Him. He is.
Obi-Wan can do things on his own. He’s made that clear. Yes. Very clear.
Anakin can bargain for him, anyway. Yes. Palpatine will give him that, in exchange.
What you get in exchange is learning how to save Padme. Not Obi-Wan's freedom. Or his life.
Palpatine hates Obi-Wan.
What about the galaxy?
Damn the galaxy.
You don’t mean that.
“I do mean it,” he says aloud, a pain starting up behind his right eye just as one of the security lights from the Lars farm flicks on.
Noises come. A door opening. He runs a hand over the top of his mother’s tombstone, and runs deep into the wilds of the Judland Wastes. Into the endless dark.
Perhaps he could get used to it.
“Cody,” Obi-Wan says for the third time in ten minutes, “it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right, General,” Cody argues. “I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what to think. It’s no excuse.”
Cody, being very specific about when he chooses to argue—at least in Obi-Wan’s experience—will not relent on this issue. Most of his arguments have to do with Obi-Wan not properly submitting to medical attention, usually with a General, please, others are also being seen to, you don’t need to wait anymore, or something like that. Being respectful, even more than most clones, of the chain of command, Cody saves his disagreements for when they matter.
Apparently, this matters.
“Cody,” Obi-Wan repeats, softer than before. “There’s nothing you could have done. Being hard on yourself won’t stop what’s happening. This information you have—that might.”
Force knows that information has left Obi-Wan permanently nauseated, and he’s not sure he’ll ever recover. Chips, in the clone army’s brains, meant to make them destroy the Jedi. If they really are there, then that’s … well that’s been the plan since the start. That’s the plot to destroy the Jedi order. Or at least, it was. Suddenly, all the information about the creation of the clones makes sense. That Dooku had a hand in it they knew, but the clones have always been loyal, brave men, good friends, and so a part of Obi-Wan thought they’d subverted whatever ill intent there was in creating the army.
Yoda was right about the dark side clouding everything.
Cody nods, sitting down next to Obi-Wan and glaring in the direction of the other clone guards, who are currently talking—arguing—with Padme and Bail, who are demanding to talk to Tarkin and Mas Amedda in a last-ditch effort to get him transferred back to the temple.
“The general needs us sharp, Cody,” Rex adds, sitting next to Ahsoka on the bench across from Obi-Wan's cot. “Don’t waste your time glaring at those lads. It won’t make a difference.”
“Oh, they’ll get me sharp all right,” Cody mutters.
“I’m afraid I’m not a general anymore,” Obi-Wan tells them. “They took the 212th out from under my command, although—” he gestures around the cell—“I don’t know what good I’d do from in here.”
“You’ll always be a general to us. General.” Rex is firm there, and it draws a half-smile out of Obi-Wan.
“Where’d you get that cut on your face from?” Rex asks. “It’s bruising up a bit. Was that the chancellor?”
“Oh.” Obi-Wan touches his face, crumbles of dried blood coming off on his hand, and it is tender. “Mas Amedda’s work, I’m afraid. I wasn’t … compliant when they drugged me.” He points to the stained tunic. “That is the remainder of the chancellor’s work. I didn’t get my third Bacta submersion, unfortunately. Though believe you me, this is a massive improvement.”
“Massive improvement,” Cody grumbles. “I could cheerfully give them all a piece of my mind.”
Obi-Wan pats Cody’s arm before focusing on the datapad containing notes on Padme and Bail’s well-organized defense for him, what they’ll be talking about when, witnesses, etc. There is, of course, one name with a question mark next to it.
Day One (Testimonies on the Events in Palpatine’s Office)
Obi-Wan (will also discuss the erased message from Utapau on Grievous’ comlink)
Bail Organa (Palpatine’s office + Mas Amedda’s desire to let Obi-Wan die + Zigoola)
Mon Mothma (will discuss what she saw in the office and the base landing area)
Master Windu (will also discuss and show the message Obi-Wan left about the Sith)
Anakin Skywalker?
Potential testimony from Commander Cody and Captain Rex on the chips
Day Two (Obi-Wan’s war record, as well as all the work he’s done across the galaxy for the Jedi. Potential messages from others he’s helped as they come in)
Padme and Bail’s voices grow louder, and Obi-Wan's attention falls to Ahsoka, who sits with her knees up against her chest, eyes downcast.
“Ahsoka?” he prods, gently as he may. “Are you all right?”
She jolts, looking back at him. “Sorry, Master Obi-Wan.”
Master Obi-Wan. That is the Ahsoka of the time before she left the order. Before the council, pushed into a corner, made the wrong choice. Well, most of the council. Not to give himself credit, but he’d known she didn’t do what she was accused of, however much it seemed so, and made his opinion clear.
“I only—” Ahsoka puts her feet back on the floor, resting her chin in her hands. “I don’t understand where Anakin is. I thought … when I got that message I thought maybe he would have come back from wherever he seemed to be going. I can’t believe he’s not here with you.”
The trouble with teaching, Obi-Wan has learned, the trouble with taking a young one under your wing, raising them, really, is that you seem flawless to them at first. Unbreakable. But everyone breaks. Everyone stumbles. Disappoints. Parents and Jedi masters alike. When Ahsoka left the order, it wasn’t Anakin who disappointed her. Now that’s changed.
Here, Rex, so upright and reserved when it comes to his feelings, blows out an audible breath. “It is strange, sir. When Cody said he hadn’t seen General Skywalker I couldn’t believe it myself. Is he … all right?”
“He said something in the message about Padme,” Ahsoka adds. “But she seems fine to me.”
Ahsoka meets his eye. Rex too. Cody, looking back and forth between them, is confused, but Obi-Wan can’t discuss the finer details without Padme and Anakin both present. Rex knows—Obi-Wan’s suspected that since he caught him standing outside a trailer where Anakin was inside talking to Padme. How much Ahsoka knows is unclear, but Obi-Wan doubts she doesn’t at least have a guess.
“Anakin was having terrible visions,” Obi-Wan says carefully. “Or at least what he assumed were such. I’m afraid chancellor Palpatine took advantage of that. Promised him things. Powers he could teach him to stop death. After what we’ve all been through, it’s tempting, but of course impossible. And not worth giving into what Palpatine is.”
Anger slices into his voice. He didn’t intend for them to hear that, but exhaustion has loosened his lips.
“Maul said that Anakin would become Sidious’ new apprentice,” Ahsoka blurts out, like she was holding this information close and wasn’t certain how to share it. “But I thought he was just toying with me.”
“Maul said?” Obi-Wan questions, slumping against the cold prison wall and heaving a sigh. Force knows dealing with his old foe is the last thing he needs.
“What does that monster know?” Cody cuts in, having, not long after Satine’s death, accidentally walked in on Obi-Wan crying late one night when he couldn’t sleep.
Neither of them talked about it after, but Cody sat with him a while despite Obi-Wan’s feeble protests, his insistence that he was just over-tired.
“Impossible to tell,” Obi-Wan replies wryly. “Visions, if he did have one, are fluid. They’re not set in stone, though I’m sure Maul likes to think his own are.”
“But General Skywalker was on his way somewhere,” Rex says, a thread of desperation and maybe even frustration at Anakin running through. “So, that can’t be right. Can it?”
“My assumption is he went somewhere to sort himself out.” Obi-Wan clenches his right fist, blinking against the pressure building behind his eyes. “Though I will be honest with you—Mas Amedda said Anakin had gone to Palpatine. He has no proof, and given that we had witnesses say he took off in his starfighter, there are different accounts as to his whereabouts. I also don’t sense his presence anywhere near. To say he was conflicted during the events in Palpatine’s office is to put it lightly. But I—” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I remain hopeful he will return, and stand by the best of himself.”
The more time that passes, the more he wonders if he believes that because he truly believes it, or because he so badly wants Anakin here with him that he can’t stand to think otherwise. How can he be clear-eyed when nothing make sense? When all he wants, in all this chaos, is his best friend? Anakin has been at his side for thirteen years—he can probably count on his hands the number of times they’ve been apart—and to not have him here now feels like a disturbance in the Force all on its own. But he must use his head. He must think, for the Order’s sake. This is about the survival of the Jedi.
“Master Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka says softly, moving to sit next to him on the cot so he’s sandwiched between her and Cody. “I’m sorry. He should be here, but we aren’t going anywhere. None of us.”
“She right,” Rex echoes. “We’ll get you through this, General.”
Ahsoka meets Obi-Wan’s eye before taking his hand, curling her smaller fingers around his, and this warms him. Whatever sharp words have passed between them recently, he loves his grandpadawan very much, and has missed her greatly. She is proof that leaving the Order does not mean plummeting to the dark side—like Dooku—though he does hope she will return to the fold.
“You’re a great Jedi, you know.” Ahsoka squeezes his hand, and calm feelings ease over him. “You wouldn’t be alive if you weren’t. I remember the chancellor, during my trial. How cold he was. If he’s powerful enough to have caused the war, all of it, then I can guess he’s a pretty good duelist, too.”
Obi-Wan dares to laugh, and it feels good. It spins and swirls through him, coating the world, however briefly, in a shimmering sheen of gold.
“Quite,” he replies, pressing Ahsoka’s hand in turn.
Padme and Bail return, and Obi-Wan is sure the vein in Bail’s forehead is throbbing.
“They wanted your lightsaber,” Padme says, stepping inside and reluctantly re-igniting the ray shield. “Which we will not give them. It’s safe somewhere I won’t say inside these walls. They are also refusing to move you back. Ridiculous. Are you going to be all right in here overnight? I’m concerned, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan shrugs. “There’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll be all right. I’d rather hear more about what you have for tomorrow.”
“The trial is assumed to be two days,” Bail says, taking the datapad back. “The first day you’ll testify. Talk about what happened, how you found out … what you found out,” he continues, not saying the word inside this building. “Don’t hold back. Then we’ll question you about what happened in Palpatine’s office. I’ll go next, discuss the state of your wounds, the lightning scar, and I’ll also talk about our experience on Zigoola. Then Mon Motha will speak. Then Master Windu. And then—” he pauses, his gaze flicking over to Padme—“well, we wanted Master Skywalker. If he returns, we’ll ask him to testify about what he saw. Tarkin will no doubt question each of these witnesses as well, and call his own. Palpatine. Mas Amedda. Whoever else he decides. We plan to interrogate Palpatine about why he has not yet given up his wartime powers now that Grievous is dead, as well as his plan for the governors. The war is not over officially, but there’s not much doubt, according to my sources, that diplomacy will soon resume. The remaining Separatist leaders are not strong enough to continue the fighting. Not without Dooku and Grievous. Besides, if we can bring Palpatine’s identity to light, that he’s been playing both sides? I’m sure we’ll be able to come to some agreement.”
“Did you find out who is presiding?” Obi-Wan asks.
Bail raises a finger. “That argument we did win, although Palpatine perhaps thought twice about how it would look if he opted to press the matter. It’s Ainlee Teem, of Malastare. A corrupt bastard to be sure, but not on any particular side but his own. He’s little more than a master of ceremonies, so to speak. Tarkin will be running the show.”
“I’m sure that will be delightful.” Obi-Wan taps his lips, musing on the militant captain turned governor whose eyes were as cold as dead fish. “I suppose I shouldn’t have argued with him so much during the Citadel mission.”
“We’re saving you for last, Rex and Cody.” Padme steps in here, her voice higher than normal, and one hand resting on her stomach. “What you’ve said could change everything.”
She doesn’t mention what they said, having discussed it outside the prison and out of the way of any security cameras before typing it out on the datapad for Obi-Wan to see.
“We’ll need to … deal with the situation,” Cody says, glancing over at Rex. “To provide proof. Can you help us with that?”
Bail nods. “Yes. Come with us when we’re done here.”
“Depending on what happens the first day,” Padme continues, down to business and resolutely not mentioning Anakin, “we intend to make much of your record on the second day. Your war actions. Your long service to the republic. We’re keeping a close eye on the HoloNet news, too. Reports are already coming in that people in Coruscant are disgruntled at what they saw when you were brought here to the base. We may also call Ahsoka to the stand, to speak on how she worked with you directly, and to remind the court how badly wrong they were last time a Jedi was brought before them.”
Ahsoka pats Obi-Wan’s leg, giving him a ghost of her usual grin.
“And I’ve already had a message from some of the groups you helped in Ryloth.” Bail smiles, maybe for the first time in days. “They want to help if they can. I expect more of that will happen as the news spreads.”
“I’ve had the same from the queen on Naboo, and the Gungans.” Padme smiles too, and her dull eyes brighten. “They’re on your side, Obi-Wan. You’ve helped a lot of people, you know.”
It is this news, for whatever reason, that sends Obi-Wan sliding toward the edge of some unseen cliff, his boot heels kicking up metaphorical dust as he comes to a screeching halt before he goes hurtling over.
“Thank you, Padme.” He reaches out for her hand, and when he clasps it, that sensation from earlier in the day returns, that astonishing comfort that undoes the knots running up his spine. “I’m so thankful. To all of you. I did wonder—” he glances out toward the hallway—“if it might be possible, before you go, for me to leave a message. For Anakin.”
Padme blinks, and though he sees the sheen of tears in her eyes, he doesn’t embarrass her by mentioning it.
“Rex and I will go distract the guards,” Cody says, thinking on his feet. “And we’ll be there in the morning, General.”
Padme takes Ahsoka’s offerred comm once clones are gone, flicking it on for him. The other end rings. And rings. And rings.
No answer.
Nothing.
Padme hits the button to leave a message.
“Thank you, Padme,” Obi-Wan says.
And then, he spills his bleeding heart out into the open for everyone in this wretched cell to see.
He must give his apprentice, his friend, his family, one more chance. No matter the betrayal churning in his gut, what wins is hope.
“Anakin,” he begins, and when his voice wavers, he lets it, even though he’s tried for so many years to never let Anakin hear that waver. “I don’t know where you are, but I do hope this reaches you. I have always hoped to avoid putting this kind of burden on you. But I’m afraid you have taught me something too, my friend—sometimes I do need to be better about asking for help.” He draws the Force unto himself like the tide, breathing in and out and in and out. “So I’m asking you now—I need you to come home. Not because you’re the chosen one, but for me. For everyone here who cares about you. Whatever happens to me, I can bear. What I cannot bear is a Sith lord smearing the name of the Jedi and using me to do it. Perhaps our names are too tied together for your testimony to give mine weight, but it might, and the galaxy needs to know what happened that night or we risk plunging everything into chaos. We’ve fought too hard to allow that. I do think that together we could figure this out. Don’t we always? Don’t let Palpatine destroy you for his own ends. Choose the light. I know you can.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Even here, in this dark place, love springs up through the cracks. “I have loved a few people most deeply in my life, and one of them has always been you, my young apprentice. We are all missing you here. Padme. Rex. Ahsoka.”
Obi-Wan leans closer, imagining he can see the man he will always call brother sitting in front of him, right down to that burning, lopsided grin, and makes one last appeal.
“So please, Anakin. Come home.”
Prison is a quiet place.
Too quiet.
Normally, Obi-Wan enjoys a stretch of silent solitude, especially in the mess the war has made of his life. Sitting in the gardens, or the room of a thousand fountains in the temple late at night when no one else is awake, is pure bliss. When there is nothing but him and burbling water, all seems well.
This is different.
This is….
Things slither around him in this place. Dark things. Set apart from the cells of other military prisoners, he is deprived of even the sounds of his fellow inmates rustling their thin blankets, or snoring, or coughing. Not that there are many inmates here, just a handful of clones he saw on his way in, put behind these ray shields for he knows not what. The Central Detention Center would certainly be very loud, but he might prefer it to this.
He’s granted a reprieve from the quiet when three clones appear, turning off the ray shield to step inside. One is another member of the Coruscant Guard, and the other two are medics.
“Time to change that wound dressing, Master Kenobi,” one of the medics says. “Should only take a minute.”
Restrained at the wrist as he still is—they put the cuffs back on as soon as Padme and Bail left two hours ago, though they left his ankles free—he allows the clone to untie the simple white tunic he’s wearing from the Halls of Healing. The vulnerability of this bothers him, but he won’t say no to the medical attention when he needs to be clear-headed for tomorrow. Still, he doesn’t know these clones, and no doubt Palpatine has put ones more loyal to him on duty tonight.
“Your comrades probably saved my life.” Obi-Wan tries starting a conversation to distract himself, watching as the medic removes the blood-stained Bacta Patch from the deeper wound. The other, while still sore, isn’t bleeding, though the lack of a third Bacta immersion has left it a pink, puckered scar with rather nasty bruising. “Thank you for your help.”
“Was that Captain Rex in here with you earlier?” the medic asks, peeling open a new Bacta patch while his comrade takes something else out of the medical case, the member of the Coruscant Guard standing silent. “And Commander Cody?”
Obi-Wan nods. “Yes. They’re friends of mine. And brave men. I commanded the 212th and worked very often with the 501st.”
“Heard stories about them,” the medic says, sealing the Bacta patch over Obi-Wan's wound. “Incredible things they got up to, so I’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan repeats, offering a smile to the curious clone. “I’ve definitely got a few I could share about them.”
“No chatting with the prisoner.” The clone from the Coruscant Guard finally speaks. “Let’s do what we came to do and go.”
“Sorry,” the first clone medic mutters, retying Obi-Wan's tunic. “I’ve been out with the Jedi in the field, sir. Just making conversation.”
Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say something, but he stops, noting the syringe in the second clone medic’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Just some pain medication,” the other answers, though Obi-Wan senses anxiety from him. A lie.
“I’m all right for now,” Obi-Wan protests, keeping his voice even. His body is trapped in the jaws of a deep throb, and the one wound still twinges sharply at times. His face where Mas Amedda struck him aches.
But he would rather that, than be drugged.
“It is my right to say no, is it not?”
“I’m afraid these are our orders, sir,” the second clone medic says, gruffer than his friend. “Stay still.”
Not wanting to cause a ruckus in here—which won’t help his case tomorrow—Obi-Wan doesn’t resist. Not that he could do so without the shock from the cuffs, but again, he would rather that, if given a choice. The needle slides in easier this time, but he’s almost entirely certain this is not for the pain. Though of course, it may make him silly enough to forget the pain.
The clones give him a glass of water and something out of a ration pack, and then they’re gone, leaving him once again in this wretched quiet.
Sleep won’t come yet, and he’s so alert that he wonders if this time, even whatever drugs they gave him will do the trick. Although, sedation is not the same as sleep. Sitting here and staring at the wall won’t do him any good, of course. Sitting here and wondering where Anakin has gone. If he’s turned. What will happen tomorrow. Qui-Gon’s advice of focusing on the present moment does him precious little good here, because all he has in the present moment are his own thoughts and this empty cell.
And the Force. The Force is still with him, and will be stronger before the drugs take hold.
He could meditate. Yes. That will help settle his mind.
Qui-Gon would approve of that.
Dried blood still streaks his brown boots, he realizes as he tugs them off awkwardly. His second pair are less broken-in, but he’s not sure these can be saved. Well, at least he wasn’t wearing his white ones. He’ll need clothes from his room at the temple for the trial—perhaps Bail and Padme have already thought of that.
Obi-Wan crosses his legs on the poor excuse for a cot—they have better in the field, and it occurs to him that prisoners’ rights ought to be on the list of future Jedi concerns—and attempts to hold his hands palm up in the restraints. Breathing comes easier. His heart slows down. The Force floods through him gently like the old friend it is, and the dial on his senses turns up.
Thoughts float toward him, images, and Anakin comes first.
The incessant scratching of Mas Amedda’s words falls away, and Obi-Wan focuses on what he knows. What he feels.
Anakin was seen leaving by Master Billaba and Caleb. Dex also saw him. Obi-Wan does not sense Anakin’s presence anywhere near. If Anakin’s Force-signature were so cloaked in shadow that Obi-Wan could no longer recognize it, there are still other things that are true.
Anakin would not hide, had he made a choice to join Palpatine.
Anakin would not be in Coruscant, with Palpatine, and simply abandon Padme, when fear of losing her was what caused all of this in the first place.
But that implies he wouldn’t mind abandoning you.
That thought cuts deep. He wants to push it away. To say no. But he doesn’t. He lets it land on his chest. He lets it sit until the crushing weight dissipates somewhat.
Anakin is out there somewhere, ripping himself apart over a false choice, and Obi-Wan knows his friend well enough to understand what Anakin believes the choice to be. It is not the Republic or the growing specter of autocracy. It is not even a choice between Palpatine and Obi-Wan himself, though it might appear that way. No, to Anakin, it is even more impossible than that.
It is Padme, or him.
His wife, or his mentor.
The mother of his children, or his best friend.
Except, in the end, it isn’t that, at all.
It is between helping Obi-Wan out of this concrete predicament, or Anakin’s gut-wrenching fear that he might lose Padme.
If Anakin breathes life into that fear, the galaxy will suffer the consequences. Palpatine can do what he wants without Anakin, but Anakin will make it faster. Easier.
A flash of desert appears in Obi-Wan’s mind. The shine of two moons upon a simple gravestone. An expansive dark sky, and nothing but sand. Sand and rocks. Something connects, something deep in the Force unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and feelings that are his own but different crash over him like an unrelenting wave, his own feelings, his own thoughts, lost in the rush.
Rage. Grief. A great and terrible grief.
Is Anakin on ….
A sinister, powerful presence interrupts his focus, rips him out of his meditative state, and a voice sends shivers shooting up his spine.
“Leave us. I’d like to talk to Master Kenobi alone.”
“Yes, Chancellor Palpatine,” a clone says in answer. “We’ll be just here for your safety.”
Footsteps come slow down the hallway. Echoing. Making him wait.
The ray shield goes down.
The security cameras go off. Again.
Well, hopefully he won’t end up with a lacerated organ this time.
“Meditating,” Palpatine says, taking note of Obi-Wan’s pose with that slick, sickening smirk, “How quaint.”
He clicks a button on the portable ray shield controller, and it crackles back to life, making the floor glow faintly red.
“I didn’t know to expect your illustrious presence, Lord Sidious.” Obi-Wan adjusts his position, putting one foot on the floor and his other on the cot, hands folded over his bent knee. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Your wit has never impressed me, Master Kenobi,” Palpatine replies coolly, stepping close. Too close. “Do you like your new accommodations?”
“They’re lovely.” Obi-Wan looks Palpatine straight in the eye. “I am terribly sorry about the blood on the floor. I do like what you’ve done with the place.”
Palpatine’s hand hovers close to Obi-Wan’s throat, clenching into a fist and cutting off the air via the Force. Obi-Wan must not move, he must not leave a mark on Palpatine, or it will only be used against him. Obi-Wan would be concerned about Palpatine choking him to death, but no, he won’t, not when he has a show to tend to.
Palpatine releases the invisble hold. “I think that’s rather enough of your impudence.”
Obi-Wan stays quiet.
“Master Kenobi,” Palpatine coos, tracing the bruise splattered across Obi-Wan’s cheek with menacing gentleness, the tip of his finger going back and forth and back and forth. Obi-Wan might be a child the Sith Lord is lulling to sleep. “You have … altered my plans, I admit, but you have given me such a gift.” He shifts, grasping Obi-Wan’s face hard, his thumb pressing pressing pressing against the bruise. “The gift of tearing you to shreds for all the world to see. Ruining you will ruin the Jedi. It will burn out their myth until nothing is left.
“Destroy me all you like, chancellor,” Obi-Wan seethes. “That won’t destroy the Jedi.”
Palpatine laughs, and the mirth in it is real. “But you are the perfect Jedi, don’t you see?” He tightens his grip, moving Obi-Wan's head side to side like he’d done in the office.
“Hardly.”
Obi-Wan steadies himself against the slow creep of the drugs. They’re already working their way through his system, he can tell, because the Force doesn’t shine anymore. It doesn’t flow around him in the same way it did even a few minutes ago.
Palpatine lets go, shoving Obi-Wan back. “You are a fool if you fail to see it. What will the galaxy think when I show them that Obi-Wan Kenobi, The Negotiator, respected Jedi Master and member of the High Council—one of its youngest members, in fact—tried to murder a helpless old man like me in cold blood? The war got the best of him, you know. And if it could happen to him, imagine the state of any less disciplined Jedi. Imagine how dangerous it might be to have such powerful beings with so much, well, power?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t deign to reply.
“Of course, you aren’t the youngest member of the council, are you?” Palpatine whispers. “That would be your former apprentice. Or should I say, my current one.”
The drugs seep into Obi-Wan’s system. Faster than before. Deeper. His vision blurs, and there are two Palpatines rather than one for thirty seconds or so.
That is terrifying.
A full dose. They most have given him a full dose of that sleep-inducer.
“Anakin isn’t your apprentice.” He slurs the words and everything seems … off in his line of sight, like the spears of color shooting off Coruscant’s lights in the evening. Everything has a glow. He blinks. No, still there. Again. No, still a swaying shimmer.
“But he is,” Palpatine purrs. “He came to me, too distraught to even look at you. You don’t care about his wife, after all. About the Republic. Only the Jedi. Always the Jedi.”
Obi-Wan’s thoughts turn thick. Sticky. Reality too, becomes a question. That pain behind his right eye grows unbearable. Sharp. Like a strike of lightning that will not relent.
“You don’t care about Padme,” he shoots back, his tongue clumsy in his mouth. “You definitely don’t care about the Republic.”
“There is someone,” Palpatine says, his breath hot and sour, “who would like to see you now.”
More footsteps come. A figure appears on the other side of the ray shield, bathed in red. Brown and black robes. That odd shimmer remains. That glow. Those spears of light and color.
A grin slides across a familiar face, and everything solidifies. The glow, those shards of color, fade.
Except …
Except ….
The grin is slick. Snide. And the figure that is Anakin but cannot possibly be but is, meets Obi-Wan’s gaze, and spits on the floor.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathes, but Anakin does not answer. He just stares. Narrows his yellow eyes. The blue, the blue Obi-Wan knows, is gone.
His vision. He saw yellow eyes in his vision.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan calls out as Anakin and not-Anakin walks away.
Was that Anakin? Is it just the drugs? Has he well and truly lost his mind? No. No. Palpatine is doing something. Something with the Force. He’s read before, deep in the depths of the archive only for Jedi masters, about Force visions, but those don’t work on Force-sensitives, they can’t, but that means …. No. Maybe Palpatine is powerful enough. But Anakin was solid. Real.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.
The room tilts. A hand seizes his face again.
“Good night, Master Kenobi.” Palpatine’s hand slides up, grasping Obi-Wan’s now sweat-drenched hair with a painful tug. “I’ll see you in the morning, for the first day of your demise. I’m so looking forward to it.”
The ray shield goes down and up again. Obi-Wan rests his head between his knees, willing himself not to vomit as that familiar, roiling nausea crawls up his throat. Breaths come in gasps, in gulps of air, and he doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t.
Slow down, he hears himself saying to Anakin outside that club years ago. Use the Force. Think.
Palpatine is toying with him. Palpatine wants him to break. These are facts, but Anakin still. Isn’t. Here.
Or is he?
A blue-white light hovers at the edge of his cell, contrasting with the red. The light morphs into something. Someone.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon Jinn says, standing translucent against the ray shield before stepping closer.
Obi-Wan stares at the ghostly figure of his long-dead master. Qui-Gon appeared to him on Mortis, but Obi-Wan has never been sure that actually was Qui-Gon. People become one with the Cosmic Force when they die—they don’t remain behind. The apparation does look like Qui-Gon. Tidy long brown hair sprinkled with gray. Those curious eyes.
“I’ve seen you looking better.” Qui-Gon smiles, inclining his head. “But I thought I ought to come, given the circumstances.”
“You’re dead,” Obi-Wan says, the words soupy and slow in his mouth. “I saw you die. You aren’t really here.”
Qui-Gon chuckles. “Is anyone every truly dead, my young apprentice?”
Obi-Wan sighs, slumping against the cold durasteel wall. “I’m not in the mood for riddles, Master. You’re obviously a product of my drug-addled mind. And I’m not so young, anymore, I’m afraid.”
Is he a product of the drugs? Anakin seemed so real. But Anakin was solid, not translucent. That odd shimmer faded away when he approached the cell. Qui-Gon only looks like a memory of himself. Perhaps that’s what he is, a memory made physically manifest by Obi-Wan’s torn-up mind.
But that might mean that Anakin was real.
“I assure you I’m not. I’ve discovered some things, since we last met. But let’s focus on the moment at hand.”
The room swims, and Obi-Wan shuts his eyes. “I’ve failed you, Master. I’m so sorry.” His sentences drag, heavy every time he tries to get them past his lips. “I tried. I tried. Maybe I loved him too much. Held on too tight. Maybe I never really let go.”
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon chides, and Obi-Wan wishes he would just be gentle.
Qui-Gon was kind and Qui-Gon was witty and Qui-Gon connected deeply with the Force in a way that he passed down to Obi-Wan, but gaining a word of praise from him was no small task. Obi-Wan had been an anxious Padawan in those early years, sometimes clashing with his master but desperate for his notice all at once.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says again, and he is gentler, and is this a ghost reading Obi-Wan’s mind, or is his master really here? That might mean Anakin was really here. Or does it mean the opposite?
“You must look,” Qui-Gon continues. “Not with your eyes. Search your feelings. Your instincts. You’ll find the truth there.”
Obi-Wan laughs, but it isn’t the laugh from earlier that granted him peace. No. It’s all jagged edges. It hurts. It hurts like everything hurts right now. “My feelings? Master, my feelings are the problem. I can’t see clearly, not when it comes to him. If I could, I would have seen this.”
“Seen what, Obi-Wan?”
“This.” Obi-Wan lifts his arm to gesture, but realizes he can’t in the restraints. Qui-Gon isn’t listening, sometimes he just never listened. “Palpatine. Anakin. All of it. You told me to train him, Master. I kept my promise, I did it, not just because of the promise but because that little boy we met became my life, and now the Jedi, the galaxy, are in trouble, and Anakin Skywalker is so much a part of me that I. Can’t. See.”
Qui-Gon, the ghost, the hallucination, whatever he is, moves. He sits down on the threadbare cot next to Obi-Wan.
“I grieved you,” Obi-Wan whispers, black playing at the edges of his vision, his stupor growing stronger. “There was a gaping hole where you used to be, and you … you didn’t even want to train me.”
“That’s not true. The way we started was unconventional, but I wanted to train you.”
“Yoda made you train me,” Obi-Wan insists, and he might as well be sixteen again, wondering how to connect with his odd new master who always seemed to be fighting with the council. “He wanted me in his lineage and so he made you.”
“Obi-Wan—”
“I see now,” Obi-Wan whispers, and even in this state he knows he sounds hysterical, but the self-possessed, calm, collected version of himself is out of reach. Tears brim in his eyes, his cheeks on fire, but he can’t stop. The churning vortex of his emotions is too much to deny. “I wasn’t good enough to be chosen by a master. I wasn’t good enough to train the most powerful Force-user in a thousand years. I’m not good enough for the person I care most about in the world to be here when I need him. It shouldn’t matter. What matters is the Jedi. The galaxy. Not me. Not me.”
Qui-Gon remains maddeningly tranquil. “Do you believe that was Anakin here?”
This implies that Qui-Gon was here when Palpatine was here, but Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to contemplate that. How to process it.
“I don’t know!” he shouts, and there are spots in front of his eyes now, guards running down the hallway.
“Search you feelings.” Qui-Gon speaks close in Obi-Wan’s ear, and there might be a hand brushing across his shoulder. “Trust yourself. You are wise, Obi-Wan. I knew you would be.”
Then, he’s gone. The ray shield clicks off. Clones come in, but everything smears. Slips. Slides.
“Master Kenobi!” one of them says, and Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes him as the Coruscant guard member from before who told the medic not to talk to him. “Calm down this instant.”
“You drugged me,” Obi-Wan protests. “You drugged me and I’m seeing things.”
That same clone grasps him by the front of his tunic, pressing him down against the cot. Several other clones—or the shapes of them—surround him, and Obi-Wan can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He twists in the clone’s grip, and the stuncuffs send a shock shooting through him.
“Calm down, Master Jedi.”
Another clone. Not Rex. Not Cody. He misses them. Does every single clone have a chip inside their head, a hair trigger that could be flipped to murder any Jedi at a moment’s notice?
“Let go,” Obi-Wan insists, outside of himself. Losing his senses. “Let go of me.”
Someone backhands him—hard, that’ll be another bruise—and tips him, after half a moment’s regret, into oblivion.
Notes:
I know I know but just give Anakin until the next chapter :D
Also if you're on Tumblr, come over and find me! I'm KCrabb88 over there.
Chapter 6: I'd Burn So Bright it Blinded
Summary:
Anakin crawls back to the light. Padme tries to keep her life--and Obi-Wan--in one piece. As unrest ripples across Coruscant, Obi-Wan faces the first day of his trial, and even as his heart threatens to break, one thing keeps him going.
He must protect the Jedi.
Notes:
Hi all! Thank you so, so much for all the wonderful comments last chapter! They gave me life. Took a bit longer to get this chapter up, as I was traveling, then caught Covid, but this chapter is extra EXTRA long :D
A couple of lore notes this round. I do make several mentions of Wild Space, a Legends book set during the Clone Wars, and all you really need to know is that Bail and Obi-Wan go on a road trip to a mysterious planet called Zigoola that ends up being a Sith planet that wants to kill a Jedi for being there, so needless to say, it's not a great time for Obi-Wan, but it's a great look into his friendship with Bail. Also, there is a vague reference to the Obi-Wan and Anakin comic, but the reference is pretty much wholly explained in text here. There's also a reference to the Deception arc from Clone Wars, which is not my favorite but does fit with this fic.
Anyhow, enjoy! I have this fic set at 10 chapters but it may be 11, so stay tuned!
Chapter Text
Anakin Skywalker doesn’t know how long he’s lost in the wastes outside Anchorhead. Hours. Hours with darkness running through his veins. Passing by an old cave, something glances off him. Something like a might have been. Familiar without him ever knowing it. A fragment of a future that will not come to pass.
Obi-Wan, something deep within him says, but why? Obi-Wan’s only been to Tatooine once.
Obi-Wan, the Force whispers.
Even in his well-made boots, Anakin’s feet ache from walking on uneven sand for so long. Endlessly. Without stopping to rest. That creature, the one from last night, the one from Palpatine’s office, the one who’s appeared in short flashes throughout the war, who came to life when he killed the Sand People, and the one who has, without his full awareness, entwined itself with him so tight he’s not sure he can undo the knots, won’t go away.
A lightning strike of pain hits him behind his right eye. He falls to his knees, blinded by white-hot agony. Something snags in his soul. A rip runs almost to the bottom of it, stopping just before it tears in two entirely. Torn-up images swirl in front of him. Confusing. Messy. Incoherent. A prison cell. A red ray shield. Echoing footsteps down a long hallway. A bruised face. A crowded courtroom. Blaster fire, orange-red and shooting through a noon-time sky. Ginger-brown hair and lifeless blue eyes. Blood flowering across a white and tan tunic. A voice whispering in his ear.
Lord Vader.
The pain fades to a dull throb, and he gets up, dusting the sand off his robes with an angry brush of his hand.
Vader. Who is Vader?
The name means something. Like the cave, but nearer. Possible. Whatever future that was going to take place in that cave is gone.
With every step, he tips toward unfathomable darkness. With every breath he moves closer and closer toward Palpatine. Toward saving Padme at any cost. He can bargain for Obi-Wan. Yes. Bargain. If he can make the two of them safe, damn the rest of the galaxy.
Right?
Yes, the creature says. The creature who might be named Lord Vader.
No, the man he wants to be, has been, through most of this war, through most of his life, Ahsoka’s teacher, Obi-Wan's apprentice, Padme’s husband, shoots back.
He’s not seeing Padme’s death anymore, is he? He hasn’t since Obi-Wan was stabbed.
What he’s seeing now is …
What he’s seeing now is Obi-Wan's death, isn’t it?
Obi-Wan is always all right.
Always in motion, the future is.
Did he change it? Did he, in all his inexhaustible fear over losing Padme, over losing their child, wrench away Obi-Wan's future?
Treason. They’re charging Obi-Wan with treason.
Is he seeing an execution?
The barest hint of light keeps the creeping darkness at bay. It doesn’t vanish, but it doesn’t gain ground, either. Childish laughter is close in his ear. The smeared suggestion of a little girl with braids.
Uncle Obi-Wan!
A little girl. His little girl? He always thought it was a girl. He said so to Padme.
Who else would be calling Obi-Wan uncle? That’s only right, that his child would. Obi-Wan is his family. But if Obi-Wan dies then … is he seeing two different futures?
The ship. He has to get back to the ship. Where is his damn ship?
“Artoo,” he says, hitting his comlink. “I may have, uh, gotten lost. What are the coordinates?”
You’ve been gone all night, Artoo beeps back.
“I know, buddy. But the coordinates, please?”
Artoo sends them along with another reprimand, and Anakin trudges back toward where he landed on the outskirts of town, fear like sludge in his veins.
Is he going to lose Padme and Obi-Wan?
But no, he reminds himself again. He hasn’t seen Padme dying since he left. Did he give his visions too much credit? Did he let Palpatine trick him and twist him and tempt him toward Force knows what? His mother died. He saw his mother die in his dreams, in his vision, and she did die.
And he’s been scared ever since.
We all fear losing those we care about, Obi-Wan said once when Anakin was sixteen, on the anniversary of Qui-Gon's death when they usually paid respects to the fallen Jedi master by meditating together in Qui-Gon's favorite place in the temple—where he’d often taken Obi-Wan to do the same. But letting that fear control us only leads to perpetual misery, my young apprentice.
The ship appears in front of him, and he bids a quick hello to Artoo, who is saying something about a quicker hyperspace route back to Coruscant, a lane he discovered while waiting, but all Anakin can hear is the beeping of his holoemitter. It’s coming from Ahsoka’s frequency.
But it isn’t Ahsoka.
He presses the button, and his master appears.
“Thank you, Padme,” Obi-Wan says.
Padme. Padme is well and there with Obi-Wan.
Guilt twists his guts, making his stomach burble. Of course she’s there. Of course she is. She’s better than him. Kinder. Less angry. Bent toward justice.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan begins, a tremor in his voice, and Anakin’s surprised his mentor is letting anyone hear it. “I don’t know where you are, but I do hope this reaches you. I have always hoped to avoid putting this kind of burden on you. But I’m afraid you have taught me something too, my friend—sometimes I do need to be better about asking for help. So, I’m asking you now—I need you to come home. Not because you’re the chosen one, but for me. For everyone here who cares about you. Whatever happens to me, I can bear. What I cannot bear is a Sith lord smearing the name of the Jedi and using me to do it. Perhaps our names are too tied together for your testimony to give mine weight, but it might, and the galaxy needs to know what happened that night or we risk plunging everything into chaos. We’ve fought too hard to allow that. I do think that together we could figure this out. Don’t we always? Don’t let Palpatine destroy you for his own ends.”
Obi-Wan pauses, and were he here, he would be looking Anakin straight in the eye. The effect, even lightyears away, remains powerful.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be there. On Coruscant. There with Obi-Wan. With Padme. Not with Palpatine.
“Choose the light,” Obi-Wan continues, with such fervent faith that it shakes Anakin’s bones. “I know you can. I have loved a few people most deeply in my life, and one of them has always been you, my young apprentice. We are all missing you here. Padme. Rex. Ahsoka.”
Obi-Wan leans closer, and even via holo, he looks bad. Really bad. Worse than when his gunship crashed on Geonosis bad.
“So please, Anakin. Come home.”
Obi-Wan has never asked him for anything like that. In that voice. Obi-Wan's gentleness, Anakin knows. He heard it as much—more—than he heard lectures growing up, even if he grumbled loudly about the latter. He’s heard it since a hundred times over as they transitioned from master and apprentice to best friends. Obi-Wan’s steadiness has been his safe place to land since he can remember.
Of course, Obi-Wan has always been his brother. His brilliant, powerful, fussy, snarky, kind, wise older brother who finished the job of raising him.
And yet, not in thirteen years, has Obi-Wan pleaded. Not ever, really, but not for something as vulnerable and personal as I need you. He’d shouted it on Geonosis, but that was different. He was angry. Dooku was in play, not just Obi-Wan’s own fate. This sticks beneath Anakin’s ribs.
What has he done? What has he done? In trying to save Padme, he might have instead succeeded in breaking her heart. In insisting that Obi-Wan is always all right, he has abandoned the man who has never once abandoned him. The war has distorted him, changed him, and it all started with his mother’s death here in this wretched place. So caught up in his own pain, his own exhaustion, his own fear, he stopped listening to his wife. He failed to see Obi-Wan’s pain. Those gray hairs by his ears. The dullness in his eyes after Satine. After Maul got away, again, leaving Qui-Gon’s ghost behind him.
It was never a choice between Padme and Obi-Wan, was it? No. Palpatine just wanted him to believe it was. It was always a choice between helping the man who is so much a part of him that he can’t ever undo it, doesn’t want to undo it, and his fear of losing Padme. His selfish desire to do anything, commit any atrocity to save her, even if that wasn’t what she wanted.
That darkness from earlier recedes. Feeling breaks through the fear and the fugue.
And Anakin Skywalker bursts into tears.
Sliding down into the pilot’s chair, he rests his head in his hands, sobs wracking him.
He must get back. He must save Obi-Wan from Palpatine’s clutches. The loss of that hits him for the first time, the loss of a man he thought he could trust, has trusted since he was ten.
Palpatine is a Sith. Palpatine is a Sith.
And he almost turned him into one. Tempation still nags at him, taking a new form—being willing to do anything to save Obi-Wan now. But he can save Obi-Wan by clinging to the light. By stepping far away from Palpatine.
If Palpatine is willng to start a war to claim power, why would he ever make good on a promise? Who knows if he even can? So many of his interactions with the chancellor change, in this light. They turn to lies. Maybe the old man has never told him the truth.
He must trust the Jedi. He must trust Padme.
And most of all, he must trust his old master.
Rex. Rex and Ahsoka are there too. Everyone is there and he’s isn’t.
If Obi-Wan never forgave him, it would make sense, but Obi-Wan will, because he’s Obi-Wan. He could call, but no, no, he can’t explain himself over a call, and it’s morning in Coruscant, besides. If Padme is helping represent Obi-Wan—and he’s sure she is—then it won’t do to bother her now. To unsettle what he’s already unsettled enough. No. He’ll wait until he arrives.
“Artoo,” Anakin says, wiping his eyes with a pronounced sniff, “what were you saying about that hyperspace lane?”
I found one that can get us back to Coruscant by tonight local time, Artoo beeps. Do you want to go?
“Yes,” Anakin replies, turning back toward the controls. “Let’s go now. Thanks, buddy.”
Artoo beeps something back about letting Obi-Wan make as many loose wire jokes as he wants before they steer the ship into the air together. As they soar through the atmosphere and up into space, Anakin makes a vow.
He will never, ever, let Obi-Wan Kenobi forget how much he’s loved again.
Padme paces outside the Republic military base in the early morning light. Dawn broke the sky a half-hour ago, a zig-zag of orange-gold cutting across Coruscant’s skyscraper-filled horizon. She slept, but not well, and not long, the five or so hours forced upon her by a wave of exhuastion. She woke in the dark, and Threepio helped her get dressed, asking the inevitable question.
Have you heard from Master Anakin?
No, Threepio, she said. Not yet.
He helped her gather some things into a bag: a hand mirror, a shaving kit of Anakin’s in-case Obi-Wan wanted to trim his beard, a brush, something to wash his face with. She has a fresh cup of caf too, in a portable mug. Bail went by Obi-Wan’s quarters in the Jedi Temple last night after taking Rex and Cody to the Halls of Healing to have the chips removed, and picked up new clothes.
“Anakin.” She whispers her plea to the wind, hoping to tap into whatever connection she suddenly has with the Force. Or at least, she assumes that’s what it is. It must be the twins. It’s the only explanation. “Please come home. Obi-Wan needs you. I need you. Our children need you.”
Nothing ripples back, not really, only the sense that Anakin isn’t here. She could gladly shove him into a river right now—or any nearby body of water—but she wants him to come back. He has to come back. Mas Amedda was lying. She would feel it if her husband had gone to the dark side. Every part of him, she knows. His bravery. His goodness. His sins. His rage. His fears. They are bound up with her own soul, and she would just know.
“Padme.”
She turns at the sound of Bail’s voice, and he’s hoisting a bag over his shoulder and climbing out of a speeder. There’s no aides, no droids, just them and this anxious moment before everything begins.
“Hello.” Padme greets him with a kiss to the cheek, some of the knots in her stomach loosening now that her long-time friend has arrived. Anakin isn’t here, but she isn’t alone. “I arrived a little early. Couldn’t sleep.”
“So I see.” He holds the bag up. “Obi-Wan’s clothes. I brought his armor instead of his usual tunic and robes. I thought—”
“They should be reminded that he was a war hero,” Padme finishes. “I agree.”
Bail hesitates, worrying his lip, and the lack of directness isn’t like him. “How … are you?” he asks, landing awkwardly on the question. “I know that … that you were worried about Master Skywalker’s whereabouts. Any word?”
Padme shakes her head. “No. Not yet. Even after Obi-Wan left that message.”
Bail’s gaze flits down to her protruding middle, which is only about half-hidden beneath the billowy dress she selected. At six months, this is becoming rather impossible.
“Padme,” he tries, halting againg before continuing on. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I am your friend, and your secrets are safe with me. I promise. Breha and I, we’re here for you.”
She shouldn’t say anything at all, probably, but the galaxy is sliding out of her grasp, her whole life, and she needs something to cling to. Something steady. Obi-Wan is here, of course. Obi-Wan, who knows how it is to love Anakin Skywalker well and deeply and still have him drive you mad, but he’s going through hell, and he’s worrying enough about her as it is. Her former handmaidens, her friends, are back on Naboo, aside from Dorme and Captain Typho. But there is one friend standing here. A friend asking after her.
“I am worried about where Anakin has gone.” She smiles at Bail, confessing something and not. “Losing him to Palpatine and his schemes before knowing the truth would have been bad enough, but losing him to a Sith”—she takes a deep breath, willing her heart to slow down—“well, that would be bad for us all.” One of the twins kicks. Persistently. The girl, she thinks. The boy is softer about it. She rests a hand on her stomach. “I worry for their future.”
Bail quirks an eyebrow. “Their?”
“Twins.”
Bail exhales, shaking his head with a tiny grin. “Well then. We’d best go see to their Uncle Obi-Wan so we can get him out of this mess.”
Uncle Obi-Wan.
That sentiment brings a lightness to Padme’s step that hasn’t been there in days, and she walks side by side with Bail toward the front doors of the base, past lines of clones on guard duty, past red flags whipping in the breeze.
“Master Skywalker seemed very upset when I saw him in Palaptine’s office,” Bail says just before they reach the entrance. “Worried for Obi-Wan no doubt, but torn between him and the chancellor. That he was friends with Palpatine I knew, but it unnerved me, given his relationship with Obi-Wan. You know how they are. Bonded so tightly.”
“I do,” Padme replies, and there isn’t time for her to cry, but Force knows, she wishes there was. “I do.”
The first time she truly understood how much Obi-Wan loved Anakin, she was at the Jedi Temple sometime after the war had just begun, searching for the recently-named Jedi master at an odd hour for help with something concerning the senate. She doesn’t even remember what. A bill, maybe, that could use a diplomat’s eye. When she found him he invited her back to his quarters for a cup of caf—his black with just a spoonful of sugar, hers with a generous amount of milk—while they looked things over. One cup turned into two, and when she went to put hers in the sink of his small kitchen area, she saw them. Two pictures in hardcopy—not the usual holo version—tacked on the wall.
One with a young Padawan Anakin, likely only a few months after she first met him, standing by a baby-faced Obi-Wan with his hair growing out. Next to it, a newer photo of Anakin at his knighting ceremony, one arm slung over Obi-Wan’s shoulders with a silly grin, and the Padawan braid he gave Padme as a keepsake in his hand.
The first time she truly understood how much Anakin loved Obi-Wan is harder to pin down. It simply was. Anakin and Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan and Anakin. She always knew, from the moment she married Anakin in secret, that the first person she would want to go to for help should things go wrong, would be Obi-Wan Kenobi.
She’d tried to. She’d wanted to. She shouldn’t have let that go with Anakin. She should have pressed the matter. But there’s no point in what-ifs. There’s no way of knowing what that might have changed. What matters is what’s in front of her.
And what’s in front of her once they reach Obi-Wan’s cell confirms her fears about leaving him here overnight. Not her worst ones, but close. She doesn’t say anything until the clone guard has undone Obi-Wan's stuncuffs so he can change clothes, but it takes all her will not to shout the clone down even if it’s not his fault in particular.
Obi-Wan’s upright on the cot, the cut on his cheek from yesterday turned a nasty shade of purple, and a new mark on the other side of his face that’s still red but swiftly turning darker. Shadows ring his puffy eyes, and though there’s no fresh blood on his tunic, he has one hand pressed up against the wound that was bothering him yesterday, the other holding his head.
“Obi-Wan.” Bail finds his words first. “Are you all right?”
Obi-Wan lifts his head, still massaging his brow bone with his thumb. He looks worse up close, Padme decides, his skin sallow and sweaty.
“I hope you have something in one of those bags to make me look better than I feel,” he quips. “I have a rather bad headache.”
“And a new bruise,” Padme adds, frowning. “Where did that come from?”
“One of the guards,” Obi-Wan says, and him admitting it outright is a sign that he really is in too much pain to try and undersell it like usual. “They drugged me again, and I was … not myself.”
Bail makes to put the ray shield up without missing a beat. “Damn them. I’m going to get something for you, for the pain.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, his voice holding a flat quality that Padme doesn’t like. “Please, no. I’d like to have my full awareness. But if one of you has some water and maybe even some caf, I’m sure that would help.”
Padme holds up the tall mug in her hand. “I thought of the caf already.”
“And I have water,” Bails says, taking a bottle out of the bag he brought. “Drink up.”
Did you—” Obi-Wan is careful here, given their location—“help Cody and Rex with their predicament last evening?”
Bail nods, leaving it at that, and this, Padme still cannot fathom. Cannot process. Chips. In the clones’ brains. Granted, there hasn’t been time to fully study what they might do, or to prove they were meant, specifically, to kill Jedi, but she hopes Rex’s testimony will be helpful in that regard. They left Cody’s chip at the Jedi Temple for the healers to examine, and Rex has possession of his own. More members of the 212th and 501st are getting them removed today, slowly but surely so as not to draw too much attention.
Obi-Wan chugs a quarter of the caf and takes several long gulps of water before he shares the information that makes Padme jolt as she unpacks the things she brought.
“Palpatine was here last night.”
Padme spins around, nearly dropping the hand mirror she brought. Bail does drop one of Obi-Wan's white boots.
“What?” she asks, incredulous. She supposes she shouldn’t be, not at this point, but the gall of him coming here still surprises her. “What did he want?”
Obi-Wan curls his fingers around the mug of caf. “To taunt me. And to … he did something. Made me see Anakin. It was a vision, or at least—” he glances up at Padme with wide, bloodshot eyes—“I hope it was. Honestly, I’m still not sure. Force visions aren’t meant to work on Jedi. The drugs were making me see things even after Palpatine was gone, but I … Force, Anakin seemed so real. He didn’t say anything. The vision. Or Anakin. Whichever it was.”
“It wasn’t Anakin,” Padme says. “He would have said something if it was him.”
She’s not wrong. As much as Anakin might try to keep things to himself, his emotions are usually too much, too many, to stay silent when he’s in the depths of them. At least with her and Obi-Wan.
“Remember what wild things you thought you saw on Zigoola, my friend?” Bail adds, sitting down next to Obi-Wan and prying the caf from his hands, replacing it with water. “Awful things. I’ve no doubt Palpatine could conjure up something that looked like Anakin.”
“He had yellow eyes,” Obi-Wan murmurs, staring at the floor in an odd, unfocused way. “He had yellow eyes in one of my visions too.”
“Obi-Wan.” Padme stills her own anxious heart, putting a finger beneath Obi-Wan’s chin and gently tilting it up, which does succeed in drawing his gaze. “Remember what you said about not sensing him nearby? Trust that. Not whatever nightmare Palpatine showed you.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, trying a smile. “Yes, you’re right, Padme.”
If he’s not with Palpatine, where is he? Padme can sense Obi-Wan wants to say. He’s not as hopeful as he was while leaving the message. The happenings of last night have marred that, and she could cheerfully throw Sheev Palpatine off the roof of the senate herself.
“Let’s get you dressed.” Bail takes the white and tan tunic and its black under layer out of the bag, along with the arm and chest armor.
“My armor?” Obi-Wan questions. “Not to critique you doing me the favor of bringing my clothes, but why these?”
“To remind them that you’re a general, whatever they said about taking that away,” Bail tells him. “To remind them that you’ve risked your life time and again in this war, and long befor that. The senate does important work, but they haven’t been out there getting shot at. You have. The members that have been selected for the jury should remember.”
Padme nods in agreement, winking at Obi-Wan. “Also, I like these white boots. Always have.”
This makes Obi-Wan chuckle, and he’s allowed out of the cell under the watch of a clone guard to use the fresher and change, saying he can replace the Bacta patch himself, he’s done it enough times on missions before there were clone medics following him around.
“Putting aside my usual preference for diplomacy,” Bail says, his voice low and deep in his chest, “I think I may kill Palpatine and Mas Amedda myself. He looks awful.”
“We might need to put a Jedi on watch outside somewhere,” Padme answers. “Out of sight, but able to tell if Palpatine comes back again. He might have just killed him here if he wasn’t so eager to make a show out of all of this. As much as I hate to say it, his condition may gain us sympathy. There were more reports on the HoloNet this morning interviewing people who don’t like what’s happening.”
“Public opinion of the Jedi has been down.” Bail runs a hand through his hair, musing it. “But it’s easier to make people dislike a group than it is one person they can sympathize with, and who they know by name. Palpatine put the Jedi all over the HoloNet, and Obi-Wan especially. That may backfire on him now. I hope, anyway. I’d like to see the smile wiped off his face.”
Obi-Wan returns, and Padme helps him clean up, taking out the small mirror and shaving kit and brush.
“Bless you.” Obi-Wan scrubs at his beard. “This was getting a bit messy and I already look a fright.”
Padme holds the mirror in front of him as he cleans his face and trims his beard, trying not to notice his hand trembling. She’s glad she brought the brush, because his ginger-brown hair is tangled, and it takes both of them to set it to rights while Bail taking a turn holding the mirror. Warmth rushes through her, despite it all—she’s never really told him how much she likes this haircut he got near the start of the war. It suits him. Bail helps him get the armor on, and Obi-Wan insists on tugging on his boots by himself, though he’s a bit out of breath after doing so.
“How’s the bleeding?” Padme dares to ask.
Obi-Wan shrugs. “Minimal. Hopefully this last patch should finish the job.”
“And you’re sure about the pain medication?” Bail prods.
“I can manage. I’d really rather not be drugged again, it … I don’t trust my senses right now.”
This is, perhaps, the most alarming thing Padme’s heard him say all morning. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a great Jedi, and him not trusting his senses, not trusting himself, scares her.
She will get him through this. She will get him through this.
There’s no time for her own heart to break. She has to keep Obi-Wan alive. She has to keep him breathing so her children will know their uncle. The galaxy is at stake. Everything.
Anakin will be back. He will.
But with each passing hour, the surety she thought could never be shaken, does shake.
The guards come, letting them know it’s time to go, and they cuff Obi-Wan at wrist and ankle once again, the two sets of shackles connected that that thin, sparking blue cord.
Padme and Bail follow close behind, and step out of the cell block toward the long, winding halls of the base.
The courtroom awaits, and they’re still without the witness who might change everything.
Her husband.
Numb is not something Obi-Wan Kenobi feels often, but today, as he’s marched toward the trial where he will be accused of committing treason against the Republic he’s spent his life protecting, it’s all he is. It’s an unpleasant prickle in his chest, the numbness. A stone in his stomach.
The halls of the Republic Military Base are endless. Long. Black. Silver-gray. Too slick and shiny. The press of the clones’ hands on his arms is too tight. Without the drugs dulling his senses, everything is too close. The curiosity—or judgment—of clones passing by. The tension close at hand. From outside. From Padme and Bail. HoloNet News screens blare, busting his eardrums.
It surprises Obi-Wan when what’s playing isn’t entirely negative. Concerning him, that is.
Some Coruscanti citizens were concerned about what they saw as harsh treatment of Master Kenobi, a well-known face on our channel.
He saved Chancellor Palpatine just a few days ago, a Twi’lek says as the image cuts to an interview just outside the military base. I’ve seen him all over the Holo since the war started, and he helped my people on Ryloth too, more than our old senator ever has. I didn’t like how beat up he looked, and people were saying someone drugged him. Some people are angry at the Jedi, but they’ve helped my people.
What Obi-Wan sees when the camera’s angle widens puts a crack in the numbness.
People. Dozens, hundreds of people outside the base. Shouting. Shouting something that sounds like Free Kenobi. There are signs too. The public’s outlook on the Jedi has sunk, lately, given the neverending war and Palpatine making sure they were all over the HoloNet so people would have someone to blame, but maybe, just maybe, that might be turning back in their favor.
Famous local diner owner Dexter Jettster, the anchor says when the image changes again, is closing his doors until Kenobi is free. The eatery is a favorite spot, with a long line of customers waiting outside when the announcement was made.
For the first time in days, weeks, Obi-Wan grins.
I’ve known Obi-Wan Kenobi since he was sixteen, Dex says on the screen, one set of arms crossed over his chest. And he’s no assassin. So if anyone wants my food, they should take their complaints to the senate. I’ll shut the place down and go elsewhere if anything happens to him.
“Let’s go,” one of the clones orders.
The report cuts off abruptly, replaced by another anchor discussing the same topic, but from a rather different point of view.
According to Senate Vice Chair Mas Amedda, Chancellor Palpatine nearly lost his arm in the altercation with Kenobi, and it took several rounds in the Bacta tank to heal him. With reports that the Separatists are in chaos and there might be a return to diplomacy, the chancellor is still expected to maintain his emergency powers in the case of any kind of Jedi rebellion.
Bail says something like of course, but just before Obi-Wan’s heart can resume pounding in his ears, he sees something else.
Clones lining the hallway. Clones in white and yellow and white and blue armor. And at the end, Masters Windu, Yoda, and Plo, along with Rex, and Cody, wait for him in front of the courtroom doors.
His throat closes up.
How good it is to see them all here. How brave of the clones to take a stand like this when it might not serve them. When it might be flat-out dangerous.
Blinking back tears, he nods and smiles at each of the clones, giving soft hellos as he passes by. Some of them salute him. Some of them say General Kenobi or just General. What the clones from the Coruscant guard leading him along must think he doesn’t know, but he does sense confusion. Feels their grip on his arms loosen ever so slightly.
“What happened?” Master Windu asks the moment Obi-Wan reaches them, surveying his visibly bruised face.
“Too much to discuss here with all these prying eyes and ears,” Obi-Wan replies. “But it’s good to see you both.”
He wishes he could tell them about seeing Anakin and not-Anakin. What might have been a Force vision even if he’s still not sure. About seeing … whatever Qui-Gon was. He longs for their wisdom, their knowledge that has guided him since he can remember, but it is impossible to talk here.
Now, he realizes the deeper reasons why Palpatine has disallowed Jedi visitors. It’s not just because of fears the Jedi will break him out, it’s to cut him off from his family and his trust in the Force itself.
“Thank you,” he says to Rex and Cody, wanting to make certain he does before he’s shoved forward. “Seeing the men here, it’s … thank you.”
“The boys wanted to see you, General,” Cody says, Rex nodding along. “We’re here for you. All of us.”
“And we’re letting clones in other units know,” Rex adds, not saying entirely what he means. Not here. “And that they should think twice before believing any lies about you.”
Both men, Obi-Wan notes, have small scars on their head that weren’t there before.
“Get him into the courtroom, if you please.”
A familiar and unwelcome voice makes that command, and Mas Amedda stops in his haughty tracks to make sure it’s followed.
“Are we not allowed to speak to him now?” Windu snaps. “Or is it that you simply don’t want any questions asked about how you’re treating one of the Jedi Order’s most respected masters?”
“Rights we have,” Yoda adds, his eyes narrowing, “to talk with Obi-Wan.”
“We are to conduct this in a timely manner,” Mas Amedda replies, as if he might not have heard them at all. “Let’s go.”
He stalks off inside, which means he misses Master Plo following along behind Obi-Wan, Padme, and Bail, while Windu and Yoda move in the other direction to go toward their seats—thought not before Mace pressed Obi-Wan’s should in reassurance.
“Master?” Obi-Wan asks with a single raised eyebrow. “I don’t think this is the way you’re meant to be going.”
He can’t see Plo’s grin, but he hears it.
“The council decided that we are not letting you sit alone out there, not in your condition,” Plo tells him. “And since Mace is testifying and Yoda can’t exactly help you walk, I fought for the honor.” He grows grave here, ignoring one of the clones’ muttered protests. “I grant this is not the same situation as the last time a Jedi was on trial, but I let myself be convinced to make a mistake then. The darkness has blinded us all, my friend. I intend to see the light this time.”
Tarkin waits inside the antechamber leading to the more-than-a-little-intimidating courtroom.
Perfect.
“Master Jedi,” Tarkin says with an annoyed sigh, “you are meant to be in your seat. No one may sit with the prisoner.”
Master Plo laughs once, the sound slipping out sharp through his nose. “I will be sitting with Master Kenobi. He is in this state because he’s been denied full treatment and suffered abuse in this place. You will also be getting him a chair, Admiral.”
Tarkin sniffs. “It is customary for the prisoner to stand during the proceedings.”
Plo merely stares, and this is apparently intimidating enough for Tarkin to gesture at one of the clones to put a chair out before Obi-Wan enters the courtroom.
“Master Kenobi.” Tarkin finally addresses Obi-Wan, his coif of thinning, gray-streaked auburn hair plastered tight to his head, and his blue eyes dead as ever, though there is a glint of pleasure in them. “I do believe you’ve looked better.”
“Well”—Obi-Wan bites back a retort—“prison is a difficult place.”
“Well,” Tarkin echoes, leaning in toward Obi-Wan's ear, “if I have anything to say about it, you won’t have long to languish. I hope that reassures you.”
Bail clenches his first, visibly swallowing back a shout. “That is the furthest thing from appropriate, Admiral.”
“Come now, Senator Organa,” Tarkin replies. “You know well what penalty I’ll be seeking. Don’t act surprised.”
“Admiral Tarkin, you are—”
“Bail,” Padme chides softly, “let’s go. Don’t mind him. He doesn’t have a case, and he knows it.”
He doesn’t need to have a case, Obi-Wan thinks privately. He has the chancellor. And the chancellor has the senate. And members of the senate are the jury.
But he must trust in Padme and Bail. He must trust in the Force. In the Jedi.
He would say he must trust in Anakin, and he did last night when he left the message, but now....
Now....
The sight of the courtroom packed to the gills with Jedi distracts him—mercifully—from this line of thought. Luminara. Quinlan. Siri. Kit. Depa and Caleb. Masters Kolar and Mundi. Vokara Che. Despite this massive room, there is not a terrible amount of seating, and there are, he suspects, more Jedi in here than is strictly allowed. Ahsoka is up there too, next to a Jedi padawan from her youngling clan, and she waves at him with a tight half-smile.
His heart swells, and he misses the talkative, curious young girl he first met that the war tried to take away. If the Jedi survive this, he hopes she’ll come back.
An odd mix of shame and defiance rushes through him as he’s led in, wrists and ankles still restrained. He knows he looks a sight, and it feels so terribly vulnerable to be without his saber and shackled like this for all these eyes to see. Senators are packed in as well, the large screens showing him where Palpatine—back in his sling—sits with the presiding senator Bail mentioned, and Obi-Wan adjusts his gaze to meet the actual Palpatine’s eye from across the black and silver expanse. A hush falls over the courtroom, the constant murmuring from a moment ago dying off. Padme and Bail take their place on the platform next to his, with Tarkin diagonally across from him. Master Plo helps him into the provided metal chair, and it is a relief to sit. More clones fill in behind, blasters in hand, and he tries hard to forget about that.
Up on another platform, a HoloNet News crew waits.
There has not, to Obi-Wan’s knowledge, been a live-feed of a military trial before, at least not in his lifetime.
The game has, apparently, changed.
Ainlee Teem steps up to the rail of the platform high-above, his face looming large on the screen. When his voice booms out over the room, Obi-Wan’s world shifts and shudders and shakes. Steady. He must remain steady.
“In the matter of The Grand Army of the Republic v. Kenobi, we are set to begin. Given the disruptions outside the base this morning, let it be known that if anyone creates chaos in this courtroom, with the power granted to me by the Supreme Chancellor, I will have you removed. Admiral Tarkin, you may begin with Master Kenobi’s testimony.”
Tarkin nods to the court reporter with a datapad sitting at his side, and moves close as he may to Obi-Wan.
“I will be prosecuting this case, Master Kenobi,” he says. “Do you understand you are being charged with attempted murder of the Supreme Chancellor, as well as treason against the Republic?”
For this, Obi-Wan stands. He will not do Palpatine the service of sitting. He can do that after. Plo moves to help him, but Obi-Wan raises a gentle hand, straightening his spine.
“I understand, Admiral.”
That malicious glint comes back to Tarkin’s eyes. “And do you understand that if found guilty, that I intend to ask this court to bring the full extent of the law down upon you? Including a possible death sentence? Is that clear?”
A collective gasp echoes across the courtroom, and up on the platform, Palpatine smirks. Just for a moment when Obi-Wan’s face is on the screen.
“Yes, Admiral Tarkin.”
"State your name, rank, and age for the record, please."
"My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m a Jedi Master, and have been a member of the Jedi High Council for the past three years. Until a few days ago, I was a Jedi High General with command over the 212th Attack Battalion. I am thirty-eight Standard Years old.”
"And how long have you been a part of the Jedi Order?"
"I was brought to the temple when I was six months old."
“And is it fair to say that you are more loyal,” Tarkin says, “to the Jedi Order than you are to the Republic?”
Obi-Wan’s hackles rise. A trick question, of course, getting to the heart of Palpatine’s intent.
“No, Admiral. The Jedi are intertwined with the Republic’s well-being. It is impossible to separate one from the other.”
Tarkin sneers. “And is it fair to say, Master Kenobi, that your relationship with Chancellor Palpatine has been tense, in the past?”
“That’s not an objective question,” Bail interrupts. “You’re trying to lead him.”
“It is a perfectly valid question, Senator Organa,” Tarkin replies. “Answer, Master Kenobi.”
“I have had a perfectly cordial relationship with Chancellor Palpatine up until the events in his office,” Obi-Wan answers. “And in fact have played a part in helping to save the chancellor’s life on more than one occasion.”
“A boast.”
“A fact, Admiral.”
“Hmm.” Tarkin rubs at his chin, a smirk sliding onto his lips. “And please, Master Kenobi, do tell us about those times. I would appreciate particular detail on the second, most recent attempt at what you call rescuing the chancellor.”
Obi-Wan’s body aches, and he presses one hand against the still tender wound, the other grasping the railing. He’s loathe to look weak, but falling down won’t do him any good, and he might, with this bone-deep fatigue.
“The first time I was undercover as a bounty hunter,” Obi-Wan explains. “There were rumored attempts on the chancellor’s life set to potentially happen at a celebration on Naboo. These were thwarted. The assignment was such that I was forced to fake my death and let people who cared about me believe me gone. It was not a decision I took lightly, but it was done for the sake of the chancellor’s safety and the Republic’s security.”
He pauses here, glancing at Bail and Padme, who shake their heads imperceptibly. The revelation about Palpatine being a Sith is meant to be saved for their turn at questioning him.
“More recently,” he continues, and here, his heart rips in two, “Master Skywalker and myself—”
“Your former apprentice,” Tarkin cuts in. “You must say for the record.”
Obi-Wan’s ripped heart bleeds, and Bail audibly huffs.
“Yes, Admiral Tarkin. That is correct.”
“Continue, please.”
“Master Skywalker and myself,” Obi-Wan repeats, Anakin and not-Anakin’s yellow eyes burned into his brain, “were sent to rescue the chancellor after Coruscant was attacked less than two weeks ago. We boarded General Grievous’ ship and encountered Count Dooku. I was injured, but Ana … Master Skywalker was able to dispatch the count and help me until I awoke from being knocked unconscious. We then encountered Grievous again and were able to get Chancellor Palpatine out. Master Skywalker landed what was left of Grievous’ ship. The credit for the second rescue is largely owed to Master Skywalker, but I will say that I developed the strategy for getting inside. If I had ill intent toward the chancellor, I would have had the opportunity to express it then.”
Tarkin walks in a circle, one hand gliding across the rail like he might be pondering something idly. “Well, one could say that your botched efforts to rescue Chancellor Palpatine implies a desire not to rescue him at all. There have been some concerns, Master Kenobi, that you may have let General Grievous escape that day because you were, indeed, working with him to capture the chancellor, but were thwarted unknowingly by Master Skywalker. And then you killed him several days later to cover—”
“This is pure speculation without evidence, not to mention a wild accusation to make of a Jedi who is responsible for finally breaking down the Separatist chain of command!” Padme shouts, cutting Tarkin off. “Senator Teem, we object to this line of questioning.”
“Adjust, Admiral Tarkin,” Teem says, “unless you have evidence to present proving this.”
“Understood, Senator.” Tarkin grins, because the damage, of course, has been done. The seed planted into the jury’s head. Suggested to the people watching the HoloNet. “Master Kenobi, do you know the current whereabouts of Master Skywalker, so that he may confirm your version of these events, as well as the events in Chancellor Palpatine’s office three nights past, for which he was also present?”
Tarkin keeps hold of that grin, staring him down, and all the air goes out of Obi-Wan’s chest. Out of the room. Out of the galaxy.
Anakin is not here, and now, he must admit that aloud to this courtroom. To the news crew.
To everyone.
Kenobi and Skywalker. Skywalker and Kenobi. The Negotiator and the Hero Without Fear. Obi-Wan and Anakin. Anakin and Obi-Wan. Two, they have been, for almost thirteen years, and now, something cracks. That crack runs down the middle of Obi-Wan’s body with a sharp pang. So sharp, in fact, that Palpatine’s dagger is nothing in comparison. His Force-bond with Anakin stretches and stretches and stretches, and though it does not snap, it hurts more than anything, anything, has ever hurt in his life.
Where did he fail? He must have. Somewhere. Somehow. Master Yoda said this wasn’t his fault, but it must be. A sob crawls up his throat, tantalizing and tempting and so near, but tears in this moment are impossible. Intolerable. His own half-wild words to his hallucinated and long-dead master come back to him.
I wasn’t good enough to be chosen by a master. I wasn’t good enough to train the most powerful Force-user in a thousand years. I’m not good enough for the person I care most about in the world to be here when I need him.
He must not let Tarkin see. He must not let Palpatine see.
He must not let them win.
“No, Admiral Tarkin.” Obi-Wan grasps the rail tighter, his knuckles popping white. “I am not currently aware of Master Skywalker’s whereabouts.”
Tarkin’s grin grows, and he steps back from where he’s peering at Obi-Wan with those dead blue eyes.
“Your witness, Senators.”
Bail glares at Tarkin before clearing his throat and moving toward Obi-Wan.
“Master Kenobi,” he says, as gentle as Tarkin was snide, and the sight of him, the kindness in his smile, slows Obi-Wan’s heart down. It eases the agony. “Before we touch upon the events in Chancellor Palpatine’s office, please do tell us about the end of your fight with General Grievous, and what you discovered in the aftermath.”
That’s the signal, and it replenishes Obi-Wan’s well of determination. He may be aching, hurting, but he will not let Palpatine destroy the Jedi.
So, with the dagger of Anakin’s abandonment still stuck in his gut, he clenches his jaw, and begins the business of telling the truth.
The galaxy depends up on it.
Enough people have died in this war.
No more. No more.
“After dispatching General Grievous, I noticed a holoemitter that rolled off his remains.” Obi-Wan dares a glance up at Palpatine, who watches him, impassive. He does not mention his vision, because that will not make sense to any non-Jedi, and it barely matters, in any case, other than to him personally. “A message was there, from a man called Lord Sidious. A man in a black cloak appeared, and told General Grievous to, I believe the phrase was make sure you take care of Kenobi. That he had an appointment with Master Skywalker that evening, and did not want me, in particular, interrupting. His voice was familiar to me immediately. The Jedi Council had been on the lookout for a Sith lord of this name, who we believed was playing the war from both sides and hiding himself in the highest echelons of the Republic. Whose apprentice murdered my master, Qui-Gon Jinn, during the blockade of Naboo. We had thought the Sith gone since the founding of the Republic. Unfortunately, that was not the case. I contacted the Jedi Council before I left Utapau, leaving a message indicating that I knew who the Sith lord might be without naming names in case any security had been breached, even though I was worried for Master Skywalker’s safety. I believe that message has been submitted into evidence. So has Grievous’ holoemitter, though unfortunately the message there self-erased before it could be transferred.”
“Explain, if you will, what the Sith are, Master Kenobi.”
“The Sith are users of the dark side of the Force,” Obi-Wan replies. “For thousands of years the Jedi and the Sith were at war. The Sith are great proponents of tyranny and death and slavery, and I’m afraid it would take an entire day of this trial for me to explain even a fraction of their crimes. Needless to say, they are not supportive of keeping our democracy intact.”
“And this Sith messenger,” Bail prompts, tension seeping into the room, “you said you recognized his voice?”
Obi-Wan nods, looking up at Palpatine again. They lock eyes, and that scar on Obi-Wan’s neck itches and itches and itches.
“I did,” Obi-Wan says, and now, it’s his turn for a snide smile, however faint. “It was the voice of Sheev Palpatine.”
A second gasp ripples across the courtroom.
“Speculation!” Tarkin cries out.
“Not,” Padme interrupts, “if the chancellor himself later admitted to it. Master Kenobi, please tell us what happened when you arrived back on Coruscant to give this news to the Jedi Council.”
So, Obi-Wan does. He tells them how he flew home from Utapau, leaving his men to handle the droids. How he was met by Mas Amedda and forced into a speeder at blaster point. How Palpatine drew his red saber, and they dueled. About the dagger and Palpatine stabbing him not once, but twice, fully admitting that he was a Sith, and that he was only able to fend Palpatine off by wounding him.
“And what was it that the chancellor said to you, after he stabbed you the second time?” Bail asks.
“He said that he had been dreaming of killing me for a long time.” Obi-Wan gazes around the courtoom, wondering if the reality of this still sounds too outrageous to believe. “And that it would be a pleasure. He wished very much to trick Master Skywalker into coming over to his side of things, which I suspect hastened his desire to have me dead, as I would be interrupting that attempt. Had Master Skywalker not come in at that moment and assisted me with my wounds, had the clone medics not been summoned soon after, I have no doubt that I would be dead.”
That is all he will say as far as the back and forth between Anakin and Palpatine. It’s all he think he can manage to say without breaking down, and he will not damn Anakin before he has proof that Anakin has damned himself.
“I would also like to mention that no other Jedi were present in the room until after all the fighting had taken place, and only knew I was there after I was able to answer a comm from Master Windu. Whatever this court decides as to my fate, I would ask that the rest of the Jedi be spared from judgment. They were only trying to aid me, as any Jedi would, should they see their brethren wounded.”
“Master Kenobi,” Tarkin snarls. “This not the time for you to preach about the Jedi.”
“You’ve certainly been doing enough preaching against the Jedi on the news the past two days,” Bail growls, his cloak swinging when he spins to face Tarkin directly. “See if that doesn’t get submitted to evidence as bias.”
“Order!” Ainlee Teem shouts. “That’s enough, Senator Organa.”
Padme presses Bail’s shoulder, letting things settle before taking over the questioning.
“Is it fair to say, Master Kenobi,” Padme adds, Tarkin’s own word twirling around her tongue with sarcasm, “that you are a skilled warrior, whom it would not be easy for a man of Palpatine’s age to defeat, unless he had powers of his own?”
“There are many Jedi I would hold above myself as warriors.” Obi-Wan glances up at Master Windu and Yoda, hoping they catch his smile. “But I am very experienced. So yes, I would call that quite a fair assessment.”
“Just one last question, Master Kenobi.” Bail speaks again, having recovered his temper. “We would have you detail your wounds for the court, given the … confusion that has been happening on the HoloNet News. If you please.”
Obi-Wan feels Vokara Che staring at him, as if daring him to lessen the gravity of his wounds.
“I had two stab wounds,” he says. “One in my stomach, and a more severe one that caused my liver to be lacerated. I also had a concussion, and this scar—” he tugs aside his tunic—“from the chancellor’s Sith lightning that I believe Master Che will be testifying about tomorrow.”
Obi-Wan stops when yet another gasp passes through the room, and one senator, somewhere in a seat near him, says I’ve never seen anything like that.
“The amount of blood loss was the biggest concern at the time,” Obi-Wan continues. “And again, if not for the clone medics and the Jedi healers, I would not be speaking to you now.”
“Thank you, Master Kenobi.” Padme offers him a smile, and Obi-Wan takes that as permission to sit down again. “No further questions.”
An unsettled quiet hangs over the courtroom, and Obi-Wan does sit, trying not to make a show of how his legs shake as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Master Plo puts a hand on his shoulder, sending a wave of calm through the Force, and bless him, it does help.
At least, until Tarkin calls Palpatine down to testify.
Palptine make a great show of slowing coming down to Tarkin’s platform for this segment, his arm still in that sling. Palpatine sits too, though he’s less in need of it, having received his full Bacta treatments and proper rest.
“Chancellor,” Tarkin says, respectful now where he was mocking before. “I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that the court is glad to see you well.”
Palpatine smiles that innocent, old man smile that he always showed Anakin, and the mere sight of it throws Obi-Wan back in time to an ancient, dusty memory, when Anakin was twelve or so and started thinking of leaving the Order—specifically after time spent with Palpatine. Obi-Wan was going to leave the Order himself to make sure Anakin had a guide, and while it didn’t end up happening, in hindsight, now, after all of this, he can’t help but think of it.
This man has been trying to warp Anakin for years, and Obi-Wan didn’t see it. He didn’t like their friendship, particularly, but he didn’t sense the unfathomable danger.
“Chancellor Palpatine,” Tarkin continues, “please tell us what happened that night in your office.”
And then, right from the start, Palpatine lies.
And he lies.
And he lies. He lies with the ease and the grace of the worst sort of politician. It makes sense, really. He’s been lying all this time. His lies worked well enough to start a war, and then blame someone else for the fallout. He is nothing like Bail or Padme or Mon Mothma, here in the senate to do good.
Good is the last thing he wants.
Kenobi came to my office on his own.
Kenobi threatened my guards.
Kenobi came at me immediately with his saber.
Kenobi was tired from his fight with Grievous and he tripped, and I stabbed him to keep him away. Then I stabbed him again after he stabbed me with his saber. You’ll note the second wound was not as deep. That’s because I was already wounded myself.
“And did Master Kenobi say what his plan was, after this terrible attack?” Tarkin asks when Palpatine is done. “Did he say if this was part of a larger Jedi conspiracy?”
“He did not give any specific information about that,” Palpatine admits. “Just ranting about how the Jedi have been mistreated by the Republic, things like that. But, of course, I find it unlikely that Master Kenobi would have acted alone. He has always been loyal to the Jedi Council’s word, in my experience.”
“Speculation!” Padme interrupts, his voice rising. “Again.”
“No matter.” Tarkin gives a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Your witness, Senators.”
Padme puts a hand on Bail’s arm, and steps into Palpatine’s line of sight. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink. She stands in front of the man who was once her mentor, the man from her home planet who would have seen it destroyed, and she stares him down.
The courtroom buzzes with anticipation, because most people here know this history. Anger rolls of Padme in thick waves, Obi-Wan senses it, feels it in his own chest, and wherever Anakin may be, he trusts Padme Amidala.
He always has.
“What a different story you’ve told us, Chancellor,” Padme begins in a sickly sweet tone of voice. “From Master Kenobi’s, that is. Tell us, sir, why are there no security holograms of what happened in your office that night?”
Palpatine flinches, almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
“I’m not certain, Senator Amidala,” he replies. “Perhaps Master Kenobi used the Force to turn them off. I know nothing of such matters, whatever is being said about me to the contrary.”
“Hmm.” Padme tucks a stray hair behind her ear, keeping her shoulders back. “You said, chancellor, that Master Kenobi found his own way into your office and was not forced. Yet no senate guards were found injured. Or clones. Would you care to explain that?”
Palpatine gestures toward Obi-Wan with his free hand. “Why Jedi mind tricks, of course. I assumed as much.”
“Did you also assume that Master Kenobi would hesitate to kill or injure your guards, while on his way to kill you?” Padme asks. “I’m not sure, if he was so intent on being an assassin, that he would spare them.”
Palpatine waves that same hand. “I assumed he didn’t want to leave a trail.”
“You’re making quite a few assumptions, chancellor.”
“It’s as I said. I am not a Force-user, and would not understand the machinations of one with such power. If I were, I very much doubt that our friend, young Master Skywalker—” he pauses here, lingering and meeting Obi-Wan’s eye for a gutwrenching few seconds before giving Padme that slick smile, and gazing, however briefly, at her middle.
Rage scorches Obi-Wan’s skin. It burns and burns and burns, and he takes a deep breath, controlling himself before it takes control. Staring at Padme like that, letting Anakin’s name hang like that … if people are paying attention, the implications are clear.
“—would have come to me,” Palpatine continues. “If I was one of these so-called Sith. He did, of course, to see how I was doing, too distraught to even say Master Kenobi’s name. It’s why he’s not here today, after all. He simply cannot bear to look at his old master.”
Palpatine is playing with fire. Acting under the assumption that either Anakin won’t return to refute this, will return and join him, or his testimony, if he returns and comes to their side, won’t hold weight because of his relationship with Obi-Wan.
The trouble is, he could be right on any of those counts.
Palpatine meets Obi-Wan's gaze a second time for one, fleeting, miniscule moment, a flash of Sidious in his smile. Memories from last night come rushing back. Choking. Palpatine tracing his finger over the bruise. Pressing down on it.
Anakin.
Anakin spitting on the floor.
Anakin with those yellow eyes.
Was he real? No. Bail reminded him of the things he thought he saw on Zigoola. Padme reminded him that he didn’t sense Anakin’s presence.
And yet, Obi-Wan truly isn’t sure what is real, anymore.
“I think,” Padme says slowly, an undercurrent of anger in her voice even as it stays smooth, “that there is no possible way you could harm a Jedi Master of Obi-Wan’s caliber, if you weren’t what he says you are.”
“Speculation!” Tarkin shouts, and that, surely, is the word of the day.
Padme puts her hands up. “I’m done, Admiral.”
They break for a meal after Palpatine is excused from testifying, though Obi-Wan hardly remembers it, eating something he doesn’t recall at the behest of Padme, Bail, and Master Windu, his stuncuffs briefly undone. When they return, they’re there for hours. Bail testifies with fervor. About what happened in the office. Finding Obi-Wan bloody and dying. About Zigoola and what happened to them there back when the war was young. About what he learned of the Sith, and how it changed him, how it vaulted his respect for the Jedi higher. That memory of that awful time dances dreadfully in Obi-Wan’s mind. The refrain he heard over and over and over again on that horrible Sith planet might as well be coming out of Palpatine’s mouth now.
Die Jedi Die Jedi Die.
When Bail is done, Sly Moore, Palpatine’s chief of staff, is called. Master Windu—speaking for himself and Master Yoda, goes next, detailing more about the mission to hunt Grievous and speaking in detail about Obi-Wan’s wounds and the message he left, playing it for the court. Mon Mothma follows, talking about both what she witnessed in Palpatine’s office and the events in front of the base yesterday. Orn Free Taa goes too, though he’s mostly useless to Obi-Wan’s case. No Mas Amedda as of yet, though perhaps the prosecution is saving him for tomorrow. Padme and Bail are, having told Obi-Wan during the meal break that they want to present security footage of what happened in the Halls of Healing, which they just recieved. Without security footage from that night in Palpatine’s office, however, it’s all word against word today, and that’s what Palpatine wanted, of course.
It’s a matter of whose word will win out.
Except the chips. They have the chips, and that is evidence.
And then, finally, it’s Rex’s turn to testify.
And Palpatine looks surprised for the first time all day.
“State your name and rank, please.” Bail smiles at Rex. “And how you know Master Kenobi.”
“I’m CT-7567, Captain Rex, head of the 501st Legion under Jedi General Anakin Skywalker. I’ve had the pleasure of working closely with Commander Cody and the 212th under Master Kenobi throughout the war.”
“And you know Master Kenobi well?”
“Very, Senator Organa.” Rex stands straight, and he doesn’t seem to care that from across the courtroom, Palpatine is practically boring holes into him. “He’s not just a commanding officer—he’s a friend. He’d give his life a thousand times over if it meant it could end the war and save the Republic.”
“About six months ago”—Bail circles his platform, utterly focused and waiting for the right moment—“you said there was an incident with another clone in your legion, and the chancellor. Fives was his name, am I correct?”
From up on the high platform where Palpatine sits, Obi-Wan senses a jolt of absolute fury shoot through the air.
“Yes,” Rex answers. “One of our own—Tup—suddenly up and killed a Jedi during the middle of a battle. We couldn’t make sense of it. Seemed like he was breaking down, or was sick. Something. So we took him back to Kamino. I had to go back to the front, but Fives stayed behind. Next thing I knew, Tup was dead and Fives was calling myself and General Skywalker, telling us that Chancellor Palpatine had tried to kill him. That there were chips in our head meant to make us—” he gazes around the room, making sure his words stick—“kill Jedi.”
The fourth collective gasp of the day echoes through the courtroom, and Obi-Wan glances up at his fellow Jedi, their pain pulsating down to him. The clones have been their friends, and to know that they were intended as weapons all along? It’s too much.
“And Fives—” Rex struggles here—“was killed as he was talking to myself and General Skywalker. Shot by another clone for trying to, as it was put to me, to kill the chancellor. Fives said the chancellor wanted him dead because he found out about the chips. But Fives was a good soldier. A good friend. I thought maybe the war had gotten to him, that his mind wasn’t right, but now I see it differently.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Captain,” Bail says softly. “You have evidence to present?”
“Commander Cody and I both had our chips removed.” Rex turns toward Cody, who stands on the same platform with him. “I have my mine here with me. And I—”
A coughing fit interupts whatever Rex was about to say next, though he’s pulled said chip out of his pocket. These, Obi-Wan knows, haven’t been handed into evidence yet, because Padme and Bail wanted to keep them a secret until they were revealed—partly to keep Rex and Cody safe from repercussions as long as possible.
Obi-Wan looks up to the high platform, and there is Palpatine, hunched over in his seat and coughing—though what that has to do with a healed lightsaber wound he isn’t sure. Ainlee Teem and Mas Amedda surround the chancellor, looking worried. Whispers come. Things Obi-Wan can’t make out. He only senses both panic and pleasure coming from Palpatine’s direction.
They’ve caught him unawares with the chips, but he’s trying to put a stop to it.
“I am calling these proceedings to a halt,” Ainlee Teem says. “Chancellor Palpatine is unwell. Mas Amedda has concerns that something may have been missed in his lungs.”
Where Obi-Wan stabbed him is nowhere near his lungs, but that, of course, doesn’t matter.
“We have physical evidence to present,” Bail protests. “This is extremely out of order. Master Kenobi is in a much worse state, and has been denied care. This is absurd.”
“You will be allowed to finish questioning your witness tomorrow, Senator.” Ainlee Teem raises his hand, and Bail falls silent. “As I said, the chancellor is unwell, and must be present for this trial. We will continue tomorrow with Captain Rex’s testimony. And you will submit those chips into evidence now, Senators. That you haven’t is the thing that’s out of order.”
They’re going to try and corrupt those chips, aren’t they?
More shouts of protest come. From the Jedi. From Quinlan, in particular. And Kit Fisto. And Ahsoka. From a few clones in the 212th, Cody included.
What comes next happens too fast for Obi-Wan to process.
Two members of the Coruscant guard taking him by the arms again, and two more with blasters pointed at his back following behind. They tell Master Plo that no, he may not follow. They say, no visitors tonight, to Padme and Bail, both of whom desparately attempt to keep going anyway, but they’re blocked by yet more clones.
Padme calls out his name. She’s not calm and cool and collected now.
No, she’s scared.
He’s not sure he’s ever heard her sound like that before, high-pitched and young. Not even when she was so, so young when they first met.
Obi-Wan!
And when Obi-Wan steps into the hallway, when he sees the Holo screens and hears the crowd outside in real-time with his own ears, he understands why he’s being led away so fast.
There are more people outside now. Thousands and not hundreds. A rush of other people’s emotions wallops him and knocks the air from his lungs. Rage. Confusion. Defiance. Fear. He sees some anti-Jedi sentiment, but there are signs out there, signs that say things like Free the Negotiator, and We Want Our Senate Back.
The din dies as he’s led down into the depths of the base’s cell block, thrown inside by the clones with all his shackles left on.
And he’s alone.
And that’s the point, isn’t it?
The hard, uncomfortable cot bows beneath his weight, and Obi-Wan Kenobi rests his face in his hands, fighting back a sob. It cuts and claws, trying to get up and out of his mouth from where he’s buried it deep in his chest. Something like glass draws a bloody line down the back of his throat when he swallows his tears, and he coughs against the sharpness, spitting up residual blood that must have gotten stuck days ago.
The inside of his mouth still tastes like copper. Maybe it always will.
There’s no time to cry. No space. No matter the rage of the people outside, this trial is a sham, and he’s going to die, isn’t he? Die without Anakin by his side like he always expected. That’s the natural order of things, after all, the master dying before the apprentice. Of course, he’s worried a hundred times that the war would distort that. That it would snuff Anakin out and he would have to bear that unnatural scrape in the universe.
But perhaps Anakin has snuffed out his own soul and left his body in place.
Otherwise, where is he?
This cold clarity, the knowledge that Palpatine will not let him win, settles, and determination comes along with it. If he can get the truth out there, even if it’s not enough to save him, if there’s not enough time because they want to shut him up, then that will be enough. Maybe his death will embolden those on his side. Maybe it will expose Palpatine and his ilk. He’s never endeavored to be a martyr, but he can do it if it’s useful. He’s willing to be the sacrifice, the pound of flesh, the spilt blood, if it means there might be something left.
If it means there might be safety and light for the twins in his vision, the laughing brown-haired girl in braids and the tow-headed boy he might never get to meet.
Uncle Obi-Wan!
The loss of the Jedi would leave a wounded galaxy to fester. Individual knights and masters die, but the Order and it’s mission are an undying star with a heart of kyber.
Never meant to burn out.
He must find a way to protect the Jedi. To stop the Sith. To save the galaxy from plunging into darkness. To channel the defiant rage just outside these doors into something powerful.
Even if he loses his life in the process.
A HoloNet News screen bathes Anakin’s starfighter in an over-bright white light when he lands at the Jedi Temple. It’s been there for the last year of the war, much to many Jedi’s chagrin.
And now, there’s a familiar face front and center.
Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan in that awful courtroom at the base where Ahsoka had her trial. Obi-Wan with a nasty cut and bruise on one cheek and a red swipe on the other, swiftly purpling. Obi-Wan with a scar like lightning on his neck. Obi-Wan pale and puffy-eyed. Obi-Wan with one hand pressed against his side, and the other grasping a rail too-tight. Obi-Wan cuffed at wrist and ankle.
The first day of Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi’s trial on charges of treason and attempted murder began today, the news anchor says, voice resounding across this sector of the city. Chancellor Palpatine and the Jedi master who has often graced our screens had two different stories to tell, and there has been unrest in the streets today outside the base ....
The voice’s coherence fades, and there is only ringing in Anakin’s ears.
Obi-Wan. He has to get to Obi-Wan.
He fumbles for his holoemitter, the charge barely holding, and calls his wife.
Padme appears in blue before the first ring is even complete. A hand on her hip. Both eyebrows raised. And despite everything, love tracing the curve of her lips before they tug into a frown.
“I know,” he says, before she can say anything. “I know, and I’m sorry, Padme. I love you, and I’m so, so sorry. But please—”
“Are you apologizing for what you’ve done, or what you’re going to do?” she interrupts, and even via holo, the sheen of tears in her eyes is unmistakable. “Anakin, if you’ve been talking to Palpatine, or if you plan to, spare me your excuses as to why. I can’t follow you there. I love you, but I won’t do it.”
Anakin’s heart twinges, but it’s only fair. “I haven’t spoken to him. And I’m not going to. I … how’s Obi-Wan?”
“Bad, Anakin.” The judgement in the way she says his name hurts, but he deserves it. Force knows, he deserves it. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
The pain comes to life behind Anakin’s right eye. His chest, his soul, the Force-bond with his master, throbs. “There’s so much I want to talk about, Padme, and we will, I promise we will, but please, please tell me where he is.”
“Meet me by the base,” Padme replies without hesitation. “Off to the side where there are less eyes. And come alone. Don’t bring Artoo.”
Anakin hops a stray speeder that hasn’t been properly docked at the Jedi landing area, and drives as fast as he can into the Coruscant night.
Chapter 7: Now I Know That Light Guided Me Here
Summary:
Padme greets Anakin when he returns to Coruscant, helping him sneak into Obi-Wan's prison cell. When Anakin finds his beloved master more broken than he expected, he swears to make up for what he's done. Obi-Wan comes up with a plan to take down Palpatine if things go wrong. Bail, determined to keep everyone safe, faces an uncomfortable truth.
Things aren't going their way.
Notes:
Hi all! OMG thank you SO MUCH for the wonderful comments on the last chapter, I am so so thrilled you're enjoying this story!
Just one main lore note for this chapter, which involves some things about the Guardians of the Whills, i.e. what Chirrut and Baze are in Rogue One! I mention the Kyber Temple on Jedha, and a book one of the Guardians wrote.
Also, this fic is now set to be about 13 chapters. I uh, just keep adding to it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Coruscant’s silver-slicked skyline makes stars burst in front of Anakin’s eyes. After the dark desert, the city seems too bright.
Lines of clones await him when he reaches the base. Hundreds of them. Padme is braver than any soldier to meet him here, but that doesn’t surprise him. He drives slowly so his speeder makes less noise, going past the the base altogether and then turning back around to go toward the side of the building. With all the other traffic, the clones don’t even notice him.
Anakin senses Padme before he sees her. Padme and their child, though the child’s presence in the Force is stronger than before. Very strong, in fact. Another HoloNet screen looms large across the street from this side of the base, and there are more of these than there used to be, aren’t there? Or maybe he’s just noticing them. They’re showing Obi-Wan again, but this time he’s sitting in a flimsy metal chair in that awful courtroom with Master Plo at his side. The voiceover, though, isn’t from the trial. It’s a citizen of Christophsis.
General Kenobi and General Skywalker saved our planet from a Separatist invasion, he’s saying, but just as the camera pans down on the speaker, static crackles through the air, and Mas Amedda’s face replaces Obi-Wan’s. It’s some Holo evening news show, one Padme’s watched before. Obi-Wan too. Anakin can’t recall the name because they usually make him fall asleep.
A wave of indignant rage crashes over him, except it’s not his own.
And there, in the shadow of the base, is Padme herself, standing beneath an overhang and staring up at the screen with narrowed eyes. Wearing dark clothes and with her hair braided back, he almost missed her. Tempted to run, he keeps a steady pace, walking toward his wife as the red flags whip in the temperamental evening breeze. Night fell as he raced over here, sending Artoo back to Padme’s apartment—and to, no doubt, a worried Threepio.
Padme tugs him by the hand as soon as he’s near enough to touch, leading him around to the back of the base that is mostly deserted, the air vents nearby loud enough that they won’t be overheard.
Force, the air vents. Is he going to have to go into the air vents to get inside? He’s getting to old—and too tall—for this.
“Are you all right?” she asks, still holding his hand but not leaning in to kiss him like she normally might. “Are you hurt?”
“Me?” Anakin questions, gently, carefully squeezing her hand, worry boring a whole in his stomach when he sees the glint of a silver Naboo blaster beneath the fall of her coat. Are things really that bad? “I’m fine. Are you all right?”
“If you’re fine then where have you been?” She tears her hand out of his, giving him a light shove instead, which he takes without comment. “You talk about me dying and then you disappear without a word.”
“Padme,” he breathes, and this building, the air around it, is seeped in darkness, a nebulous presence of something awful. It curls around him like black gossamer, potent and all-too-possible for him to catch onto. “I’m so sorry. I am. I love you. I promise I love you.”
“I love you too, Anakin.” She huffs, annoyed, as if this was never in question even though he was worried it might be. Not that Padme would leave him easily, but to say that he fucked up would be putting it lightly. “But where were you?”
“I—” Anakin swallows. “I was on Tatooine.”
Padme stiffens, her expression, like flint just a moment ago, turning softer. “Tatooine?”
Air catches in his lungs, stabbing sharp. “I thought … I wanted to talk to my mother. I thought I could sort things out that way. It was … complicated. I did sort things out in the end. But at first it only made things worse.”
She sniffs, blinking back tears, and he hates himself for making her cry.
“Why did you come back?”
“I got Obi-Wan’s message. I saw you were there with him. And Rex. And Ahsoka.” Anakin gazes at the intimidating base—a dour smear on Courscant’s colorful skyline, Padme’s said before. Somewhere in there, his master is trapped. “And I knew had to come back. I’ve never … he’s never sounded like that before.”
Padme fiddles with the end of her long braid. “He’s not in a good place, Anakin.”
“I saw he was hurt. There were videos of him on the Holo when I was flying in. Did they not finish treating him?”
“No. He didn’t get all the rounds of Bacta he needed, though his stab wounds are healing. He’s been beaten up a bit since, too, which doesn’t help. But it’s about more than all of that. He’s … Palpatine made him see you last night. Through some kind of vision. Had him drugged again.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again!” Padme half-shouts, still taking his hand back even in her frustration. “Mas Amedda injected him with a sleep inducer before they transferred him here from the temple. To the point where Obi-Wan threw up outside the base for all the world to see.”
Anakin winces. Obi-Wan would have been so embarassed by that. Mortified.
“He did an amazing job in court today,” Padme continues, “but he’s been through so much the past few days, physically and emotionally. I’ve never seen him like this, with the light gone out of his eyes.”
A chill shoots down Anakin’s spine.
“Padme, don’t say that.”
But the war’s been stealing that light bit by bit, hasn’t it? Anakin just didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to admit that his master, his master who felt as bright as the Force itself, was tired. Worn-out. Sad.
“Anakin,” she says, gentle now as she loosely entwines their fingers. “He’s being used to smear the Jedi. His family. He almost died, though I think he thinks that’s the least of it. He’s been treated like a murderer and a criminal and been beaten up and drugged. He thought you left him. That you went to Palpatine.”
“I didn’t.”
Well, he did do that first part. Left Obi-Wan. He’s never left Obi-Wan and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself.
She smiles tightly, shrugging her shoulders. “But you weren’t here. He needs you. I don’t think you understand how much.”
A beat passes, a moment of silence in which Anakin wants to make a confession to his wife about what he almost did. She looked his darkness straight in the face that day when his mother died, and she loved him anyway. He can tell her.
“I almost did,” he whispers. “Go to Palpatine. I was going to do it to save you. I was going to bargain for Obi-Wan, save you, and damn the galaxy. But the worst of it is I convinced myself that maybe I had to choose between your safety and Obi-Wan’s life. Convinced myself that I had to protect you, and that Obi-Wan would be fine, even if I knew he wouldn’t be. Not with a Sith after him.”
“Anakin,” Padme says, meeting his eyes with that stern, unmovable look on her face that’s never really been directed at him, but he knows it, anyway. “It was never a choice between Obi-Wan and me. It never will be. He’s part of our family. Even if I was dying, I wouldn’t want you to take the side of a Sith to stop it. I would want you to stop the Sith. To help Obi-Wan.”
“I know.” He blinks, trying and failing to keep his storm of emotions at bay. “I know. And I started realizing what I was doing. I heard Obi-Wan’s voice on that message, saw you here with him and I … I saw a little girl in a vision, before that. Our little girl. She was calling him uncle and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do something that would make him hate me. That would break your heart. I was letting my fear cloud everything.” Tears fill his eyes when he looks at her, really looks at her, and a shot of self-loathing shoots through him. He did this, and he’s the one crying? “I’m still scared, Padme. Of what might happen. Of myself. Maybe I shouldn’t be here at all.”
She pulls him to her, then, and it’s no matter that he’s so much taller—the embrace is strong and warm and it’s what he needs. She’s always been what he needs, and he swears he will be what she needs now, whatever comes.
“We need you here,” she says fiercely, her voice close in his ear. “Me. Obi-Wan. The Jedi. That little girl you saw. Obi-Wan had the healers check me, Anakin. And there’s nothing wrong.”
Obi-Wan had healers check on Padme? Of course he did. Of course he did. Anakin has always feared that telling the truth about Padme would put a wedge between them, that it would rob him of his best friend.
But no. Padme’s said nothing about Obi-Wan telling the council, even after Anakin’s spent the last few days making an ass of himself.
A rush of relief floods through him, but that other vision smears his senses now, the one of Obi-Wan bleeding and dead on the ground.
He can’t give into it. He must not give into it. He takes a deep breath, holding Padme snug against him. Stay in the moment. Be present. Give your feelings space to unfurl but don’t let them overwhelm your thoughts. That’s what Obi-Wan would say.
“I keep seeing Obi-Wan die now.” Anakin pulls back, keeping Padme’s hands enfolded in his own. “I saw … I think it was an execution.”
Padme bites her lip, a little drop of blood bubbling up from where she’s done it too many times already.
“Padme?” he questions.
“Tarkin is going for the death penalty if they find Obi-Wan guilty,” she admits, and Anakin assumed, but hearing it makes his heart crash down into his stomach. “But I’m not going to let him die. Bail’s not either. The Jedi. We just won’t.”
Padme’s determination rings true, but Anakin hears her doubt regardless, her unspoken, if we can stop it.
“I can talk to Tarkin,” Anakin says. “He respects me.”
“No.” Padme shakes her head. “Believe me, it won’t do any good. But we do need you to testify tomorrow. We have an excellent case, but you would make it better. We’ve got a whole lineup, but we’d slot you in after Rex and Cody.”
“Rex and Cody? To what, speak to Obi-Wan’s character?”
Padme bites her lip again. “Not exactly. I don’t have time to explain it all right now, but there are … there are chips. In the clones’ heads. Meant to, we believe, make them kill Jedi.”
Oh.
A not long-distant memory cuts into his brain. Sharp. Agonizing. Rex had never, not once in the entire war, been as upset as Anakin saw him that night. Fives took a piece of Rex and Anakin both when that blaster fire took him down, but of course, Anakin believed Palpatine. Anakin always believed Palpatine, and why wouldn’t he then, when what Fives was saying sounded so kriffing impossible?
How many wrong decisions has he made under Palpatine’s influence?
And yet, still, Anakin cannot fully picture him as that evil Sith lord he saw the other night.
“Fives—” Anakin begins, and Padme presses his hand, cutting him off.
“I know,” she replies. “But we can talk about this later. We need to get you inside. Obi-Wan is in cell C-6.”
“I have to go in through the air vents, don’t I?”
“Obi-Wan isn’t allowed any Jedi visitors at all, and tonight Bail and I aren’t even allowed in. They won’t let us talk to him until the morning. So, yes. I’m hoping that and some mind tricks will suffice. Master Vos is up in a tree over there.” Padme points to a large Ch’hala tree not far away. Palpatine’s favorite specimen, as it happens.
“Why is Quinlan in a tree?”
“To let us know if Palpatine comes back to torment Obi-Wan like he did last night,” Padme says, matter of fact. “He’s good at keeping hidden.”
“When he wants to,” Anakin mutters, still finding the friendship between his calm, reserved master and the infamously wild Quinlan Vos amusing, but then, he’s not exactly even tempered, and he’s Obi-Wan’s best friend.
“Take this with you,” Padme adds, pushing a medpac into his hands. “Obi-Wan was the last one to look at his injuries, and I don’t trust him to take them seriously.”
“Me either,” Anakin mutters, and if this were a different situation, he might laugh at how ridiculous his stubborn master is about taking care of himself when he’s hurt. Stubborn enough to give poor Cody a heart attack.
Padme leads him around further toward the vents, and he removes the grate easily with the Force, spun around by the tug of Padme’s hand before he can crawl inside. She kisses him, long and lingering and desperate, and there’s anger in the touch of her lips, grief, but joy too. There it is again, that strong Force presence coming from their child, and a connection, like something slotting into place.
“Padme?” he questions when she breaks off, her hand resting in the center of his chest.
“I think I might be temporarily Force-sensitive,” she tells him. “From the pregnancy. Something happened earlier, with Obi-Wan … I could calm him down by touching his hand.” She meets his eyes, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Also, we’re having twins. A boy and a girl. We were both right.”
“What?”
“Go!” she exclaims with a laugh, tears still in her eyes. “I’m going to Bail’s to talk with him and Mon and some of the Jedi and Rex and Cody and Ashoka. Comm me after you’re done, but I’m sure I’ll still be there.”
Twins. TWINS?
That was what he sensed.
“Wait,” he says, grasping Padme’s arm. “I need a favor.”
“Anakin, you are in no—”
“It’s for Obi-Wan.”
Here, Padme softens. “Anything.”
“There’s this book he really loves, it’s by one of the Guardians of the Kyber Temple on Jedha, and I think he has it on his datapad in his room, but I don’t know. I do know the Jedi Archive has it. Could you … could you ask Master Windu or someone to talk to Master Nu and get it out for him? You can bring it to him in the morning. It’s called The Collected Poems, Prayers, and Meditations on the Force.”
Anakin’s transported back to his early Padawan days, when he’d return from classes to find his young master reading with a cup of caf or tea at hand. The Guardian’s mantra, which Obi-Wan muttered to himself—usually while looking at Qui-Gon’s lightsaber—has always stayed with him.
The Force is with me,
and I am one with the Force;
and I fear nothing,
because all is as the Force wills it.
Obi-Wan isn’ as much a “will of the Force” type person as Qui-Gon, looking at it more fluidly, but he does love studying the Force, knowing it, and this mantra always seemed to bring him comfort.
Padme agrees, and Anakin kisses her once more before crawling into the vent—which is larger than usual or he wouldn’t be able to fit—and immediately knocking his head.
“Ow,” he mutters, before crawling along. He’s had worse.
There are some markings in the vents indicating where he is, but some of them are rubbed off, so he’ll just have to glance down into each cell. It takes about fifteen minutes before he senses Obi-Wan’s familiar presence without seeing him, but what he feels not right. Obi-Wan’s signature is usually steady and warm and open. But this? It’s grief so thick he can’t see through it. It’s the sensation that Obi-Wan is keeping something back—that’s not abnormal, but it’s not churning, like Obi-Wan might be working through it. It’s like he’s tied something down, refusing to even look at it.
Despair circles the metaphorical drain, and that is not like Obi-Wan at all.
Peering through the slats of the vent opening, he studies his master, and what he finds makes him certain he might have taken a blaster shot to the chest. Obi-Wan’s bruised on both sides of his face, and it looks worse than the video of him on the HoloNet. The scar on his neck stands out pink against alarmingly pale skin. He sits on a bedraggled cot, cuffed at wrist and ankle, his legs pulled up toward his chest one hand pressed against his side.
No. No. This cannot happen. It wasn’t his plan, but he has to get Obi-Wan out of here, damn the consequences. Damn the trial. Damn all of it. He’ll smuggle him off-planet. Anything. They don’t need Obi-Wan here in this cell to take Palpatine down. They’ll sort that out some other way.
He bangs his fist on the vent opening, and this, it turns out, was a mistake.
The grate comes loose, and Anakin tumbles through the resulting hole, using the Force at the last minute to ease his fall, though he still hits the floor hard. Obi-Wan merely looks at him in an odd, removed sort of way, though he doesn’t move. Anakin can’t say anything before two clone guards come running up.
“Hey!” one of them shouts. “You can’t be here, Master Jedi. No one can. How did you get in?”
Anakin stands, giving the clone a grin as he swipes his hand slowly through the air. “I’m allowed to be here. You can leave Master Kenobi and I alone. And turn off the security cameras.”
“We can leave you and Master Kenobi alone,” the two guards say in unison, doing as he asks about the cameras.
“And tell the rest of the guards to do the same.”
They echo back the order, and it’s not an exact science as to how long a Jedi mind trick might last, but it’s good enough for now. Might last until the shift change.
“You’re real.” Shock courses through Obi-Wan’s voice. Childlike surprise. “Your eyes are blue.”
Blue? Of course they’re blue.
“I’m real, Master. I promise.”
Obi-Wan stares at him, and that’s when Anakin realizes.
The light is gone from his eyes. Not entirely, there’s a tiny glow still, but they’re dead and dull.
Fear fights for dominance. No. No. He will do this. He will not ponder what-ifs. He will take care of what he’s broken. Not that Obi-Wan would be having a grand time even if Anakin hadn’t left, but handling both these accusations, this looming specter of galactic destruction and his own death, in addition to the most important person in his life disappearing? It’s too much. Even for someone who is—usually—a master of his emotions.
Obi-Wan is not always all right.
Now, to take care of those cuffs.
Anakin ignites his saber, the blue light contrasting with the red glow of the ray shield, and advances.
Obi-Wan jolts. He jolts so hard it makes the cot’s durasteel legs squeak against the floor. Something buzzes, making the hair on Obi-Wan’s arm stand on end. The cuffs?
“I don’t want to fight you, Anakin. I’m afraid I’m without my lightsaber, so it won’t be the duel you’re after. Unless what you’re after is just to kill me.”
Obi-Wan sounds hoarse, and that is terror Anakin hears. Fear of him.
“Fight me?” Anakin stutters, his brain’s function coming to an abrupt and utter halt. “Kill you?”
“Palpatine doesn’t want me talking anymore.” Obi-Wan swallows visibly, the ghost of a smirk on his face, bitter and twisted and lacking the curl of amusement that’s usually there. “I’m too dangerous. Otherwise he wouldn’t give up his show. So he sent you, didn’t he? One last stab to the gut. Taking you.”
Oh. Kriff, Obi-Wan thinks … maybe it was stupid to bring out his saber first. Yes. It turns off with a snap-hiss, but Obi-Wan still hasn’t moved.
“Obi-Wan—”
“Don’t toy with me, Anakin. Don’t tease me. Just do it, if you’re going to.”
If Anakin had to pick a word to describe how Obi-Wan sounded just then, it would be something close to hysterical. Obi-Wan has never been hysterical. Even in his anxiety he keeps calm almost always. He might shout, occassionally, but that’s as far as it goes. But sounding like this? Sharp and scared and small? That’s new. That’s nothing Anakin’s ever heard before.
Anakin walks forward, and Obi-Wan’s heart beats in his throat, thrumming too fast against his skin.
“I’m real, and I’m not here to kill you.” He touches Obi-Wan’s leg before drawing back. “See? A vision can’t touch you.”
“If you’re real then you are here to kill me,” Obi-Wan insists, sucking in a breath through his teeth and massaging his browbone with the heel of his hand. Headaches are nothing new for Obi-Wan when under stress, but the way he rubs at his eye now, like he might want to dig it out of its socket, means this must be a bad one. “Otherwise why are you here? You made your choice already.”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says softly, putting his saber on his belt and stepping closer, and Obi-Wan jumps. Another buzz. A shock of static in the air. “I’m not here to kill you. Why would you … in your message you were so—”
The sentence dies. A lot has happened since Obi-Wan left that hopeful message. Why wouldn’t he think that Anakin was here to do something awful? Padme said Palpatine made him see a vision, and he’s been gone, but it hurts to know that Obi-Wan would even consider that idea.
You said you would commit any atrocity to save Padme, that voice reminds him, the voice of the person called Vader.
Not killing Obi-Wan, he shoots back. Never that.
No, just letting him die.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Anakin finishes, easing himself down onto the other end of the cot, but when he reaches out his hand, Obi-Wan shoves it away. “I just want to get these cuffs off so we can talk. I was going to use my saber, that was why it was out. But I can get them off another way.”
“No.” Held-back tears shine in Obi-Wan’s eyes as he scrunches up tight against the wall, the thin blue cord sparking. Suppression cuffs. Of course. There aren’t many sets around, so it didn’t occur to him at first—most of them fell into Separatist hands once the Citadel was taken. That was the buzzing noise. The static. “Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.”
“I’m so sorry I left,” Anakin says, trying his best to sound like he hopes Obi-Wan might were their positions reversed, though they never would be. Obi-Wan would never do this. “But just let me undo these, okay?”
Finally, Obi-Wan relents, tensing when Anakin takes careful hold of his wrist so as to focus on the locking mechanism more easily—these are more difficult to undo with Force powers.
A small grunt of pain slips past Obi-Wan’s lips, the second pair of cuffs shocking him when Anakin gets the first set undone.
“I’m sorry,” Anakin whispers. “Just one more time, okay?”
Obi-Wan winces, the next shock strong enough to hit them both.
Anakin lets go, the other set of cuffs falling to the cold, hard prison floor. Obi-Wan rubs at his wrists, the red marks dug in deep. If he’s in those for much longer, the skin will break.
Obi-Wan eyes him, and once again there’s that sensation of him holding something back. Something huge. Painful. “What are you doing here?”
A small smile slides onto Anakin’s lips, but it isn’t returned. “I’m getting you out of here.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow. “I’m not getting out of here, Anakin.”
Anakin tilts his head. “Of course you are. It wasn’t the plan, but I can’t leave you like this.”
For the first time since Anakin came in, some of the tension leaves Obi-Wan’s shoulders, like he finally believes Anakin isn’t looking to kill him, but he still doesn’t move closer.
“If I leave this cell,” Obi-Wan replies, and that tone is trending toward a lecture, but worse. Angrier. “I’ll look guilty. And so will the Jedi.”
“Obi-Wan—”
Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair, that one particular piece falling into his face. “No.”
Admonished, Anakin entwines his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees. “I got your message. It pulled me out of the dark, Master. I know … I know a lot has happened. Padme told me.”
Obi-Wan perks up. “You saw Padme?”
Anakin nods. “Before I came in here. She’s the one who suggested I use the vents.”
Those tears still glisten in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but he won’t let them fall. He trembles with the effort of keeping them back, in fact. “She’s pregnant and you left her, Anakin. Scared her to death.”
I’m disappointed in you, is what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to.
“I know.”
“I might be dead already if it weren’t for her,” Obi-Wan continues, a cultivated hardness in his voice. “She’s done everything she can to help me. All while worrying herself sick over you.”
“I know that too.”
Anakin shifts just a touch closer. Obi-Wan doesn’t protest, but nor does he return the sentiment.
“It would be all right,” Anakin begins, “if you were upset with me for leaving for your own sake, you know.”
Obi-Wan fiddles with the hair at the back of his neck, a sheen of sweat coming away on his hand. “I’m fine.”
Of course you are, Anakin wants to snap, because Obi-Wan says that all the time when it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but he holds himself in check. This is not the time to be short with his master.
“I’m sorry for leaving you.” Anakin’s throat tightens, tears springing to his own eyes. He would be embarassed, ashamed, but it’s not in him right now. Not with this. “I’m so, so sorry.”
An ache resounds through his body, pounding pulsing and pushing words up, words he can’t keep to himself. He says I love you to Obi-Wan in a thousand different ways without needing to say that, exactly. Obi-Wan does the same. It’s how they are. How they’ve always been. It’s easy to be, when they’re connected so deeply in the Force. Somewhere in all of this, that’s been lost. It’s fallen through the crack in their bond. The crack he created.
“I know you’ve been through so much,” Anakin says. “But I love you. That’s not a plea for forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. I just need you to know it.”
Obi-Wan shakes so hard he makes the sad cot rattle, and a single sob bursts out of him. Then another. And another. One of them swerves into a shattered scream, and Obi-Wan claps a hand over his mouth to muffle it.
The pain behind Anakin’s eye returns. That white-hot agony that made him fall to his knees on the sand. In a flash, it’s gone, but that’s Obi-Wan’s torment he feels, isn’t it? Just a sliver of it in his own body. Maybe it’s not the right thing to do, but it’s all he can do—he throws his arms around his master, pulling him close against his chest. Obi-Wan tenses in his grasp, and he doesn’t return the hug. Not yet.
“It’s okay, Master.” Anakin draws Obi-Wan’s head onto his shoulder, resting his hand on the back of his friend’s neck. “Please, it’s okay. I promise it’s okay.”
When Obi-Wan’s arms go around him in turn, Anakin breathes for the first time since he came —fell ungracefully—into this cell.
Never, not in the entire time they’ve known each other, has Anakin heard Obi-Wan cry this way, shuddering and shaking and gasping for breath. The grief in him, the anguish, comes from deep, deep down, and Anakin simply has not witnessed anything like it from the man who is always so sturdy. Not in those early days after Master Qui-Gon died, when he fell asleep on Obi-Wan’s sofa rather than going to his own room and caught his new caretaker up in the middle of the night. Not when Maul killed Satine and he found Obi-Wan asleep in the middle of the day, his normally tidy quarters a wreck. Obi-Wan’s grief has always been like Obi-Wan himself. Quiet. Unassuming. Never getting in anyone’s way. It’s always frustrated Anakin to no end, wishing that Obi-Wan would sob or cry or scream. But aside from an occasional raised voice, that simply isn’t his way.
Now, Anakin wishes he’d never wished that at all, because bearing witness to this?
He’ll never forget. He’s sure of that.
Obi-Wan's fingers grasp at the fabric of Anakin’s outer robe. “I—”
“I know you love me.” Anakin runs a hand up and down Obi-Wan’s back, channeling Padme. “You said it on your message, remember?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Obi-Wan finally says, his words muffled against Anakin’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you come to me when you were having those visions? I would have helped you. When have I ever not helped you? You went to Master Yoda and not to me. We could have spoken to him together.”
“I was scared,” Anakin admits. “Scared you would say they were just dreams. Scared you would know who I was talking about—I didn’t think Master Yoda would. Scared you would tell the council. Scared of everything. Padme told me to talk to you, but I was stubborn. I wanted to do it on my own.”
Obi-Wan pulls away, his blazing blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “If you think I would tell the council your secret, Anakin, then you don’t know me.”
“Obi-Wan—”
“Do you take me for a fool?” he cuts in, rubbing at his browbone again, his voice thick with congestion. “Did you truly suppose, for all this time, that I didn’t know?”
“I wanted to think you didn’t.”
“When you were having those dreams about your mother,” Obi-Wan continues, “you didn’t say they were visions. I know you like I know myself, but the fact remains that I can’t read your mind. So if you’re applying that to this situation, then that is patently unfair. Force, Anakin—” more tears spill down Obi-Wan’s cheeks—“what more do I have to do to spell it out? Your happiness is important to me. Too important. I broke the Jedi code to ensure it.
“I know.” Tears well in Anakin’s eyes again. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Guilt curls in the pit of Anakin’s stomach, tightening into a knot. Why does he do this with Obi-Wan? Pretend he doesn’t need him when he does? Maybe it’s the fate of a relationship that has always been caught between brotherhood and father and son and master and student and best friends. Just as they became equals, both of them knights, suddenly Obi-Wan was a master, and Obi-Wan was on the council, and Obi-Wan has always been this impossible light, this perfect Jedi that everyone in the order respects.
He's a sage, that master of yours, some of the other Padawans used to say, or he’s such a great duelist and even he’ll be on the council one day, I bet.
Anakin never felt like he could live up to that, no matter how much raw power he had. But what other people said about Obi-Wan meant nothing in comparison to the approval and praise of Obi-Wan himself.
How many times has Obi-Wan offered it, only for Anakin to forget in light of a small criticism or fleeting argument?
You are a greater Jedi than I could ever hope to be, and I am very proud of you.
He isn’t a greater Jedi. No one could be. There was an opening there, and Anakin didn’t take it, using Obi-Wan’s imminent departure for Utapau as his reason to keep the secret.
But then, maybe Obi-Wan, while still full of so much light, isn’t the perfect Jedi. Maybe none of them are. Maybe they’re all just striving toward the light side as best they can. Maybe that’s what he’s missed about the Jedi. For all his complaints and frustrations, the council are just sentients like he is. They’ve entrusted him with commands. With countless missions. With a padawan.
Maybe he’s been looking at it the wrong way. Maybe he’s been expecting perfection of them when he isn’t perfect himself.
With a Sith in play, it’s no wonder their judgment has been compromised in some respects. No one had all the facts. They were actively being manipulated.
“If this goes better than I expect it to,” Obi-Wan continues, “with Padme’s pregnancy, with all of this, I would suggest talking with them. I think it might be impossible to avoid if you don’t want to be split in ways that will damage you. But I will ask them to keep you in the Order. With all of this, a Sith as chancellor, who knows if the rules will hold so fast. You belong in the Order, Anakin. I know you also belong with Padme, and I would make my best case for it. If the children were not in play, I would have kept your secret forever without even suggesting this. For both your sakes. Even if it might not have been wise in other respects. If you still don’t want to talk to them, I won’t push the matter.”
Anakin nods. “Yes. I … I don’t want to leave the Order. But I don’t want to not be there for my children. Maybe … maybe all of this will give me a way to stay. To have both in a way that works for everyone.”
Obi-Wan runs a hand over his face. “Have you seen Palpatine since that night? You cannot let him trick you further. You must … I’ve taught you this before, a hundred times, but attachment does not mean do not love. It means you may not possess. It does not mean do not grieve, but it does mean you must let go of your fear. None of that is easy. I struggle with it too. But what Palpatine was offering is nothing less than a lie. There is no secret power to stop death. Even for a Sith. You must take that to heart if we are to sort this out.”
Anakin’s mother died violently, but she was at peace when she went, wasn’t she? Because he was there. Because she’d had a new life, a better one, before she was stolen away. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t pleading for him to save her.
He’s never really thought about that before. She let go. He never did.
“I was on Tatooine,” Anakin blurts out. “I went to see my mother. Her grave.”
Obi-Wan peers at him. “I thought you said you would never go back there.”
“I hoped she could tell me what to do,” Anakin says. “But it only made things worse. But then … I wandered through the wastes in the dark, and I … saw things. Heard them. Different futures. I saw”—panic pinches at his skin—“you die.”
“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan answers, looking away. “That may be inevitable.”
Anakin’s heart plummets. “Don’t say that, Obi-Wan. Since when do you give up so easily? Not in the whole time I’ve known you.”
It’s true. Obi-Wan is nothing if not tenacious.
Obi-Wan heaves a sigh. “I’m not giving up, Anakin. Not on the Jedi or the galaxy. But I am contending with the reality of my personal situation. What else did you see?”
Well, Anakin supposes that’s the end of the that conversation. Or Obi-Wan wants it to be. Anakin, of course, will not let it go, but he will let Obi-Wan lead the conversation for now. It’s the least he can do.
Anakin smiles, a sob of his own slipping loose. “A little girl. She was calling you uncle.”
“I saw her too.” Obi-Wan enfolds Anakin’s fingers in his own, just barely touching him. “And a little boy.”
“You saw them?”
Obi-Wan nods, wiping his eyes. “I had Padme get a scan to see if my senses were fooling me. And to reassure you. But I was right. Twins.”
But there’s something else. Something Obi-Wan isn’t saying.
“What else did you see?” Anakin echoes.
“You.” Obi-Wan finally meets his gaze again. “Talking to Palpatine. Your eyes were yellow. They were when Palpatine made me see you last night, too. Sith yellow.”
Anakin takes Obi-Wan's other hand, holding it warmly in his own. “I’m not going to fall. I won’t lie to you and say I wasn’t tempted. That I didn’t almost do it. But I see now. I see, Master. How much I let my fear drive me just like you said. And I am still scared.” He shrugs. “That’s the secret, isn’t it? The Hero Without Fear is terrified. I can fight a legion of droids. Fight Sith. Win battles. I could shoot down Separatist shields at nine years old. But I couldn’t face even the idea of losing Padme.”
“You’re the most fearless person I’ve ever met,” Obi-Wan says, half to himself. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be frightened sometimes. We all are. It’s what you do about it that matters. Courage is about doing things anyway.”
“Master—”
“I failed you,” Obi-Wan interrupts, meeting Anakin’s eye again and exhaling as he fights back more tears. “I shouldn’t have gone to Utapau without you. I should have seen it.” He pauses, shaking his head. “Qui-Gon would have seen it.”
Those words threaten to break Anakin’s heart anew. For all of Obi-Wan's confidence, Anakin knows it wasn’t easy to gain. That he didn’t always have it as a Padawan. Obi-Wan rarely lets him see that particular vulnerability, but Anakin senses it now. That doubt.
“Hey.” Anakin tugs on Obi-Wan's hand. “You didn’t fail me. Ever. Can you be overly critical when you’re in a mood? Sure. And it makes me mad sometimes. But then I tend to forget that you praise me more often than you come down on me for something. You never failed me. I failed me. I didn’t listen. Didn’t want to hear you. Qui-Gon didn’t train me. You did.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan argues, “that’s the problem.”
“I messed up, Obi-Wan. Not you.”
“Anakin—”
“Master Qui-Gon changed my life,” Anakin interrupts this time. “I’ll always be grateful to him for it. But you were meant to train me. That was the will of the Force. It wasn’t Qui-Gon I was missing on Tatooine while I was sorting things out. It wasn’t his voice that pulled me back to the light. It was yours.”
For the first time, Obi-Wan smiles. It’s faint and fleeting, but it’s real.
“I got those visions,” Anakin continues, hoping he can get another one. “I heard your voice, and I knew. I knew what I’d almost done. I think I … I think I was feeling some of what you were feeling. I felt a tear in our bond. I guess that’s what I’d call it. It hurt.”
The color that’s left recedes from Obi-Wan's cheeks. “Tarkin made me admit in court that I didn’t know where you were,” he confesses. “And it hurt like … I haven’t felt something like that before.”
For a moment, maybe a full minute, Anakin can’t breathe right. Being there for the people he cares about has always been his priority, and yet he did this. To Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me,” he says. “ But I swear to the Force, Obi-Wan, I'm here now. I’ll testify tomorrow. Do anything.”
“I can’t let him desecrate and destroy the Order.” Obi-Wan stares past Anakin, like he might see the Jedi Temple in his mind’s eye. “He wants to. Palpatine. I’m just the start. His way to ruin the Jedi and make people accept wiping them out. That’s what the chips in the clones’ heads are for. I know it. I’ve just slowed him down. And gotten in the way of him getting you.”
“He’s not getting me,” Anakin snarls, his blood running hot in his veins. “I’ll be getting him. In a manner of speaking. Nothing will happen to the Order. Or to you.”
“Anakin.”
“Don’t start, Obi-Wan,” Anakin warns, a spike of irritation in his chest. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.”
His time on Tatooine taught him that he could survive even if his nightmares came true, that he couldn’t subject the galaxy to one just to stop his own, but that doesn’t mean he has to let Obi-Wan give into this, this insistence that what happens to him doesn’t matter. Jedi are meant to be selfless, but his master takes it too far, sometimes. A lot. Protecting the Jedi, the galaxy, and saving Obi-Wan are all part of the same idea, in Anakin’s mind. Do one, and you can do the other.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan repeats, and it’s so gentle, and those blue eyes have a little more light in them, and there’s the tiniest smile on his lips that wears down Anakin’s argument. “I have a plan in mind, and it’s just missing one thing.”
“What’s that, Master?”
There’s that smirk. The amused one. Anakin knows it well.
“Your input, of course. Will you listen?”
Anakin settles against the wall, still keeping hold of one of Obi-Wan’s hands, because he’ll be damned if he’s letting go now.
“Hit me. I’ll listen.”
He’ll try.
This dark, dank prison cell doesn’t feel so cold with Anakin here.
He can’t stay forever, and Force knows, Obi-Wan is still hurting, still angry, still feeling betrayed, but Anakin is here, that rip in their bond is slowly knitting itself together, and even if he does die, he can do it knowing that Anakin didn’t fall. That the most hopeful parts of himself that know Anakin Skywalker, were right. Those parts are battered, because Anakin is vulnerable, because Anakin tilted so far he almost slipped, but he came back.
He came back.
“If the security cameras had remained on in Palpatine’s office,” Obi-Wan begins, “this would be cut and dry. He could try to manipulate it, maybe alter the footage, but it would be difficult. He did it again when he came in here last night. Turned off the cameras like you had the clones do.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Anakin.”
“Sorry, Master.”
Someone probably will have to kill Palpatine, because Obi-Wan doubts a prison cell could hold him, that he couldn’t wield terrible influence from behind bars, but that’s not the point, right now.
And he’d rather it not be Anakin. He’d rather not send Anakin down that road if he can help it.
He wouldn’t mind doing it, truth be told, and perhaps that is not the Jedi way, but then again, Palpatine will go down fighting, so manybe it could be. Even without his saber, Palpatine will never be unnarmed.
Force knows, Obi-Wan wants to throttle the man for what he’s done to Anakin all this time. To Padme too.
“Palpatine is clever, cleverer than I gave him credit for,” Obi-Wan continues. “He’s made it so it’s my word against his. But I believe we can be smarter. If they find me guilty—”
“I’m testifying tomorrow. Surely that will convince them.”
“The trial is a farce,” Obi-Wan says. He wondered if it might be right from the start, but today told him so. “Bail and Padme are excellent, it’s no fault of theirs, but Palpatine has consolidated this power. Cultivated this persona of a gentle old man. They ended in the middle of Rex’s testimony today because Palpatine faked a coughing fit as soon as the chips came up—that surprised him. The crowds outside protesting probably also played into it.”
“But I was there,” Anakin protests. “I’ve been friends with the chancellor for years. That’s worth something.”
“You’re also my friend. My student. Palpatine will find a way to twist it.”
Anakin fluffs his hair with one hand. “So, what, there’s no winning?”
“We win,” Obi-Wan says, smiling around the childish word, “by getting the truth out there as well as we can tomorrow. Getting it on the news—I'm sure there will be reporters there again. And, if they find me guilty, by getting Palpatine to talk to someone. Record him. That’s the piece we need. Nothing less than an outright admission that he’s a Sith will do. Admissions of other things would be even better, if the senate sees fit not to trust that the Sith are as bad as we say.”
Anakin sits up straighter, eager to please. “I could do it. Talk to him. I’m not sure exactly what my angle would be. Padme again, maybe, it would depend on how things go, but I could do it.”
Obi-Wan’s stomach sinks. “I don’t think—”
“He wants me,” Anakin says. “It might make him talk if I play it right. If we end up doing this. I’m still not so sure they’ll find you guilty, and if they, don’t, well. It means they’re suspicious of Palpatine and we might not need to record him.”
That, Obi-Wan can’t deny—the part about Palpatine wanting Anakin. Taking advantage of Palpatine’s arrogance here is key. Taking advantage of Palpatine’s need to take Anakin away from him, specifically, as punishment for slowing down his plans to wipe out the Jedi. Palpatine wants Anakin more now, not less. He doesn’t need Anakin, he has the clones and every other scrap of power he’s gained for himself, but he wants him regardless. He wants his power. He wants to show what he can do to turn a Jedi inside out.
“You don’t trust me,” Anakin says into the space of Obi-Wan’s silence. “I get it. But—”
Obi-Wan raises a hand. “Normally, I trust you with my life. With everything. But this is—”
“I let you down.” Anakin wipes at his eyes, his cheeks flushing. “I let you down when you needed me more than you ever have, but Master—”
“That’s not what this is about.” And though it hurts, might hurt for a while, Obi-Wan isn’t lying. “You found your way back to the light, and that’s no small matter, not when Palpatine’s been manipulating you for as long as he has. I don’t want to endanger that. Endanger you.”
“For you, I can do it. I know I can. I learned something on Tatooine.”
An old memory comes back to Obi-Wan, though it’s not so old really, but everything before the war feels ancient. Anakin is different than he was then, a decade older even if it’s only three years in truth.
I’ve learned this lesson before, Anakin griped as they stood outside that seedy club trying to catch Padme’s would-be assassin.
You haven’t learned anything, Obi-Wan replied, trying desperately not to smile even though he was extremely annoyed.
But Anakin has, of course, learned things. Anakin is a knight now, and not a Padawan. He is a general. Soon to be a father. And Obi-Wan would not be the Jedi he is without Anakin Skywalker.
There is something different about him, isn’t there? Something in the way he carries himself. Something steadier.
“This is not about me,” Obi-Wan gently corrects. “It’s about the Jedi. The galaxy. If this goes badly for me and we put this plan in place, it may take time to get Palpatine to speak to you openly. Enough to get a recording that will suffice to bring him down.”
“Are you saying don’t try to save your life?” Anakin asks, and his eyes go round like they did when he was a boy. “I … I have a hard time believing they’d execute a Jedi, and so fast even if they did. I think it’s all the same. Saving you, and stopping Palpatine.”
“I’m saying”—Obi-Wan eases off this line of thought, because Anakin is still vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to push him over the edge again—“that my main concern, everyone’s main concern, should be making people see the truth about Palpatine, whatever may happen to me. That’s where we are now. Let’s focus on the moment. And if I’m pronounced guilty and you go to Palpatine, tell the others what you’re doing. It’s important for you not to isolate yourself.”
Anakin grins that grin that says he’s pleased he’s earned Obi-Wan’s approval. “So you trust me to do it?”
“Yes, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, even as his heart clenches. “I trust you.”
“That’s good”—Anakin leans over, looking out past the ray shield—“because I think there’s about to be a shift change, and I’ll have to get out of here. Which I can’t do until I look at your injuries because I promised Padme. I still can’t convince you to come with me?” he asks hopefully.
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No, but I will consent to let you look at my injuries without complaint.”
When Anakin laughs, despite it all, Obi-Wan laughs, too.
“Now that is a first. I’m telling Cody. He’s with Padme and the rest at Bail’s.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” Obi-Wan says. “Hopefully it will make him stop tormenting himself over all of this. He blames himself as much as I do for things, whatever he says to the contrary.”
Anakin helps Obi-Wan with his tunic—asking why he’s wearing his armor—and the rhythm of this, at least, is familiar. They might have clone medics these days, but they tended to each other’s wounds on missions long before that was ever the case. Anakin is one of the few people Obi-Wan will let take care of him like this without feeling like he’s imposing. Anakin clicks his tongue at the sight of the healed over scar from the second stab wound, which is still puckered and bruised, though not painful. A light smattering of blood comes off on the old Bacta patch, the more serious injury reduced to a sore, thin cut.
“Who exactly stopped your last Bacta immersion?” Anakin asks in an overly casual manner, reaching for a piece of gauze tinged with pain medication and holding it against the wound for a moment.
“Mas Amedda. I like him even less than I thought.”
“I assume he’s responsible for one of those bruises?”
“You would be correct.”
“Well.” Anakin draws away, crumpling up the gauze. “I’ll just have to throw him in a Bacta tank with no breather. We’ll see how he likes that.”
“Anakin.”
“On the way back here.” Anakin ignores the reprimand, opening the new Bacta patch, “I kept thinking about all the things Palpatine did to try and put a wedge between us. To hurt you. Rako Hardeen was his idea, I’m sure of it. He wanted me to leave you to die on the Invisible Hand. There’s so many little things that seem different now. I didn’t see it.”
“He’s been trying to get me killed or at the least ruin our relationship for a long time.” Obi-Wan holds still, the wound twinging when Anakin seals the new patch. “I didn’t see it either. I didn’t like him, didn’t trust him or his intentions toward you, but I didn’t think it was anything like this.”
Obi-Wan's hands start trembling again, his heart fluttering in an uneven pitter-patter. Nausea swirls in his stomach and crawls up toward his throat, lodging there with a threat of losing whatever was in the ration pack the clones gave him earlier. He honestly doesn’t recall.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin questions, his hand stilling.
“I’m all right.” Obi-Wan takes a shallow breath, and he hasn’t felt quite like this since he first heard Maul was alive. Since those impossible words left Yoda’s lips and he all but ran back to his quarters, sliding against his locked door and shaking shaking shaking.
Panicking will not do here, but even if he’s trained his mind to handle this sort of thing, his body has other plans. The events of the past few days, the whole war, the knowledge that the chancellor is a Sith, embeds into Obi-Wan's skin. Into his blood. Into his cells and into every part of him.
If he could just get a damned deep breath ….
“Hey,” Anakin says, one hand sliding against Obi-Wan's cheek, and a pulse of warm comfort washes over him. “I won’t say it’s okay, Master. But I’m here now. I swear to the Force I’m here.”
Obi-Wan reaches up to cover Anakin’s hand, and this simple, gentle thing calms him. Normally he can count on his own mind, his own training, on meditation, to settle him, but right now ….
Right now, he gives in to the reassurance of someone else. To the person who took a piece of him when he left.
To Anakin.
“Nothing I can do about that scar with this medpac.” Anakin touches the mark that looks like lightning. “But I have to say—it makes you look dangerous. I like it.”
“You would,” Obi-Wan says dryly.
Down the hall, there’s the sound of clones talking with each other.
Any trouble with Kenobi? one asks.
No, Commander Fox, not tonight.
Comm me immediately if that changes. Drug him again if needed. I’m to take him to the courtroom tomorrow myself. The chancellor is concerned about him attempting escape, especially with so many Jedi back to help.
Anakin’s whole body tenses, and rage reverberates through the room. Fives. Of course. Fox is the one who shot him. At the time Anakin thought Fives had a breakdown and tried to kill Palpatine, that is was a tragic necessity, but now, well, Obi-Wan’s sure his mind has changed.
“You ought to go.” Obi-Wan presses Anakin’s shoulder. “There’s a shift change. Fox can’t be tricked.”
Anakin hesitates, though he doesn’t ask again if Obi-Wan will go with him. Progress. The Anakin before all of this would have asked him three more times. Demanded. The cuffs go back on—much to Anakin’s displeasure—and then there’s an awkward beat, a space where neither of them knows what to say to the other. Obi-Wan’s shoulders slump with exhaustion—there have been rather a lot of different emotions in the last hour.
“They won’t let me come in with Bail and Padme tomorrow.” Anakin sticks his hands in the pockets of his tunic, an old habit from his adolescence. “But I’ll be there in front of the courtroom tomorrow. I promise. No more detours.”
So much has passed between them, so much has happened today, that Obi-Wan can only nod, accepting Anakin’s hand once more and squeezing it with warmth. Anakin pulls up the fallen vent covering with the Force after climbing up, and once he’s gone Obi-Wan lays on the cot, pretending to sleep as the clones walk by. Hopefully he can sleep, because tomorrow he must make the best case he can, not for his own life—not that he would be opposed—but against Palpatine. To save the Jedi. To stop the galaxy’s final descent into darkness.
The small part of him in which there is room for grief over his own fate takes comfort in the fact that if he does die, Anakin will be there. Part of him hates his own need to know that, because of course, he knows better than most what it’s like to watch your master die in front of you. Maybe if he is sentenced to death he should tell Anakin to stay away and not subject himself to that. Losing him in this manner is enough of a violence.
But he knows Anakin won’t listen.
For the first time since he was stabbed, he falls asleep of his own accord, exhaustion sweeping him up in its inevitable clutches.
Bail’s favorite Corellian brandy burns when it goes down.
And tonight, he likes it more than usual. Maybe it will burn out his grief. His fear. Maybe it will burn out the fact that the Republic is in imminent danger. Burn out the agonizing truth that one of his dearest friends might die. Even if they tried to stop an execution, there are so many clones it might not be possible, even with the Jedi, not without risking more lives—which Obi-Wan would hate. There’s talk of insitituing a curfew in Galatic City tomorrow because of the growing unrest.
He fiddles with the wedding ring on his finger, spinning it around and around and passing the bottle of brandy to Mace Windu, who takes a swig before passing it to Plo Koon. Yoda declines, though even he looks tempted.
Breha is on her way to Coruscant. Normally, Aldeeran would be safer in his estimation, but after Palpatine managed to bring the trial to a crashing halt simply by coughing, Bail wants her in his sight. He wrestled Padme into staying here tonight as well, and Rex and Cody and Ahsoka too. He has the space. They’re all sitting quietly on the sofa, and while everyone ostensibly gathered here to talk about tomorrow, they have their arguments planned out, so there isn’t much to say. Not until something else happens. They’ll let Rex finish, and show the chips. That’s vital. Master Che will speak on Obi-Wan’s Sith lightning scar. Padme’s said Anakin will testify, though Bail will feel better about that when he actually lays eyes on the famous Jedi Knight. Mas Amedda will no doubt be called, and Bail certainly has a few choice questions for that bastard.
Tomorrow will tell them if this trial is a sham.
Tomorrow will tell them what they’re really dealing with.
“Do Jedi have a higher tolerance?” Bail asks, taking the bottle back and putting it aside before he does get drunk.
“Some,” Windu answers. “I think I do, thought Obi-Wan would say he’s better. Master Vos would say he is.”
That doesn’t surprise Bail in the slightest.
“Did you warn the Jedi who are still out in the galaxy?” Rex asks. “I’m guessing whatever the chancellor had planned for the clones is put on hold, but I worry about it.”
“Warn them, we did,” Yoda replies, hands folded over the top of his gimmer stick. “But difficult, it is, when know exactly how the chips work, we do not.”
“It’s not your fault, Rex,” Ahsoka adds, and Padme nods, giving Cody, who merely stares off into the distance, a concerned look.
“No.” Rex shakes his head, putting a hand on Cody’s back. “But I still can’t believe it.”
“Word is Commander Fox isn’t letting any of the 212th or the 501st into the courtroom tomorrow for Palpatine’s safety,” Cody says, not without a note of mild-mannered fury. “Aside from Rex and myself. It’ll give the lads more time to get their chips out, at least.”
“How many of the Jedi have come home, Master Windu?” Mon Mothma asks from the chair next to Bail. Her apartment at 500 Republica is just one floor down from his own, and he would convince her to stay, too, but she has a security team she insists can do the job.
“Eight-thousand or so,” Windu answers. “There’s about 1,500 left out in the galaxy, but the Separatists are folding, and the clones can handle any skirmishes.”
“I never thought I’d say it,” Mon says, resting her chin on one hand, “but we might need the Jedi more here. I went by the base earlier and there were more clones outside it than I've ever seen before. All to keep Master Kenobi inside.”
“To be fair to Palpatine,” Master Plo adds, and Bail hears his smile, “if anyone could get past that many clones, it would be Obi-Wan Kenobi. If it were possible to neogtiate with a ray shield, the clones might be in trouble.”
“True that is,” Yoda says. “Cunning and and clever enough he was as a boy, to sneak up to the roof of the the Jedi temple with his youngling clan and drop things from the top without their creche masters noticing.”
“Obi-Wan did that?” Padme asks, chuckling in disbelief.
“A very responsible and insightful Jedi he is,” Yoda says with great affection, “but not without some chaos. Common that is, in our lineage.”
For the first time in days, Mace Windu laughs.
“That sounds like the General,” Cody adds. “Him and General Skywalker, actually.”
Bail’s comlink and his doorbell go off at the same time, one alerting him that the food Dex insisted on delivering is at the front door of his building, and someone else is at the door of his apartment.
“It’s Master Skywalker, Senator,” Captain Typho calls from the front hall, having taken it upon himself to manage their security for the evening.
Bail gets up from his chair. “I’ll take that as the opportunity to get another pair of hands to help me with the food.”
Really, he just wants to talk to Anakin alone.
Padme told him and the others that Anakin had gone to see Obi-Wan, having returned from Tatooine to clear his head. The other Jedi’s concern was obvious, but they seemed relieved at the prospect that he was still on their side.
“Anakin,” Bail says, stepping out into the hall. “Good to see you back. I know you just got here, but would you mind helping me bring some food up? One of Dex’s workers is here with it.”
“Sure.” Anakin offers him a small, embarrassed smile.
They step into the elevator, and on the long ride down Bail asks the question plauging him of the person most likely to know the answer.
“How is he?”
Anakin clenches his jaw, shaking his head. “He thinks he’s going to die. That all of it’s a sham. All he cares about is making sure the truth gets out about Palpatine. About protecting the Jedi.”
Those words hit Bail in the chest, but they don’t surprise him.
“He doesn’t blame you and Padme at all,” Anakin adds, taking Bail’s silence as irritation. “It’s not that.”
“I know.” Bail sighs, leaning back against the elevator wall. “The problem is he’s not wrong. It is a sham. Or it seems like it probably is.”
“Do you think so?” Anakin asks as they step out into the building entrance hall. His deep voice goes higher, and there’s youth in his face despite all he’s been through. “I guess I hoped he was wrong. He isn’t usually wrong, but don’t tell him I said that.”
They take the food from the diner worker Dex sent over, and it’s too much, even for the amount of people currently in Bail’s sitting room, but he’s grateful. There’s a note on the top of one of the boxes, written in a barely legible scribble.
I hope keeping you all fed will get Obi-Wan out of that awful place. I’m here for anything you need.
Dex.
“Dex loves Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, a fond glimmer in his eyes. “I remember when Obi-Wan took me there for the first time, about six months after I came to Coruscant. Felt like he was taking me to his secret place.”
They balance the food between them on the ride back up, and Anakin, looking a touch less nervous, speaks again.
“Thank you,” he says with a shy smile. “For taking care of him. Helping him. For being there for him and for Padme when I wasn’t.”
It’s not a confession of his relationship with Padme, not exactly, but it is, Bail thinks, Anakin’s way of saying he trusts him.
“I’ll do anything I can,” Anakin adds, eager and almost manic. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Testify. Help look through notes. Whatever I can do, Senator Organa, I’ll do.”
“We’re glad to have you back, Anakin,” Bail says with great warmth, fond of this young man that two of his best friends love so dearly. “And it’s just Bail. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends.” Anakin tries out the word, his smile growing. “Yes, we are.”
Ashoka launches herself into Anakin’s arms the moment he puts the boxes of food down, and Anakin say something like easy there, Snips, while still crushing her into a hug. Captain Rex, for the first time in days, finally, finally looks like he can take a deep breath, relaxing when Anakin puts a hand on his shoulder. Anakin approaches the Jedi next with an I’m so sorry, Masters on his lips, but Yoda only says, good to see you well, it is, while Master Plo ruffles Anakin’s dark blonde hair and Master Windu shakes his hand, maybe, just maybe, smiling.
Obi-Wan said Anakin had never let him down, Windu told him a few hours ago, before they knew Anakin had arrived back, a thread of anger and grief running through his voice. I hope for his sake, for all our sakes, that proves to be true.
Padme watches the scene with Mon’s arm around her, one hand on the curve of her stomach, and Bail misses, with an ache deep in the pit of his own, the person who should be here with them.
Obi-Wan.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed! If you want more of my nonsense, feel free to come find me on Tumblr! I'm KCrabb88 over there.
Also, I've made a Spotify playlist for this fic (just copy/paste this link and it should pop up!) : https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ZuaguZr4GrR4cyhhVaA4Q?si=81372134a4ad44b7
Chapter 8: I Tried I Really Fucking Tried
Summary:
Obi-Wan faces the second day of his trial.
And things aren't going well.
Notes:
The lore notes for this chapter are mentions of the plot of Dark Disciple (which I fully recommend! I love Quinlan and Obi-Wan's friendship so much). All you need to know is that Quinlan develops a relationship with a (mostly) redeemed Ventress and struggles with the dark side. Also, as mentioned last chapter, you'll see bits and pieces from A Collection of Poems, Prayers, and Meditations on the Force, written by one of the Guardians of the Whills from the Kyber temple on Jedha (think Chirrut and Baze from Rogue One).
Thank you so much for all of your kind comments! I am living for them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The zap of a ray shield opening jolts Obi-Wan awake.
“Get up, Master Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan shifts on this blasted cot, his back throbbing in protest. Is this a nightmare? No, the pain is too visceral, and not just from his aggravated spine. His face aches. The headache that’s been bothering him on and off since Utapau has returned, like someone is stabbing the space beneath his browbone with a sharp stick.
That voice that called his name is familiar, though exhaustion robs him of the coherency to bring it forth. He opens his eyes, blinking to clear his bleary vision. A blue face greets him, and a decidedly unfriendly presence in the Force.
Ah. Mas Amedda. What a lovely surprise. And not just Mas Amedda, but Commander Fox too.
“I wasn’t aware I’d be receiving any visitors this morning other than my senate representatives,” Obi-Wan says, sitting up and running a hand through his mussed hair. He’d die for a shower, but he surely won’t be getting one. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Except, Mas Amedda doesn’t answer. He merely says as discussed to Commander Fox, who comes over to Obi-Wan and begins the work of removing one of the vambraces on his arm. Obi-Wan didn’t enjoy sleeping in his armor, but he doesn’t want it taken either.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“You are not a general any longer,” Mas Amedda says. “Therefore, you are not to wear your Republic armor.”
“This armor has the Jedi insignia,” Obi-Wan protests. “Not the Republic symbol, if that’s the issue you’re taking. Also, I do believe it’s mine.”
“It was paid for”—Mas Amedda sniffs—“by the Grand Army of the Republic. So it’s not.”
Soon it’s all gone—the vambraces, the shoulder armor, the chestplate—leaving Obi-Wan in the tan tunic, black under layer, and belt. These clothes, unlike his usual tunic and robes, are meant to be worn with the armor, and he feels naked without it.
“The boots too,” Mas Amedda adds.
“Would you like me to walk into the courtroom barefoot?”
“You have those.” Mas Amedda points to the beaten up brown boots in the corner. “They’ll suffice.”
He gets to wear the boots stained with his own blood. Perfect.
Perhaps he can use this. Get people to pay attention to how he’s being treated.
It can only be a sign of how other Jedi, and probably others, will be treated in the future for their defiance. The war has taken away freedoms. Security has become the order of the day. And that, Obi-Wan sees now, was the point. Palpatine won’t change things back to how they were before.
Something is out of place, indeed.
Obi-Wan tugs on his other boots, no easy task while still cuffed, and a shock zaps him in retribution. The insides of the cuffs are crusted with blood now—he must have started bleeding from the irritation sometime in the night. Raising his arms to examine his wrists, he sees that yes, the metal has cut into his skin.
He’s allowed to use the private fresher rather than the one in his cell, and he takes the moment alone to steady himself. His reflection in the mirror gives him a start. A messy, mottled contusion creeps across his right cheek in a nasty shade of purple tinged yellow around the edges. The cut on his left cheek from the clone backhanding him is an angry red line crusted over with … something, the area around it bruised blue. Brushing through his lank, dirty hair—still slightly slimy from the Bacta tank—he sighs at himself, because there’s not much to do. At least his beard is trimmed and neat. He washes his face—carefully—washes out his mouth with the worn-out bottle of rinse on the sink, and cleans himself up as best he can before checking on his more serious injuries. The stomach wound is still puckered and discolored, but at least isn’t hurting or bleeding. Gingerly peeling off the Bacta patch that Anakin put on his liver wound last night, he finds only a small smear of blood. Progress, though it’s still sore to the touch. That injury in particular feels vulnerable. The guard orders him out, and there’s nothing else to be done.
It will have to do.
Two sets of footsteps round the corner just as he goes back into his cell, and Obi-Wan knows it’s Bail and Padme before he sees them.
“What’s going on here?” Bail asks, immediately indignant. “There’s still an hour before trial begins, and I wasn’t aware you were allowed in here, Mas Amedda, given you’re testifying for the prosecution. And you’re taking his armor? For what? To be needlessly cruel?”
“I’m here on senate business,” Mas Amedda replies, unimpressed at Bail’s accusation. “And I will be walking with you to the courtroom. There’s some concern that someone broke into Master Kenobi’s cell last night—the vent opening outside was loose.”
He doesn’t answer the second question.
“If someone broke in here last night,” Obi-Wan says, his lie smooth as silk, “do you think I’d still have these cuffs on? Still be here?”
“I think you are a cunning strategist.” Mas Amedda gestures at Fox, stepping toward the cell’s exit. “And you’d like people to believe otherwise when it suits you. But whatever your gentle persona, Master Kenobi, beneath this veneer of a sage you’ve so carefully cultivated, you are a dangerous man.”
“We’d like to speak to Master Kenobi alone now.” Padme holds a datapad marked with the Jedi insignia against her chest. “If you please.”
Padme and Bail wait until Mas Amedda and Fox’s footsteps fade away before speaking, but Obi-Wan gratefully takes the caf Padme brought, touched when she also hands him an Iced Endorian Maple Donut.
“Did you get this from Dex?” Obi-Wan asks, taking a bite and savoring the small joy of the sticky-sweet maple on his tongue. The little he’s eaten the past few days hasn’t tasted like much.
“He sent food over to Bail’s last night,” Padme explains with a sad smile, “and had some of these in a box with your name on it and a scribbled note about how you liked them as a padawan.”
Obi-Wan sips his caf, unable to say anything without risking his voice betraying him, and busying himself with drinking the water Bail puts under his nose with a muttered you need this too.
“Why did that bastard take your armor?” Bail asks, gently prodding Padme’s shoulder so she’ll sit down on the bench across from Obi-Wan’s cot.
This would be a lot anytime, but at seven months pregnant? Well, Obi-Wan can only imagine.
“Said the Republic paid for it and they didn’t want me wearing anything associated with the Republic. Took my boots too,” he mutters. “I like those boots.”
Obi-Wan takes another bite of the donut, a fragmented flash of memory overtaking him. Dex, when he first opened the diner. Himself, eighteen and dragging a bewildered Qui-Gon to meet the friend he met while out on an unsanctioned mission when he was first a padawan. Dex and Qui-Gon laughing, the latter perhaps a little bit drunk.
“I’m going to the Temple to get you your other clothes,” Bail says. “This is ridiculous.”
“Normally I’d agree.” Obi-Wan tosses back more caf, and something fills him up, not rage, exactly, but a productive indignation. “I’d rather not look a sight. But let the news crews see what they’re doing. How they’re treating me. Maybe it will have an impact. Make people question what they’re hearing from Palpatine.” He takes a long swig of water, wiping his lips with his sleeve. “That’s my biggest concern for today—getting the truth out there. Planting seeds. Whatever may happen to me.”
“Obi-Wan.” Bail sits down next to him, one tentative hand on his back. “Padme and I have been hearing from people all over. They’ve been on the HoloNet. Christophsis. Ryloth. Felucia. Onderon. The Togruta on Shili and Kiros. The Gungans and the Naboo. Senator Chuchi of Pantora. Others. We’re hoping it will help make Palpatine and the jury think twice before acting rashly. Delay, at least, anything that … can’t be undone until things calm down. And by then, we’ll have sorted this.”
Obi-Wan tries a smile, and find that when he does, it comes out real. “I will maintain hope. But, if things go ill, if things move fast, keep talking to these people. Get their stories out there. It’s not about defending my honor, but showing that Palpatine is lying. His arrogance is his weakness. I know it. And the truth has a way of slipping through the cracks of hubris. It’s the only promise I’ll ask you to make me.”
“We promise,” Padme says softly, sharing a look with Bail before pulling out the datapad Obi-Wan noticed earlier and trying, perhaps, to distract him from this line of thought. “Anakin asked me to have this gotten out of the archive for you. He said it was a favorite.”
Obi-Wan takes the datapad, tapping the screen to wake it up.
Collected Poems, Prayers, and Meditations on the Force.
Oh. Anakin really did come back last night. He didn’t dream it. That hope, that belief he’s always had in his apprentice was proven right. Coming back from the darkness, even when just teetering on the edge of it, is no small matter. The sight of this book, which he’s loved for a long time, but that he first started loving when Anakin became his apprentice, heals that wound in his gut a little more. The wound of Anakin’s absence.
“He knows me well,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Thank you.”
“There’s one more piece of news,” Bail adds, and Obi-Wan senses the conflict in him, turning to look at his friend.
“What’s that?”
“Maul is dead.” Bail runs a hand through his hair. “Killed in his cell last night. They’re saying suicide, but—”
“That’s not like him,” Obi-Wan finishes, and how exactly to feel, he truly isn’t sure. He is not pleased at any loss of life, but he would have expected to feel relief, at least. Maul killed Qui-Gon. Satine. Murdered innocents in order to lure Obi-Wan out. There was likely no other than method to end his campaign of terror but to kill him. But no. All he feels, when he hears those words is numb.
“Palpatine didn’t want him talking,” he says, the realization dawning on him with an ice cold pang in his chest. “He knows everything, and Palpatine couldn’t let that go. Couldn’t risk Maul getting out and killing me when he wants to do it.”
“We could use it.” Padme chews on her lip, already slightly split. “If you’re willing to talk about Maul a bit more. About Qui-Gon.”
“I’m willing to do anything to get the truth out there.” Obi-Wan looks each of them in the eye, hoping they’ll hear him. Really hear him. “That must be the priority. Over my life. Over everything.”
“Obi-Wan,” Bail says. “Let’s not give up yet.”
“I’m not giving up, my friend. Not on the galaxy. Or on either of you.”
“You don’t need to give up on yourself, either,” Padme says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Not yet.”
Obi-Wan can’t tell them about his talk with Anakin, not here, when the cameras are on. If he is convicted, if he is sentenced to death, he’ll have to trust Anakin to heed him and tell someone, Padme at least, what he’s doing if he chooses to go and record Palpatine. It would be important regardless, but especially if it takes time. Especially if Anakin is forced to play a part.
That is not out of the question.
The idea of Anakin anywhere near Palpatine unnerves him, but Anakin was right—there is no one else to whom he would let the truth slip. Not anyone on their side, anyway.
Anakin is the key to Palpatine’s pride, and Obi-Wan must trust him.
“I’m very stubborn, Senator,” he quips, though the joke is faint and fragile. “Don’t worry. Who do we have set for today then?”
“Rex will finish up.” Bail flips through the notes on his datapad. “I’m going to assume that Palpatine did something to Rex’s chip that was handed into evidence, but we have Cody’s, and there are many others from the 212th and the 501st that I won’t say the location of in here. Master Che will speak. And Anakin, of course.”
Bail’s eyes brighten. Padme does well and truly smile. That awful ache in Obi-Wan’s gut eases again. Anakin’s return may not change the course of this case, but it will serve to keep Obi-Wan’s heart intact, and for that, he will remain grateful. He misses the rest of the Jedi, wishing he could talk to them. That separation hurts, and it was meant to.
“I assume Tarkin will have quite the litany of questions for Anakin,” Bail continues, “which Padme and I intend to return when Mas Amedda is called. Then we’ll share some of the stories the HoloNet News keeps cutting off, as well as some highlights from your war record before calling you to talk about Maul and Master Jinn. Provided there are no more unexpected interruptions we should get something from the jury today.” He pauses, ruffling his black hair, which is lanker than usual. “And then we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”
“Thank you both,” Obi-Wan adds, draining the last of the caf and steeling himself as footsteps come around the corner. “For everything. For being my dear friends. For this.”
Neither has time to answer, but Obi-Wan senses their love and concern for him even if they can’t say anything when Mas Amedda once again brings the ray shield down. Commander Fox takes one arm and another member of the Coruscant guard the other, and once they reach the end of the cell block yet more clones follow, blasters in hand.
If anything, the sights on the HoloNet screens are even more chaotic than yesterday. Reporters stand at different locations: the Jedi Temple, the senate building, the base. And in front of each there are crowds. Some expressing anti-Jedi sentiment—no surprise, given Palpatine’s machinations—but most are expressing something rather different.
Rage. Fear. Defiance. Exhaustion.
For so long, the war never came to Coruscant. It was all anyone talked about, of course. Fear swept the planet up in its clutches with whispers of will they attack us? When will they do it? How bad will it be?
And then, it happened. And it happened because Palpatine set up his own kidnapping—partly in the hopes of getting Obi-Wan himself killed so he could have Anakin. He terrified trillions of people across the capital city as Separatist ships hovered in space above the atmosphere and for what? To cast blame on the Jedi once again?
Obi-Wan knows this city. He’s lived here his whole life, learning the streets and the people by heart. He knows people in the neighborhoods surrounding the Temple, the customers who frequent Dex’s, the non-Jedi temple workers who are as much a part of the fabric of daily Jedi life as the Jedi themselves. And since the war began, since Palpatine plastered his face everywhere, people who didn’t know him before now do.
Everywhere those reporters stand, they cannot cut out the crowds, which are larger than yesterday’s. The images cut in and out, some reporters interviewing citizens and others talking to senators, some who are in Palpatine’s pocket and others who are friends of Bail’s and Padme’s. Mon Mothma. Riyu Chuchi.
There is no question.
Something is brewing.
When they round the corner toward the entrance to the courtroom, news crews wait.
For him.
And Obi-Wan has an idea.
At first, he thought behaving perfectly, not fighting back, would earn him something. That it would spare the Jedi.
That, quite obviously, hasn’t happened.
He gives Bail and Padme a look that he hopes says trust me, and tries something.
"You're holding me too tightly, Commander," he says to Fox. "There's no need. How exactly do you expect me to escape with all this security?"
"The Jedi have proven themselves hostile to the Republic," Commander Fox says, holding Obi-Wan's arm yet tighter, and he sounds terribly flat, doesn’t he? "You tried to kill Chancellor Palpatine."
Guilt courses through Obi-Wan's veins. Maybe Fox and the others are already under the influence of the chips, but he will do what he must. If they are, they are only more likely to harm the Jedi. Fox has always been a stickler by reputation—according to Cody—but he’s more than Obi-Wan expected.
"The clones in the 212th and the 501st know how to treat prisoners under their care." Obi-Wan keeps going, raising his voice just enough to earn the direct attention of the news crews. "They are honorable men, all of them. One of the clone medics in the Coruscant Guard tried to be kind to me the night I was brought to the base, and was reprimanded for that by his fellow. Another struck me in my cell despite the fact that I'd been drugged. Do you teach your men to abuse people they have power over, Commander?”
"Watch your mouth, Master Kenobi," Fox shoots back.
"The Republic I’ve risked my life to defend does not treat people this way," Obi-Wan continues. "It’s what divides us from the brutality of the Separatists. We’ve had to be brutal enough as it is. But I see Chancellor Palpatine does not mind crossing this new line.”
"Master Jedi, be quiet," Mas Amedda warns.
"That's all you want, isn't it?" Obi-Wan pulls away, his arms slipping through the grasp of the two clones just a touch. "For me to be quiet so you can steal the galaxy."
A knee slams into stomach. A clone—wearing armor—backhands him full across the face. Yes, that will be a bruise on top of a bruise, and yes, there is the familiar taste of blood in his mouth, but it was worth it, because this expected overreaction has sent the news crews running right to them.
Obi-Wan leans over, starving for the breath that was knocked out of him, and spits blood on the floor just as one of the holo cameras pans right over him.
“Hey!”
That voice he knows, and Anakin Skywalker comes running down the hall with Ashoka in tow and Luminara not far behind.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Anakin shouts, though when he tries to touch Obi-Wan one of the clones yanks Obi-Wan back. “What did you do that?”
“Easy, Anakin,” Luminara whispers, one hand on Anakin’s shoulder as she offers Obi-Wan a small, worried smile.
“He spoke out of turn, Master Skywalker,” Mas Amedda replies, though he looks at the cameras with a hint of anxiety. “And tried to pull away from his guard. The clones are merely following my orders to keep Master Kenobi contained.”
“Speaking out of turn is enough to get a beating?” Ashoka asks, her eyes narrowed and one hand on her hip. “None of the clones I’ve ever worked with acted like that.”
“As I said,” Mas Amedda narrows his eyes in turn. “Master Kenobi is dangerous. I see, Master Skywalker—” he turns back to Anakin—“that you have chosen to return to the side of your traitorous teacher. I truly thought you had given your allegiance to the chancellor given your visit to us just the other day. What a pity.”
“What?” Anakin begins, frowning as a look of utter confusion passes across his face, but a reporter steps in, shoving a microphone forward.
“Where is your armor, Master Kenobi?”
“The prisoner is not permitted—” Mas Amedda tries.
“I am.” Bail steps in front of Palpatine’s lackey, his cloak swinging behind him. “Master Kenobi’s armor was taken from him, because as I understand it, the chancellor’s office didn’t want him wearing anything that the Republic paid for. Never mind that the Jedi were drafted into this war as soldiers and General Kenobi has been an integral player. If not for him, indeed, the fighting would still be going on.”
“Is that … blood on your boots?” another asks.
“His own blood, yes.” Padme plants herself right in front of Mas Amedda, staring him down. “From where the chancellor stabbed him twice in the gut and more of it from when this man”—she jerks her head at Mas Amedda—“refused to let the Jedi healers finish treatment.”
“Let’s go,” Mas Amedda snaps. “All reporters are to go into the courtroom now.”
This command is followed, but Obi-Wan got what he wanted. Wiping his lips before the clones take his arm back, blood comes away on his hand. His face aches, but he doesn’t care.
The news crews saw.
“Are you all right?” Anakin asks, walking along beside them with Ashoka and Luminarath—the clones and Mas Amedda seem to know better than to cause another disruption for fear of getting noticed.
“I’ll be fine, Anakin.” Obi-Wan sends a wave of reassurance through the Force, and the throbbing vein in Anakin’s forehead becomes less visible as a result. “It’s good to see all of you. Where are Rex and Cody?”
“We wouldn’t be anywhere else, Master Obi-Wan,” Ashoka says, sounding a bit like her old self. “And they’re in the courtroom already. Have been a while. The rest of the 501st and the 212th aren’t allowed in.”
Obi-Wan wants to ask why, but knows why, and won’t get into it here with Commander Fox and Mas Amedda.
“Some of the council is waiting for you.” Luminara points toward the doors. “We were hoping to get a word alone.”
“Obi-Wan,” Windu says as soon as they reach the doors, Yoda, Quinlan, and Plo at his side, “why do you always look worse every time I see you?”
Obi-Wan coughs, the blood he accidentally swallowed tickling the back of his throat. “Unfortunate side effect of my current circumstance.”
“We’ll take a moment alone.” Windu speaks to Mas Amedda now, making use of his height. “Tell the guard to back away unless you want the news crew reporting another scuffle that won’t look good for you.”
For once, Mas Amedda agrees without argument, gesturing at the clones to step back. Alone is a stretch for what Obi-Wan and the other Jedi are, but it will have to do.
“You need to sit, my friend.” Quinlan grabs a nearby chair with the Force, easing it down for Obi-Wan. “You look awful. I mean, if I saw you in an alley on the lower level I’d leave you alone, but—”
“Quinlan,” Luminara chides. “Be serious.”
For one fleeting moment, Obi-Wan recalls the two of them showing up at his door perhaps two weeks after Qui-Gon died. They helped him tidy up his quarters, went with him to pick up new clothes for Anakin, made him eat something in the refectory, and then just sat with him drinking caf. Upon returning from class and coming directly to Obi-Wan’s room rather than his own, Anakin was delighted to meet more Jedi, letting Quinlan regale him with wild stories.
“Well,” Obi-Wan says, shaking himself out of the memory, his stomach where the clone kneed him protesting when he chuckles lightly. “Anakin said he liked my lightning scar, so perhaps you’re right.”
“What?” Anakin shrugs, a touch of red creeping into his cheeks. “I have to find something to tease you about in this situation.”
“Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan turns his attention to the grandmaster, who doesn’t look surprised. “I have something to ask before they inevitably take me away again.”
“Ask anything you may, Obi-Wan,” Yoda replies, putting his small green hand over Obi-Wan's own.
“The other night, after Palpatine left my cell”—Obi-Wan lowers his voice—“I saw … Qui-Gon. It wasn’t like how Palpatine made me see Anakin, that was more solid—”
“Made you see Anakin?” Quinlan cuts in, scratching at the yellow facial tattoo crossing the bridge of his nose and spreading onto his cheeks. “Force visions don’t work on Jedi.”
Obi-Wan strokes his beard, and given that his fellow council members don’t look surprised, he assumes Padme or Bail must have told them about the not-Anakin situation. “This one did. I’m going to guess the drugs assisted in it doing so.”
“Master Qui-Gon is dead,” Anakin adds helpfully. “That had to have been the drugs too, Master.”
“Maybe,” Obi-Wan answers. “But it felt real. We had a conversation. This didn’t feel like a vision, either. I’ve had my share of those recently.”
Everyone looks at Yoda, who leans heavy on his gimmer stick with a sigh.
“Figured out, Qui-Gon has, how to preserve his consciousness in the Force.” Yoda frowns, and Master Windu’s eyes pop open wide. “Sorry, I am, for not telling any of you sooner. Busy, we all have been. When I spoke to him only his voice I heard. But you saw him?”
Obi-Wan nods, and the floor threatens to fall out from beneath his feet. Not in a bad way—this is very intriguing—but it does shake the foundations of his knowledge of the Force, which is ever an eternal mystery in some respects.
This also means he shouted at Qui-Gon’s ghost. That is not an auspicious reunion with his dead master, to say the least. Perhaps he won’t come back now, and Obi-Wan wishes he would.
“I’d say I was worried”—Windu taps his chin—“but if you both heard or saw him then … well, it’s something to discuss.”
“I just wanted to make certain the drugs weren’t making me hallucinate,” Obi-Wan murmurs, thankful when Luminara dabs at some of the blood on his cheek with a handkerchief. “It was … a bizarre evening to say the least.”
“If Palpatine can make a Jedi see Force visions,” Master Plo adds from next to a concerned Ashoka, grave as he’s ever been, “then he’s more powerful than we even thought. Even with you drugged, that’s a feat.”
“That Sith planet made Obi-Wan see all kind of things,” Bail says. “Is this so surprising?”
“That planet was ancient.” Windu pulls a smaller Bacta bandage out the pockets of his robes, placing it on the new cut on Obi-Wan's cheek when Luminara’s done removing the blood. The cut on top of a bruise is tender when touched, but Obi-Wan's grateful. “One man having that power, especially with a Jedi of Obi-Wan's caliber … it’s surprising.”
“Did you just have that bandage?” Obi-Wan asks.
“It’s like I said,” Windu answers with just a hint of a smile. “You look worse every time I see you. Master Che gave me some. Thought you might need them.”
“Palpatine said his master learned how to stop death,” Anakin blurts out, though he does keep his voice to a whisper. “I’m guessing maybe it was a lie, but there’s always some truth in a falsehood, as Obi-Wan always says. The way he talked about him, he seemed powerful. I didn’t … I didn’t know he was talking about his own master at the time. Or maybe I didn and just didn’t want to admit it. I’m sorry for that.”
“His name you remember, young Skywalker?” Yoda asks.
“Darth Plagueis.” Anakin puts a protective hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder like he’s afraid his words might summon the dead Sith lord. “Palpatine killed him.”
They’re not allowed to say anymore after that, two clones appearing to walk Obi-Wan to the courtroom and usher the rest of them to their seats. Padme puts a kiss on Obi-Wan's hair before she and Bail go to their platform, and mercifully, Obi-Wan finds the chair from yesterday still there. He’ll stand as much as he can, but having it is something. The courtroom is as crowded as yesterday, filled with Jedi and senators and clones—though the 212th and the 501st, as mentioned, are missing.
Obi-Wan thinks back to the book Anakin had Padme bring over, repeating a favorite passage to himself. Given that Palpatine’s looking at him with terrifying glee from his seat, it couldn’t be more apt.
Those who would see all the galaxy burn,
But themselves,
And who would see all the tears shed,
But their own,
Diminish and diminish and diminish,
Unto nothing.
“The second day of The Grand Army of the Republic vs. Kenobi shall commence.”
Ainlee Teem’s voice pulls Obi-Wan from his reverie, and Rex, already on the witness platform with Cody in tow, gives him a smile.
It’s time to begin. It’s time, once more, to tell the truth, whatever may happen to him.
Bail begins by calling Rex back to the stand and playing the holo report Rex gave after Fives’ death.
“Captain Rex,” Bail says once it’s done, “thank you for coming back after our … unexpected interruption yesterday. To remind the court, we were discussing chips placed in the clones’ brains, and the tragic death of one of your fellow troopers, Fives, as well as his alleged confrontation with Chancellor Palpatine. First, tell us about Fives. Was he known to cause problems? To be disloyal to the Republic?”
“No, Senator. Fives could be rambunctious”—fond grief flits across Rex’s face—“but the only time he disobeyed orders was when we were temporarily assigned to Jedi General Krell, who ended up being a traitor. Everything he did he did for his brothers, the Jedi, or the Republic. We had a clone traitor once, that Commander Cody and I had to root out. Fives couldn’t be less like him.”
“And can you tell the court, please,” Bail continues, “what your fellow troopers in the 501st and the 212th have been doing these past days?”
Rex’s gaze goes to Palpatine without an ounce of fear, and Obi-Wan admires him more than ever.
“Getting the chips out of their heads,” Rex says. “Every single one of them had one.”
“Senator Organa,” Ainlee Teem interrupts, “you are meant to hand those into evidence.”
“You have one already, Senator.” Bail is over polite here, complete with a sticky smile. “I could give you another, but there’s no need for you to have all of them, especially not when I don’t trust that someone on the chancellor’s side won’t corrupt them.”
“Objection!” Tarkin shouts. “He’s making accusations.”
Bail raises his hands. “Apologies. Captain, when the clone trooper you mentioned yesterday, Tup, had his breakdown and shot the Jedi Knight Tiplar, what was he saying to himself after?”
Rex glances up toward the jury, which sits on a platform up above.
“He kept saying Jedi, over and over and over again,” Rex answers. “It was uncanny. The Kaminoans tried to say it was a virus. I tried to believe Fives had the same one, even after what I saw and heard. I don’t know exactly what might set these chips off, but it’s clear to me that they are intended to make us hurt the Jedi.”
“And who do you think is responsible for those chips?” Bail asks.
“Chancellor Palpatine.” Rex doesn’t blink. “He tried to kill Fives himself before having him killed, and he’s doing the same to General Kenobi. I know it.”
Bail smirks at Tarkin, and it is, Obi-Wan thinks, the first time he’s seen such a thing on his friend’s face. Like that, anyway. Shocked chatter breaks out across the courtroom, and Senator Teem bangs his gavel.
“Quiet in here,” he calls out.
“Your witness, Admiral,” Bail says.
“You are aware, Captain Rex,” Tarkin begins, “that all clones have been genetically modified for accelerated growth and more docile behavior?”
Rex clenches his jaw, and Obi-Wan nearly goes over the rail at Tarkin. He sounds just like the Kaminoans, treating the clones like objects rather than the people they are. This whole situation has been complicated as far as rights go, and Obi-Wan has always hoped that once the war was over, the clones could do whatever they wished on a Republic pension. It is, by far, the least that they deserve.
“I’m aware, Admiral. I’m a first-generation clone. “
“Then you will not be surprised to learn,” Tarkin continues, “that when we contacted Nala Se on Kamino last evening, we learned that these chips are nothing more than a behavior modification chip to make you less aggressive.” He holds up a datapad. “Nala Se sent over a written and signed confirmation just this morning.”
“Then why did Tup kill a Jedi?” Rex shoots back.
“Captain,” Senator Teem chides. “You are here to answer questions. Not to argue back with Admiral Tarkin.”
Rex sneers—a rare thing—but doesn’t protest.
“You are close with Master Kenobi?” Tarkin asks. “You’d consider him a friend?”
“Without a doubt,” Rex says, and this makes Obi-Wan’s heart swell. Rex could easily be in danger for this. “He’s one of the finest men I’ve worked with. A great Jedi and a great general.”
“So it would be fair to say”—Tarkin returns to his favorite word of the day previous—“that you would be willing to make all of this up to protect him?”
“Make it up!” Rex shouts, losing his composure. “We just watched the holo report I gave, Admiral Tarkin.”
Tarkin gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “Easily faked.”
“Rex would never fake a report.”
That’s Cody. Cody, who knows the every Grand Army of the Republic rulebook by heart. Who always stands steady and calm. Cody, who appreciates rules but is willing to bend them when needed.
Breaking them is something else.
“Commander Cody—” Ainlee Teem tries.
“This is supposed to be a military trial.” Cody steps up next to Rex, but he’s looking at Obi-Wan, and the fierce devotion in his voice makes tears spring to Obi-Wan’s eyes. “It’s supposed to be fair. It’s not right to accuse General Kenobi and Rex of such treachery as this. I was lied to about what happened in the chancellor’s office and I won’t let these lies about General Kenobi stand. Do you know how many lives he’s saved—”
“Commander Cody!” Senator Teem’s shouting now. “Order, this instant.”
“Admiral Tarkin started this by deeming a report filed by a Jedi general fake.” Padme speaks now, pointing at Tarkin. “That report was filed under Master Skywalker’s secure code. I suppose next you’ll be accusing him.”
“Senator Amidala,” Teem warns. “That’s enough.”
And Obi-Wan realizes something something. The chips should be groundbreaking. Galaxy-shattering. But to these powerful people, the clones are just that. Clones. Not people to be listened to. Senators like Padme and Bail have long worked to get a clone rights bill through the senate.
It hasn’t yet passed.
“I’m finished, Senator Teem.” Tarkin smirks at Obi-Wan, a fleeting wisp of a thing that’s too fast for the HoloNet News cameras to catch. “You may allow the defense to call their next witness.”
Padme glares up at Palpatine, anger bright in her eyes. “The defense calls Anakin Skywalker.”
Whispers break out across the courtroom when Anakin comes down from his seat to the witness platform. Obi-Wan’s sure he slept very little, his eyes puffy and purple, but his clothes are changed and neat, and he smoothes out a wrinkle in his tunic as if thinking maybe that will make all the difference. Given that Anakin is resolutely unfamiliar with an iron, this small thing soothes some of Obi-Wan’s anxiety.
Anakin is here. Anakin chose the light after slipping halfway into the dark. It is not an impossible thing, he’s learned. Ventress did it, before she died. And Quinlan, up there now with the rest of the Jedi like the darkness might have never touched him, though Obi-Wan knows it left scars.
When Anakin takes his place he gives Obi-Wan a shy smile, the same one he used to have when he was small and unsure if he’d pleased his new caretaker.
Obi-Wan sends a thank you through the Force, and when that smile turns bold, he knows Anakin heard it.
Padme steps up to question Anakin. A surprise—he’d thought that might be too awkward and obvious. But after what Palpatine did yesterday, implying her relationship with Anakin to the court, it’s downright fearless.
“State your name, rank, and relationship to Master Kenobi for the court please,” Padme says.
“Anakin Skywalker. Jedi Knight and General in the Grand Army of the Republic. Commander of the 501st clone legion.” Anakin glances up at Palpatine, who stares right back, his lips pursed. “I was Master Kenobi’s Padawan learner for ten years. After I was knighted and the war started we continued to work together most of the time. He’s my best friend.”
The Negotiator and the Hero Without Fear, Obi-Wan hears a HoloNet reel say in his head. When they first heard it about six months after Geonosis, Anakin snorted with laughter.
I kind of like it, he said. You, Master?
Ridiculous, Obi-Wan muttered. Though I suppose my name could be worse.
“Thank you, Master Skywalker. Now, please state for the record your relationship with Chancellor Palpatine.”
Here, Anakin tenses, and as best he can with his hands bound and being across the expansive courtroom, Obi-Wan sends him comfort through the Force.
You’re stronger than him, Anakin, Obi-Wan thinks, wondering if perhaps, given their strange and connected visions these past few days, if Anakin might be able to hear the words themselves rather than just the idea of them. And he can’t touch you here.
He can take you.
Obi-Wan hears something that is not his own thought. What he hears is raw vulnerability—progress for Anakin—and for just a second he meets Anakin’s eye. It eases Anakin’s breathing. It eases his.
“Chancellor Palpatine has been a mentor and a close friend since I first arrived in Coruscant,” Anakin replies. “I was recently appointed as his representative on the Jedi council as well.”
Padme, smart as she is, lets all of this hang in the air. She doesn’t press or push, allowing Anakin’s admission that he was close with both men speak for itself.
“You went to meet with Chancellor Palpatine the night this all occurred.” Padme’s tone doesn’t give away her feelings toward Anakin, but as usual, her eyes do, shining with a love that would be impossible to miss if you knew her. “What was this meeting about?”
“I had recently been assigned, as I mentioned,” Anakin says, “to be the chancellor’s representative on the Jedi council.” Anakin pauses here, shifting in his chair. He seems much more the unsure, out-of-place boy who first came to the temple rather than the confident young man he is now. “The chancellor expressed concerns that the Jedi might be trying to seize power, as they, much like some here in the senate, had pressed him about his extended term. We were meeting regularly so I could carry information back and forth between him and the council and to keep up-to-date with Master Kenobi’s mission to take down Grievous.”
“Please tell us what occurred that night in Chancellor Palpatine’s office. Everything you can recall.”
So Anakin does. He talks about coming in to find Obi-Wan bleeding on the floor and Palpatine stabbed in the shoulder with a lightsaber. That Obi-Wan was near death. How he was torn between them and how Palpatine struck Obi-Wan with lightning when the Jedi tried to make contact. All the while Palpatine stares unblinking at Anakin, and it is not anger that Obi-Wan senses from him, but frustration, a dark desire to have Anakin’s power. Feeling Obi-Wan’s eyes on him, Palpatine’s adjusts his gaze, a flash of Sidious marring the placid expression.
“And Chancellor Palpatine made an admission to you during this confrontation?” Padme asks.
“Yes.”
To Obi-Wan’s surprise, Anakin doesn’t shoot an angry look up at Palpatine. Perhaps he’s already thinking of the plan they discussed. The plan that might need to be be put into action if this goes ill. Antagonizing Palpatine will do nothing to further that. Anakin doing this is enough on that front.
He looks at Obi-Wan instead, and it feels, deep in Obi-Wan’s gut, like Anakin is saying I choose you. In this battle over masters and mentors that Palpatine began, Obi-Wan has, at least, won something, though he does not care to think of it in those terms. Anakin’s loyalty and love is not something to be won, but earned. Palpatine, of course, only wanted Anakin’s loyalty. He could have cared less about his love.
“He admitted that he was a Sith,” Anakin continues. “The one the Jedi had long been searching out. Dooku’s master. He”—Anakin exhales an audible breath through his nose—“wanted me to join him. That was what the meeting was supposed to be about, before he was interrupted by Master Kenobi. He told me that the Sith could save the life of someone I cared for. That he could teach me that power. That the Jedi were holding me back. His hatred for the Order was apparent to me.”
“Objection,” Tarkin snarls. “That’s his opinion.”
“What?” Anakin shoots back with annoyance, and that sounds like him. “It’s a fact, Admiral. Not my opinion.”
“Master Skywalker,” Ainlee Teem reprimands. “That’s enough.”
Senator Teem is far less accommodating to them today, isn’t he? Obi-Wan thinks. Palpatine’s said something to him in the interim. Threatened him. Paid him. Anything that might work.
“Just one more question.” An accidental smile plays at the corner of Padme’s mouth at Anakin’s defiance. “Other than the lightning, did you see Chancellor Palpatine use the Force?”
“I wasn’t there for his duel with Master Kenobi,” Anakin admits. “But yes, he used the Force to rip a holocomm out of Master Kenobi’s hand after Master Windu made contact. I couldn’t have missed it.”
“Thank you, Master Skywalker.” Padme throws an unimpressed glance at Tarkin. “Your witness, Admiral.”
“Master Skywalker,” Tarkin begins. “You were not present for the first day of this trial. Please tell the court where you were.”
Regret seeps into Anakin’s presence in the Force.
“I was upset that a man I considered a mentor tried to kill the man who raised and taught me. I felt torn and confused even though the events in the chancellor’s office gave me no reason to be—it was clear what happened. If Master Kenobi hadn’t fought back he would be dead. Chancellor Palpatine wished for him to be. He made that clear enough.” Anakin doesn’t hide from Tarkin’s unrelenting stare. “I flew to my homeworld on Tatooine to visit my mother’s grave. To think on the chancellor’s offer even if I knew I shouldn’t take it. And I’m ashamed of it. It was selfish of me to leave. I’m here now to fix it.”
Much like that day when Obi-Wan left for Utapau, he is proud of Anakin Skywalker.
Tarkin puts his hands behind his back, slowly circling his platform. “When you were serving as the chancellor’s representative on the Jedi council, were you asked by the Jedi masters to spy on the chancellor?”
Anakin tenses, his gloved hand grasping the arm of his chair. “Yes, but the chancellor also wanted the same in return. The Jedi were concerned about Chancellor Palpatine’s use of emergency powers and the fact that he had well overstayed his term. At first I admit I didn’t like the idea. I didn’t want to believe that he was corrupt. But the council was right. I wasn’t.”
“They were right?” Tarkin questions. “Explain, Master Skywalker.”
Anakin’s eyebrows furrow, and he makes the same displeased face he did when he was a new padawan and Obi-Wan was first explaining the importance of meditation.
“The chancellor is a Sith,” Anakin says. “The Sith lord the Jedi council have been looking for. The Sith that’s been playing the war from both sides. Listen, Admiral Tarkin”—here, Anakin’s efforts at patience start wearing thin—“there is simply no way Chancellor Palpatine could have injured Master Kenobi that seriously without being a powerful Force-sensitive. That should be obvious here, and I—”
“Master Skywalker,” Senator Teem interrupts. “Please only answer the question you have been asked.”
A frown twists Anakin’s lips, and he crosses his arms, his gaze flicking up to Palpatine for a split second.
“Did Chancellor Palpatine say anything about the war that night?” Tarkin goes in for the kill, those dead gray-blue eyes brimming with depraved delight. “Did he admit to something?”
“Not specifically, but—”
“What is this Jedi versus Sith issue to the galaxy?” Tarkin cuts Anakin off, and unlike yesterday, Senator Teem does not stop him. “What does that have to do with the war? With the Republic? Perhaps it’s just a spiritual issue, a debate over the use of the Force. I'm not saying the chancellor is a Sith, but if he was, I fail to see why it matters."
“Are you serious?” Anakin’s voice goes lower. Dangerous. “Count Dooku was a Sith. He was a Sith training under the chancellor. He was leading the Separatists and trying to destroy the galaxy. Committing war crimes I don't have time to list. What more proof do you need that the Sith are evil?"
“Who is to say”—Tarkin wets his lips when he looks at Obi-Wan, and it only makes his sunken cheeks sink deeper—“that Master Kenobi didn’t attempt to kill him out of some sort of revenge as well as an attempt to seize power? If the Sith are the natural enemy of the Jedi, then that might be the case. You are a Jedi, Master Skywalker, and Master Kenobi your teacher and longtime friend, as everyone here is well aware. Of course you would take his part in this. You think killing a Sith no matter.”
The one last hope Obi-Wan had for his own life dies when those words leave Tarkin’s mouth. Anakin’s friendship with Palpatine isn’t serving to make this easier. No, they’re twisting his own relationship with Anakin to suit them, just as he thought they might.
Sith apologism in a Republic courtroom. The gall of it! Disgusted isn’t strong enough to describe how he feels.
“You can’t be serious!”
In the crevice of quiet, someone shouts who isn’t Anakin, and it makes Tarkin whip around, searching for the source.
Quinlan.
His chair screeches when he shoves it back, and he jabs a finger toward Tarkin. “You’re a cold-hearted wretch, but this is too much, even from you. Obi-Wan Kenobi is the best of the Jedi, and this whole thing is a farce.”
None of the other Jedi stop him. Not Master Yoda. Not Master Windu. Not Master Plo. Not even Luminara.
“Master Vos,” Tarkin tries, as condescending as it is possible to be. “You are—"
“It took thousands of years to eradicate the Sith.” Quinlan’s words are fire and nothing less. “To say they fucked up the galaxy is putting it lightly.”
“Master Vos!” Senator Teem hits his gavel on the rail, hard.
“They built their empires on the backs of slaves!” Quinlan doesn’t give up, not even when two clones appear behind him. “Mass murder was nothing to them. I spent time with Count Dooku, Admiral Tarkin, and I can promise you any regime he ushered in would be nothing but suffering and autocracy. To say his master would be worse should go without saying.”
“Master Vos!” Senator Teem shouts. “One more word and the guard will escort you out. Am I understood?”
Unshed tears glimmer in Quinlan’s eyes, and Obi-Wan feels the pain in his Force presence, dulling his usual brightness. The clones press on Quinlan’s shoulders, forcing him back down into his chair.
“All right, that’s enough,” Senator Teem says. “Master Skywalker, go back to your seat.”
“But—”
“Now.”
“Is it the intention of this court to put a stop to anything that might cause the slighest provocation?” Bail asks, and his tone could end lives. Topple governments. It is nothing less than pure wrath. “First Captain Rex’s testimony was interrupted, and now you’re cutting off yet another witness and physically threatning Master Vos?”
“Senator Organa—” Ainlee Teem tries.
“Master Kenobi was beaten in the hallway this morning, and it wasn’t the first time.” Bail keeps going, paying no mind to his colleague. “He was kept in his cuffs all night. He has been dehumanized through this entire process and I would like for someone up on that platform with you to explain to me how any of this accounts for justice. How can the senate consider itself worth anything if we can’t even conduct a fair—”
“SENATOR ORGANA!” Senator Teem’s voice grows louder than it ever has before, and this does stop Bail in his tracks. “If you challenge me once more, then Senator Amidala will be the only one representing Master Kenobi, is that clear?”
Bail doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t start shouting again either. He turns toward Padme, giving her a nod to bring up their next witness.
“Senator Teem requires an answer, Senator Organa.”
Mas Amedda speaks now, glaring at Bail. A shiver slithers down Obi-Wan’s spine, goosebumps sneaking up his arms.
That was not a request. It was a demand.
“Crystal,” Bail answers through gritted teeth.
Master Che goes next. She talks briefly about the sleep-inducer Obi-Wan was given to dampen his Force-sensitivity, and how the dosing made him ill She shows holo photos of Obi-Wan’s scar from the lightning before his second round in the Bacta tank, when it was red and swollen rather than appearing like an odd sort of birthmark. She speaks about how she had heard of this particular Sith power but never seen a wound in practice. When she went to the Jedi archives searching for more, she found her answer—Sith lightning, without a doubt, and the scar was likely permanent. A smatter of gasps punctuates the courtroom when the reference holo she used is shown—it’s an exact match to Obi-Wan’s markings—but the jury, up on the high platform next to Palpatine and Senator Teem’s, doesn’t appear moved. At least not to Obi-Wan’s eye.
The rest of the courtoom is something else. Whispers curl constantly into the air, and nothing is secret in here, where everything echoes.
I’ve never seen a scar like that, one senator says.
That looks painful, says another.
Master Che knows what she’s talking about. That’s a Jedi speaking.
“Quiet in here.” Senator Teem raps his gavel for what seems the hundreth time today. “I’m going to start sending people out if this doesn’t stop.”
Mas Amedda goes next, and his answers don’t surprise Obi-Wan in the slightest. He lies about the severity of Palpatine’s lightsaber wound and lies about the healing process. He lies about Palpatine’s worries for the Republic. He lies and he lies and he lies. What is a little perjury when you’re already trying to take over the galaxy?
It’s only his response to Padme and Bail showing the holo footage of him striking Obi-Wan that stands out, not because it’s a shock, but because it tells Obi-Wan exactly, exactly what these people have in mind for the Jedi. It’s odd to watch it replayed for all these people to see, this personal, vulnerable moment on display to try and prove his innocence.
Mas Amedda tries to inject him with the drugs.
Obi-Wan hears himself say he doesn’t consent.
He sees himself raise his hands and throw Mas Amedda across the room.
You violent Jedi wretch, the holo version of Mas Amedda says before backhanding Obi-Wan and shoving him to his knees.
Ah, yes. Obi-Wan had forgotten why his knees were sore. The tile in the Halls of Healing was rather unforgiving. More whispers punctuate the courtroom. Mon Mothma, in a seat not far from the jury platform, says something like what a way to treat a Jedi Master, before being hushed by another senator nearby.
“You can’t condemn me for hitting him, Senator Amidala,” Mas Amedda says, almost bored, and no one with real authority in this room will argue. Given the mood of the room, Obi-Wan is sure that some of the senators are realizing how powerless they are. How much power they’ve given to Palpatine.
Palpatine is the senate.
And it’s why he has to go.
“What was I meant to do?” Mas Amedda continues, “after a powerful Force-sensitive threw me across the room? That’s the problem with the Jedi—they’re dangerous just by existing.”
Those words hang in the air, and bile crawls up Obi-Wan’s throat. Up where the Jedi sit, all he senses is shock and grief and rage at this naked admission of hatred.
They’re dangerous just by existing.
“He didn’t intend to throw you across the room.” Padme keeps cool, calm, her temper not as easily lit as Bail’s, though it does take her a moment to recover herself. “He did it in the context of you drugging him against his will after he almost died. He was still ill and injured. Master Kenobi is famously not the sort of man to lose control, but you managed to make it happen. The Jedi are not dangerous. They are defenders of this Republic to whom we owe our thanks, whatever anyone may think of the matter we are discussing in this court.”
“That’s her opinion.” Tarkin brushes something off his pristine gray uniform. “And an inappropriate comment.”
Padme rolls her eyes, not bothering to fight that charge. She and Bail showcase Obi-Wan’s war record next. They list off major battles he fought in and led. They talk of victories and risks to his life and how well he commanded the 212th. They talk about missions from before the war, Mandalore and Naboo and others. They play messages of support they’ve gotten from across the galaxy, and interviews that have played on the HoloNet the past few days. Time is liquid. The room around Obi-Wan a maybe. His attention focused on a fixed point.
Palpatine.
There is, however, one other thing that draws Obi-Wan's attention. Padme, looking at him. Padme and her presence in the Force full of nothing, nothing but light. Those children, the twins, full of life. Hope. New hope.
The galaxy must be safe for them. He must not let it break.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Padme says, and she smiles at him, one hand gliding across the rail as she circles the platform, searching the crowd for allies, “is a good man. A man who has given over his life to the service of the Republic.” She glances up at Anakin, the love between them humming in the Force. “He is a teacher. A leader. A diplomat always striving for peace. Members of the jury I ask you now: why would someone like Master Kenobi so suddenly attempt to murder Chancellor Palpatine in cold blood, when he would have had a thousand opportunities before? Why would the Jedi, who have lost their own in this war, who made themselves soldiers for our safety and our freedom, suddenly desire to seize power now? Master Kenobi dealt the blow that ended the fighting. Ask yourselves what’s happening here in the halls of the senate, when he is the on trial?”
And then, it’s Obi-Wan's turn again, probably the last time he’ll get a word in that will matter. He gets up from the chair—he sat down during Master Che’s testimony after she gave him a pointed look—and walks up to the edge of his platform. The lights above him draw attention to the blood congealed on the cuffs scraping at his skin, but he pushes the pain carefully down.
This is too important.
“Master Kenobi.” Bail, having calmed down, takes the lead here, and Padme finally sits down herself. “There was a man you mentioned yesterday. Maul. Remind the court again who he is.”
“Darth Maul,” Obi-Wan begins, old, deep wounds coming back to life, “was the apprentice of the Sith lord referred to as Darth Sidious back during the blockade of Naboo thirteen years ago. He comes from Dathomir, a planet famously known for being steeped in the dark side. He killed my master, Qui-Gon Jinn. I killed him, or believed I had given that I cut him in half. Much to my surprise he reappeared, alive, and intent on his revenge against me. He tried and failed to murder me more than once. He was responsible for murdering Duchess Satine of Mandalore, and took the planet for his own until Ashoka Tano, my grandpadawan, was able to apprehend him just days ago.”
“There was news this morning,” Bail continues, “that Maul committed suicide in his cell. Do you believe this to be indicative of his character?”
“No. Indeed, it’s the last thing I would ever suspect of him.”
“What do you suspect happened?”
“I suspect that he was disposed of. Murdered.” Obi-Wan dares a glance up at Palpatine, and he holds it, the weight of the other man’s hatred bearing down on him just like that red lightsaber did a few days ago. “Because he knew too much about Darth Sidious. About Chancellor Palpatine.”
“Outrageous!” Tarkin bellows, jabbing a finger in Obi-Wan's direction. “You are on trial for attempted murder, Master Kenobi, not Chancellor Palpatine.”
“This was not an attempt, Admiral Tarkin.” Obi-Wan sets his jaw, one hand curling tight around the rail. “It was a success.”
“Master Kenobi!” Senator Teem shouts. “That is out of bounds.”
But Obi-Wan won’t be deterred. Not now.
“I know for a fact,” he says, his heart thump thump thumping with abandon in his chest, “that even if Chancellor Palpatine was no longer interested in Maul as an apprentice—”
“Master Kenobi—”
That’s Mas Amedda now, but Obi-Wan does. Not. Care. The news crews are in here. Many members of the senate. One more time, he must make them listen.
“—that there was a time when he was more than happy to have Maul kill me so I would be out of his way. My personal problem, the chancellor called Maul once. He also managed to convince the wisest Jedi I know to let a Sith roam free because the Jedi were needed in the war. His war. The one he started to lay claim to the Republic and destroy it. The one he started to wipe out the Jedi. The truth is he wanted me dead so he could stick his claws into my former apprentice”—Obi-Wan looks up at Anakin, whose eyes have gone wide—“who is one of the best Jedi in the Order. My appearance that night interrupted that plan, and so he tried to kill me himself. He confessed as much, whatever lies he has told in this courtroom.”
“Master Kenobi!” Senator Teem’s words echo, and he bangs his gavel so hard Obi-Wan's sure it might break. “That is enough. Sit. Down.”
But Obi-Wan doesn’t. The clones behind him step closer, hands on their blasters. They won’t kill him like this, though. Stunning him is the worst they’ll try. Killing him here wouldn’t do, not without the proper procedure Palpatine is hiding behind.
“The jury needs to understand the things that don’t make sense in this case.” Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, talking fast so he can get it all out. “The missing tracker on my ship. The self-erased message on Grievous’ comlink. The fact that I dueled Chancellor Palpatine, and now his saber is nowhere to be found. The fact that I have been mistreated throughout this entire process. Drugged. Beaten. Representatives of the Republic should not behave this way. The fact that witnesses, the clones especially, who have fought and died in this war, have been disrespected during this trial.”
He stops there, not wanting to mention the security cameras turned off in Palpatine’s office and then again in his cell. Palpatine might catch on if he even mentions it, and that’s too important. This is going to go badly, and he has to give Anakin a chance to slip in.
“Whatever happens to me,” he says, looking straight at the news cameras, “I need all of you in here to know that the Republic is at risk. And the Jedi are not your enemy.” Blood runs along the metal edge of the right cuff when Obi-Wan raises his hands, dripping onto the floor. He points one finger at Palpatine just as a clone grabs the neck of his tunic from the back, tugging tight. “He is.”
Noise erupts. Yelling. Gasps of surprise. A few cheers. The clone who grabbed his collar throws him into the chair, which nearly tips backward. Another aims his blaster.
“Back off, trooper.” Padme gets as close as she can, Bail at her side. “Right now.”
To Obi-Wan's surprise, the trooper obeys. Or, perhaps it isn’t such a surprise. That glint in Padme’s eyes says murder, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen it before.
“Order in this court right now!” Senator Teem’s voice booms through the courtroom, amplified by a speaker that he hasn’t yet made use of. “Master Kenobi, one more word out of you and you’ll be medicated until you calm down.”
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, but he stays quiet even though it rankles. Being drugged again is the last thing he wants.
“Senator Organa, Senator Amidala,” Teem continues, “I believe that is all your witnesses, and as you have essentially given your closing remarks, Admiral Tarkin will make his closing argument and then the jury will go into deliberation.”
Tarkin’s footfalls echo as the room falls quiet again. Everyone waits. Everyone wonders what he might say. An unsettled energy emanates from the direction of the Jedi, and Obi-Wan momentarily comforts himself by searching the crowd for his friends. Depa again, with Caleb. Siri. Anakin of course, next to Ashoka, whose hand he has enfolded in his own. Luminara and Kit. Prie, another Jedi from his youngling clan. Quinlan, who tries to give him a smile. Master Windu, Yoda, Plo, and Mundi sit next to one another, and despite everything, the war, all of it, he’s never seen them look so grave. So sad. There are at least a hundred Jedi in here, and he can’t help but remember the thousands who lined the hallways of the temple.
“I have worked with Master Kenobi,” Tarkin begins. “He was part of a team that broke into the Citadel prison to rescue myself and the departed Master Piel, as well as some hyperspace lane coordinates that were vital to the war. I’ve never been of the opinion that the Jedi were proper soldiers, but Master Kenobi is, it must be said, one of the best in the Jedi Order for what that’s worth. Quick on his feet. A strategist, to be sure. A skilled fighter. A negotiator without peer. If one values what the Jedi value, he is the cream of the crop, so to speak. But the war has impacted us all, and what does it say about the Jedi themselves, if a lauded and respected master in their ranks resorts to such cold-blooded violence? Such a traitorous attempt to seize power? What will other, less disciplined Jedi do, if someone like him cannot control himself?” That implication hangs in the air, and then, Tarkin focuses on Obi-Wan himself.
Obi-Wan would stand up, but when he tries he’s jerked back down by the clone still holding his collar.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi is a clear and present danger to the Republic.” Tarkin smirks for one fleeting moment before it vanishes. “This is not a case of self-defense, as Master Kenobi and his defense have claimed. Maybe he tasted power during the war and wanted more of fit. Maybe the war changed him. Either way, there is no turning back, and taking chances with such a powerful individual when he has shown his true colors? For the sake of our democracy, I must say no. I rest my case.”
“The jury will deliberate and upon their return will hand down their decision.” Senator Teem gestures at the clones. “Master Kenobi, you will wait in a private room with your representatives. No other visitors may enter.”
This is met with objections from the Jedi—Quinlan, Anakin, and Master Windu loudest of all—but Obi-Wan can’t argue. He can barely think before two clones quite literally drag him out of the courtroom, and it takes a few seconds to even get his feet under him. This continues when they go down the main hallway of the base, a set of large windows in view a few feet away. The clones have him by the front of his tunic and they’re walking too fast for his worn-out body to keep up.
“He’s going to fall if you don’t stop,” Bail protests, but this is met with no response.
And Bail’s right. Soon enough Obi-Wan's feet tangle in the thin blue cord connecting the two sets of cuffs. His ankle turns and the clones lose their grip. Obi-Wan tumbles forward. He summons the Force despite the shock the cuffs give him, his hand slamming against the window before his head can. His trembling legs give out, his knees hitting the floor. Blood spatters on the glass, and Obi-Wan’s palm slides down with a squeak, smearing it.
And he sees it.
The crowd.
The massive, undeniable crowd outside the base.
And they see him.
And they cheer.
Coruscant is always colorful and chaotic and busy and too-full, but not once, in his entire life living here, has he seen it like this. People, as far as the eye can see, bathed white in the light of the massive HoloNet News screen across the street from the base. There are signs again, of all sorts.
Free Master Kenobi.
Put an End to Emergency Power.
We Want Our Republic Back.
There is a small group of counter-protestors yelling at the rest of the massive crowd, but it’s drowned out by the people who seem to be here, somehow, for him.
Today, the City of Spires calls out his name.
Kenobi.
Kenobi.
Kenobi.
A smile breaks out despite it all, his heart soaring. These people will help save the galaxy, even if he’s gone. They’ll help the Jedi. Padme. Bail. Other senators like Mon Mothma and every representative standing against Palpatine.
If Palpatine manages to kill him, these people will not go quietly into the night.
He gives a shy, unsure wave, and then the clones are pulling him away by the back of his collar, which earns a jeer from the crowd.
The red smear remains on the glass.
Bail demands they take the cuffs off once they’re behind the locked door with a clone guard outside, no windows, and no way out.
“You need Bacta for that,” Bail says, grimacing at Obi-Wan's bruised, bloody wrists. “I’ll go get some.”
Obi-Wan waves him off. “No. Please. I’d just … I’d like to meditate for a while. It’s relief enough to have them off.”
“Whatever you want, Obi-Wan.” Bail’s gentle, so, so gentle, and he does, at least, clean the blood from Obi-Wan’s hand. “Whatever you want.”
“Those people?” Obi-Wan questions, sitting on the floor and adjusting into the position for meditation. “They were here for me?”
“Yes.” Padme’s voice is thick from holding herself in check. “We’ve been trying to tell you. It’s not just here. It’s all over.”
Padme brushes a hand across Obi-Wan's shoulder, and before he closes his eyes, the presence of someone new seeps into the Force. Two someones, to be exact. A sweet, curious sensation, like a little one might be tugging on his hand. The boy, Obi-Wan thinks. A fierce, passionate spirit. The crushing warmth of a long-awaited hug. The girl. Both powerful, but differently. Despite everything, the children quiet his mind. In the Force, they are already bonded with him. The Force itself hums around him. For a moment, he feels safe. For a moment, the tension slides out of his shoulders and it’s just him and Anakin and Padme’s twins, two flickering lights in this impenetrable darkness. With them as his focus point, calm washes over him, temporary though it may be. Exhaustion, the ache of everything, everything, beats a drum in his blood, but this stolen moment gives him a drop of strength. Strength to face what’s coming.
He doesn’t know.
But he knows.
They wait for an hour. Barely. It’s enough time to pretend the jury thought about it, but not enough for Obi-Wan to truly believe they did. Hope springs eternal, but he must be frank with himself.
And think about what to do next.
The courtroom stays silent as Obi-Wan walks back in, the foreman of the twenty-five-person senate jury now standing on the highest platform with Ainlee Teem, Palpatine, and Mas Amedda. Twenty-five people out of thousands of systems to decide what will happen to him. The specter of death slips into his veins, waiting for acknowledgment. Confirmation of his fate. Alone he stands here, without anyone but the clones and their blasters behind him. Padme and Bail are on their platform. The Jedi, Anakin included, are up in their seats. He is isolated. Torn physically from those who love him.
And he will not show these men his fear.
He will not fear the spectacle he suspects they are going to put him through. He will not let them see his grief. No, he will stand here, tall and straight-backed.
He is not the first Jedi to fall in this war, but maybe he can be the last.
Maybe his death, this circus, can knock out the foundation of everything Palpatine has sought to build.
And destroy.
“The jury has come to their conclusion,” Ainlee Teem says. “All should stand.”
A pulse of putrid pleasure comes from Palpatine. Obi-Wan feels it.
There is not a sound in the galaxy but Obi-Wan’s own breathing and the buzz of the HoloNet News cameras.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Senator Teem says, not bothering to hurry, “On the count of attempted murder, this jury finds you guilty.”
Obi-Wan steadies himself. This is no surprise, no matter how good his case.
What the senator says next will tell him more.
“On the count of high treason against the Galactic Republic,” Teem continues, “this jury also finds you guilty. It is their recommendation that because of your actions, the Jedi Order as a whole should be investigated to root out further traitors in their ranks.”
Obi-Wan's stomach churns, not for himself, but for the Jedi.
And he knows what’s coming next.
“These are heinous crimes.” Senator Teem stares down at Obi-Wan from his perch, and next to him, Palpatine dares that snide smile he wore the night when everything broke. “And it is the decision of this court, Master Kenobi, that you will be put to death for committing them.”
A collective gasp swallows the room whole. Shock slaps the air. Obi-Wan could touch it. No matter his suspicion that this would happen, he feels like someone struck him in the chest with a hammer. It takes him a long moment to remember to breathe. Grasping the rail until his knuckles pop white, he does not cry. Shout. Say anything.
Someone else does.
Anakin Skywalker, the Hero Without Fear, the Chosen One, screams. Sobs. Something in-between. Violent and virulent as it is, Obi-Wan can’t quite make out the word his apprentice, his best friend, his brother, attempted to say. It might have been a simple no. It might have been never.
The next words that come, however, are clear as day.
“You can’t do this.” Anakin’s voice breaks. It shatters. It’s ruined, and utterly so. “You can’t DO THIS!”
“Master Skywalker!” Ainlee Teem shouts. “You will not bring disruption to this courtroom—”
Anakin moves, too-quick, and it’s only Quinlan’s arm around his waist that stops him from vaulting over the edge of the Jedi seating area.
“Master Windu, Master Yoda, you will calm Master Skywalker down, or he will be held in contempt of this court!”
Mas Amedda’s shouting now, but he’s not the only one. Some senators are too, and on Obi-Wan's behalf. Some of the Jedi. Kit Fisto. Little Caleb Dume. Quinlan, who’s still holding Anakin back. Plo Koon. Bail smacks his hand against the rail, but in the din Obi-Wan can’t hear what he says. Padme stays quiet. Padme looks Obi-Wan in the eye and he knows, right then, that she understands the enormity of this moment.
She understands that he well and truly might not make it.
The truth cannot die with him. It must not die with him.
He’s not going to get to meet Anakin and Padme’s twins, is he?
It’s a strange, small, personal thing in this whirlwind, but it cuts deep.
A distant sound from outside the building grows louder and louder and louder, until it is nothing less than a muffled roar.
“Order in this court!” Ainlee Teem shouts.
At this, some of the clone guards raise their blasters. This serves to silence the people inside the room but not the ones outside, who must be watching the proceedings on the HoloNet screens.
“This execution by clone firing squad, or whatever method the Chancellor may choose in the interim,” Teem says, matter of fact, as if he is not talking about the manner in which Obi-Wan will die, “shall take place the day after tomorrow at noon on Processional Way, at the foot of the steps of the Jedi Temple.”
Obi-Wan is sure he didn’t hear that right. He swears he must not have. This, above all things, finishes the job of ripping his heart from his chest. This is hatred and arrogance to the highest degree, to spill his blood on the steps of the Jedi’s most sacred home.
For the first time in Obi-Wan’s memory, Master Mace Windu fully and entirely loses his temper.
“How dare you!” he shouts, his voice exploding across the courtroom. “The Jedi do not consent to this. Will not. You are already choosing to murder an innocent man, a Jedi master and war hero, and now you wish to do so on the steps of his home?”
“Master Windu,” Mas Amedda warns, “one more word from you and no Jedi will be permitted to visit the condemned prior to the execution. Surely, you won’t subject Master Kenobi or yourselves to such a thing.”
And just like that, one of the greatest and most powerful Jedi masters is silenced. Master Yoda stands next to him, and there are, Obi-Wan is sure, tears in the grandmaster’s eyes.
“Senator Teem,” Obi-Wan says, keeping calm, but speaking itself is defiance. “I request that my sentence be carried out elsewhere. The Temple is sacred to Jedi and non-Jedi alike. I am not asking for mercy or to be spared the humiliation of a public execution. I am asking that the Temple not be the site of such a thing.”
Here, Palpatine steps up to the rail, and a hush sweeps through the room. Up where the Jedi sit, Quinlan has his arm around Anakin’s shoulders, and the quiet, heart-broken sobs of his former apprentice are the only thing Obi-Wan can hear. In all their time together, Anakin has never sounded like he does right now, would never have allowed himself to show this raw display of utter grief in public. Anger, yes, but not this. Never this. Obi-Wan might think it’s partially a show for Palpatine, an act that might serve the plan they’ve developed—Anakin was desperate when he last went to Palpatine, after all—but it isn’t. The agony in their Force bond tells Obi-Wan so. Anakin tears out of Quinlan’s grasp, and then, he’s gone.
And Palpatine watches him go.
“Request denied, Master Kenobi.” Palpatine turns back to the matter at hand, the HoloNet News cameras turning toward him. “The location will serve as a warning to any other Jedi thinking of trespassing against the Republic.”
Against me.
“Master Kenobi will be able to receive visitors beginning tomorrow morning,” Mas Amedda says, gesturing at the clones to take Obi-Wan out. “This evening, it will not be permitted.”
After that, the courtroom is filled with such a racket that Obi-Wan can’t make sense of anything. Senators are shouting at each other. Some Jedi are calling out to Mas Amedda, to Tarkin, to Senator Teem, more than one of their voices cracking in the process.
The clones haul him out into the hallway, Tarkin walking alongside them and saying something about wanting to check the security in the cell. Padme and Bail rush up, ignoring the dozen clones with blasters just behind Obi-Wan.
"Admiral Tarkin!" Padme shouts, drawing the eye of everyone nearby, including the news crews.
That, Obi-Wan suspects, is on purpose.
"Senator Admidala." Tarkin sighs, raising a hand to make the clones halt. "You shouting at me will not change the outcome of this case. I'm afraid you lost."
"The Republic has never executed a Jedi," Padme says. "Not in a thousand years."
"Well, the Jedi certainly aren't going to do it themselves, senator."
"You've left no room for appeal. No time. Not even a full forty-eight hours."
"Master Kenobi is lucky he has that," Tarkin snaps. "This is a military trial. We would have every right to take him outside and shoot him right now.”
"You want to keep him quiet." Padme looks back at the news crew, who stand riveted. "That's why so fast."
"What we want," Tarkin shoots back, paling slightly, "is to put down a dangerous and powerful individual who attempted to tear our Republic apart. Careful now, or you won’t be able to visit your precious condemned Jedi at all. And after this, Senator, you might want to consider another career.”
He doesn’t address Obi-Wan. He doesn’t even look at him. Obi-Wan is just the condemned, and nothing more.
“Do not threaten Senator Amidala.” Obi-Wan tugs away from the clones holding him, and outside, the crowd still roars, tilting toward chaos. “She is one of the most honorable—”
Obi-Wan’s cut off by one of the clones kicking him in the back of the knee, and he barely, barely keeps his feet under him.
“Tarkin, you rotten bastard,” Bail growls. “You knew, didn’t you? That the chancellor was a Sith. You knew he was up to something.”
Tarkin narrows his eyes. “What did I just say, Senator Organa?”
“It’s all right,” Obi-Wan tries, though he’s jerked away so quickly he’s not sure Bail or Padme heard him.
The clones deposit him in his cell a few minutes later, blessedly removing the cuffs this time.
Except, there is something of a replacement.
“Freshly arrived this morning from one of the Citadel storage locations the Separatists had not yet managed to take,” Tarkin says, holding up a syringe. “Force suppressants.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says, immediately.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Master Kenobi.” Tarkin sneers, handing the syringe to one of the clones, who forces up Obi-Wan's sleeve. “No need to blubber about it, these only last a few hours at a time, and we are unfortunately limited in our supply given that they’re experimental—we only have two syringes. But I didn’t want to hear Organa and Amidala complain anymore about your cuffs until tomorrow.”
With blasters pointed at him Obi-Wan is forced to comply, and unease seeps through him in the same moment as the drugs. He gasps when the needle comes out. Oh, that hurts. It’s anguish. Like something has ripped his veins apart and torn open his fingertips. Pain pounds in his hands and presses against his temples. The Force is present, he can feel it, but he can’t touch it. Can’t connect. It hovers nearby rather than being a part of him, and it’s torture. Already, it’s torture. He’d rather have the cuffs, but it’s too late.
Tarkin tips Obi-Wan’s chin up with one finger, and his touch is cold. So cold. “We’re having more of it made,” he says, “in case we need it for … other Jedi traitors. I’m told if it’s used long term it can make a Force-sensitive, well, not. Luckily you won’t be alive to suffer through that, so count yourself fortunate.”
A red-hot rage shoots through Obi-Wan, and he cannot control it. He can’t think when everything goes red. The rage gives off sparks, sizzling on his skin, and he smacks Tarkin’s hand away.
Anakin would be proud.
Tarkin doesn’t gesture at the clones. No blaster presses itself against Obi-Wan’s back. No, Tarkin just laughs before turning to go. But he has one more thing to say before he does. One last taunt.
“One more wrong move, Obi-Wan, and the Jedi will be denied even your pathetic corpse. The Republic hasn’t had such a traitor in a long time, you know. We intend to send a message. Enjoy the time you have left. There isn’t much of it.”
A metal gate goes down, a gate that wasn’t there before. The ray shield too.
It only last a few hours. It only lasts a few hours, Obi-Wan tells himself, but without the Force, easing his emotions down, thinking them through rather than letting them control him, is more difficult. Not impossible—part of that is just discipline—but the Force is a friend. A place for him to go.
And he can’t.
There are people out there calling his name. There are friends so desperately trying to help him. And yet without the Force, he has never felt more alone. He takes the datapad Padme brought him and flicks through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for, murmuring the words aloud to himself.
From this moment I step into my next. From this place I step into my next. From this life I step into my next. For I am one with the Force, Forever and Forever.
―The Coxixian Prayer for the Departed
Notes:
I know I know I know but just remember that I said Obi-Wan was NOT going to die in this fic, so you'll just have to trust me.
Chapter 9: I Close Them, I Close Them, I Close My Eyes
Summary:
With Padme and Quinlan's help, Anakin develops his plan to get the better of Palpatine. Obi-Wan gets a visit from his old master. With the galaxy and Coruscant in chaos, Padme, Bail, and the Jedi must decide what to do next.
Friends flock to Obi-Wan's cell, hoping hoping hoping this isn't really goodbye.
Notes:
Thank you for all the lovely LOVELY comments last chapter, friends! Here is an extra-long chapter--hope you don't mind!
Lore notes for this chapter include references to Dark Disciple and Master and Apprentice (both of which I recommend!) But everything can be easily understood in context!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Anakin Skywalker cannot stop shaking.
The throng of people outside the base teems with too many emotions, all of them battering him at once. Rage. Terror. Grief. Disbelief. Sounds come at him too. Shouting. The HoloNet news screens replaying Obi-Wan’s conviction.
On the count of attempted murder, this jury finds you guilty.
On the count of high treason against the Galactic Republic, this jury also finds you guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Something stabs behind Anakin’s right eye. Once. Twice. Three times.
It is the decision of this court, Master Kenobi, that you will be put to death for committing them.
In the bond Anakin shares with Obi-Wan, he finds the usual steadiness shaking at the foundation. He finds light. He finds infinite sadness.
A flash of Obi-Wan’s cell appears like a broken shard in his mind. That ray shield. A metal gate. Pricks of pain echo like the ghost of something beneath his skin. Close as they’ve always been, as easily has Anakin has been able to sense things about his master for all these years, the events of the past few days have been different. Seeing what Obi-Wan sees. Feeling what Obi-Wan feels.
I read about something called a Force Dyad, Anakin said one day when he was fourteen or so, having gone to retrieve a few books from the Jedi Archives for Obi-Wan. What’s that?
It’s a rare Force connection, Obi-Wan explained with an amused, indulgent smile. When two separate individuals are one in the Force. I don’t think one has existed or been spoken of since the days of the old Jedi mystics. One can see what the other sees. Hear what the others hears. They can communicate across lightyears. It’s meant to be very powerful.
Anakin doesn’t have time for a trip to ask Jocasta Nu if he and Obi-Wan have a rare and unheard of in thousands of years type of bond, but in his gut, he wonders. He really wonders.
Making his way through the crowds outside the base is no easy task.
Skywalker, some of them say. That’s Skywalker!
The HoloNet News anchor’s voice booms across the city.
“Jedi Master and former general Obi-Wan Kenobi was found guilty today of attempted murder and high treason,” the anchor says, the usual smooth, practiced tone shot through with shock.
“He will be the first Jedi to be executed by the Republic in its thousand-year history. According to a statement from Chancellor Palptine released today, he will be keeping his emergency powers until the Jedi Order can be investigated, even as the Separatists are asking for a return to diplomacy.”
Some of the people in the crowd try to stop Anakin and ask him questions. Some of them stand aside so he can get through. Speeders fly above him in the late afternoon sky, cast red by the bleeding sun. A reporter steps in front of him just as he’s made it out of the biggest crush of people. Dammit, the senate building is within view now if they would just leave him alone.
“Master Skywalker!” the overly-eager young reporter chirps. How dare she chirp like that when Obi-Wan might die? “Master Skywalker, do you have anything to say?”
“No,” he snaps.
Footage of him sobbing appears on the screen nearby. Perfect.
Obi-Wan. Force, Obi-Wan.
Breaking into a run, he avoids any other encounters.
Something on the front of the senate building makes him skid to a sudden halt.
A poster of Palpatine.
He’s seen it a hundred times. It’s old and peeling at the corners.
Do not bind his hands, it says at the top, with a side profile of Palpatine beneath. Grant him the authority he needs to assure total victory.
Before, Anakin saw this and thought, yes, do whatever we need to win the war. Padme started losing faith in Palpatine eventually. He never did.
His first mistake was not listening to his wife.
Of course, Obi-Wan never cared for Palpatine either, but Anakin always chalked that up to Obi-Wan’s distaste for politicians who weren’t Padme or Bail. Obi-Wan can be judgmental. Although, given how much time they’d spent with the chancellor, Anakin should have trusted Obi-Wan’s distrust more.
Palpatine has made one mistake, however.
Picking Obi-Wan for his victim.
Because Obi-Wan, of all the Jedi, is a perfect martyr. People know him. They love him. He’s so good, and Anakin could throw up, he really could because Obi-Wan dying might tip the rage in these streets, the rage all over this war-torn galaxy, toward a real resistance against whatever Palpatine’s specific plans are. People might have conflicted or even negative feelings about the Jedi because of what Palpatine’s done, but Obi-Wan has been a hero on their screens for three years. He is part of the team. Kenobi and Skywalker. The Negotiator and the Hero Without Fear. The Jedi as a whole have been reluctant to be featured in war propaganda, but he and Obi-Wan slipped through more than many others, because everyone, it seems, loves a duo. Loves them.
Palpatine was always respectful of the Jedi dislike of attention. Now Anakin is sure that was only so he could make it easier to blame them.
Once in the deserted hallways of the senate, he treads the familiar path to Padme's office. He shuts the door. Locks it.
And he sobs until he can't breathe.
Did he cry like this when his mother died? No, that was all rage. He spilled his grief out on the desert ground with the sand people’s blood.
Now, his body aches. His eyes are sticky with sweat and tears.
Last night in that jail cell, he thought saving Obi-Wan and the galaxy were one in the same. He didn't hear Obi-Wan, didn't want to hear that this whole thing was a sham. That sure, it would be easy, they'll just break him out if things go bad.
But it's not that easy.
He's going to see Palpatine. No question.
But if he can't get that recording before they execute Obi-Wan, if he can't prove something, then ....
Then ....
Save him, that voice whispers. Vader's voice? That was the name he heard on Tatooine. Lord Vader.
Forget the galaxy. Forget what Obi-Wan wants. Forget the Jedi. Take him and Padme and go. Maybe Ahsoka and Rex too if they’ll come. Leave. Hide. Let Palpatine do what he will with the rest of it.
No. No that's not what Obi-Wan wants. That's not what Padme wants. If he steals Obi-Wan away, his innocence will be suspect. The Jedi will be suspect, and Anakin does love the Jedi, even if he’s always felt somewhat like an outsider. Obi-Wan is risking everything. His life.
Can Anakin take that away from him?
Can he kill Obi-Wan’s spirit just to keep him?
If he can't get that recording ....
He might have to let Obi-Wan go.
What a thing to think, letting someone go. This will not be so peaceful as that. So simple as that. Obi-Wan dying violently. Obi-Wan being executed at the hands of a Sith. If he can’t get that recording by the fixed time of noon the day after tomorrow, unless something changes, Obi-Wan will die.
And Anakin will have to keep playing a part until he can catch Palpatine.
But no. No. There’s a way. He’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out. Obi-Wan can’t go like this. Not like this. He has to meet the twins. He has to.
Remembering Obi-Wan’s words about not isolating himself, Anakin pulls out his holocomm and reaches out for Padme.
She answers before the first ring is even complete.
“Ani?” she says, already worried.
“I’m sorry.” Another sob breaks free. He was ready to go along with Obi-Wan’s plan, but he thought this wouldn’t happen. He thought it would be all right.
“It’s okay, Ani. It’s okay.”
“Where is he?”
“They took him back to his cell.” Holo Padme wipes her eyes. “We can’t see him until tomorrow.”
Anakin can’t see him at all. Not if he’s putting this plan in place. And he is. He has to. He must.
“I’m in your office,” he says. “Can you come here? Alone?”
“All right,” Padme agrees, though she sounds nervous, no doubt wondering why he’s insistent on the alone part. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Anakin crushes the cameras in Padme’s office with the Force, the measly things falling to the carpet.
No one can see them. No one can hear this.
The sight of Padme’s face a few minutes later is the first thing that makes Anakin take a deep breath. She runs to him without a word, and when she lets a sob break free, he only holds her closer. Tighter. He cries too, and then it’s both of them just clinging to each other, and Anakin never wants to let go.
“Ah.” Padme pulls back, keeping one hand on Anakin’s shoulder as the other goes to her belly.
Anakin’s stomach plummets.
“Are you all right? Padme—”
“It’s fine.” She squeezes his shoulder, reassuring him. “It’s the girl. She’s been kicking since the verdict.”
“How do you know it’s the girl?”
Padme smiles. “I don’t know. I just do. She’s upset about her Uncle Obi-Wan. I think the little boy is trying to soothe me. I was upset after talking to Tarkin and I felt … something. It was warm. I’m not sure.”
“Your mom did her best, little one,” Anakin says in the direction of Padme’s stomach, which feels odd but also right.
Padme winces when the baby kicks again.
“Why did you want to see me alone?” Padme asks, just a touch of fear in her eyes. Distrust.
Anakin can’t blame her for that.
“Obi-Wan and I have a plan.”
The distrust vanishes, and Padme’s expression softens, the corner of her mouth tugging upward with amusement.
“Of course you do.”
“Well, it’s more Obi-Wan’s plan,” Anakin admits, “but I have to be the one to enact it. I mean, he can’t, obviously, but he couldn’t even if he wasn’t in a prison cell right now. It has to be me.”
“Explain?” Padme pinches the bridge of her nose like she might be getting a headache. “Please?”
“I have to go to Palpatine,” Anakin says in a rush, because otherwise she’ll argue with him before he can get it out. “I have to pretend I want to join him. I have to convince him so I can catch him saying something incriminating enough to record. Solid proof no one can argue with and that we control. He turned off the cameras in his office. In Obi-Wan's cell. It’s a pattern of what he’ll do or admit when he thinks no one is watching.”
Except, Padme doesn’t argue.
“Take advantage of his arrogance,” she muses. “Take advantage of the fact that he still wants you.” She smiles at him. “That first part sounds like Obi-Wan. That second part sounds like you. Obi-Wan wanted you to do this?”
Anakin leans against Padme’s desk, gesturing in a way he hopes indicates, sort of. “Want me to? Not really. Agree with me? Eventually. When he came up with the plan he knew it would have to be me, but you know him. Didn’t want to put me at risk. But I can do it. And if I can do it before the execution—”
“And if you can’t?”
“I will.”
“Anakin.”
“I don’t”—Anakin runs a hand through his hair, mussing it—“want to think about that.”
“My only love,” she says, stepping close and taking both of his hands, “you have to.”
“I know what he wants.” Anakin runs his gloved thumb over Padme’s knuckles. “He didn’t say it concretely, but he was just trying to spare me. I think he’s been trying to spare me from a lot more than I’ve ever realized. I should have. He’s always taking things on himself when he doesn’t have to. I—”
“What does he want, Ani?” Padme interrupts this ramble, drawing him back to the point at hand. “What did he say?”
Anakin shrugs. “What do you think? Not to focus on him. That getting the proof we need and saving the Jedi and the galaxy are what matters. That it may take time to get Palpatine to talk.”
When Padme doesn’t respond immediately, Anakin squeezes her hands. “You agree, don’t you?”
Tears well in Padme’s eyes, and she lets them fall. Anakin’s honored that she lets him see her like this, because she rarely lets anyone.
“I don’t want to. Force knows, I hate myself for agreeing, but the support the Jedi have is new. It’s fragile. Palpatine is so popular, and if the Jedi do anything that could be seen as treason without proof of Palpatine’s machinations it could tip the scales back the other way. And that’s the last thing Obi-Wan wants.”
Anakin sniffs, gritting his teeth. “He deserves better than to be a martyr. If I’d been here I could have stopped this. I should have killed Palpatine in his office that night. I could have.”
Red-hot rage crashes over him, and he holds tight to Padme’s hand, easing himself out of it like Obi-Wan taught him. He breathes deeply. In and out and in and out.
“You shouldn’t have left,” Padme says, tucking a hair behind his ear, “but that has more to do with us needing you here for the trial. Wanting you here. If you’d killed Palpatine they’d have just called you and Obi-Wan both murderers and we wouldn’t have any sympathy, any proof to use to our advantage.”
Anakin pulls her to him again, and the familiar curve of her body against his is different now, with the pregnancy. Her presence is not just her own, but the souls of their children too. The little girl kicks again, but more gently. Affectionate. The boy’s signature in the Force is soft. Sweet.
What will he do if Obi-Wan never meets the twins? He was with Obi-Wan longer than he was with his mother. Obi-Wan has been so many things to him. Teacher. Father-figure. Best Friend. All three of these things mixed together create the word Anakin most associates with the man who raised him from nine-years-old onward.
His brother.
“I have to go to Palaptine,” Anakin murmurs against Padme’s shoulder. “Not tonight. That’s too fast. Tomorrow. I can’t see Obi-Wan, or Palpatine will know I’m lying. I can’t be seen at all, really.”
“I know.” Padme nestles her head against his chest, smearing her makeup further. “I’ll do my best to let him know.”
“You’re not going to stop me?”
Padme slides out of the embrace, holding his face in both hands. “No. Does it scare me? Yes. But it’s what we need to do—Obi-Wan’s right. Palpatine’s arrogance is the key. And you’re the only one who can do it. I am going to tell Bail about this, along with some of the others. Rex and Cody. Ahsoka . A few of the Jedi. We’ll need them to know in order to make this happen. So they won’t think the wrong thing. We all need to be on the same page.”
Anakin agrees.
And maybe this is where being the Chosen One has led him. To this moment. It is not just him alone, but the people who love him. The people he trusts.
“I love you.” Anakin presses his lips to Padme’s before kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. Everywhere. “I love you so much, Padme.”
“I love you.” Padme presses their foreheads together, her hair tickling his cheeks. “And I love Obi-Wan too.”
Anakin drinks in the moment, allowing himself this slip of joy before everything begins.
“I think I need to stay here so I’m not seen,” he says. “Make Palpatine think I’m tearing myself apart all night about what to do. But there is one thing I need from you.”
“What’s that?”
“I need you to bring me Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.”
Obi-Wan wakes from a shattered sleep.
“Ow,” he mutters, sounding more like his younger self than he has in years. His hands and arms still ache, though they hurt less than before. His headache, however, is worse.
The sharp and unrelenting pain from the Force suppressants sent him crashing into unconsciousness, but it wasn’t for long. Perhaps three hours. Experimental, indeed. Not that anyone giving these to Force-sensitives would care about their pain, but he doubts it was meant to be that volatile.
The Force feels closer now, clinging to his skin rather than hovering nearby, but he still can’t connect with it. Someone put a glass of water and a ration bar on the floor of his cell while he slept, but he doesn’t reach for it.
He sits up, crossing his legs on the cot and leaning against the wall. He shuts his eyes. The possibility of dying has been present since he was a Padawan. Things happen on missions—he almost died at seventeen when he was on Pijal with Qui-Gon. The only thing that stopped him from dying was Qui-Gon. Wartime has only increased his odds of perishing, but waiting on death like this? It’s bone-chilling. Nauseating. A Sith lord has decided when and how he will expire.
Could he meditate? He could try, though without the Force it won’t have the intended effect.
And then he hears a voice. A voice he knows.
“Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open. Qui-Gon is there, a blue-white version of himself like the other night.
“Master?” Obi-Wan asks, swallowing back the sob caught in this throat, and he might as well be sixteen again, unsure if his master wanted him. Still so young.
“Hello, Obi-Wan. I meant to tell you last time, but I like your beard. It suits.”
“Thank you. I’m uh … sorry I shouted at you before.” Obi-Wan scrubs his face, trying to calm himself. What thing is he upset about, exactly? Seeing his master again? Re-living the grief from so long ago that stole his breath away? Mourning his own impending death? “I didn’t … well I wasn’t sure you were real, so I thought it didn’t matter, I suppose. But Master Yoda assured me you were.”
“You’re in pain,” Qui-Gon says, smiling a little at the apology.
Obi-Wan stretches out his right arm, indicating the small wound from the syringe. “Force suppressants. An experimental drug. I’ve heard they were trying. It hurts, though not as badly as it did at first.” He gazes at his dead master, and it is odd to speak to a ghost, but after everything that’s happened, it feels like the least strange thing, really. “Do you … I mean to say, I don’t know … what you … know.”
In another life, Qui-Gon might have teased him for losing his usual eloquence, but he doesn’t now.
“I know.”
He doesn’t need to say what he knows, though Obi-Wan wishes he would explain the finer points of being a Force ghost. Spirit? Complex hallucination? He isn’t sure. With Qui-Gon's intense interest in the old Jedi mystics it’s no surprise that he was the one to sort this out.
Obi-Wan runs a hand through his increasingly oily hair, a confession slipping past his lips without warning. “I wish I could say I was ready. I thought I was ready, with the war. I’m willing, to save the Jedi. To be a martyr if I need to be. But dying like this is … different. I don’t ….” He trails off.
Qui-Gon sits down on the cot, and Obi-Wan has a thousand questions about how all of this works. What can they interact with? How much do they know? But there isn’t time.
“No one could be ready for this.”
Qui-Gon puts a hand on Obi-Wan's back, and it doesn’t feel cold, but warm. That’s a surprise.
“I should be. I must be. The people who care for me are going through enough.”
“What about what you’re going through?”
“Jedi are meant to be selfless.”
“Obi-Wan"—Qui-Gon says his name in that familiar way that is fond and exasperated all at once—“I think you have that covered. Last we spoke, you said you weren’t good enough—”
Obi-Wan flushes. “We don’t need to talk about that.”
“I think we do,” Qui-Gon says. “I know you’re on the council now, and wiser than I ever was, but it is my duty as your master to see what you cannot.”
Obi-Wan's heart clenches. This is how it should have been. Qui-Gon at the official knighting ceremony Obi-Wan never got because of what happened. Qui-Gon offering advice long-past Obi-Wan's Padawan days. The two of them sharing a cup of tea or caf and lightly bickering over the code or the council, their differences leading to a healthy debate. Obi-Wan asking for advice on Anakin’s training, if, in this scenario, he was still the one training him—he can’t imagine not being Anakin’s master. Force, how he could have used Qui-Gon's guidance sometimes.
“You know I'm on the council?”
Qui-Gon smiles indulgently. “Assume I know the basics. I’m impressed, you know.”
The obvious question pops into Obi-Wan's mind, and he is once again the nervous but inquisitive Padawan.
“I … you know about—”
“Dooku?” Qui-Gon finishes, his mouth turning into a thin line. “Yes. But we’re not here to talk about that. We’re here to talk about you, even if you’d rather not. You said you weren’t good enough to train Anakin, and yet Anakin came back from the dark for you.” Qui-Gon's as gentle here as Obi-Wan wished he was the other evening. “It was the will of the Force that I was the one to find him, but I believe it was also the will of the Force that you would be the one to train him. I don’t think anyone else could have. Even me.”
“Master—”
“I’m not quite done, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon chides. “You were good enough for all of those people to show up today. For Senator Organa and Senator Amidala to represent. And you were good enough for me. I know our start was rocky, but we grew so close. I know”—Qui-Gon pauses here—“that I made you feel pushed aside in our last few days together. I act before I think sometimes, which you well know. I truly did think you were ready. There was so much going on, but I will not excuse my not communicating well enough with you. For that I am sorry. I was so proud of you. And I remain proud of you.”
The remaining sting of Qui-Gon putting him aside during that long-ago council meeting heals.
“Thank you, Master. Truly.”
Qui-Gon taps his chin like he might be considering something he found in the archives. “You know, I spent a great deal of our early years thinking I was not doing you justice as a master—”
“Qui-Gon—”
Qui-Gon quirks an eyebrow. “Allow me to finish?”
“Sorry.”
“And I think, though the situation is different, that you picked up that belief from me. That you think you have not done Anakin justice as a master. I assure you that isn’t true.”
This makes that earlier sob threaten Obi-Wan again, but he manages to keep it at bay.
“Thank you. He is … training him is the most important thing I’ll ever do.”
Qui-Gon squeezes his shoulder, letting the moment rest. There is one thing Obi-Wan can’t admit to anyone in his life right now.
But he can admit it to his old master. His mentor. His teacher since the age of thirteen.
“I’m scared, Master.”
This admission is like wringing blood from a stone. It hurts. Shame seeps beneath his skin. He might well be thirteen again, with that phrasing. That crack in his voice.
Qui-Gon doesn’t judge him.
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
“I shouldn’t be. I’m a Jedi master. I was commanding a whole sector of the army. I—"
Qui-Gon refuses to accept his self-deprecating ramble by way of simply interrupting him.
“Are you scared of the execution itself?”
It’s the first time Qui-Gon's said the word, and it does send a shiver up Obi-Wan's spine to hear it again.
“Yes.” Obi-Wan’s stomach burbles, that nausea roaring back to life. “I’m not scared of dying, but I … I’m afraid of the spectacle, I suppose. I’m afraid Palpatine will make it as painful as possible and that I’ll lose my dignity. Is that foolish?”
“No. That’s not foolish at all. Dying this way is … it’s not what I wanted for you, to say the least. It’s barbaric. And I still hope perhaps it can be stopped.”
“Some of the Jedi called me the Sith Killer, after you died.” Obi-Wan strokes his beard out of habit. “I hated it. I just wanted you back. It seems ironic, now that a Sith is going to kill me. The Sith who trained the man who killed you.”
Qui-Gon shakes his head, and as he does, Obi-Wan's connection to the Force starts up again. It’s fuzzy and faint. It cuts in and out, but it’s there.
The first thing he senses is his master’s grief.
“What else are you afraid of?” Qui-Gon prompts.
“Of Palpatine wiping out the Jedi and breaking the Republic. That my death won’t be enough. That it won’t serve to make clear the truth. That the Jedi and the others will try too hard to save me and it will ruin the new footing we’ve gained with the public. I don’t want that.” He breathes in, forcing himself to admit his greatest fear. “And I’m afraid of leaving Anakin alone for Palpatine to corrupt.”
“Do you trust Anakin?”
Here, it’s Obi-Wan's turn to pause.
“Before this, with everything. Anything. And I do now, but I … he’s vulnerable. He’s so good and he’s so passionate and courageous and smart, but his fear of loss—I was never able to help him with it. Not in a way that mattered, even if I tried to share my own experiences with grief. Perhaps I wasn’t as open as I should have been. Anakin’s recklessness, his temper, his lack of balance, are nothing in comparison to that wound. It’s the one that could destroy him.”
“Anakin came back from the claws of the dark side,” Qui-Gon says, “And I think you need to trust him one last time. You need to let him be there for you instead of worrying that you won’t be there for him. And he must learn to trust the others in his life.”
One of the knots tied tight around Obi-Wan's spine loosens. There are so many of them, but it does grant him at least a moment’s serenity. He rests his head in his hands, fingers twisting into his hair.
“What if he won’t let me go?”
Obi-Wan can’t talk about the plan here. He can’t talk about the fact that if Anakin doesn’t get proof by the set time of noon the day after tomorrow that there will be no way out of this execution, not if the Jedi and the galaxy are to be protected. Breaking him out of here will make him look guilty. The Jedi attempting to stop the execution without the recording could make them look like they’re trying to seize power.
If no proof is gotten, Obi-Wan's death could serve to cement the new support the Jedi are getting. Obi-Wan didn’t understand it—still doesn’t—but the public have latched onto him, or at least the version of him they know from the HoloNet. People’s resilience, their spirits, have been broken down by the war, but the death of an innocent man? One they saw being openly mistreated after seeing him on their screens for years?
That could cause even more of an uproar.
Qui-Gon tilts his head, and though he doesn’t know the details—or maybe he does, Obi-Wan doesn’t know the limits of Force ghosts—he seems confident.
“What he will do is out of your hands now, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon puts a hand on Obi-Wan’s cheek, their gazes locking together. “You must let him go.”
Those words pierce Obi-Wan's soul.
“I—”
Qui-Gon raises a hand. “I know. I’m inscrutable. What I mean is you are still acting as Anakin’s master, and in some ways you will always be his teacher. You want to protect him still.”
“I trust Anakin with things all the time,” Obi-Wan protests, knowing he sounds sullen. “He’s a great warrior. Leads a whole battalion of clones himself.”
“Yes.” Qui-Gon remains patient. “But you feel responsible for him.”
“Aren’t I?” Obi-Wan asks with the annoyance of the adolescent he was and the weariness of the adult he is. “He … I was gone for two or three days and he almost became a Sith.”
“That is not because of you,” Qui-Gon insists, firmer now. “You interrupted it. You saved him. And maybe that was your last act as his master. It’s time to let him be your friend.”
“He is my friend,” Obi-Wan insists. “My dearest friend.”
“What I mean,” Qui-Gon says, still maddeningly serene, “is that whatever he decides now, it will be his choice. You laid his foundation. He has to decide what to do with it. You’ve done everything you could.”
Here Obi-Wan heaves a sigh, because this feels like the impossible. He feels like he could never do enough.
But Qui-Gon isn’t wrong.
“I know how much you care about him,” Qui-Gon says with real warmth. “I know you want to focus on the thousand times he’s done something reckless, or that you’ve worried about his weaknesses. But you must—”
“Focus on the present,” Obi-Wan mutters with a tiny smile. “I have gotten better at that, you know. To quite a remarkable degree.”
Qui-Gon laughs, and something about it makes tears spring to Obi-Wan's eyes. He missed his master’s laugh. Such a tiny thing, a personal thing, but he still hears it in his head to this day.
Qui-Gon always appreciated his wry sense of humor.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers, taking Obi-Wan's hands in his. His fingers aren’t quite solid, but they aren’t hollow, either. It’s odd. “I will be with you every step of the way. Even if you can’t see me, I’ll be there. However this turns out. And if it does happen, listen for the sound of my voice when it does. Concentrate. I have one last thing to teach you—I just hope we might have longer before I must.”
Obi-Wan nods, letting his tears fall. “I’ve missed you, Master.”
And it’s true. It’s so, so true. Qui-Gon could be frustrating and inscrutable and stubborn one second, then warm and funny and wise the next. Their early years were mismatched and rocky, but their friendship was unstoppable eventually. There was a fight they had once, when Qui-Gon had an offer to join the council and botched telling Obi-Wan about it, and every issue between them boiled to the surface, both of them caring about each other deeply but failing to communicate it. That day, Obi-Wan was sure he would have a new master in the morning.
But Qui-Gon stayed. He turned down an invitation to the council for many reasons, but also to keep teaching Obi-Wan.
They approach things differently, but there are so many parts of Obi-Wan that exist because of his master.
Qui-Go passed down his deep love of meditation, and Obi-Wan picked it up. Despite Obi-Wan’s plans on plans, despite his anxieties, Qui-Gon taught him to be grounded and calm in the moment. That lesson has served him well. Become an integral part of him. And while Obi-Wan is on the council and has always looked more to their wisdom than Qui-Gon did, Qui-Gon taught him to make his opinions known and not fear doing so. In this difficult time, when the council has faced impossible decisions, that skill has been more important than he ever knew it would be.
Qui-Gon gave him Anakin.
“I have missed you, too,” Qui-Gon says with a deep fondness. “Obi-Wan, when did you start learning Soresu?”
Obi-Wan meets his master’s eye again. “After you died. I wanted my defense to be so thorough that no one could get past it. What was it you said once, about why you insisted on going over the basic lightsaber forms over and over again? You wanted me to be untouchable. I didn’t want anyone else to die because I couldn’t protect them.”
Obi-Wan takes a shaky breath. He’s never said that to anyone. Not to Anakin. Not to Quinlan or Luminara or Mace or Yoda.
No one.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Qui-Gon whispers, but he doesn’t press further. “But your dehydration will be mine if I didn’t remind you to drink some of that water at the least. Then you must rest.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“For the people who will be coming to see you tomorrow, you must,” Qui-Gon insists. “For your head to be clear, you must.”
Obi-Wan obeys, drinking half the glass of water, and with Master Che’s voice in his head, eats half the ration bar too. He lays down, and the shimmering blue version of Qui-Gon stands up.
“Close your eyes, Padawan.”
Qui-Gon speaks in a low, soothing voice, and the addition of Padawan might be old habit. It might be on purpose. But the affection in it slows Obi-Wan’s heart.
“The Force is with me and I am one with the Force.” Qui-Gon runs his thumb along Obi-Wan’s hairline, drawing away a layer of anxiety and replacing it with the heavy-lidded lure of sleep. “And I fear nothing, because all is as the Force wills it.”
Qui-Gon repeats the motion and the mantra. Once. Twice. Three times. Obi-Wan gives in, and for a brief few hours, knows nothing but the peace of true rest.
Padme wakes abruptly from the claws of a nightmare.
The nightmare slips away as soon as she opens her eyes, but the remnants remain. A racing heart. Sweat beading at her hairline. An unshakeable sense of unease.
That wouldn’t be surprising, generally. Everything is an unholy wreck.
It takes a moment to gain her bearings. She’s not in her apartment but in one of Bail’s two guest rooms. Cody and Rex are bunking in the other. Ahsoka slept on the sofa. Bail has concerns any of them could get murdered, and Padme can’t blame him in the slightest.
How long has she been asleep?
Six hours according to the clock. An eternity, with everything going on. The pregnancy tires her, otherwise she doubts she could have slept at all. Her holocomm beeps, signaling a message she missed while she slept.
Hi, a disheveled Anakin says. Just wanted to let you know I was okay. I slept for a couple of hours on the couch in your office. Raided your snack stash. I figured you wouldn’t mind. Meet me back here around noon, okay? Then I have to go. Erase this when you get it. I love you. Tell the kids hello from their dad.
Padme runs a hand over her stomach, passing on the greeting. Anakin looked tired, but even now he doesn’t look as bad as those few days before the incident that started this. He doesn’t sound so terribly flat. Just scared. Upset. Determined, though, most of all.
This plan of Obi-Wan’s makes sense. It makes so much sense and Padme wishes it didn’t. She wishes Anakin didn’t have to put himself in danger of death and temptation. She wishes he didn’t have to put himself in the same room with a man who has been using him from the start. A shiver shudders through her, and before she can contemplate how long Palpatine has been aiming to turn her husband to the dark, before she can fully accept that he was probably the one truly behind her assassination attempt three years ago, there’s a knock on the door.
“Morning,” Breha Organa says when she opens it. “I thought I heard you awake.” She steps into the room, holding out a steaming cup. “Tea?”
“Bless you.” Padme takes a sip even though it scalds her tongue. There’s a touch of milk, because Bail never forgets. “Did you sleep?”
Breha shrugs, though somehow she does it elegantly. “A little bit. Bail was … well he was upset through quite a bit of the night. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you. He cares so much about Master Kenobi. And all of this is just … I can hardly believe it. I hate the thought of Obi-Wan in that awful cell. He’s so kind.”
“He is,” Padme whispers, holding the mug tightly in both hands.
Breha sits down next to her, putting one hand on Padme’s back. “How are you? Are you feeling all right?”
“I just want these two”—she puts one hand on her belly —“to be able to meet their Uncle Obi-Wan. I can’t … he is one of my closest friends. Master Skywalker’s too. Bail’s. It’s unthinkable.”
Padme echoes Bail’s words of two days previous—Uncle Obi-Wan. This is the naked truth. The soft underbelly of her fear. A tacit confession of who Anakin is to her. What losing Obi-Wan will mean for her. For their children.
For Anakin.
But the Organas are so good-hearted, such loyal friends. Maybe it’s all right to break a little in front of them. They’re all a little broken, right now.
“I know.” Breha kisses Padme’s cheek. “I want that too. Have you heard from Master Skywalker?”
Padme nods. “He’s safe. I’m to meet him later this morning. But first I have to go to the temple and tell the Jedi council what’s going on.”
“They just commed, actually,” Breha says with an apologetic look. “They want you and Bail to come to the council chambers as soon as you can. There’s been some news.”
“News?” Padme questions. “It’s seven am, what’s happened already?”
Padme finds out when Breha leads her to the living room, where the HoloNet News is already on. Bail, Rex, Cody, and Ahsoka are all gathered around, each of them holding a cup of caf or tea.
“We have breaking news about the state of the war this morning,” the anchor says. “An official ceasefire has been declared by the Separatists, which means an official return to diplomacy. However, Chancellor Palpatine’s office has made it clear that the Grand Army of the Republic will remain on Separatist planets until further notice to prevent new fighting breaking out. The Jedi will be removed from the military, and their duties filled by clone commanders given the suspicions surrounding the Order.”
“Palpatine made the Jedi into soldiers,” Ahsoka mumbles, “and then removes us when he decides to. Implies we didn’t try hard enough. That we’re traitors.”
Padme would smile at Ahsoka speaking as if she’s still in the order—because it might mean she’s thinking of rejoining—but right now she only feels rage.
“This is going to throw the lads off,” Cody adds. “Everything is set up to have the Jedi in place, and even if the fighting is over we’ll need them for the peace talks. General Kenobi especially. But I’m guessing the chancellor isn’t going to allow any of that.”
“Yeah.” Ahsoka snorts. She takes a sip of her caf, which likely contains the contents of several sugar packets. “Even though peace talks and peacekeeping are part of the Jedi’s mandate.”
“Might be better for the rest of the Jedi out there to be away from the clones though.” Rex sighs, and he doesn’t look like he slept. “So at least there’s that. Or maybe Palpatine is just trying to get all the Jedi here for some sinister reason. I don’t know anymore.”
Bail makes an angry noise, switching the channel only to find Mas Amedda on screen.
Master Kenobi’s impending execution should serve as a warning to other Jedi who attempt—
“Force, enough of him already,” Bail says, changing the channel yet again to one of the morning political talk shows. They’re playing a clip of the trial, more specifically a clip of Anakin sobbing and Quinlan stopping him from vaulting over the rail toward who knows what. Padme can only guess he might have been trying to jump toward Tarkin, who was closest.
“I think it’s awful,” one of the guests is saying. “Anakin Skywalker is a hero of this war, and I can only imagine what he’s going through right now. It seems like the Hero Without Fear would know if his Negotiator was actually a cold-blooded murderer. Something about the chancellor’s story doesn’t add up.”
Anakin would hate this, but Padme can’t deny that his breakdown in the courtroom will earn sympathy for Obi-Wan. People talk about Obi-Wan and Anakin like they’re a living myth. They’re not just a team, they’re the team. In his rage, in his desire to break Obi-Wan for getting in his way, Palpatine has perhaps made a misstep in going at things quite so hard
“Yes,” the host chimes in. “As much as I’ve grown to doubt the Jedi, Master Kenobi has always remained in my esteem. He’s so humble, and the clips of him on Ryloth back near the start of the war have stayed with me. If he says the Jedi Order aren’t up to something, if he says the chancellor has nefarious motives, well, I’m inclined to listen. I feel awful about what’s happening to him, and I think we need more time to uncover the truth. This swiftness of this planned execution just makes me more suspicious.”
Time. That’s exactly the thing they don’t have enough of.
And because of that, Padme doesn’t know if any of this will be enough to save Obi-Wan. If there was more time, yes, but things are moving so, so fast. And if the Jedi make one wrong move? Game over.
Padme puts her arm around Ahsoka ’s shoulders. “If the Jedi complain about being removed from a fragile situation without warning, Palpatine and his ilk will say that the Jedi didn’t want to be soldiers in the first place. He’ll say they already summoned most of the Jedi home. So there’s no way for them to win.”
“Shouldn’t this vendetta against the Jedi make it clear the chancellor is a Sith?” Rex asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
Bail shakes his head. “I didn’t even know about the Sith until I went to Zigoola with Obi-Wan. Padme didn’t know until Maul showed up on Naboo. It’s been a thousand years since the Sith had any power. Obi-Wan says that the Jedi are taught about them, but up until the blockade of Naboo they were a concept more than a reality, even if the Jedi fought them for thousands of years.”
“We should go to the Jedi council, Padme,” Bail says. “Master Windu sounded … almost panicked, at least for him. It disturbed me.”
With some help from Threepio, Padme gets ready as fast as she can and goes with Bail in his speeder to the Jedi Temple. Obi-Wan's lightsaber is concealed inside her bag, and it feels heavy. Like a bad omen.
Their ride over to the Temple is eventful to say the least. Traffic snarls around the city, people honking their horns to no avail. Crowds are forming—even at this hour—outside the base when they pass over from 500 Republica. People are holding signs. Broken glass shards spill across the ground. Lines and lines and lines of clones are visible.
“Kriff,” Bail mutters, taking a sharp turn. “This is only getting worse.”
The Temple is no better than the rest of the city.
All the Temple guards on duty. Padawans circling the building. Knights lining the steps.
Inside the airy, high-ceilinged halls, there is no serenity. No peace. Tension twists around Padme when she steps through the door, trending toward fear. A gnawing fear she feels in the pit of her stomach.
Padme’s breath catches. Palpatine wants to destroy the Jedi. Wipe them out. She knows it, and she must find a way to stop it.
Bail’s hand goes to her shoulder. His unending kindness, his courage, grounds her as it always has. Padme gathers herself when two young Jedi knights come to meet them and lead them up to the council chamber.
“The rest of the council along with Master Vos, since he’s a good friend of Master Kenobi’s, should be here soon,” one of the knights says. “Master Windu is inside.” He pauses, glancing at his friend. “We wanted to thank you both for what you’ve done for Master Kenobi. We all care about and respect him so highly and it’s … well, you’re putting your necks out for him and for the order. We appreciate it.”
“We are on yours and Master Kenobi’s side,” Bail assures him. “And we’ll keep doing everything we can.”
“Don’t give up hope just yet,” Padme adds.
“Never, Senator Amidala.”
What they find inside the council chamber sears Padme’s memory.
Mace Windu with his head in his hands. Mace Windu hunched in his chair. Mace Windu with a wrinkled tunic and a stained robe. Padme doubts he’s noticed either.
“Master Windu.” Bail steps over toward the usually collected Jedi master. “Are you all right?”
The light pouring in through the window seems a mockery. Colorful speeders fly past, but the hum of them, usually the background noise of Padme’s life, seems louder. Overwhelming.
Windu looks up, gesturing at them to sit in the extra chairs that have been brought in.
“This morning,” he says, “I woke up thinking, if we try to stop this, to save Obi-Wan, it might look like we’re trying to overthrow the Republic. Then I realized I wasn’t sure if I cared. I should care, but it …” He trails off, shaking his head as grief-drenched rage slips into his voice. “Obi-Wan is the best of us. To lose him like this, to watch them spill his blood on the steps of our home over a lie… how is that to be borne?”
“I don’t know,” Padme replies, and she’s never seen Master Windu like this. Not once. “But I do have something to share with you that might lend light to the situation, if not easy answers.”
Windu quirks an eyebrow. “Where’s Master Skywalker? I sense his fingerprints on whatever you’re about to tell me.”
There’s distrust in Windu’s voice, not at her, but at Anakin. There’s warmth too. Respect that perhaps Anakin has not fully comprehended before.
Padme tries—and hopefully succeeds—at not blushing. “He’s currently in my office. We should wait for the others.”
They talk of the news about the Jedi being removed so abruptly from the military even as the peace is fragile. A peace Obi-Wan clenched by destroying Grievous, Bail points out. They talk of their plans to visit Obi-Wan this afternoon when they’re allowed into the base. More Jedi council members trickle in. Depa Billaba. Ki-adi-Mundi. Plo Koon. Kit Fisto. Shaak Ti. Agen Kolar. Stass Allie. Yoda comes in last with Quinlan Vos at his side.
“Called home, the remaining Jedi have been,” Yoda says in greeting, “after Palpatine’s announcement this morning. Nervous, we are, to remove them from more difficult planets, but leave them we could not, when the clones are so easily at the chancellor’s disposal, and hostility, they may face, if go they did not.”
“I think you made the best choice you could, Master Yoda.” Padme smiles at the wizened Jedi grandmaster, who has always seemed to like her. Hopefully, when the marriage comes to light, that will help her case. “For once, the Jedi need to be kept safe.”
“Agree, I do.” Yoda returns her smile, but he looks so sad.
That scares Padme more than anything so far.
“The senators were just telling me they had something to share with us,” Master Windu says.
“Wait,” Kit Fisto replies, “where’s Skywalker?”
“Well”—Padme stands up, too nervous to sit in her chair, but if she can talk to thousands of senators, she can do this—“he and Obi-Wan have something of a plan.”
Quinlan snorts, drawing a look of reprimand from Ki-Adi-Mundi. “Of course they do.”
“The only people outside this room who know about it are Rex, Cody, Ahsoka , and Breha Organa.” Padme gazes around the room, meeting each Jedi’s eye. “It must stay that way. Even from the other Jedi. Trust is not an issue with them, of course, but this information must be kept to a limited circle.”
“Understood, Senator Amidala.” Plo Koon leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Please, tell us what’s going on.”
So, Padme does. She talks about Obi-Wan's idea to get a recording, born of the fact that if the security cameras had been on in Palpatine’s office there would be no question as to who was guilty of what. That Obi-Wan believes Palpatine’s arrogance will be his downfall. That Anakin would be the one to go. That Anakin is the only one who can.
“Obi-Wan wants Anakin to go?” Master Windu asks, and the way he strokes his chin in thought reminds Padme so forcefully of the way Obi-Wan strokes his beard that it nearly makes her cry.
“Wants him to, no,” Padme answers. “Trusts him to, yes. I understand why any of you would have concerns over this given the events of the last few days. I do.” She pauses. She can’t tell them the truth, not without Anakin here, but she needs them to understand. “I’ve been friends with Master Skywalker for a long time. I know how much he cares about Obi-Wan. It was Obi-Wan who brought him back. He wants to honor that. To do what Obi-Wan is asking.”
“Stop himself from descending fully into the dark, young Skywalker did,” Yoda says, and Master Windu eyes him with grave interest. “No small matter, that is, when manipulating him, the chancellor has been.”
“And if Anakin can’t get that recording before tomorrow at noon?”
That’s Quinlan again, but he’s not amused now. He’s not laughing.
Padme and Bail’s holocomms go off, and Padme lets it go to her messages—she doesn’t want them tracing or even guessing at where she is right now.
“An emergency session of the senate is being called at 9:00 this morning,” the message says. “And it is mandatory.”
“We have to go see what this is about.” Padme sighs, knowing it can’t be anything good. “But we will meet back here this evening after we’ve all seen Obi-Wan. Whatever we decide, whatever happens, I know none of us want to let that pass us by. Or we can go to Senator Organa’s apartment. Whichever you prefer.”
“Here is more secure.” Windu gives her a nod. That tells her that he isn’t outright against the plan or he would have said so already. “We’ve checked for bugs. For any hidden cameras. This is the safest place on Coruscant for us to speak.”
Bail puts a hand on Padme’s back, and her strange new gestational Force-sensitivity tells her the depth of his fear for her safety. Whereas she might bristle at most people being protective like this, the impulse from Bail is true.
“Senator Amidala?” Quinlan asks, running up behind them in the hall outside the council chambers, the soft muttering of the other Jedi inside floating toward them.
“Something wrong, Master Vos?” Padme asks.
“If you’re going to see Anakin before—” He doesn’t specify what he means, taking her warnings about secrecy seriously. “I’d like to go with you. I’ve tussled with what he’s tussled with these last few days. I think it might help him. And help Obi-Wan in turn. Obi-Wan is an old friend, and without him, I wouldn’t be here right now. This is the least I can do.”
Padme knows a little about Quinlan’s descent to the dark side from Anakin, and the few times Obi-Wan has mentioned it, but she doesn’t need to hear all the details to see the real concern in Quinlan’s eyes.
“Wait for me outside the senate chamber,” she says in agreement. “Pretend like you’re listening in. Don’t talk to anyone.”
Quinlan salutes her, and it’s the first thing all day that’s made her truly smile.
After that, she and Bail take off toward the senate building.
They’re met with none two few stares when they arrive. Whispers. Like people around them know something they don’t.
“I am not in the mood for this,” Bail mutters. “What else could possibly be going on?”
“There you two are.” Mon approaches, walking up to them with her usual elegance, even in this fraught situation. “Word is this is about the regional governors Palpatine wants to implement. He seems to be going forward.”
“The war is over.” Padme speaks through clenched teeth, trying to keep her temper. “How can anyone possibly think this is all right?”
“I don’t know.” Mon ushers Bail and Padme forward, keeping both of them in front of her. “But let’s go. Sit with me and stay away from the gossiping shrews.”
They take their seats just as Palpatine steps into his pod with Mas Amedda and Sly Moore. Palpatine is still wearing that Force-forsaken sling. Padme wants to rip it off him with her own two hands. She wants to slap that smug smile right off his face.
Mon was right.
The session takes ages. If they don’t finish soon Padme has to go to meet Anakin, and leaving early will only make her suspect.
Palpatine explains a plan to give the regional governors he was already appointing yet more power due to potential unrest. After a painstaking lecture about the need for said governors, he tells them that arrests have already been made on Ryloth, Alderaan, and Naboo of citizens who “expressed sympathy for traitors to the Republic.” More are likely to follow from Felucia, Shili, Kiros, and others.
Of course. Of course.
Padme reaches for the button on their pod so she can speak, but Mon grasps her wrist gently, shaking her head. She’s right. She’s right, but a scream scratches at the back of Padme’s throat, begging for freedom.
The Republic is caving in and screaming will not help. Being smart will.
Inside the senate, this news elicits two very different reactions.
On one side, applause. The people who are in Palpatine’s pocket. The people who loved the war for the money it made them. The people who say the word security like they’re talking about fine art.
On the other, deadly silence. Not the usual boos or protests, but palpable rage. A few gasps.
“The Jedi Order,” Palpatine continues the moment Mon presses the button herself, the ding going off so Mas Amedda can call on her to speak, “will be investigated thoroughly. Masters, knights, and Padawans will be interviewed. The Jedi council will have senate representatives at every meeting. We can only hope that Master Kenobi’s fate will serve as a warning, tragic as it is to see such a respected Jedi lose his way. Being complacent with such powerful beings is, perhaps, what led to this dreadful situation in the first place.”
Mas Amedda, finally unable to ignore Mon any longer, visibly rolls his eyes.
“The senator from Chandrila may speak.”
“Given the unrest on other worlds as well as here on Coruscant,” Mon begins with a quiet power Padme has always admired, “perhaps it would be wise to have a gentler hand. The Jedi are loyal servants of the Republic. Though perhaps this is not the Republic anymore, if we are arresting citizens for expressing their opinion.”
“Senator—” Mas Amedda tries.
“Granting Master Kenobi a stay of execution is the only reasonable course of action.” Mon straightens her shoulders, staring Palpatine right in the face. “Or will you risk breaking the peace that we have fought so hard to gain? That Master Kenobi, in fact, managed to bring about when he killed Grievous.”
“Be careful, Senator Mothma,” Mas Amedda says, filling his usual role of Palpatine’s enforcer so that Palpatine never has to play the villain. “Or you will be removed from your committees just like Senators Organa and Amidala.”
“We were not made aware of this.” Bail steps forward, and though his voice remains at a normal volume there is no less indignation. “I am certain an explanation is required for both Senator Amidala and myself. This is nothing less than retribution.”
“Until we can be certain that you are loyal to the Republic,” Mas Amedda replies, “I’m afraid this is our only course of action.”
Shouting breaks out. The chancellor simply removing senators from their committees is not how anything is meant to work. Doing such a thing requires a vote of all the other members of a committee. It is not surprise to Padme that some of her fellows are drawn faster to anger over broken procedure as opposed to injustice, but the procedures do matter in the senate, even if reform is desperately needed. The ability for one man to simply decide who may do what is not democracy.
After that, things go much like Obi-Wan's trial. Mas Amedda calls for order. Palpatine plays the role of the overburdened leader. Padme and Bail are stopped by supportive colleagues once things are over, but talking to said colleagues leaves time for something else.
"Senator Amidala," Palpatine says, sickly sweet. "Senator Organa.”
There are no news crews this time. Of course there aren’t. Other senators linger, but Mas Amedda and Sly Moore and some of the Coruscant Guard usher them away, leaving the hallway fairly empty.
"What do you want?" Bail snaps, and Padme lays a hand on his arm.
"Simply to express my regret at having to remove you from your committees." Palpatine gives them a sinister smile. "But I'm afraid having Jedi sympathizers wielding influence at the moment simply isn't possible."
Jedi sympathizers. Palpatine is showing his hand.
"Do what you like, Chancellor." Padme smiles too, so tight it hurts. "You can't remove us from the senate."
"No." Palpatine waves his hand, giving what might sound like a friendly laugh. "But without other privileges, all you'll have the power to do is cast a vote. And is that enough, really?"
"Is that a threat?" she asks.
"Simply a suggestion that you both publicly revoke your support of Master Kenobi," Palpatine says. "Perhaps then we can be friends again. We were for so long."
"We are not abandoning Obi-Wan," Bail replies, side-stepping so there is no space between him and Padme. "No career is worth that. We can find other ways to do good if we must."
"Are you sure?" Palpatine raises his eyebrows. "Because Master Kenobi will be dead in oh, twenty-four hours or so. I, however, will still be here.”
Padme clenches her fist. Calm. She must be calm. "You haven't won. Not yet."
"Haven't I?" Palpatine asks. "But perhaps you're right. Perhaps the moment I win will be when Obi-Wan Kenobi's last breath leaves his body tomorrow. Shooting him is a mercy, Senator. I would have rights to be much crueler to the man who attempted to destroy our Republic and end my life. Test me, and perhaps I will be."
Bail shakes his head with a huff. “There’s no need to play coy with us, Chancellor. We know the truth. There’s no need to pretend that Obi-Wan is guilty of anything but trying to stop you.”
An ugly look mars Palpatine’s smile, and finally, it dies. “For that, Senator Organa, you will not be permitted to accompany the Jedi to his death tomorrow. You will watch in the crowd like everyone else. One more word, and the same will go for Senator Amidala.”
Bail’s brown eyes narrow, but he stays quiet.
"Let's go, Bail," Padme says. “We don’t need to hear anymore.”
“Padme,” Palpatine calls out once they’ve turned, once again sticky sweet. “Do tell Anakin hello for me, won’t you?”
Padme’s diverted from her plan to ignore this by Quinlan making himself visible from around the corner. She makes to simply meet him and walk away, except Palpatine calls out again.
But not to her.
“Master Vos,” Palpatine says. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Quinlan tosses the hood of his robe back, the yellow qukuuf markings on his face the brightest thing in the dark senate hallway. “I was interested in hearing about the removal of the Jedi from the military. Are we not allowed to observe anymore, Chancellor Palpatine?”
“For now. You know, Master Vos, I’ve been made aware that you’re close with Master Kenobi,” Palpatine replies with dark and giddy amusement. “My condolences for your impending loss.”
Quinlan jaw visibly tenses, but perhaps having heard Palpatine’s earlier threat, he says nothing. Palpatine’s drawn away after that, and Padme promises to meet Bail at the base to visit Obi-Wan in an hour.
“Thank you for letting me come, Senator.” Quinlan keeps his pace equal to hers, minding how much longer his legs are. “I know we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other, but Obi-Wan always has great things to say. Anakin too.”
“I’ve heard quite the intriguing stories about you, Master Vos.” Padme takes his arm when it’s offered, Quinlan’s eyes darting around the hallway with suspicion when some senators won’t stop staring at them. “Obi-Wan speaks fondly of all your troublemaking.”
Quinlan laughs, and the joy in it settles Padme’s heart a little. “Obi-Wan just doesn’t want to tell you what he got up to as a youngling.”
It’s deserted when they reach her office. Good. No one will see them.
“Padme,” Anakin chides when she steps inside. “I said alone.”
“Calm down, Skywalker.” Quinlan says. “I’m the one who’s gone undercover more times than the number of years you’ve been alive. I think I can keep a secret.”
Anakin shrugs and turns to Padme. “You have it?”
Padme nods, taking out Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and handing it over. Given the level of chaos both of them are capable of, she finds it endlessly amusing that Anakin seems to like bickering with Quinlan.
“You’re going to give it to Palpatine?” Quinlan asks. “The Sith do like that. Keeping tokens. Dooku had one. Good strategy.”
Anakin grins, though it’s not half so breath-stopping and bright as usual. “That was my thought. Glad you agree.”
“Give it here a minute.” Quinlan puts his hand out. “I want to see something.”
“Vos,” Anakin warns, “you aren’t supposed to do this with weapons.”
“Do what?” Padme asks, bewildered.
“He can see pieces of memories when he touches an object,” Anakin explains. “It’s called psychometry, or Force Echo. Have I not mentioned this?”
Padme quirks an eyebrow. The more she learns about the Force, the more she feels like she doesn’t know enough.
“No. But why aren’t you supposed to do it with weapons?”
“It can expose you to the dark side,” Anakin answers. “Because, as you can guess, the memories associated with weapons might not be … the best kind.”
“I’m all right.” Quinlan sounds sure. Steady. He tosses off his robe, and it lands in an inelegant pile on the floor. “I can handle it. For Obi-Wan, I can handle it.”
Quinlan winces as soon as the saber hilt hits his hand. He grasps Padme’s desk, shutting his eyes and sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Vos—” Anakin tries.
“Don’t,” Quinlan interrupts. “I need to focus.”
Quinlan weights the saber in his palm, the muscles in his arms visibly twitching.
“Kriffing bastard,” Quinlan mutters. “This damn kriffing bastard. Cheat.”
“Quinlan?” Padme asks, not unkindly. “Care to elaborate?”
“Sorry, Senator.” Quinlan opens his eyes again, handing the saber back to Anakin with trembling fingers. “I’m just surprised Obi-Wan’s alive. Were he a lesser duelist, less powerful, less quick-thinking, he would be. Thankfully he’s as stubborn as they come.”
A piece of Anakin’s hair flies up when he exhales. “True. That’s true. Honestly, you’d think more people would want me dead given Obi-Wan’s reputation as a negotiator, but no. It’s almost always him.”
“Well.” Quinlan sighs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Palpatine sure wants him dead. I can tell you that based on what I saw.”
Anakin scowls. “Quinlan, we know that.”
“Anakin.” It’s Padme’s turn to chide him now. “Give him a minute to explain.”
Anakin gives her a version of his old, shy smile, and falls quiet again.
“I mean he’s wanted him dead for a long time,” Quinlan continues. “He said, and I quote, I’ve been dreaming of this for so long, Master Kenobi. This isn’t a new hatred, kid.”
“Please don’t call me kid, Vos.”
Quinlan frowns, studying Anakin with a deep concern that Padme can’t miss.
“He wanted Obi-Wan dead to get to you. Because he knew Obi-Wan would be in the way. That you would listen to him.”
Anakin blinks, steadfastly not meeting Quinlan’s eye. “Yeah. Well, he wasn’t wrong. Obi-Wan did bring me back, even from far away. I’d be gone without him.”
“Yeah,” Quinlan echoes. “I get that. He got me back too. Without him and Ventress …" He trails off. “The point is you need to use this. Palpatine wants you, and anything you can do to lean into that will be helpful. You'll grieve Obi-Wan—as you demonstrated in the courtroom—but you understand, now. You see why he was in the way. That losing him is difficult but there are other people or things that are more important. What those things are you have to decide. Do not ask to spare Obi-Wan's life. Based on what I saw here? Palpatine absolutely won’t give you that. In fact it will make him suspicious.”
“But—”
“Anakin, look.” Quinlan steps closer to Anakin, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If you want that recording before Obi-Wan gets murdered, you can’t ask to spare him. Palpatine is excited about this. He wants to make this as horrible as possible for Obi-Wan. For anyone who loves him.”
“And if I can’t get it?” Anakin asks in a whisper.
“You know what Obi-Wan would say as well as I do,” Quinlan says, his eyes flicking over to Padme. “Senator Amidala does too.”
“I didn’t think Quinlan Vos gave up.”
“I don’t. That’s why I’m telling you this. If anyone can get a Sith lord to talk in time to save our boy, it’s you.” Quinlan gestures between himself and Anakin with a smile that warms Padme’s heart. “From one of the Order’s loose cannons to the other, you have to love Obi-Wan enough to think of the galaxy first. That’s the only thing that might save him. And if it doesn’t, then you have to love him enough to let him go. And then keep honoring what he wanted.”
“He’s so damn self-sacrificing,” Anakin says, clenching his fist. “I just—"
“Yeah,” Quinlan says again. “He is. But that’s not what this is. He’s just right. I know, it’s annoying. If we can keep him alive, maybe the power of both of us irritating him combined can help with that.”
“Bail and I kept telling him all those people outside were for him,” Padme adds. “But he didn’t believe us until yesterday.”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi has never believed himself to be as good as he actually is since we were younglings.” Quinlan shakes his head, ruffling his locs. “Believe me, he used to be worse about it. Anxious. Thinking he might not make it to knighthood. Qui-Gon didn’t help with that at first—who learns how to communicate when Dooku is your master? But then he made it better. Helped turn Obi-Wan into the man you know. The one who looks so damned serene in a fight. But after Qui-Gon died? Obi-Wan was anxious like I hadn’t seen in years. He was terrified he would fail you, Anakin.”
Tears threaten Padme again, and this time she lets them run warm down her cheek before wiping them away.
“He didn’t.” Anakin sounds hoarse. Like he can’t get the words out. “He never did. I was hard on him that night in Palpatine’s office, blamed him for things that—”
“He believes in you more than I’ve ever seen him believe in anyone,” Quinlan says, gently cutting Anakin off. “Whatever happens, don’t forget that. He’s probably already forgiven you, anyway.”
Anakin’s eyes go wide, and for just a moment he’s that young man Padme reunited with three years ago, unburdened by war or his mother’s death, impatient and eager to please.
“I’d better go,” Quinlan says. “I’ll see you back in the council chamber later, Senator Amidala.” He turns to leave, then spins back around with a wink as he gestures at Padme’s belly. “Congratulations, by the way. To both of you.”
Padme stares after him.
She and Anakin really aren’t … as clever about their secrets as she previously thought.
“Did he figure that out from touching the lightsaber?” Padme asks once Quinlan is gone. She doesn’t have it in her to be worried about this. Not now. A secret marriage hardly seems like any offense when the fabric of their world is tearing apart.
“No,” Anakin mumbles, “he just … figures things out.” He takes her hands, lacing their fingers together. “I need to meditate a while. Before I go.”
“Meditate, huh?” Padme teases him him, longing for something, anything familiar, the cadence of their life together. “Never your preferred activity.”
Anakin chuckles, though it’s half-hollow. “What can I say? Obi-Wan’s influence.”
How very different from his answer to her plea of several days ago.
Can Obi-Wan help us?
We don’t need his help.
The glint in Anakin’s eyes then scared her, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She wasn’t scared of him, but where he was going. Now, there’s a brightness there. It’s not a happy one, not with all of this, but it’s determined rather than desperate.
Something stirs inside her, something sure that Anakin will cling to the light now, whatever temptations may come.
“Be good for your mother now, all right?” Anakin asks the question in the direction of Padme’s belly, one hand resting there. “I need to see about doing what your Uncle Obi-Wan needs me to do.”
Both of them laugh when the girl—Padme knows it’s the girl—kicks hard in response.
“If I’m able to get what I need before tomorrow”—Anakin swallows, shutting his eyes a moment—“I’ll play it out there in front of the crowd. That will be the signal to let the Jedi or anyone else helping move in to protect Obi-Wan. Everything will have to look like it’s going as planned until that point.”
Padme nods, but neither of them says what will happen if he can’t get it, because they know.
Anakin will have to play the game longer.
And Obi-Wan ….
“I love you,” Padme says, smoothing Anakin’s hair back before resting a hand on either side of his face. “I love you so much.”
“I love you,” Anakin whispers. “And tell Obi-Wan … tell him—”
“I know. I will.”
When he kisses her, he kisses her so gently it almost breaks her heart. There is bittersweet belief on his lips, belief in them and her and their children. Belief in himself. Belief in the words Obi-Wan spoke to him before leaving for Utapau.
Anakin told her about them after, and it was the last time she saw him look happy, before the storm broke.
You are strong and wise, Anakin, and I am very proud of you.
Padme presses one last kiss to Anakin’s forehead, and then, she goes.
She has another Jedi to see.
People come to Obi-Wan's cell in twos and threes.
Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka come first.
“Sir,” Cody says with great emotion, clearing his throat like mad. “I’m sure this will be made right. But if it isn’t … I couldn’t have been more honored to fight by your side. Or to call you my friend. And I can say that for all the boys in the 212th.”
“You are a wonderful, loyal friend, Cody,” Obi-Wan replies with a press to Cody’s shoulder.
“And a good man. Thank you. For everything.”
Rex says “we’ll get them, General Kenobi. We will. Anything for you.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t ask what that means. It’s best if he doesn’t.
Ahsoka sits by his side, holding her hand in his, and it steadies his heart. Force, he’s proud of her. She thanks him for everything he taught her.
“We’re going to try and get you back,” she promises, fire in her eyes. “It’s like Rex said. We aren’t letting you go.”
You must, Obi-Wan wants to say, but he doesn’t.
There’s only one person he can say that to now, because Anakin isn’t coming. Anakin is embarking on their plan.
Otherwise, he would have been first in line.
If anyone can manage getting getting the better of Palpatine in these remaining hours it’s Anakin Skywalker, but getting the better of him at all will be a victory. Obi-Wan is not concerned with saving himself—not that he would be opposed. But it’s the Jedi that matter. The galaxy. Safety and light for generations to come.
The public’s good faith must stay with the Jedi.
He will be the perfect victim if he needs to be. He’s never thought of himself as perfect, not once, but Padme and Bail were right.
Somehow, those crowds were out there for him.
Quinlan comes in next.
His old friend envelopes him in a warm, tight bear hug. Obi-Wan’s cuffs are off still—they gave him a half-dose of Force suppressants earlier in the day—and he returns it with everything in him. Memories flood through Obi-Wan’s mind. Laughing with Quinlan, Siri, Prie, and others in the refectory when they were younglings. A first kiss between them as Padawans, and maybe something more a few times when they were knights, before the war. Quinlan showing up at his door with Luminara after Qui-Gon died, insisting on cleaning his quarters and making him tea. Obi-Wan returning the favor when Quinlan lost Ventress, letting his friend cry on his shoulder when they brought Ventress’ body back to Dathomir. The dozens of times they met at that ratty bar in the lower levels during the Dooku undercover mission, and Quinlan annoyingly put his feet on the table and stole Obi-Wan’s drinks. Even then, Obi-Wan was always let his fondness slip through.
“It’ll be all right, Obes,” Quinlan whispers, tears grating in his voice. “I swear. We’ll take care of it.”
Obi-Wan knows they will. Whether he lives or not, his friends will save the galaxy.
“Thank you for being my friend, Quin.” Obi-Wan smiles when they break apart, because it’s Quinlan, and it’s inevitable. “There’s no one quite like you.”
Dex comes in, and he tells Obi-Wan he’s looked better and he makes Obi-Wan laugh. It should be impossible, but it never is. Not with Dex.
“I try not to be serious as a rule,” Dex says, patting Obi-Wan’s leg with one of his four hands. “But you’ve been one of the wisest people I know since you were a scrawny kid. That sure hasn’t changed.”
Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow. “Scrawny?”
“Still are,” Dex quips. “But we’re with you. All the way.”
Depa sits with him for a while, carrying a letter from Caleb, who Obi-Wan is always asking after. He’s such an inquisitive, curious boy.
Master Kenobi, it reads. You are one of the wisest—and funniest—Jedi I’ve ever met. I really hope that one day I can be a sage like you. Master Depa says she thinks I can manage it if I try really hard. Grandmaster Windu, too, who is always saying nice things about you. Thank you for always being so kind to me, and I know the Force is with you.
“He looks up to you so much,” Obi-Wan, Depa says.
This small thing, this sweet Padawan’s admiration, is what makes tears spring to Obi-Wan’s eyes. He swore he wouldn’t cry in front of anyone. They’re going through enough as it is. They might have to watch him die.
Teaching the younglings in his older age like Yoda does has always been a dream of his, and now …
Now …
Luminara visits after Depa, and they share a story or two about missions they went on together with their masters. Luminara’s mere presence calms him. Centers him.
When Master Yoda comes into the cell with Masters Windu and Plo, Obi-Wan truly can’t stop the tears from spilling from his eyes. The memory of Palpatine’s dagger, his hatred, slices the artery of Obi-Wan’s manufactured calm, and terror bleeds out. The Jedi might try to save him. Might do anything. He can’t let them. He can’t. Not unless they can prove the truth about Palpatine first. It’s all fragile. It’s too fragile. And it’s so difficult to talk frankly in this cell.
Hoisting himself up onto the cot and handing his gimmer stick to Mace, Yoda gestures at Obi-Wan to face him. Obi-Wan complies, sitting cross-legged on the cot and leaning down. He’s shaking. Force, why is he shaking?
"It's all right, young one," Yoda says softly, with the same cadence of the singing stones in his quarters. He puts his small green hands on either side of Obi-Wan’s face. "Focus on your breathing, you must."
Obi-Wan shuts his eyes, the sheer serenity of Yoda’s Force presence sliding into his own veins. They sit this way for several minutes. The shaking eases. His heart resumes a normal rhythm. Yoda puts a hand over Obi-Wan’s when he’s through, and even without the Force, Obi-Wan can feel his grief.
“Qui-Gon was here.” Obi-Wan trails his hand across the spot where his old master sat. “Last night.”
“Sensed his presence, I did,” Yoda tells him. “Glad I am, that you could still see him, after those terrible drugs they gave you.”
“It has been the honor of my life,” Obi-Wan says, “to serve on the council with all of you. To know that you consider me worthy of such a thing. When I was an initiate, a nervous Padawan, I never even knew if I would make it to being a knight, let alone a master. I—”
“Obi-Wan.” Mace speaks now, putting one hand on Obi-Wan’s back, and he’s gentler than he’s ever been. “You are the best of us, my friend.”
A sob sticks in Obi-Wan’s throat, coming up when Master Plo agrees with immense warmth. He would protest, but he can’t speak without summoning more tears.
“Proud of you, we are,” Yoda says. “Proud of you, Qui-Gon is. Trust in the Force, we all must.”
Yoda leaves an impossible peace behind him, and Master Windu makes his opinion about the Force suppressants known to the clones nearby.
Bail Organa, the friend Obi-Wan never expected, comes in next. He brought fresh clothes for Obi-Wan earlier, his usual tunic and robe, and this small thing made Obi-Wan breathe easier.
Bail just lets him exist. They sit next to each other with Bail’s arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and Obi-Wan feels the life humming between them. There is no doubting that for now, he still breathes. Bail still breathes. The Republic, tilting toward disaster, still exists. The Force, temporarily cut off from it as he is, has not yet plunged into darkness.
“You are one of my best friends in this life,” Bail whispers before he goes. “And you are a good man, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan thanks him. For everything.
Tears shine in Bail’s eyes. “I can’t be with you tomorrow. Palpatine’s revoked my right as your representative because I was short with him. It will just be Padme. But I’ll be there. No matter, what I’ll be there.”
“You’ll be with me,” Obi-Wan says softly. “In every way that matters.”
And then, the person he’s been waiting for.
Padme herself.
He hates to burden her. He wishes he didn’t have to.
She hovers in the doorway like she might be studying him, and he studies her in turn, just for a moment. The way her curls fall reminds him of happier times, and the way they bounce when she laughs. She’s so pale now, her eyes dull, and he wants to throw Palpatine off the roof of the Temple just for this. Padme is about to welcome two children—this shouldn’t be something she has to deal with. She’s been dealing with things her whole life. She deserves the peace she’s always striving to give others.
Padme hands Obi-Wan a piece of paper when she sits down next to him, covering it from the view of the camera with her hand.
He's going. He should be there soon. We have a plan.
Obi-Wan takes the pen she offers, writing back his own message.
If he doesn't get it before tomorrow, you have to let me go.
"I know." Padme takes a shuddering breath, tears rushing down her cheeks. "I know."
“Tell the others,” he says, leaning in close. “Promise me.”
“I will. Obi-Wan, I—"
Obi-Wan pulls her to him, holding her tight against his chest.
And Padme Amidala cries. And cries. And cries.
And it breaks Obi-Wan's heart. She should not have to bear this. He hates that she has to bear this. But she understands. She knows what’s at risk. She’s fought for what’s right since she was fourteen years old, and what they have in their hands now will shatter if they don’t handle it gently.
Palpatine has been planning this for too long. The Sith have been planning this for too long.
"It's all right," he whispers. "It's all right, dear one."
"No it's not, Obi-Wan."
She sounds like Anakin there. A side effect of marriage, perhaps. But then, some parts of the two of them have always been the same, haven't they? Padme just hides things better.
"You'll get him, Padme." Obi-Wan slides out of the embrace, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "I know you will. Because I know you." A smile breaks out onto his face when she shuffles yet closer, burying her head against his shoulder. “If I’m gone after tomorrow, tell those children I love them.”
Padme’s stomach … moves? Pressed together as they are, Obi-Wan feels it.
“I think they heard you.” Padme’s voice is muffled against Obi-Wan’s tunic. “They love you. I love you. And he does too.”
She doesn’t say Anakin’s name, but she doesn’t need to.
“And I all of you.” He pulls back, wiping away some of Padme’s tears. “More, I think, than mere words can do justice.”
Before either of them can say anything else, clones come down the hall, bringing up the ray shield.
“Time’s up, Senator,” one of them says. “Let’s go. Master Kenobi’s had his allotment of visitors.”
“Hey!” Kit Fisto shouts, visible at the end of the long hallway, with Siri, Prie, Master Mundi, and quite a few other Jedi behind him, along with members of the 212th. “We’re all here to see Obi-Wan. There’s a line out the door. This isn’t right.”
“There was no indication of a limit on the number of visitors.” Padme stands up, leaving one hand on Obi-Wan’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“Chancellor’s orders, Senator Amidala. Let’s go.”
“I’ll be back in the morning,” Padme says, squeezing his hand before she goes. “I promise, Obi-Wan.”
The Jedi in the hall protest further. The Coruscant Guard clones shout at them, perhaps already under whatever influence the chips wield. The clones in Obi-Wan’s former battalion argue back to no avail. One of the medics comes into the cell with a syringe in hand, and Obi-Wan already knows what’s inside.
“Last dose,” the medic says. “Then the cuffs go back on.”
Obi-Wan examines the still open wounds on his wrists, old blood crusted on bruised skin. There has been no further medical attention other than the Force suppressants, and the constant throb of his body is the result. His cut-up face. His back. He knees. The place where Palpatine first stabbed him. Everywhere.
The syringe plunges into his arm, and a new pain comes. That feeling that his veins are shredding. He disconnects as best he can from the discomfort, picking up his datapad again and turning once more to what he knows best, and thinking of the person he loves most.
The moment between breaths
Is the balance of the Force.
Between life and death.
Rest and action.
Serenity and passion.
Hope and despair.
You can do this, Anakin, he says inside his head, and although he can’t connect through their bond, he hopes Anakin hears him anyway. I believe in you. I always have.
Anakin keeps a normal pace as he walks down the hallway toward Palpatine’s office. On the underside of his tunic is an old comlink he reconfigured to be a recording device in those long hours in Padme’s office last night when he couldn’t sleep. Easy enough to turn on when pretending there’s an itch he has to scratch, and less likely to be discovered if they check him for anything.
Mas Amedda is summoned by the one of the clone guards once Anakin reaches Palpatine’s suite of offices. There’s twenty of them at least. Maybe more.
“Master Skywalker,” Mas Amedda says, sounding unimpressed. “To what do we owe this visit?”
“I’m requesting to see the chancellor.” Anakin keeps his hands visible so he cannot be accused of reaching for a weapon. He keeps his breathing even. Calm. Calm. Calm. “I have … some regrets.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, Master Jedi.” Mas Amedda spits that last word. “But why should we—”
“Let him in,” a voice calls out from the inner chamber.
“I ought to at least take his lightsaber, Chancellor—”
“I said let him in.” Palpatine leaves no room for argument. “Now.”
Anakin sweeps into the room, shutting the door when Palpatine gestures at him to do so.
The cameras go off again.
Of course they do.
“Anakin,” Palpatine purrs. “Do sit down, my boy.”
Anakin’s skin crawls. He wants to vomit.
Calm. Calm. Calm. He must let the Force lead him. He must channel Obi-Wan and his training.
Rage will not do.
Palpatine clicks his tongue. “You look like you haven’t slept, my friend.”
“Not much,” Anakin admits, and that, at least, is true. And he looked it when he glanced in the mirror earlier, all tussled hair and half-bruised skin beneath his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure I would see you,” Palpatine continues, “after your showing in court yesterday.”
The bag Anakin brought containing Obi-Wan's lightsaber makes a heavy clunking noise when he puts it down on Palpatine’s desk. He folds his hands, making himself look at the man who betrayed him from the start.
“It is difficult for me to contemplate losing my master,” Anakin says. “But it did make me see some things clearly.”
“And what are those things?”
“That the Jedi are too weak to protect the galaxy as it needs to be protected. That Obi-Wan is too weak. He can’t save what is left of the Republic. He can’t save Padme. He can’t even save himself.”
“I have long believed that Kenobi was holding you back from your true power.” Palpatine smiles, slick and sinister. “But if you’re here to ask for a reprieve for him, I’m afraid the jury has spoken. A stay simply is not possible for a crime this serious. Especially when the Jedi could act at any moment.”
Calm. Calm. Calm.
What’s that old phrase? Passed down from Qui-Gon to Obi-Wan to Ahsoka, though he never really picked it up for himself before.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
“I’m not here for that.” Anakin clears his throat, laying on just enough emotion to make it sound as though this is a small loss rather than the earth-shattering thing it is. “Obi-Wan is part of my old life. I intend on starting something new. But for that, I need Padme alive. I need her career intact. I need a galaxy that is secure so I can raise my children. I need you, Chancellor. You are the only one who is strong enough. I failed to see it. I couldn’t let go. I’m ready to now. I will do whatever you ask.”
“There is surely something to be done about Senator Amidala’s current political predicament, if you prove yourself to me.” Palpatine’s smile changes. It’s satisfied and snide. “Though whether she will accept anything from me remains to be seen.”
“I can make her.” Anakin hates himself for even saying it. “I can make her see she must if we are to be happy.”
He opens the bag and sets Obi-Wan's lightsaber on Palpatine’s desk.
Force, he still feels his master’s presence on it, like the hilt might have been dipped in sunlight.
A pleased glint appears in Palpatine’s eyes. “Kenobi’s lightsaber.”
“He made this when he became a master,” Anakin says. “After Geonosis. It is one of his most treasured possessions. I brought it as a token.”
Palpatine picks up the saber, studying it in the low-light of his office. Anakin shields his own emotions as best he can, trying to stop Palpatine from picking up on them.
“This is a start.” Palpatine puts the saber in a drawer and locks it, though he doesn’t admit to anything yet. Not that he’s a Sith, which they both know. Not that he hates Obi-Wan, which they also both know. Nothing. “But I have a way for you to show me that I can really trust you, Anakin, if you’ll agree to go along.”
“Anything, chancellor.”
Palpatine’s smile shifts again, and it’s downright giddy.
“Let’s pay your pathetic master a visit, shall we?”
Notes:
Putting a little of my Quinlan/Obi-Wan friends with benefits agenda in this chapter :D
I hope you enjoyed!
Chapter 10: But the Rain Kept Coming Down
Summary:
Obi-Wan faces Palpatine's terrible cruelty. Anakin tries to stay on the path of his former master's plan. As rebellion ignites in Coruscant, Padme, Bail, the Jedi, and their allies, must decide the way forward.
Notes:
Thank you SO MUCH for all your amazing comments on the last chapter! You are all giving me life. I haven't answered them all yet, but I am endeavoring to. But please know those comments mean the world!
Also, the wonderful Entirely_Done has drawn gorgeous fanart for this fic! You can check it out here:
https://at.tumblr.com/skeletons-eat/this-is-a-scene-from-one-of-my-currently-fave/deam1bvotoibSome lore notes for this chapter! Lots of references in this one to Dark Disciple and Quinlan and Obi-Wan's relationship. Mostly what you need to know is that Quinlan falls to the dark side for a bit while on a mission to assassinate Count Dooku, and Obi-Wan is vital in getting him back and is kind of his minder for a bit after it's over. That's the simple version! Also a reference to the Rako Hardeen arc in Clone Wars, when Obi-Wan fakes his death on a mission to save Palpatine (why does Palpatine need to fake putting himself in danger so much?). Also, another big one for this chapter is Sith Alchemy, which is in legends. Everything is explained in context, but worth a mention here.
Also, this is in the tags, but this chapter does contain torture. It's chemically-based torture so it's not a lot of blood and broken bones but it is torture, so just be aware.
I hope you enjoy! And thank you so so much for supporting this fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Obi-Wan’s stolen peace breaks when footsteps round the corner to his cell. Two sets. Without the Force he can’t sense any specific presence, but the goosebumps shooting across his forearm give him a clue.
Palpatine, no doubt. But who else?
His datapad casts a white light in the darkness, the words of the Jedi Code he knows by heart visible on the screen.
Emotion, yet peace.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
Passion, yet serenity.
He lays the datapad down, tugging his outer robe tighter around him. It’s dreadfully cold in here tonight. Probably on purpose. Probably to make him miserable.
“You know, I went to Jedha, once,” Palpatine says, confirming Obi-Wan’s theory. “I wasn’t particularly impressed with the Guardians there. I’m not surprised you’re seeking comfort in their foolish book.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t face him. Not yet. “Needless to say we don’t share the same view of the Force, Lord Sidious.”
“Perhaps your understanding of the Force is the weak one.”
Fuck.
Say that you should not, Youngling, Yoda’s voice says in his head when he was seven or so and had recently learned other delightful phrases like karabast and kriff.
Obi-Wan takes a deep, calming breath. He must play the game he started. This could be a test on Palpatine’s part. A test for Anakin. Obi-Wan had hoped Palpatine wouldn’t come ridicule him tonight. He’d hoped he and Anakin wouldn’t be forced to do this dance.
“Anakin, why are you here with him?” Obi-Wan asks before diverting his attention to Palpatine. “He’s done nothing wrong other than be my friend. Is that a crime now?”
“Calm down, Master Kenobi. Anakin isn’t in trouble,” Palpatine replies, summoning two clones. “He came to my office this evening to offer his support. So I opted to bring him along on my visit.”
There’s not time for argument. The metal gate and the ray shield go up. Three clones grab Obi-Wan and force him down the hallway toward a room he’s never seen before—not that he’s spent a great deal of time at the base.
If he had seen this before, he would have remembered it.
The sterile white chamber is ominous in its cleanliness. There aren’t any cameras, because of course there aren’t. There’s an upright gurney in the middle of the space, with a lever that appears to move it up and down. Another contraption near the wall that looks like you could strap someone into it and dispense electric shocks. Lovely. A pole with a hanging IV bag full or … something. A table with syringes and—
“Interrogation droids?” Obi-Wan questions before thinking better of it. They’re going to do whatever they’re going to do. They’re going to kill him unless something breaks in his favor. This is atrocious. “Those are illegal in Republic space. Torture is illegal.”
“Not,” a familiar voice says, the single word sharp as the tip of the dagger Palpatine plunged into Obi-Wan’s gut, “for traitors.”
Tarkin. Of course.
“I should have known you would be behind a horror like this.” Obi-Wan jerks in the grasp of the clones holding him as Tarkin walks into the room. “This has your stench all over it.”
“Master Kenobi, you have never learned when to shut your mouth, have you?” Tarkin asks. He snaps his fingers at the clones, gesturing at them to restrain Obi-Wan. “Everything is here as requested, Chancellor. The walls are entirely soundproof. No one, even those right outside the door, will be able to hear anything unless you hit the button on the wall comm.”
“Thank you, my friend. I’m grateful for the assistance.” Palpatine replies, as though they are discussing a dinner they’re planning.
Tarkin inclines his head before turning his attention to Anakin. “Master Skywalker. I’m glad to see you’ve returned to the chancellor’s side. We weren’t sure you would, after your … outburst.”
Anakin’s face flushes. “I let old feelings get in the way of seeing clearly. I hope to atone for my behavior.”
“You are an asset.” Tarkin’s lips curl into a spine-chilling smile. “I hope tonight will be educational for you.”
The clones remove Obi-Wan's brown outer robe before pushing him against the gurney, buckling the leather straps around his wrists and ankles. Tight. Too tight.
“The jury did not sentence me to this,” Obi-Wan protests, more for Anakin’s sake than his own, because whatever is in store, Palpatine is going to make Anakin do it.
“They said by any method the chancellor chooses in the interim.” Palpatine says. “Consider this as part of that, Master Kenobi.”
Tarkin lowers the gurney himself, and soon enough Obi-Wan is flat on his back. Vulnerable.
“I do wish I could stay and watch you beg, Master Jedi.” Tarkin stands above Obi-Wan, those blue-gray eyes shining with spite. “Unfortunately, I just have too much to do to prepare for your execution tomorrow. I’m so delighted I doubt I’ll even sleep.” He steps toward Palpatine. “Do you need a gag, Chancellor? We have several options if so. I understand if you don’t want to listen to Kenobi’s impertinence.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’d rather like to hear from our friend. Thank you, Admiral.”
Tarkin goes, leaving only Palpatine, Anakin, and two of the clones in the room.
“When did he last have the suppressants?” Palpatine asks the clone medic.
“About three or four hours ago, Chancellor,” the clone answers. “But it was our last half-dose, and they’ve been working less well each time. The drug is unstable. And Master Kenobi is more resistant than expected.”
“So, they’re likely already fading?”
“Yes. You'll want to be careful if I may say, sir.”
“Of course, thank you.” Palpatine pats the clone’s shoulder. “Please hook Master Kenobi up to the IV there and then you may wait outside. Make sure there are a pair of suppression cuffs at hand.”
“I’m going to assume that whatever you’re giving me isn’t pleasant,” Obi-Wan says.
“Save your energy.” Palpatine’s eyes pop with pleasure. “You’ll be needing it.”
The clone medic swabs Obi-Wan's hand before sliding the thin needle in and leaving nary a mark. A flash of something appears in the clone’s eyes. Regret? It’s gone as quick as it came, replaced by a terrifying emptiness. Obi-Wan doesn’t like to imagine that look in Cody’s eyes or Rex’s or any clone he calls a friend.
But it could have happened.
It could have.
What Palpatine has done to the clones—setting them up to kill the very people they fought beside—will haunt Obi-Wan as long as he lives.
However long that is.
Whatever they’ve given him starts dripping down from the bag and into the plastic tube. The color of the medication isn’t familiar, and neither is the name on the bag’s sticker. There is, however, a faint stamp from the Citadel prison. More from the so-called storage Tarkin mentioned? Or more likely the Citadel itself. That should be proof enough of Palpatine’s collusion with the separatists, but it won’t be. Especially not coming from Obi-Wan's mouth.
“Now.” Palpatine puts his arm around Anakin’s shoulders, and a shudder shoots through Obi-Wan’s body. “It’s time for the three of us to talk, I think. Anakin, I want you to tell your master what you told me when you came to my office.”
Anakin takes a moment to respond. He doesn’t move from beneath Palpatine’s arm.
“You’re too weak to save what’s left of the Republic,” Anakin says, his voice hard. “You’re too weak to help Padme. You’re too weak to even save yourself.”
“And what else?” Palpatine prompts.
“I’ve decided to let you go, Master.” This Anakin says more softly. Aggrieved but angry. A mix realistic enough for Palpatine to buy. “To start anew. There’s not space for you in the new life I’m seeking. I’m sorry. But it is what the Jedi are always teaching, isn’t it? Letting go?”
You must let him go.
Obi-Wan holds Qui-Gon's words close to his chest, the ghost of his master’s thumb stroking his forehead. Anakin is doing exactly what Obi-Wan told him. He’s following the plan.
Except neither of them planned for exactly this. Not that it didn’t enter Obi-Wan's mind, but there’s been so much happening he couldn’t consider every angle.
Regardless, his plan couldn’t have been any different.
They need proof.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan answers. “But while you may be letting me go, you’re not really picking up the teaching as it’s intended. What about Padme? Chancellor Palpatine can’t save her from whatever you fear is going to happen, whatever he’s promised you. And you’re endangering her and wasting your potential by believing him.”
Obi-Wan must play his part, too. He must make this seem real. Pulling the wool over someone’s eyes is normally his skill, but Anakin has seen him do it enough times. He will have to trust that his apprentice picked up the lesson.
For the team, for Kenobi and Skywalker, this is the final test.
Blue, Obi-Wan reminds himself. Those eyes are still blue. Obi-Wan anchors himself to how blue they are.
Palpatine’s eyes were only yellow when you fought him, a nasty voice reminds him. It doesn’t mean Anakin is safe.
He can’t reach out to Anakin through their bond because of the suppressants—though he can feel those are weaking already, like the clone medic said—but he couldn’t anyway. Not without Palpatine sensing it. Anakin needs to keep his shields as tight as he can.
He believes in his student. His best friend. His brother. He is choosing to believe in him.
“I have to choose,” Anakin says coolly. “And I choose Padme. I choose the Republic and the chancellor. Not you. I won’t claim that this was simple or easy, but it’s the correct path forward.”
Obi-Wan draws in a breath and exhales audibly, shifting on the uncomfortable gurney.
That sentiment hits too close to home. It’s part of the game, Obi-Wan is sure it is, but that was the choice Anakin thought he had to make. It was the one he almost made.
“What do you intend to do to me, Chancellor?” Obi-Wan clears his throat, changing the line of conversation. Nerves get the better of him for a minute, and he feels like a Padawan again rather than a man not far off from forty. “You’re out of Force suppressants, so what next?”
“Something … special for a Jedi, shall we say,” Palpatine replies vaguely. “Anakin, kindly pick up that large syringe over on the table.”
“Don’t, Anakin. Don’t let him make you do something you’ll regret.”
“Shut up!” Anakin sneers, narrowing his eyes. “It’s my turn to talk now. You’re always doing the talking, always lecturing me.”
Obi-Wan gasps, a sharp and sudden pain stabbing through him. What is …
Think, Kenobi, he chides himself. Where is it coming from?
Anakin hasn’t done anything with the mentioned syringe, so it can’t be that. It’s radiating from the spot where Palpatine first stabbed him. There’s not blood, at least not as far as he can tell. A duller, less fierce pain starts up from the area of the other wound. The drugs. It must be the drugs in the IV.
Obi-Wan reaches out for the Force. It’s there, but it’s static like before when the suppressants started fading. He shuts his eyes, trying trying trying to focus. A golden thread appears in his mind. He focuses on it. Qui-Gon's voice resounds in his head.
Easy, Padawan. Keep breathing.
The pain recedes a fraction. Enough to clear his head.
Footsteps echo, but he keeps his eyes closed.
Until a hand grabs his face. A cold, merciless hand.
“Uh uh.” Palpatine presses his thumbs hard against Obi-Wan's jaw and it’s agony. “Eyes open, Master Kenobi.” He clicks his tongue as Obi-Wan's eyes fly open on command. “Oh, it hurts, doesn’t it?”
“What’s in there?” Anakin asks.
Obi-Wan can’t sense anything from him even as the Force comes back.
Anakin has shielded himself perfectly.
“A drug that dampens pain tolerance,” Palpatine says casually. “Force-sensitives, as you may be aware, are more likely to hold up against interrogation methods because they can manage pain more effectively. Given the Jedi’s behavior, well … we thought it prudent to produce. It can make a scratch unbearable. Draw out pain from still-healing injuries. That sort of thing. Now, Anakin, put the syringe into the IV line and dispense just a quarter of it. Then stop.”
Obi-Wan pulls against his restraints at the sight of the contents of the syringe—black liquid.
Not good. Not good.
Anakin meets Obi-Wan's eye as he injects … whatever that is into the IV line. Blue. Still blue. But there’s nothing there, really, just a fraction of a flash of grief.
Obi-Wan wracks his brain, sifting through memories of anything that might look like this. The pain doesn’t help. Think. Think. Think.
Wait.
A memory appears. A dusty page rather than a data file hiding deep in the part of the archive that is reserved just for masters. A drawing of a knife dripping black poison.
Poison.
Sith poison.
The words on the page come back to him.
Only the most powerful of the light can resist the poison’s effects.
And with that resistance comes unimaginable pain until the poison recedes.
Drawing on the dark side to make it stop is almost an inevitability. Drawing on anger.
The question is how far the victim will fall.
Obi-Wan's eyes widen.
“Yes,” Palpatine purrs. “You know what it is, don’t you? I think by tomorrow, Jedi, you will be … rather not yourself.”
“Chancellor?” Anakin questions. “May I ask what this is?”
“Something that will make Master Kenobi … consider other parts of the Force.”
Damn the man won’t say Sith. He won’t say anything about the war. Nothing. Not yet. Given Tarkin’s arguments even just saying he’s a Sith might not be enough, but it would help.
Another breath-stopping wave of pain crashes over Obi-Wan. Not just the pain of his injuries amplified, but something new. Worse. His blood boils in his veins. He’s hot he’s so hot. The sharp stabbing behind his eye, the one that started on Utapau, starts up again, like a knife carving into bone.
Obi-Wan's whole body shakes with the effort of keeping quiet. His lip bleeds. His head pounds.
“Go on,” Palpatine whispers in his ear. “Scream, Obi-Wan. You know you want to, and I’ve been so looking forward to hearing it. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?”
Obi-Wan spits in Palpatine’s face.
“Again,” Palpatine says, one hand on Obi-Wan's throat as he wipes his face with disgust. “Another quarter, Anakin.”
Anakin’s only hesitation is a soft, sharp intake of breath. Palpatine is so busy staring at Obi-Wan that he doesn’t notice.
The poison, black and sludgy, moves slowly through the IV tube and into Obi-Wan's veins. His veins darken.
And for a moment, everything whites out.
He just hears that word again.
Scream.
A gut-wrenching, gruesome scream bursts out of Obi-Wan's mouth. It echoes around the room. It shreds the skin at the back of his throat. He tastes blood.
Anakin could record this, but it won’t be enough.
Obi-Wan's screams won’t save him.
“See there, Anakin?” Palpatine says, like they might be observing an experiment. Like Obi-Wan might be a creature in a zoo. “This is the sort of power you can wield if you stay by my side. Power to save Padme. The Republic. Your old master has been holding you back from it. Look what you can do with the right tools at your disposal.”
Obi-Wan fights for control, sucking in shallow breaths and unable to bite back a whimper. Two. Three.
“I know,” Anakin seethes. “I’ve been making excuses for it. For him. But I’ve always known it.”
“Tell him.”
“You aren’t as powerful as me.” Anakin’s hands curl around the safety bar of the gurney, his words nothing less than a growl. “I could have saved people in this war if you had just let me do as I saw fit. If you weren’t holding me back. But you didn’t want me to surpass you. You’re jealous! You always have been!”
Rage rips through Obi-Wan. No. No no no.
“Don’t be so arrogant, Anakin!” he shouts, without meaning to. Without wanting to.
“Arrogant!” Anakin’s volume matches Obi-Wan's. “You’re the most arrogant man alive.”
Obi-Wan writhes, trying to keep back the monster tempting him. The monster the poison wants to create.
Give in, the monster says. It’s so easy to give in. Don’t you want to? The dark side isn’t just power. It’s safety. Relief.
Only the weak embrace it, he hears himself say just before Satine’s blood spilled all over the floor.
Hold steady, Obi-Wan. Hold on.
Qui-Gon's voice again. Qui-Gon is here, isn’t he?
“I am one with the Force”—Obi-Wan pushes out the words, and resisting is agony—“and the Force is with me.”
“Again.” Palpatine demands. “Another quarter, Anakin.”
Obi-Wan sobs. There’s nothing to be done. Nothing to stop it.
“I am one with the Force”—Obi-Wan can’t get enough air into his lungs, there’s not enough air—“and the Force is with me. “
Give in. Give in.
The dark is so tantalizing. Tempting.
“I know we’ve spoken at length about your mother’s death,” Palpatine prods, though both he and Anakin are blurrier now. Less defined. “I’ve always said that Master Kenobi didn’t do enough to stop it.”
Blue. Anakin’s eyes are still blue.
“It’s his fault my mother died. It’s all. His. Fault.”
Anakin’s words drag Obi-Wan along the ground. They scrape his skin.
Fury’s fist punches Obi-Wan in the chest. No. No no no.
Quinlan.
Why is he thinking of Quinlan?
His blood burns. It burns. It hurts.
Quinlan.
Quinlan told him …
What did Quinlan tell him?
The dark side. How to resist the dark side.
“Qui-Gon never would have let my mother die,” Anakin growls. “He would have believed my dreams were visions.”
“You didn’t—” Obi-Wan tries. “You didn’t tell me.”
Why is he arguing? Anakin doesn’t think that. Does he? No. This is part of their plan.
Quinlan.
The dark side.
Resisting the dark side.
Acknowledge it, Quinlan said late one night when Obi-Wan was doing his daily check-in after everything with Dooku. Pretending it’s not there will make it worse. I think that’s where I went wrong. I think that’s how I fell without even knowing I had.
I see you, Obi-Wan says inside his head. And I reject you. I will not let the pain I’ve been through define my whole life.
Do you?
“I did tell you!” Anakin gets up in Obi-Wan's face. “I wish you had died that day instead of Qui-Gon. I cared about you and let myself be trained by a weak master because of it. My mistake.”
“Tell him what his negligence made you do, Anakin.” Palpatine’s eyes flit over to Obi-Wan with unfettered glee, and Obi-Wan’s heart races.
Here, Anakin starts. Stiffens. It’s the first real break in his façade.
No. No. Not now. Not now.
“Tell him, Anakin.”
“I killed them!” Anakin exclaims, his voice exploding through the room. “The sand people who murdered my mother. The men. The women. The children. All of them.”
The confession should be a shock. It isn’t. It’s something Obi-Wan knew but never wanted to admit. Not the details, the specifics, but he knew something went wrong on Tatooine. With the war, he couldn’t bear to consider what. That’s the truth. Somewhere in the brightness of Anakin’s presence, he lost track of the storm cloud.
Anakin should have told him. Anakin didn’t trust him. Anakin—
“You know better. I taught you better.” Obi-Wan’s words are cold. Cutting. “You should have told me that, Anakin.”
His tone is harsher than he likes, but at least the sentiment is not coming purely from rage, but from hurt. Disappointment.
“And risk your endless lecturing over killing monsters?” Anakin spits. “No thank you.”
Obi-Wan hears shame in Anakin’s voice. Just a touch of it. Not enough for Palpatine to pick up on.
Give it an inch and it will take a mile, Quinlan added.
I’ve felt it before, Obi-Wan admitted. When I fought Maul.
That’s different, Quinlan said. We all glance off the dark when we’re angry and that’s why we’re taught to pull ourselves back. I’m talking about giving it air when you have a choice. Validating it.
Obi-Wan's muscles feel like they’re tearing in two. It hurts Force it hurts.
“Again,” Palpatine snarls, and it’s clear, even in this haze, that he can’t stand that Obi-Wan won’t give in. “Just a few drops. Not all of it.”
Tears spill down Obi-Wan's cheeks. He is beyond being mortified. It’s simply not a consideration.
All he can think about is holding on.
Anakin presses on the syringe, and more of the vile liquid seeps into Obi-Wan's bloodstream.
“Please,” Obi-Wan pleads, and he doesn’t even mean to. The words just come, born of that unimaginable pain the ancient Jedi text mentioned. “Anakin, please.”
Force, why did he say that? Anakin has to do what Palpatine asks. He has to.
“Yes,” Palpatine says. “Beg him, Master Kenobi. Beg him to stop.”
Obi-Wan falls silent on principal, though another groan of pain escapes him. He retreats into his head, though his head is no shelter.
That brat is betraying you, a cold, dark voice says. That ungrateful boy. You know he is. He did it already, running off to Tatooine like a child at the first sign of trouble.
I was angry, Obi-Wan acknowledges. I was hurt. But he came back. And that’s what matters.
A metaphorical mallet swings, hitting his bones hard. Making them rattle.
You are of the light. You are of the light, Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon again. Sad but steady. Not serene. Not now.
The Force flows around him again, golden and bright, but there’s a black stain in the middle. Growing. Eating the light. Obi-Wan shuts his eyes again, stretching out his fingers.
Palpatine tugs on Obi-Wan's hair from root, tipping Obi-Wan’s head back. “Eyes open, Master Kenobi. The light is impossible to reach now.”
“No.” Obi-Wan grits his teeth, a stifled sob escaping him because the other drug makes every harsh touch excruciating. “It’s not.”
A tiny bit of relief comes, not from the pain, but from the dark. The relief from the dark makes the pain worse, but Obi-Wan can draw on the light. He can still draw on it.
“Pin his hands, Anakin,” Palpatine orders. “Pin them down.”
Anakin does, immediately. Palpatine is so busy looking at Obi-Wan's face that he doesn’t notice the single stroke of Anakin’s thumb across the top of Obi-Wan's hand.
Unable to shut his eyes, unable to reach out, the agony and the darkness close in. Bile crawls up Obi-Wan's throat. Something sinister threatens to swallow him and he can’t, he can’t ….
Black plays at the edge of his vision, and his eyes must start falling closed, because Palpatine slaps him across the face.
“No no. You will stay awake. You will feel every moment of this for your defiance. And tomorrow, Obi-Wan Kenobi will be gone. And there will be only a monster left in his place. And what will that do for all the support you’ve received? The people will feel lied to. And the Jedi, well ...” Palpatine leans closer, and Obi-Wan's rage slices down to the bone. “Tell me how you feel about Anakin leaving you behind. Tell Anakin how angry you are.”
Obi-Wan struggles. He tries to break out of Anakin and Palpatine’s grip, but Anakin only pins him down harder. Palpatine only grins. Awful things, awful words press against Obi-Wan's chest.
The poison, the darkness, pushes them out.
“You abandoned me!” Obi-Wan cries out, swallowing back that bile and trying not to vomit. “You’re selfish and you left me like everyone leaves me!”
“You deserved to be left!” Anakin sends back that volley, and a crack runs up the middle of Obi-Wan's heart. “You didn’t care about Padme enough to just let me do what I needed to do. Always hanging on to your precious code.
Not real. Blue. Plan. He won’t let me down. He never has.
“You’ve always needed correction, Anakin,” Obi-Wan retorts, caught up in the tangled knots of his own pain and the anger Palpatine wants to tempt.
“You want to talk about being left, Master?” Anakin spits the endearment like a cursed thing. The opposite of a prayer. Damnation. Anakin didn’t have to call him that after he was knighted, but like so many Jedi before him, Master meant family to him. “Ahsoka left me because of you. You and the council.”
Ahsoka’s name draws Obi-Wan back to reality. What happened to her was not right, the council couldn’t see, but Obi-Wan did see. He did. Maybe he could have done more but he did try. He bites back the reply on the tip of his tongue. No. No.
“You keep saying I left you. Well.” A nasty smirk slides across Anakin’s lips. “You left me first, didn’t you? You let me think you were dead, and here’s the truth—I never forgave you.”
Obi-Wan's chest heaves and he cries and there’s nothing he can do. It hurts too much. It hurts too much. Beneath him, the sheets are slick with sweat, his tunic soaked through.
“Yes,” Palpatine says, his knuckles brushing across Obi-Wan's bruised cheek. “Good. Good, Master Kenobi. Just let it come. Let the dark come, and we won’t give you anymore. The pain will go away. I promise you it will go away.”
Not that I think you’re ever going to have this problem, Obes, Quinlan said. It was another night. Another check-in. Quinlan’s eyes looked better. Less dull. But I’ve found that focusing on a fixed point helps. A good memory. Stops the descent, you know?
I put you at risk, Obi-Wan answered. This is not about my guilt, but I wish I hadn’t. I knew trying to assassinate Dooku was a bad idea from the start and I still suggested you.
And I said yes. Quinlan put his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. I could have said no. War makes us lose ourselves. You've always been right about that. The council, wise as they are, just forgot. We all forgot. But you remembered first. Quinlan smiled. A sad sort of smile, different from his usual big grin. And you remembered me. You didn’t forget who I really was, no matter what I did.
Never, Quin. Obi-Wan squeezed his old friend’s hand. You came back. And that’s all that matters.
“What you did wasn’t right, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. “To the sand people—”
“Shut up!” Anakin shouts. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“—but you have saved so many others. I love you, anyway, do you hear me?” Obi-Wan trembles. He clenches his fist, trying to beat back the anguish. “Come back. Resist him. I know you can do it. I believe in you, Anakin Skywalker.”
You can do this. That’s what Obi-Wan hopes Anakin hears.
Pain wallops him. Breathing eludes him for five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
“More.” Palpatine gestures at Anakin like he might be a servant. “Right now. Save the last few drops.”
Shutting his eyes isn’t allowed, so Obi-Wan stares off into the distance, selecting a memory like Quinlan said.
Anakin. Anakin when he’d been at the temple for a month or so. The pair of them on the steps of the Jedi temple because Anakin liked to look at the colorful chaos of Coruscant at night.
And it started to rain.
“This isn’t going to work,” Anakin says, his smeared suggestion of a face more like a piece of abstract art than anything certain. “Permit me to try something, Chancellor?”
Palpatine’s grin widens. “Of course, my boy.”
Anakin injects another tiny bit of the poison.
In Obi-Wan's memory, younger Anakin stares at the night sky. Heavy, thick raindrops fall, making a satisfying sound on the marble steps of the temple.
“Aren’t you angry, Master?” Anakin leans in, his breath warm on Obi-Wan's skin. “The senate is so corrupt. The Jedi are weak. So many people are dead. You’re on the council and still they don’t listen to you, do they?” He pauses, running one gloved finger down Obi-Wan's cheek. “Satine is dead because of them.”
Obi-Wan's breath catches, black tendrils of temptation twisting tight around his mind. “She’s dead because of Maul. Don’t bring her up again.”
“Or what?” Anakin asks. “Are you going to hurt me, Obi-Wan?”
Have you seen rain before, Anakin? Obi-Wan asked, in awe of his new apprentice’s wonder.
Anakin stuck his hand out, tipping it to the side and letting the drops slide off. No, Master. It’s … it’s beautiful.
“Don’t you know that the dark side makes things easy?” Anakin continues. “You can just do things. Save people. No procedure. No protocol. You can do the right thing without having to ask permission.”
Obi-Wan stood up, putting his hand out to the little boy he already loved, even in his grief. Even if he wasn’t sure he was the right one to train him.
Some people, Obi-Wan said, like to dance in the rain. Would you like to try it, Padawan?
For the first time since he arrived in Coruscant, Anakin’s smile split his face in two. His eyes lit up. He took Obi-Wan's hand and the two of them twirled around in the rain, laughing and laughing and laughing. The other Jedi outside, drawn to their joy, joined in.
The darkness ebbs. The impulse toward rage. Light comes.
The pain increases.
“It’s about power, Obi-Wan.” Anakin smooths Obi-Wan's damp hair back, his voice holding a sing-song quality. “You’ve never appreciated it enough. We’ve argued over it so much, haven’t we?” Anakin sounds like he might be talking to a child. “But you should be furious you don’t have enough, that the institutions you trusted don’t have enough. They used you. Us. We were running all over the galaxy doing the Jedi Council’s bidding, the Senate’s bidding, and for what? I’m choosing power. In these last hours, you should too.”
When Obi-Wan speaks again, it’s just one word. One word that makes everything white-out again.
“No.”
Without Palpatine’s permission, without a second’s hesitation, Anakin empties the syringe.
“Good, Anakin, good,” Palpatine says, but he sounds far away. “Make sure it all goes in.”
A moment. The excruciating agony of waiting.
Pain crashes over him. Pain like nothing before. Obi-Wan's legs cramp. His arms. His neck. He’s hot he’s so so hot. Sweat pours down his face. His vision blurs entirely, the severity of his headache now unendurable, like someone might be trying to push his eye out from the socket. Blood dribbles down his chin from the force with which he bites his lip, trying not to give Palpatine the satisfaction of hearing him cry out yet again.
There are only sounds. Sensations. Anakin’s usual presence is a blank space. No sun-bright Force signature, but no darkness either. Just nothingness.
“I want to hear you, Master Kenobi,” Palpatine taunts. “I want to hear how much it hurts.”
Palpatine shifts the neck of Obi-Wan’s tunic, revealing the lightning scar. He traces it with the tip of his finger.
“Vokara Che had to go to your precious archives to figure out what this was,” he says, almost in awe of the mark he left. “The Jedi really weren’t ready, were they? For anything.”
Obi-Wan jolts when Palpatine digs his nails in, scratching along the lines of the scar. Drawing blood. It shouldn’t hurt this badly but oh Force it’s torture. Their eyes meet, and all Obi-Wan sees is that searing yellow. Yellow. Yellow.
A scream builds in Obi-Wan's throat. No, his stomach, coming up up up. It prods. Pokes. Insists on being heard.
The Sith lord who would destroy the galaxy leans down, whispering three words into the ear of the Jedi who defied him.
“Scream for me.”
Obi-Wan has no choice but to obey.
He screams. And he screams. And he screams.
Palpatine lets go and he laughs. Soft. Sinister. Obi-Wan hears it even over the guttural wail pouring out of his own mouth.
“You poor creature,” Palpatine hums after Obi-Wan’s screams turn to sobs. He pinches Obi-Wan’s bruised cheek with a sickening smile. “I know. It hurts so badly, doesn’t it?”
The sobs rack Obi-Wan's body. He shakes uncontrollably. Obi-Wan tries to think of Qui-Gon instead. Tries to remember the peace of last night instead of this horror.
“No one can hear you but me and your former apprentice,” Palpatine continues. “You are all alone, Obi-Wan. Your friends are going to let you die, aren’t they? No one wants you. Not the Jedi. Not Senator Amidala or Organa. Not Anakin. Not even me. If you came to me on your knees and said you would do anything I asked, I would still say no. Do you know why?”
Obi-Wan sets his jaw, refusing to reply.
“Answer him!” Anakin shouts, hitting the rail of the gurney. “Now, Obi-Wan.”
“Why?” Obi-Wan slurs, answering only to spare Anakin from having to do some other terrible thing.
“Because.” Palpatine grasps Obi-Wan’s chin again, forcing his gaze. “You have nothing to offer me. You are powerful, to be sure. More powerful than I gave you credit for at first. But not powerful enough to tempt me, you see. Your skills will be useless in the world I’m seeking to create. There will be no need for diplomats and foolish heroes. The Jedi council vaulted you up so high because you’re their good little rule-follower, aren’t you? And now they’re leaving you to die. It’s as Anakin so aptly said—you can’t even save yourself. Your death will do more for the galaxy than your life ever did. Worthless doesn’t even begin to describe your insignificance.”
Obi-Wan hangs onto that one sentence as consciousness starts threatening to slip away.
The world I’m seeking to create.
One sliver. One crack in Palpatine’s armor.
Obi-Wan tries twisting away. He doesn’t want this man touching him anymore, not anymore, but it only causes more anguish.
“Let go of me,” Obi-Wan snaps.
Palpatine ignores this, jerking Obi-Wan back into his previous position. Obi-Wan winces, a small noise of pain escaping him. The back of his throat is raw and rough from screaming.
“You fought so hard, didn’t you?” Palpatine tuts, thumbing away some of Obi-Wan’s tears in a mockery of gentleness. “Your whole life you fought and then in the end it was all for nothing. Oh, how I wish everyone could see the great Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Negotiator, the Sith Killer, reduced to this pitiful, whimpering mess. You, my perfect little Jedi, are a failure.”
Pain pierces every inch of Obi-Wan Kenobi. There is nothing in the world but that pain, Anakin’s blue eyes, and the thin strand of golden light in his mind.
Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.
“Why bother with me, then?” Obi-Wan asks, the words slick and slipping out of his mouth.
Palpatine runs a finger along Obi-Wan’s bottom lip, swiping away the blood. “Because I do so enjoy seeing you suffer. I never dreamed I’d get to do something like this, so thank you for the gift. Now, back to the matter at hand. The dark can grant you peace in your last few hours. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To make the pain go away?”
“I”—Obi-Wan coughs, a mix of blood and bile sitting at the back of this throat—“will die right here”—black seeps into his line of sight until all he can really see are colors, and those are quickly fading—“before I ever turn to the dark side.”
An incomprehensible pain steals away any remaining lucidity Obi-Wan possessed. Palpatine says things. Give in. I can make it go away if you’ll just give in. Other things of a similar nature.
Obi-Wan can’t respond. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t. Maybe Palpatine will leave him alone if he quits playing the game.
“He’s a stubborn bastard.”
That’s Anakin.
“He’ll give in.”
That’s Palpatine, but for once, he doesn’t sound sure. He sounds furious.
Obi-Wan’s eyes fall shut. Exhaustion tugs at him. The temptation toward unconsciousness. But what will happen if he gives in?
He mustn’t give in. He can’t …
“No no, Master Kenobi.” Palpatine tugs on Obi-Wan’s hair again. Hard. “None of that. Perhaps a little walk will do you good. A change of scenery.”
Palpatine and Anakin exchange words. Obi-Wan doesn’t hear them, his eyelids heavy as the pain pulses and pulses and pulses. How long does the poison last? Blast, he doesn’t remember what the book said. He can’t even remember what the book was.
The clones come back in. The IV is unhooked. The restraints undone. Nothing is real.
“Get up,” one of them says.
Can he?
He tries. He tries to maintain an ounce of dignity, but the moment his feet hit the ground he collapses magnificently and without elegance. The world is like being underwater. Blurry. Unfocused. He hit the table of terrible interrogation droids when he fell, sending the syringe—now empty of poison—clattering to the floor.
“Get him up.”
Palpatine again.
The clones hoist him up, tossing each of his arms over their shoulders. They drag him down the hall, the sole of his boots squeaking against the cold tile. They take a different route. Past other cells. This wakes Obi-Wan enough to pay attention. Who is in here, besides him? Political prisoners, no doubt. A few clones. He sees them. Maybe even some of the people who were protesting on his behalf. The occupants of the cells come up one by one. Watching him. Palpatine grins. Well, Obi-Wan can’t really see it, but he senses it Feels the Sith Lord’s pleasure deep down in the sinew of his body connecting muscle and bone.
Is that a Jedi?
Is that General Kenobi?
Karabast, what did they do to him?
The questions are asked with terrified awe. Obi-Wan’s broken body is a threat. A warning to others.
If this can happen to a Jedi, imagine what can happen to you.
The clones throw him onto his cot, cuffing his wrists and ankles. The scrape of the metal against his raw skin is an itch. A tickle. Nothing in comparison to anything else.
Shut your eyes, a familiar voice says. Pretend. Pretend, and they’ll leave. Palpatine can’t torture someone who isn’t awake.
Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon with a plan.
“Master,” Obi-Wan mumbles. He didn’t mean to say it aloud. He’s so tired. So. Tired.
“Your master is dead, you pathetic child,” Palpatine hisses. “He can’t save you from this.”
The three clones glance at each other. It’s the first time Palpatine’s lost his grip on his grandfatherly air in front of them.
Obi-Wan shuts his eyes.
“Keep him awake,” Palpatine demands.
One of the clones shakes him, but Obi-Wan goes limp, keeping his eyes closed.
“It’s no good, Chancellor,” the clone says. “He’s out.”
Palpatine says something. Obi-Wan doesn’t care what it is. He only feels a tiny ounce of dark joy at depriving Palpatine of one last opportunity to torment him. Palpatine talks to the clones, and someone is looking at him. He feels it. It’s probably Anakin, but Obi-Wan can’t open his eyes to look.
When everyone else is gone, when Obi-Wan is sure he can’t take another moment, that he will die here, tonight, Qui-Gon appears. He’s not much more than a blue blur. A ghost of a ghost. Qui-Gon lifts Obi-Wan’s head into his lap, and even this small movement is unbearable. How can a ghost hold him? It doesn’t matter. It’s the only thing keeping him sane.
“Don’t let me turn,” Obi-Wan implores. “Please don’t let me turn, Master. I have to stay awake.”
“I’m here, Padawan.” Qui-Gon resumes the motion that lured Obi-Wan to sleep last night, his thumb running back and forth across Obi-Wan’s hairline. “I won’t let you fall.”
Obi-Wan breathes out and settles himself fully into the Force. As much as he can with the cuffs, anyway.
Awake. Whatever pain comes, he must stay awake.
Coruscant is a storm.
Night blankets the city. Anger swirls, sinking into Padme’s bones.
From the steps of the Jedi temple, she can see it all.
Crowds. Crowds everywhere. Streaming through the streets. On the roofs of buildings. A red light blinks at the top of the base off in the distance. That can’t mean anything good. Clones and the droids of the Coruscant security force push through the chaotic mess of humans and aliens alike. The tang of sweat hangs in the air. On Processional Way, graffiti in gold paint is visible.
Free Master Kenobi.
End Emergency Powers.
Twi’leks for the Jedi.
An artist has made use of a squat building across the way. A painting of Obi-Wan striking down Grievous takes up the whole wall, the lightsaber so lifelike that Padme swears it might be buzzing bright blue.
“Cham Syndulla and his family are here,” Bail tells her, gazing out at the sight with a grim expression. My office just heard from him. An Aldeeranian contingent too, and some of the Togruta from Kiros. I’m sure there will be more.”
“Yes,” Padme says softly. “I’m sure there will be. A few Gungans have arrived, and some Naboo citizens. I warned them to be careful, but people all over the planet have been fond of Obi-Wan since the blockade. There’s even a statue of Qui-Gon in Theed.”
Bail is barely audible when he speaks, leaning close so Padme can hear him. “It’s not impossible that crowds like this will make going through with the execution difficult. Maybe Palpatine will think twice.”
A surge of affection shoots through Padme. Bail’s optimism only makes her adore him more. But whatever the crowds tomorrow, Palpatine will find a way. He will not let his show be ruined.
Unless Anakin ruins it for him.
Anakin. Force, she was so scared she might have lost him when the hours ticked by and he didn’t come home. She’s scared now for what temptations he might face up in Palpatine’s office. But he can do this. She knows he can.
A thwack, something hard and heavy hitting a soft target, shocks Padme back to attention.
A clone hitting a man with his baton.
“Hey!” Padme shouts. “What are you doing?”
The clone looks back, but it doesn’t deter him.
“We need to get upstairs, Padme.” Bail tugs gently on her wrist.
“But—”
“There’s nothing we can do without getting beaten or arrested ourselves.” Bail urges her up the stairs. “Your children need you to be well. The Jedi need us. And Obi-Wan will need us tomorrow.”
That last sentiment makes her give-in.
Obi-Wan will need her tomorrow, whatever happens.
The Temple is a tomb.
Jedi wander the hallways in pairs, like they’re frightened to be alone and frightened to sleep. All the ones they pass greet Padme and Bail with somber gratitude. They say things like thank you for everything or Master Kenobi has wonderful friends in both of you. Things like that. Polite things that do nothing to mask their impending grief. The sense that they are being targeted.
“Padme,” Bail says, taking her arm and stopping her in her tracks. “Look over there.”
He points toward a small alcove. Inside, propped up, is a photo of Obi-Wan and Anakin from early on in the war. It was taken by some news outlet or the other. Padme remembers because Anakin could not stop laughing over how much Obi-Wan hated it. Anakin’s resting his arm on Obi-Wan’s shoulder in the photograph, and Obi-Wan’s smiling, his blue eyes shining with affectionate amusement. Anakin’s wide grin makes Padme’s heart skip a beat. She misses him. She wants to see him, and she can’t.
All around the photo are notes. Flowers. A stuffed Tooka or two.
“To Master Kenobi,” Padme murmurs, reading the piece of paper taped to the top of the photo, “our guiding light.”
Bail sniffs, and Padme runs a hand up and down his back.
“Take care of him tomorrow, all right?” he says, a crack in his voice. “If I were allowed I would be with you. But I’ll be right up front. I swear it, Padme. Maybe … maybe it will be all right. I believe in Anakin. I have to.”
“Yes.” Padme lets herself lean on her friend’s broad shoulder, just for a moment. “I do too.”
Padme hears Master Yoda before she sees him when they reach the doors of the council chamber.
“Mace, calm down you must.”
That, Padme never expected to hear.
Mace Windu is pacing in front of the windows of the chamber, Yoda, Kit Fisto, and Master Mundi attempting to make him stop to no avail. Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka stand talking quietly with Master Plo, who has an arm around Ahsoka’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” Bail whispers to Quinlan, who pulls them aside.
Quinlan grimaces. “The Chancellor’s office isn’t allowing us to have Obi-Wan’s body. Mas Amedda just sent word. No Jedi funeral rites. Nothing.”
“What?” Bail whispers in a way that is not really a whisper at all, and this draws the attention of some of the other council members. “Are they ever going to release it?”
“I don’t think so.” Quinlan hits a knuckle against the palm of his hand over and over and over again. “I haven’t said this to the rest of them, but I think … something bad is happening tonight. To Obi-Wan. I sense it.”
What else in the world could happen, Padme wonders. Except, Palpatine’s depravity has no bottom. If she could, she would strike his Naboo citizenship. He doesn’t deserve it.
Master Windu finally stops pacing, his robe swinging as he spins toward Padme and Bail. “What are we going to do?” he asks. “Is Skywalker there? This can’t stand. It can’t stand.”
“Master,” Depa Bilaba says, putting a hand on Mace’s shoulder.
This, more than Yoda or Master Mundi’s attempts, calms Master Windu down. Maybe it’s because she was his Padawan, but the effect is instantaneous.
Padme steps further into the chamber, shutting the door behind her.
And that’s when she realizes.
There are tears in Master Windu’s eyes.
“Anakin is there,” she replies. “With Palpatine.”
“Then what’s the plan?” Mace asks. “What harebrained but somehow brilliant scheme have he and Obi-Wan come up with? What are we going to do if Skywalker can’t get the recording before tomorrow?”
Silence. A space in which Padme must explain that if Anakin can’t get what they need before noon tomorrow, that Obi-Wan will die. There’s every chance the Jedi won’t listen. Letting go is one thing, but this? Allowing one of their most respected and well-loved masters, a sage of the order, a boy who grew up in these hallowed halls, to die on the steps of their home?
It may be too much.
It’s too much for her, and yet she must. She has to. She started wavering when she walked into Obi-Wan’s cell, and then Obi-Wan himself said the words.
You must let me go.
“If Anakin can’t get the proof we need before then,” Padme begins, “then he will need to remain under cover until he can. And in that same case, Obi-Wan—” Tears fill her eyes, and it takes all her willpower to hold them back. “—Obi-Wan has asked me to tell all of you to let things proceed.”
Mace’s eyes widen. “Proceed?”
He spins toward Quinlan, who’s leaning against the wall with his arms and ankles crossed.
“Vos?” Mace continues. “Obi-Wan helped save your life. You agree with this?”
Quinlan doesn’t move, like he thinks he’ll break if he does. “I don’t like it one bit, Mace. But it’s what Obi-Wan wants.”
“Since when you do listen?” Mace asks.
“Since he’s doing it to save the Jedi,” Quinlan says quietly. “If he were doing it to be overly self-sacrificing like always, I’d tell him to shut up and steal him off that execution stand myself. But he’s right. He usually is. Most of you in here know that. Am I right, Senator Amidala? That’s Obi-Wan’s main reason for saying this.”
“It is,” Padme answers. “Palpatine is out to destroy you. All of you. People are with the Jedi now more than they have been in so long. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to risk that.”
“I read the memories off of Obi-Wan’s saber,” Quinlan continues, finally stepping toward the circle of chairs. “And let me tell you, Palpatine could easily be so distracted by how much he wants Obi-Wan dead he could make a mistake. We need to let the plan play out. All of us here know that Obi-Wan Kenobi is nothing if not a great strategist. Risky as this is, it’s what has to happen.”
“Quinlan,” Depa chides, looking concerned. “You aren’t supposed to use your psychometry on weapons.”
Quinlan shrugs, quickly wiping his eyes. “I’m all right. It was for Obi-Wan. I’ll live.”
“Obi-Wan doesn’t deserve this,” Kit Fisto protests. "The Coruscant Guard is stretched thin. They've called in a couple of battalions, but it doesn't match up to the current number of Jedi here. That is one advantage. We could try to stop it.”
“None of you deserve this,” Bail interjects.
“No,” Kit agrees, “but Obi-Wan especially doesn’t.”
“The clones of the 212th and the 501st are with you,” Cody says, one hand on a nodding Rex’s shoulder. “We could help break through the crowd tomorrow. All of us. Our chips are gone, so we’re safe from Palpatine’s plans for the clones. If it will help General Kenobi stay alive, we’ll risk it, whatever the cost.”
Next to Rex, Ahsoka stays silent. Earlier, she was gung-ho to do whatever it took to save Obi-Wan, but now, Padme sees something different. Hunched shoulders. A firmly set jaw. She meets Padme’s eye, and she looks so grown-up far before her time that Padme could cry.
“Master Obi-Wan wouldn’t want you to risk death or jail to save him unless it meant something, Cody.” Ahsoka speaks softly. “Senator Amidala is right.”
"If the Jedi are seen rebelling against the Republic, starting violence"—Master Plo sighs, shaking his head—"then we may lose this new support we're getting. And we’re what’s standing between Palpatine and the galaxy. That’s what Obi-Wan’s getting at as well.”
"Want us to lose that support, Obi-Wan does not," Yoda adds.
Here, Mace visibly tenses. He meets Padme’s eye.
“He said that too, didn’t he? That if it’s a choice between him and the galaxy, pick the galaxy.”
“Yes.” Padme puts a tentative hand on Mace’s forearm. “I know how hard this is. I do. But Anakin may get what we need. And for that, we do need a plan.”
Finally, Mace sits, gesturing at Padme. “Please Senator. Tell us what we can do.”
“If Anakin can get what he needs”—Padme straightens her shoulders—“he said he’s going to wait until the last moment to make sure everything is in place. Until Obi-Wan is up on the steps. And then he’ll play the recording. That will be our signal. I will entrust the specifics to all of you, who know battle strategy better than I do. But that’s what Anakin wanted me to pass on.”
“We’ll need to get the execution squad out of the way,” Quinlan says. “To make a perimeter around Obi-Wan. I know it’s not our style, but maybe we carry blasters. Stun them if they come at us. Make a show of good faith.”
Mace steeples his hands. “Yes. And I think we need several Jedi to protect Anakin. We can’t block him so he’s not seen, but we need to make sure no one can attack him. And I think we have our sabers out but not ignited until we must. Senator Amidala, I believe you’ll be closest to Anakin since Senator Organa has been disallowed from escorting Obi-Wan with you. I think if you can get the recording device from him that would be best. Not at risk to your life, of course.”
“I’ll be at the front,” Bail adds. “I’ll try to get up there too, to help Padme.”
“Small, I am,” Yoda replies, leaning on his gimmer stick with folded hands. “Come to the front, I will, to make sure the recording is gotten and the senators protected.”
At this, Padme cannot help but smile. Yoda, for all his eccentricities, has always been fond of her.
“Thank you, Master Yoda,” she says.
“Commander Cody, Captain Rex,” Master Plo says, “you and your men will handle civilians. Some may want to fight, may have come to do so, but please make it your priority to protect them. The Jedi will handle any clones who may be under the influence of the chips.”
“But General,” Rex protests, “they’ll be after Jedi in particular.”
Mace nods. “Yes. But we don’t want clones have to shoot at their brothers. With our numbers, we’ll manage.” He turns back to Padme, still with that desperately sad look in his eyes. “Obi-Wan had reservations about sending Anakin to spy on Palpatine. If he believes Anakin can do this, then so do I. Skywalker pulled himself back from the darkness, and as Master Yoda said this morning, that is no small matter. However, I do have one question. None of us want to let Obi-Wan go. How can Anakin do it, if the worst should come to pass?”
“He can do it,” Quinlan pipes up, sounding grave. “He’s determined to do what Obi-Wan wants. And we all know well what Anakin Skywalker is capable of when he’s determined.”
“He has feared loss since we brought him here,” Ki-adi-Mundi says. “And Obi-Wan is his closest friend. His teacher. All masters and Padawans care deeply for each other, but they are something different. If there was ever another dyad in the Force like the old mystics believed, it would be them.”
A reverent silence falls. Padme slips her hand into Bail’s. Outside, noise punctuates the quiet up here in the chamber of the Jedi High Council.
And Padme notices that no one has taken a single chair with its back to the window.
Obi-Wan's usual chair. It must be.
“The last thing Anakin wants is to lose Obi-Wan.” Padme uses Anakin’s first name. Doing so feels like spilling a secret, but what room is there for secrets, when everything in the galaxy is at stake? “But what he wants most is to do as Obi-Wan wishes. He would do anything, anything to save Obi-Wan's life, but not at the cost of sacrificing his spirit. And to condemn the galaxy just to spare him? It would do exactly that. A year ago, six months ago, I might not have said this same thing. Anakin would only be able to think of losing Obi-Wan. But things are … they’re just different now. I hope you all can trust me.”
“He loves Obi-Wan enough to let him go.” Quinlan steps forward, putting a hand on Padme’s shoulder. “I saw it too. I’m only hoping he won’t have to. That none of us will.”
“Give young Skywalker this chance, we must.” Yoda glances out the window as orange light reflects against the glass.
Fire. Somewhere, fire.
“A great wound, my lineage has been dealt,” Yoda continues, his ears drooping. “Dooku’s fall. Qui-Gon's death. Happy I am, that Padawan Tano has returned to us, after our failure to see that we were being manipulated. But believe, I do, that Anakin will do what is right.”
That’s when Padme sees it—Ahsoka's beads, taking place of the human Padawan braid.
In all of this horror, Anakin will be pleased by that.
“And if Anakin can’t get Palpatine to talk before tomorrow?” Depa asks. “What do we … if we can’t save Obi-Wan, what do we do for him?”
“Let him know he is loved, we must,” Yoda says softly. “That with him we are. Kneel, all the Jedi will, when Obi-Wan comes up Processional Way tomorrow. Word, everyone in the Temple will receive, tonight. Object to that, Palpatine cannot.”
Master Windu looks at the empty chair Padme noticed earlier. A small smile graces his face, and something about it steals Padme’s breath.
“Whenever Obi-Wan came in here as a Padawan,” he begins, something sacred on his tongue, “he would stand next to Qui-Gon trying to look very serious, but when they would leave I would catch him looking at these chairs, at us, like he’d never seen anything so wonderful. He looked at us like we were giants. When he came in on his first day on the council, he ran his hand over the top of that chair like he couldn’t believe he was going to sit in it. He always sat in it, after.”
After a short discussion of more details and when they will meet tomorrow, the group breaks up. Padme finds herself in the hall with Bail, Quinlan, Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka.
“I know I’m not getting any sleep tonight,” Quinlan says. “And I have some good brandy in my room I can get, if you all want to meet me in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”
Cody arches a single eyebrow. “You can drink in that room?”
Quinlan claps Cody on the shoulder. “Not usually. But tonight? Yeah.”
“What kind of brandy?” Bail asks, and for some reason, this makes Padme laugh. When was the last time she laughed?
“Corellian.” Quinlan winks. “What other kind is there?”
“A man after my own heart.”
They meet in the stunning room Padme has only seen once before, the burbling water making her feel at ease despite the world crashing down around her. Other Jedi linger here too, and Padme has a flash of something. A flash of her children in these halls. A flash of a smiling Anakin. A flash of a chuckling Obi-Wan leading along a group of curious younglings.
Quinlan holds up a glass. “To Obi-Wan. The best man in this entire damn galaxy.”
The rest of them echo his sentiment.
To Obi-Wan.
Anakin Skywalker throws up in the fresher down the hall from Palpatine’s office.
Obi-Wan’s screams are going to haunt him until the day he dies.
Shredded images fill his mind. Obi-Wan's bloodshot blue eyes. The soaked through ginger-brown hair. Bloody lips. The vein visibly throbbing in Obi-Wan's neck as his body convulsed from the pain.
He’s seen Obi-Wan go through a lot.
He’s never seen anything like what he saw tonight.
Temptation tugs at him. Kill Palpatine. Get Obi-Wan and Padme and go. If he can kill Palpatine. He rarely doubts his ability to win a fight, but Obi-Wan’s voice rings in his head.
Patience, my young apprentice. Patience.
And Palpatine is powerful. Anakin hasn’t even seen him duel, but after that show in that awful room in the base, he doesn’t need to. Darkness surrounded Palpatine in there. Power the likes of which Anakin has never witnessed. He can’t believe he didn’t see it before. He can’t believe he didn’t see it. The irony is, the only person who could help him take Palpatine down in a duel is the one person who can’t right now.
But no. No. He shakes his head. The plan. The plan. Palpatine dying before Anakin can get what he needs to prove the man’s treachery simply won’t do.
Palpatine can’t be a martyr. It’s not what Obi-Wan wants. It’s not what he asked.
Palpatine dying after he gets the recording? That’s fair game.
He goes to the sink, throwing water on his face before resting his hands on the cool porcelain.
“Get it together, Skywalker,” he mutters, staring at his own face in the mirror. “You have to get it together.”
Scream for me.
Anakin winces, shutting his eyes, except shutting his eyes doesn’t shut out the sound. Obi-Wan has never, ever made a noise like that. The clones tossed him unceremoniously onto that awful cot in his cell, and while Palpatine gave them instructions Anakin surveyed his passed-out master. His best friend. His brother.
And it took everything in him not to cry.
Obi-Wan looked like a broken doll. Bruised cheeks. Black veins in his right arm from the poison, visible beneath his mussed, sweaty tunic sleeve. Pale. So, so pale. Rivulets of blood trailing down his neck.
How can he watch Obi-Wan die tomorrow if he can’t get Palpatine to talk tonight? He took the opportunity to record some of the terrible things he witnessed. Reaching up to scratch a non-existent itch was all it took to press the button, but he knows it won’t be enough. The specific details Obi-Wan said he needed to get, Palpatine wouldn’t say. Sith. War. Separatists. That sort of thing.
The screams should be the evidence he needs. Everyone who blamed Obi-Wan, who treated him like this, should have to hear those screams. The Anakin before all this happened would have believed they would be enough to take Palpatine down.
The Anakin of today knows they aren’t.
If things work out, he plans on making Tarkin and Mas Amedda hear them, those screams. It’s not the Jedi way but he’s never been a perfect Jedi.
I love you anyway, do you hear me?
Force, the sand people. He almost forgot. He had to tell Obi-Wan about the sand people and Obi-Wan said that. Obi-Wan said other things too, angry things, but that was only the poison. He wishes he could talk to Padme. He wishes he could comm her, but it’s too dangerous to talk to her or anyone else. He adjusts the comlink, fast-forwarding past the small bit of the torture session that he recorded so it will be ready to go should things turn his way.
Taking a deep breath, Anakin heads back to Palpatine’s office.
For Obi-Wan, he must do this. For Obi-Wan, he must try. Palpatine was furious on their ride back here, silently simmering as they fought the chaos to return to the senate. Anakin keeps thinking of the one thing Palpatine said back in the … well he supposes he’d call it a torture room, that made him hopeful.
In the world I’m seeking to create.
An admission, of sorts. A slip. A sign.
Outside the windows of Palpatine’s office suite, Coruscant is on fire. Well, metaphorically. Or not so metaphorically, Anakin realizes, spotting a small blaze off in the distance.
Kriff.
He blows out a breath. He has to go back in.
What he finds when he goes back in surprises him. Palpatine pacing. Palpatine looking … unnerved. Palpatine stopping his pacing to glance out the window when there’s the tell-tale sound of shattering glass.
“Unbelievable,” Palpatine says, his hands folded behind his back. “I end the war for these people and what do I get?”
Anakin shuts his eyes.
Calm. Calm. Calm.
Obi-Wan dealt the death blow to the war. He killed Grievous. He set off the events which led to the cease fire. But the war has always been a front to wipe out the Jedi. That seems clear now.
“It’s terrible.” Anakin steps up next to Palpatine, though he doesn’t dare touch him. “What’s being done?”
“The Coruscant Guard are doing their best, along with some other clone units and the Coruscant Security Force.” His eyes flick to Anakin and then back out the window. “In different circumstances I would ask the Jedi for assistance but that won’t do here.”
“If I can help in any way”—Anakin lays the servile attitude on thick—“please let me know.”
“No, no, my boy.” Palpatine shakes his head, putting a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t waste your talents on such pedestrian matters. The citizenry here and elsewhere will soon see that this kind of disorder will be met with swift force. It just won’t do.” He pauses, his voice low and deep in his throat—Sidious, rather than overly-pleasant Palpatine. “I do hope your former master is pleased with himself. Causing all this ruckus. I am surprised. The Jedi have not been popular for the past year at least.”
Another slip. A sliver.
Palpatine is anxious. Anakin senses it. Anxious and enraged.
“People will see that you are the true hero of the war, Chancellor,” Anakin says in what he hopes is a soothing way. “This obsession with Obi-Wan won’t last. They’ll see as I have. They’ll choose the security you strive for over the chaos of what’s going on outside right now.”
“I do hope you’re right.” Palpatine gestures Anakin back over to his desk. “I must say, unfortunately Senator Amidala has not made this situation any easier. She’s been very inflammatory.”
Anakin holds back a sharp reply, folding his hands on Palpatine’s desk. “I apologize for Padme. Her affection for Obi-Wan has blinded her, and she’s stubborn in her beliefs about what the Republic should be.” He pauses, and Palpatine watches him. “I do have one favor to ask, concerning Padme. May I stay here in your office tonight? I have no desire to return to the Temple, and if I go to Padme’s apartment she’ll want to know where I’ve been. Better to tell her the truth once all this is over.”
“Of course Anakin.” Palpatine pats Anakin’s hand. “Of course.”
How jarring to have Palpatine talking to him this way, patting his hand, when he did what he did to Obi-Wan a mere hour ago.
He’s been lying to Anakin since the day they met.
“She won’t yet be able to appreciate what I’m doing for her, not when she’s forsaken your friendship,” Anakin adds. “But she will when she’s alive to raise our children. Then she’ll understand your kindness. I’m sure that she’ll find her away again like I did.”
“Your willingness to assist me this evening was a great show of good faith.” Palpatine smiles, if it can even be called that. “Of your dedication to the Republic or … whatever remains of it, when the smoke of the war clears.”
Anakin works to keep his face neutral.
Whatever remains of it when the smoke of the war clears.
Now they’re getting somewhere.
What that means Anakin doesn’t know, but maybe he can find out.
Palpatine pulls out two glasses from his desk drawer, pouring a measure of amber liquid into each. Anakin’s stomach roils at the sight of it, but of course, he can’t say no.
“I know it must have been difficult, seeing your old master in such a way,” Palpatine says, taking a sip. “In unimaginable pain.”
Anakin tosses back half the drink in one fell swoop, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“At first.” Anakin runs his finger around the rim of the glass. “But to be honest Chancellor, the longer I was in there, the angrier I got. The more I wanted to hurt him. I’ve never felt power like that, like what you showed me in there, just with one simple syringe. The way it could take a man apart. What we could do with power like that should the separatists decide they want to start up again … I want to learn that. From you.”
“The dark side was telling you the truth tonight.” Palpatine’s gray eyes gleam with glee. “The truth about how Master Kenobi and the Jedi have hampered your growth. Consider tonight the first lesson of many.”
The dark side. It’s not Sith, but it’s progress.
Anakin briefly wonders how Palpatine conceals those Sith-yellow eyes when he doesn’t want others seeing them. They were very yellow when he was torturing Obi-Wan. It must be some kind of concealment technique.
Anakin reaches up to shift his tunic when Palpatine turns toward the window at the sound of something going on outside.
He switches on the refurbished comlink.
If Palpatine is willing to say dark side, maybe he’ll soon be willing to say something else.
“I admit I was … surprised at Master Kenobi’s tenacity.” Palpatine faces Anakin again, drumming his fingers on the desk in an agitated manner. “I did not think he could withstand what he was given.”
Arrogance. Palpatine’s arrogance. That is the key to Obi-Wan’s plan. Anakin mutes his emotions. He doesn’t have what he needs yet, and he doesn’t want Palpatine sensing anything.
But something is changing. It is.
“Don’t take it too personally, Chancellor,” Anakin all but coos. “Obi-Wan is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met. He’ll sit there in agony just to spite you.”
A knock at the door interrupts whatever Palpatine might have said in reply. Mas Amedda comes in, inclining his head in greeting.
“Your requested change to the execution has been noted, Chancellor,” he says. “The shock troopers will be on standby with their blasters just in case.”
Anakin’s blood turns to ice.
What does that mean?
Calm. Calm. Calm.
“Change in plans?” Anakin asks once Mas Amedda is gone, trying to sound casual.
Palpatine doesn’t answer at first, opening another drawer to his desk.
A locked drawer.
The drawer where he put …
Palpatine ignites Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, gazing at the blue blade with disgust.
“You have impressed me tonight, Anakin. But if you are to fully sever your bond with your old master, I also think you ought to be the one to sever his head.”
Palpatine kills the blade, the familiar whooshing sound louder in Anakin’s ears than ever before.
“You are going to execute Obi-Wan Kenobi on the steps of the Jedi Temple tomorrow. With his own lightsaber.”
Notes:
I know I know I KNOW but just trust me okay????
Also if you wanna chat you can find me on Tumblr at KCrabb88! I talk about Star Wars, Les Mis, musicals, pirates, my in-progress original fiction trilogy, and stuff like that! Swing by for more Obi-Wan ramblings.
Chapter 11: There's a Kind of Calling
Summary:
The fate of the galaxy is decided.
Notes:
Y'all thank you SO MUCH for your incredible comments on the last chapter!!! I am still answering them, but rest assured they are so, so appreciated!!! Y'all are too kind and I'm so happy this story is being enjoyed. :D
I will have more to say in the notes at the end!
It's in the tags, but warnings for depictions of things surrounding a public execution (don't worry, Obi-Wan is not going to die), general lightsaber violence, and medical stuff in this chapter, but nothing that is worse than anything else in this fic so far. Same level!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Obi-Wan stays awake all night.
All. Night.
He can’t see the sunrise, but his body senses it. With the light of day comes a reprieve from the agony of the last few hours. The pain is still present—very present—all over. Everywhere. But it’s bearable. Somewhat. Staying in a half-meditative trance—as much as the suppression cuffs allowed—helped him make it through.
That, and Qui-Gon.
Breathe, Padawan.
I’m with you, Obi-Wan.
Stay with the light.
These are the things Qui-Gon uttered over and over again, as many times as Obi-Wan needed. Qui-Gon stroked Obi-Wan’s forehead and told stories, stories about their time together, so he could try and distract Obi-Wan from the anguish.
I can’t, Obi-Wan said at one point, wondering if it was possible to hold a Force ghost’s hand so tightly it would break. I can’t, Master.
Hold onto me, Qui-Gon whispered. Just hold on.
So Obi-Wan did.
After that, at some point—time is a question, as he can’t see a clock—the pain died down.
And now, hours before his potential death, he does not give in to despair.
“I hear the clones coming,” Qui-Gon says as Obi-Wan sits up. “But even if you can’t see me, I’ll be here. Whatever comes.”
“Thank you, Master.” Obi-Wan chokes up, feeling like an adolescent again. “For everything.”
Qui-Gon Jinn cradles Obi-Wan’s face the way Obi-Wan cradled his when he was dying.
“You are my greatest legacy, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon speaks with a breath-stopping affection. Pride. “And if today is the day, please listen for my voice. Swear to me.”
“I swear.”
With that, Qui-Gon is gone.
Three clones do indeed come down the hallway moments later, though not members of the Coruscant Guard—they must be busy with crowd control and security. The ray shield goes up, and the metal gate too.
One of the clones tosses a black shirt and trousers at him—similar to what the other prisoners Obi-Wan saw last night were wearing—and gestures him out of the cell.
“You’re to go into the fresher and shower,” the clone says. “Then put those on.”
Obi-Wan almost asks why on earth he’s being allowed to clean himself properly now, but it’s because Palpatine wants to wash away what evidence he can. That will be mostly useless. The bruises on his face will still be there. The scar and the scratch marks on his neck. He’ll only look marginally less frightful. It’s not worth the fight, and he won’t say no.
It’s such a small thing, but he’s been desperate for a shower.
“I have these clothes, thank you,” Obi-Wan protests. “I prefer to die in something familiar.”
“Chancellor’s orders.”
“What isn’t?” Obi-Wan mutters, two of the clones grabbing his arms and leading him down the hallway to a different fresher than the one he’s used before.
They pass a few other cells on the way, some with prisoners in them. Who is in here? Obi-Wan wasn’t aware there was much of anyone inside the base prison. It isn’t the Coruscant Central Detention Facility, after all. One is a clone, the other a Twi’lek. Maybe someone who protested Palpatine’s emergency powers? There’ve been some reports of that happening.
“You all right there, Master Jedi?” the Twi’lek calls out. “We heard some awful screams last night before they dragged you through here.”
Screams? Tarkin said the room was soundproof. Tarkin being wrong about his nasty little experiment does give Obi-Wan some joy.
“They’ve been building something back there the past three months,” the clone in the cell adds. “Now I guess we know what.”
One of the guards claps a hand over Obi-Wan’s mouth before he can speak, dragging him the rest of the way. After his cuffs are removed, two clones wait outside the door, and the third, to Obi-Wan’s horror, follows him inside.
“I don’t require assistance,” Obi-Wan says.
“Protocol,” the clone replies, blaster in hand. “You have five minutes, Master Kenobi.”
So, Obi-Wan is forced to strip in front of a clone he’s never met before. The shower door doesn’t give him much privacy, but at least it’s frosted. There’s nothing in here but a small bottle of shampoo and a matching bottle of soap. No razor—they don’t want to give him the chance to kill himself before they can. A clock was visible in the hallway as he passed by.
Eight in the morning.
Four hours.
Four hours until he might die.
The pain from the poison pounds persistently in his veins. Movement makes it worse. The temptation toward anger is less, which is something, though it still bubbles in his blood.
He can’t deny that even this low-pressure, lukewarm water feels like a miracle. Washing his hair is the first order of business. Has it even been washed since Utapau? It’s disgusting, and slimy from the Bacta to boot. When he stretches out his arm to wash the rest of himself, he sees it.
The black bruise beginning on the top of his hand where the IV went in, twisting like vines around his wrist and up his arm, ending above his elbow.
Black.
Not purple. Not blue.
Black.
The scar from his gut wound is puckered and angry. The wound that’s off to the side—his potentially still somewhat lacerated liver somewhere beneath—is scarred over too, but bruised still, and sore to the touch. Dried blood turns the water pink-brown, crumbles of it coming off his neck and wrists.
There’s no time to consider further. Obi-Wan’s shaking when he steps out, short of breath. The clone helps him grab onto the sink, a flash of regret in his eyes. Maybe these clones aren’t yet under the influence of the chips. The Coruscant Guard are loyal to the chancellor, have spent the war protecting him, and who knows what things they’ve been told the past few days.
They’re just following orders.
“Easy there,” the clone says, wrapping a towel around Obi-Wan’s waist to give him some decency.
“I need a moment.” Obi-Wan grips the sides of the sink. “I won’t try anything. You have my word.”
The clone doesn’t argue, and for that, Obi-Wan is grateful. He glances at himself in the mirror.
To say he looks terrible is an understatement.
Blotchy bruises on both sides of his face. The lightning scar on his ncek with the scratches running down, still red. Obi-Wan wouldn’t be surprised if his skin was trapped beneath Palpatine’s fingernails. Puffy, purple bags beneath his eyes. His wrists bruised, an open sore on the underside of each one. Pale skin. Alarmingly pale. Bloodless, chapped lips.
A shower isn’t going to hide much.
Slipping the black clothes on as quickly as he may, he realizes why they wanted him to change. The shirt is short-sleeved—no place to hide any weapons. The clones cuff him again, giving him a pair of slide-on shoes. Again, he assumes, because it would be more difficult to hide a weapon in them.
He scoffs. What weapons does he even have access to?
Palpatine must be upset. Angry over the protests going on. Worried that something is going to interrupt his little show. Even deep in the belly of this place, Obi-Wan could hear some of the noise in the streets last night as he clung to consciousness.
Back in his cell, Obi-Wan runs his fingers through his damp hair before assuming the position to try and meditate a while. Pain pushes against his skin when he crosses his legs, like the injected darkness inside him already knows what he’s up to.
Except, he can never really get started.
They bring him water and a ration bar.
Protocol.
A medic comes in to check his vitals. It’s determined he’s healthy enough to be killed.
Protocol.
His datapad from the Jedi archives is taken away.
Protocol.
They take him to a smaller, more claustrophobic cell nearer to the front door of the base. There’s no cot, just two chairs. A ray shield comes down again, and two clones face him so they can watch his every move.
Protocol.
He drinks the water and eats the ration bar on the chance he does live past noon.
He sits on the floor rather than the chair, crossing his legs. The Force surrounds him, not quite as strongly as usual, not with the cuffs, but he bathes himself in its light. The resulting pain reminds him that the poison is still active. How long will it last? It’s better than last night, easier to resist, but there’s no doubt it’s still punishing him for refusing the dark side.
Aren’t you angry this is happening to you?
The monster from last night speaks again. The one who tempted him.
Acknowledge it.
Quinlan’s voice.
“I’m angry at Chancellor Palpatine for being so desperate for power that he would make others suffer,” Obi-Wan says aloud. “I’m frightened for the Jedi. For all those I love. Of what I will be put through today.”
Have you seen rain before, Anakin?
His own voice. The memory from last night that anchored him.
“But I will not let darkness be what I leave behind,” Obi-Wan continues. “I have dedicated my whole life to the light. Sparing myself some pain before the end is not worth changing that.”
Give in.
“No.”
He winces when his neck and arms and legs cramp like they did last night, though not as violently.
Time passes. His life flashes before him. Floats? How maddening to not know whether he will live or die before the day is out. That’s happened a thousand times with the war, but this is more finite. More dehumanizing. So, so much is at stake. Memories come in smears of dripping paint.
Running through the halls of the Temple with his youngling clan, laughing until his ribs ached as their creche-master chased them.
Yoda coming to visit him in the Halls when he caught a flu.
Meeting Qui-Gon for the first time and thinking how tall is he?
Anakin shaking his hand.
You’re a Jedi too? Pleased to meet you.
Running his hand over the top of a chair in the council chamber. He sat in that chair every time after, didn’t he?
Sliding a glass across the table of that sketchy bar in Coruscant. Quinlan catching it with a wink.
Laughing with Master Windu and Master Plo one late night in the hallway of the Temple during the war when they were all home.
Padme kissing his cheeks in greeting one day when he stopped by to help with her work on a bill, and ended up staying for hours.
Dinner at Bail’s apartment, the two of them trading stories and gossiping about various members of the senate.
The little girl in Ryloth that Waxer and Boil rescued. Numa. The way she clung to him. The way she wanted to protect him even as he was meant to protect her.
Cody, handing him his lightsaber with a smile.
Letting Rex and Ahsoka tease him when none of them had slept after a mission.
Letting Anakin drive the speeder too fast and listening to him burst out laughing with joy.
That’s what he wants preserve. That’s what he’s willing to give his life for.
These people. These good, good people. Whatever happens today, those people will save the galaxy.
He knows they will.
He’s trembling as the memories fade away. He moves to the chair, and he waits.
And he waits.
And he waits.
Footsteps come. A familiar presence.
“You have five minutes,” the clone escorting Padme says. “Then Mas Amedda and Admiral Tarkin will arrive to escort Master Kenobi to the execution site.”
Padme doesn’t answer. She only hurries in once the ray shield is up.
“Obi-Wan,” she breathes, pulling up the second chair and immediately taking his hand. “What is this on your hand? What is—” She stretches out his arm, gasping when she sees the black marks. “What happened?”
“It’s not so much what happened to me that I’m concerned about,” Obi-Wan replies. “But there’s a torture room here in this base. Tarkin’s invention. I think I might have been the first victim, but I doubt I’ll be the last if Palpatine isn’t stopped.”
The color recedes from Padme’s cheeks. She hasn’t slept—that much is clear—and the makeup she’s used to try and cover that up only does so much. He hates to worry her, but she would want to know about this. If word isn’t passed on, Palpatine, Tarkin, whoever it may be, will use that room again. On other Jedi. On anyone who defies them.
“They tortured you?” Padme’s voice goes low, the glint in her eyes sharp as flint. “Who? I want names.”
“Palpatine,” Obi-Wan begins. “Tarkin was there at the beginning. And … Anakin.”
There’s nothing more they can say, not in here. Padme’s breath catches, and Obi-Wan hopes that their tenuous and temporary connection in the Force—via the twins—impresses upon her that Anakin didn’t have a choice. The reason he mentioned it at all is so she can at least know that the plan is indeed still going. That Anakin is doing what he must.
What if he’s turned since?
No. No. Obi-Wan will not entertain that idea. There is nothing when he reaches out for their bond. No light. No darkness. Just a wall. If Anakin fell, Obi-Wan would have felt it. He felt Anakin slipping before.
“My sweet friend.” Padme strokes Obi-Wan's cheek, and Obi-Wan leans into the warmth inside this cold, cold cell. “What did they do to you?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “There’s no need to get into specifics.”
“Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. There’s no denying Padme when she gets like this.
“There were several very unfortunate options,” he says, “but it was chemical torture. They strapped me to a gurney. Hooked me up to an IV full of a drug that dampened my pain tolerance, which aggravated my current injuries. And then injected a Sith potion of sorts. A poison that was meant to turn me to the dark side. The poison, as far as I’ve read, can make a person terribly violent if they give in, which is what Palpatine wanted. It made me angry. It made me … say things I didn’t want to say.”
“The poison was painful?” Padme asks.
Obi-Wan smiles tightly. “Quite.”
He doesn’t go into detail. Not now. If he lives, he will. But Padme doesn’t need to know that his throat still hurts from screaming. She doesn’t need to know that he begged Anakin to stop. She doesn’t need to know how Palpatine purred in his ear.
Scream for me.
My perfect little Jedi.
“You’re in pain still, aren’t you?” Padme rests her forehead against Obi-Wan’s. “I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan. I’m sorry.”
“Resisting it is painful, yes, but it is more bearable than last night. It’s all right. I’ll be all right.”
They sit together. They breathe together. Neither of them knows whether Obi-Wan will see tomorrow.
Padme takes both of Obi-Wan’s hands now. She makes a noise of discomfort.
“The little ones?” Obi-Wan asks.
“The girl.” Padme bites her already wounded lip. “The boy is much gentler. They both want to fight for you I think.”
Somehow, some way, Obi-Wan smiles.
“Whatever happens, Padme,” Obi-Wan says, “thank you. For everything.”
Tears glisten in Padme’s eyes. She’s so young, and she’s so brave, and Obi-Wan hates that she has to go through this.
“I love you,” she says. “These kids love you. And he loves you, Obi-Wan. He does.”
“And I love all of you.” Obi-Wan kisses Padme’s hand. “Very much.”
Anakin’s absence hovers between them. Obi-Wan misses him. He wants to see that grin just one more time, and he’s not sure he’ll get to.
But Anakin is doing what he must.
For the galaxy.
For the Jedi.
For the twins.
And, Obi-Wan knows, for him.
Footsteps come. A dark presence. Not Palpatine but someone else.
The ray shield goes up.
“It’s time to go,” Mas Amedda says. “Step away, Senator Amidala. Master Kenobi, stand up.”
There’s no choice, so both of them obey. Two clones come in and undo the cuffs Obi-Wan currently wears, replacing them with different ones. The handcuffs are silver with a thin strand of blue in the center. The Force suppression piece, Obi-Wan assumes. They’re closer together than the others, severely limiting his range of motion. The ankle cuffs are much the same as the the ones he’s been wearing, though they’re joined to the handcuffs via a metal chain, this time.
“Hands against the wall,” one of the clones orders. “Keep your feet apart.”
Two clones pat him down for weapons he could not possibly have before turning him back around and holding him between them. Their grasp on his arms is too tight.
“You will be walked to a speeder that is waiting outside the base,” Mas Amedda begins without ceremony. “You will be escorted in that speeder by one Commander Fox, Admiral Tarkin, myself, and Senator Amidala. Another speeder of shock troopers will be driving behind and in front of us, so I would not suggest any last minute escape attempts. Once we arrive at Processional Way, you will exit the speeder and walk up to the steps of the Jedi Temple. Once there, you will be restrained. Chancellor Palpatine will speak. This will be a public execution, but you are not to interact with the crowd. Do you understand, Master Kenobi?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, lifting his chin and meeting Mas Amedda’s eye. “I understand.”
“It is Republic law that you are to be told the manner of your death. Therefore it is my obligation to inform you that the method of execution will no longer be a firing squad.” Mas Amedda’s eyes shine with sinister pleasure. “It will be a beheading. Via lightsaber. Is that understood?”
Obi-Wan jolts.
“No,” he says, and he knows, he knows the answer to this question already, but he must ask. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What Jedi have you coerced to dispatch me?”
“Why, Master Skywalker, of course.”
“What?” Padme exclaims, clenching her shaking hand into a fist. “This is outrageous. Unthinkable.”
“One more word of complaint, Senator,” Mas Amedda says, “and you will not be allowed to escort Master Kenobi. I’m sure you don’t want to put him through that in his last moments, given that Senator Organa has already been barred from doing so.”
Padme’s mouth hangs open, but she falls silent.
The walk to the speeder is a blur. The walls of the base close in, dripping black and silver.
Anakin.
Anakin.
Anakin.
If Palpatine didn’t confess anything, Anakin will not have to stand idly by and watch.
He will have to kill Obi-Wan himself. If he wants to keep to their plan, anyway.
Obi-Wan wonders what Palpatine’s game is here. Is he doing this because he’s suspicious? Making Anakin prove himself? But no. He wouldn’t let Anakin do this if he didn’t believe the show Anakin put on last night. He would be too concerned that Anakin wouldn’t do it.
… can Anakin do it?
It would be understandable if he couldn’t. Watching and doing it yourself are two very different things.
He reaches for calm. None of this is in his control any longer. It’s in the hands of the young man he has dedicated his life to teaching. It’s in the hands of the Jedi and Padme and Bail and Cody and Rex whatever plan they might have in place.
It’s in the hands of his family.
He could live today, but he accepts the fact that he might die. Terribly. Publicly. By the hand of the person he cares for most. The waiting, this ritual, makes him sick to his stomach.
Should he have let Anakin go to Palpatine? He couldn’t stop him, of course, not from behind these bars, but he did give him his blessing.
There was no one else, he reminds himself. No one else who could carry out the plan.
“Master Kenobi.” Tarkin purses his lips as Obi-Wan approaches the speeder, fighting back a full-blown grin. “Do step inside, please.”
Obi-Wan does, though the shackles make him unsteady on his feet. The chain clanks against the metal floor when he sits down, and this small thing sends a shiver up his spine. Padme slips in beside him before anyone can stop her.
As the speeder revs to life, Obi-Wan’s hand starts to shake. From the pain. From the knowledge of what he might face.
Anakin.
Anakin.
Anakin.
He will not let Mas Amedda or Tarkin or Palpatine see him shake. No. He must not.
Padme takes his hand, lacing their fingers tightly together.
The city he grew up in, the city he loves, is decimated. Broken glass is scattered across sidewalks. Windows have been smashed. Almost no one is walking below, and the air traffic is practically nothing.
Breathe, Obi-Wan. Breathe.
Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon’s voice.
I am one with the Force, Obi-Wan says inside his head, shutting his eyes and letting Coruscant fly by. And the Force is with me.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Drums draw him out of his reverie. Snare drums playing an ominous march.
A death march.
Crack. Thump. Crack. Thump. Crack thump crack thump crack thump.
Shouting clashes with the drums. Chanting. There’s so much noise. A wall of it.
The Jedi Temple comes into view, his beloved home, and then, he sees it.
The crowd.
An impossible, astonishing crowd.
The engine whines when the speeder comes to a halt at the edge of the boulevard.
“Step out.”
Mas Amedda barely gives Obi-Wan a chance to do so before he’s pulling him out instead, with enough force that Obi-Wan nearly falls.
“Stop it,” Padme hisses, a noise Obi-Wan has never heard from her before. She takes Obi-Wan’s hand back immediately. “You’ve hurt him enough.”
Clones in their white armor dot the crowd. At least five-thousand of them.
There are, however, more citizens. More Jedi. Senators too.
Palpatine wasn’t ready. He was too eager. If he’d waited days, a week, more clones could have been summoned from across the galaxy. There’s over a million of them in the GAR.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t, it would seem.
He’s slipping. He must be slipping.
In the sea of people, Obi-Wan spots familiar faces. Cham Syndulla. Numa and her father. Countless Twi’leks. Saw Gurrera with fighters from the Onderon resistance. The governor from Kiros, the leader of the Togruta who was locked away on the slave ship with Obi-Wan and Rex. Gungans. Citizens from Naboo and Alderaan and Felucia. Senators Obi-Wan recognizes, including a white-lipped Mon Mothma. Clones from the 212th and the 501st. Dozens and dozens of them. He’s sure he sees … Force, is that a disguised Hondo Onaka?
Temple workers are there too. So many of them.
And Jedi.
Jedi from from the back to the front of the crowd.
The crowd is not quiet.
The crowd roars.
“No gawking, Master Jedi.”
Tarkin himself yanks on Obi-Wan’s arm to move him along. Padme, refusing to let go of Obi-Wan’s hand, walks along with him, leaving the clones and Mas Amedda to follow behind.
“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” Obi-Wan mutters quietly to himself. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.”
“None of that.” Tarkin tugs painfully on Obi-Wan’s sleeve. “Not another word.”
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Repeating the mantra makes the poison sing a dirge in his veins. He sets his jaw against a wave of pain.
The din out here rings in Obi-Wan’s ears, and it only quiets as he starts walking down the boulevard. Not because of the clones shouting at people to be quiet, but because …
Well, it seems to be out of respect for him. A hush falls. Signs are visible, and Obi-Wan catches a few of them.
Free the Negotiator.
We stand with Master Kenobi.
Support the Jedi.
And as he goes along, something catches his eye, something that makes his heart burst.
Jedi kneeling. They kneel one by one by one when he passes by. All of them. Thousands of souls down on one knee, their heads bowed.
For him.
Somehow, for him.
His family. Since he was a very little boy, the Jedi have always been his family. And they are here for him now. He would go through all this horror a thousand times to make certain the Jedi Order survived.
There are no younglings in the crowd, thankfully. The knights and masters must have kept them inside, and given the that Obi-Wan doesn’t spot as many Padawans as he would expect, that must be their duty for the day.
Good. Good. He doesn’t want the young ones harmed if the clones are ordered to do so. He won’t have it.
“We’re with you, Master Kenobi!” one of the Jedi calls out.
“May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan!” shouts another.
Those same sentiments echo all around him again and again and again, mixed in with others like let him go and he ended the war and this isn’t right.
Those last few people find themselves at blaster point. Obi-Wan wants to tell them to stop, to not risk anything for his sake, but he’s being hauled forward. He can’t.
When he's mere feet away from the Temple, someone calls his name. Someone familiar. That someone familiar steps partway in his path, putting one hand on his arm. Stopping him.
Bail. Of course it’s Bail. His eyes are that familiar, warm deep brown. Sadness surges through Obi-Wan. Bail has tried so hard. Done so much.
"We're here." Bail gestures behind him at yet more Jedi. Mace. Yoda. Plo. Kit. Luminara. Siri. Shaak Ti. Ahsoka. Depa. Ki-adi-Mundi. Aayla. Vokara. All gathered at the front. All kneeling. A flash of yellow. Of blue. Cody and Rex. Breha Organa is there too, with tears in her eyes. "All of us are."
Quinlan, standing at Bail's side, grasps Obi-Wan's hand—the one Padme isn’t holding—and then—
A sharp pain shoots through Obi-Wan’s back when a clone jabs him with the butt of a blaster. Hard. Enough to make him fall to his knees. His hand slips from Quinlan's.
The drums stop.
Several people make their displeasure known at once.
We should be allowed to talk to him.
Bail.
What the fuck?
Quinlan.
This is a disgrace.
Master Windu.
"Hey!" Padme shouts, louder than all the rest, and she's the only reason Obi-Wan doesn't hit his face on the pavement. Catching himself with these cuffs is impossible.
"No one," Mas Amedda says from behind the clone who did the damage, "is to speak to or touch the condemned."
A brown robe appears in Obi-Wan's line of vision. Black boots. There's no presence to sense because the presence is blank. No light. No dark. Just ... nothing.
"I'll take care of this, Vice Chair."
Obi-Wan steadies himself before he looks up. When he does, the face of his beloved apprentice greets him.
Blue. His eyes are still blue. Dull. But blue.
Dooku’s eyes were never yellow, were they? There’s no darkness coming from Anakin, regardless. No chill up Obi-Wan's spine. Just that emptiness.
Though something is … trembling inside his former Padawan. His soul. His heart. Something intangible.
“Master Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, loud enough for others to hear. Loud enough for Palpatine, only a few feet away, to hear. “I see you’ve chosen the wrong side.”
If Anakin couldn’t get what he needed, it’s Obi-Wan's duty to go along. It was his plan. And even if Anakin did, Obi-Wan must keep up the charade until the last moment, or everything will fall apart.
Anakin seizes the front of Obi-Wan's shirt, hauling him roughly to his feet. He pulls Obi-Wan in close. “The days of Kenobi and Skywalker are over. I’ve chosen the right side. Losing you is but a temporary pain in light of what I’m gaining.”
To others, Anakin might sound furious, but Obi-Wan’s argued with his apprentice enough times to know what his real anger sounds like. It’s not how he says it, but what he says. When Anakin is really, truly angry, he hits where it hurts. Makes it personal. He doesn’t make grand proclamations. Last night, he did make it personal in order to lure Palpatine into the trap of believing him.
Who he sounds like right now is Palpatine.
And Palpatine will like that transformation. It will make him think that Anakin really is leaving Obi-Wan behind enough to forgo the more specific insults.
A murmur goes through the crowd. Whispers of what and why.
“Quiet!” some of the clones shout.
Padme stares. Obi-Wan feels her fear and her confusion.
And then, she plays the game too.
"Let go of him," she says, pushing at Anakin's hand. "I can't believe you would do this, Master Skywalker. Betray your best friend. Betray me. Betray the Republic.”
"I am defending the Republic. Step away, Senator Amidala." Anakin tightens his grip on Obi-Wan, moving closer to Padme. Into her space. His voice goes low. Deep. It’s almost a growl. "Now."
For just a moment, Obi-Wan plants his feet, refusing to move.
“It’s time to say goodbye, Master.” Anakin spits the old endearment. “Let’s go.”
“I’m glad it’s you, Anakin.”
The furthest thing from the truth. Watching Anakin go through this is worse torture than the poison. But he hopes Anakin will interpret it instead as it’s okay. Whatever happens, it’s okay.
Obi-Wan meets Anakin’s eyes. For a long moment, it is only the two of them. Them, and the galaxy resting on a knife’s edge. If it’s fate for Obi-Wan to die so the Chosen One can have the chance to restore balance, then so be it.
And if he lives? He’ll be grateful.
And Anakin won’t have to live with this.
He already has to live with enough. With last night. Yet, he isn’t broken.
Obi-Wan is so, so proud of him.
Anakin drags Obi-Wan the rest of the way by himself, the shock troopers, Tarkin, and Mas Amedda following behind. Some of the Jedi are staring at Anakin, shock written clear across their faces. It would be impossible—and irresponsible—to tell all of them the plan, but it’s hard to inflict this false betrayal on them, even if only for a short time.
Padme still hasn’t let go of Obi-Wan’s hand.
But when they reach the bottom of the Temple steps, she can go no further.
Palpatine waits for them.
“Release Master Kenobi, Senator Amidala,” he says with a gut-wrenching grin, his arm still in that goddamned sling. “There’s nothing more you can do for him.”
Padme doesn’t let go. In fact, she tightens her grasp.
“No.”
Her eyes go wide, suddenly, and for a moment, just a moment, she can’t play the game.
“Senator,” Anakin warns, the tiniest, hairline crack in his voice.
Palpatine’s too busy with Obi-Wan, too busy tormenting Padme, to notice.
“No,” Padme repeats. Her voice cracks audibly. The breeze catches her curls, and she might be that fourteen-year-old girl again. The one who knelt by his side before Qui-Gon’s funeral and let him take a minute to breathe.
“Senator Amidala!” Mas Amedda shouts, though he doesn’t move toward her. No one does. She’s visibly pregnant, and the crowd would likely not to take well to violence being done against her.
“It’s all right, Padme,” Obi-Wan whispers as Bail steps closer. “Here’s Bail. Stay with Bail, all right?”
Padme sniffs, righting herself. Standing up straight.
She kisses the palm of his hand, and lets go.
Anakin hands Obi-Wan off to the shock troopers, going to take his place by Palpatine’s side.
The sight of it makes Obi-Wan want to vomit.
A ploy. The plan. The game the plan his plan.
Palpatine leans over, whispering something in Anakin’s ear. Anakin smirks. That was part of Obi-Wan's vision.
Except Anakin’s eyes aren’t yellow.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and Force is with me.
The steps are familiar beneath Obi-Wan’s feet. He could walk up them with his eyes closed. The Temple looms against gray skies, and Obi-Wan wants nothing more than to walk through the doors. Toward his room. Toward the gardens. Toward the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Up to the council chambers.
Deep breath, Padawan.
Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon.
“Prepare the condemned, troopers.”
Tarkin. Tarkin with his lips still curled into that awful smile.
What will happen now is out of Obi-Wan’s control. If it happens, he must listen. He must listen for Qui-Gon’s voice.
Mas Amedda goes to stand with Palpatine and Anakin. At the edge of the steps, a firing squad waits. Backup? In case Anakin can’t do it, Obi-Wan supposes.
The troopers force Obi-Wan to his knees. They remove his handcuffs and place his bruised, bleeding wrists into the bolted down restraints that have been brought for this purpose. The way they’re set up—below his eye level and straight out in front of him—he’s forced to look out at the crowd.
And they’re forced to see his face.
Reporters are scattered through the crowd, their cameras rolling. There are two up here on the steps as well.
Obi-Wan grounds himself in the moment. The cool air. The weak sunlight breaking through the clouds. The beat of his heart. Bail has Padme tucked close against his side. Most of the Jedi are still kneeling, but some aren’t anymore. His fellow council members at the front most notably.
A plan. There must be a plan if Anakin got the recording.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Palpatine steps forward. Circling Obi-Wan. Making him wait.
“After a thousand years of intergalactic peace, the war has been hard on us all,” Palpatine says, his footsteps slick against the marble. The microphone amplifies his voice. It’s raspier. Deeper. More Sidious than the man he’s been pretending to be. “And I have no doubt that the war is part of what led Master Kenobi down this path. It is a tragedy. However, there is no excuse for the violence he has committed, not just against me, but against the Republic itself. And we are gathered here today for the unfortunate task of making it clear that such violence will not be tolerated. Were it simply a matter of my safety perhaps lenience would be in order, but nothing can be too much to protect our democracy. To ensure security.” Palpatine scans the crowd, focusing on the thousands of Jedi throughout. “To ensure that those with an innate power most of us barely understand know what happens when that power is abused. A power that, perhaps, should have been kept in check before it became a danger to the galaxy. Difficult as it is, Master Kenobi must be made an example of lest we find ourselves needing to enact more ... stringent measures.”
There it is. The opening salvo of Palpatine’s genocide.
“The HoloNet News crews are to leave their cameras on for the entire proceedings,” Palpatine continues when the reporters nearest them reach to turn their cameras off when he’s done with his speech.
“But, Chancellor,” one of them says, his face going white as gasps ripple through the crowd. “Surely, we can’t … for all of it?”
Palpatine shakes his head, feigning sadness. “I do feel terrible about this, but today is a crucial day in the history of our Republic. It must be recorded for posterity. To show the Republic’s strength. To let our citizens know that traitors will not be tolerated.”
This. This is exactly what Obi-Wan meant when he spoke to Qui-Gon about losing his dignity. Here he is, still in quite a bit of pain in front of an endless crowd, and Palpatine wants to film his death.
His hands start shaking again.
No. No. Steady. He must be steady for his friends watching. Steady. He swore he wouldn’t let Tarkin or Palpatine or anyone who wants him dead see this.
“Chancellor Palpatine.” Master Windu dares to put his foot on the edge of the first stair. “I must object on the Jedi’s behalf. On Master Kenobi’s behalf. On the Republic’s behalf. This is cruel and barbaric.”
Next to Mace, Depa and Luminara each have one of Quinlan’s hands. Aayla’s just behind her former master, clasping his shoulder in comfort. Quinlan is shaking too. Badly. With rage or upset Obi-Wan doesn’t know. Maybe both. Padme’s hand is clapped over her mouth, Bail’s arm still around her. Bail himself has gone ashen. Cody’s eyes widen like he can’t process what Palpatine is saying. Rex looks like he’s about to explode. Ahsoka has tears in her eyes and one hand in Rex’s, and she’s so grown up, isn’t she? Her beads, Obi-Wan realizes. They’re back.
She’s rejoined the order.
“Step back, Master Windu,” Tarkin says. “Or you will be escorted out.”
Someone in the crowd shouts.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi helped save my planet from Separatist brutality, and this is how he is treated? He killed General Grievous. Ended the war.”
Cham Syndulla. A woman who must be his wife stands next to him. And a green-skinned little girl who can’t be more than eleven or so.
The crowd responds to this sentiment. More shouts come.
And Cham Syndulla is met with a blaster to the face.
“No!” Obi-Wan calls out before he can stop himself. “Please, no. Leave them alone.”
“Quiet, Master Jedi.” Mas Amedda grabs Obi-Wan's hair, giving it a tug. “You are not permitted to speak.”
The clone lowers his blaster, and Syndulla, to his credit, doesn’t look afraid.
A hush falls. Obi-Wan calls on the Force. There’s pain, but not like before. The anger doesn’t tempt him now, it’s just the poison punishing him for summoning the light.
And summon it he does.
Fear comes.
And he lets it go.
“Master Skywalker,” Palpatine says, “proceed whenever you are ready. And Master Kenobi”—Palpatine leans in with mock sympathy—“may the Force be with you.”
Anakin steps up behind Obi-Wan. He doesn’t ignite the saber. Not yet.
Two things are possible: either Anakin got what he needs and is waiting until the attention is fully on him, or he didn’t, and Obi-Wan is about to die.
At this moment, it truly could be either. The two of them have eked out rescues at the last possible second. They’ve made plans that no one else could have.
And Obi-Wan trusts Anakin to follow through.
Obi-Wan breathes in, and he lets his apprentice go.
He lets his apprentice be his brother, his best friend, instead.
Where there is Kenobi, you’ll find Skywalker not far behind.
Grief slips through the cracks of the blank space that has been Anakin’s Force presence.
It’s all right. Obi-Wan pushes the words through their bond like he did the other day in the courtroom. I love you, Anakin. And it’s all right.
Nothing comes back, but the grief vanishes and the blankness returns.
Maybe Anakin heard him.
Listen.
Listen for Qui-Gon.
Except, someone else speaks up.
“The condemned has rights to last words.” Cody is the one putting his foot on the step this time. “It’s against procedure to deny them.”
“Commander Cody,” Tarkin interrupts, “I understand you have a personal friendship with Master Kenobi, but we are well past that now.”
“According to section 10F subsection 2 of the Handbook of the Grand Army of the Republic”—Cody keeps going despite the interruption—“any member of the GAR, past or present, is allowed to speak before being put to death. It’s also in the Yavin Code.”
Obi-Wan would laugh were this a different situation. The Yavin Code. He’s the only one who remembers it sometimes, old as it is.
But Cody remembers. Cody always remembers things like that.
Tarkin jabs his forefinger toward Cody. “This is insubordination, Commander.”
“It’s not.” Cody narrows his eyes, and Rex stands with him, one hand on Cody’s shoulder. “This is our procedure, Admiral Tarkin. Dismiss me from the military if you want. This whole thing has been a disgrace, and General Kenobi deserves to speak.”
“Cody knows the rules backward and forwards,” Rex adds. “Let General Kenobi speak.”
Looking out at the crowd, Tarkin, Mas Amedda, and Palpatine don’t have much time to consider their options. Palpatine gestures vaguely, his grandfatherly air slipping. The mask slipping. Tarkin turns toward Obi-Wan.
“Any last words, Master Kenobi?”
He sounds bored. Irritated.
Obi-Wan looks out at the sea of people. He looks at the thousands of Jedi. At the people across the galaxy who have come here to support him. At the graffiti by the bottom of the steps that reads Bring Back Our Republic.
And he knows what to say.
“I have had no greater honor in my life than being a part of the Jedi Order. No greater honor than serving the Republic as the Jedi have been proud to do since its inception. I am not perfect, but anything I have done has been in service to the ideals that I hope unite us all. To this democracy that we must treasure and protect or it will be lost. The cracks in our Republic’s foundation do not have to be permanent. They do not have to mean its end. If people work together”—he looks at Padme, at Bail, at Mace and Yoda and Quinlan and Rex and Cody and Mon Mothma—“it can be saved. I beg all of you here—do not lose hope. I beg of you to be kind to each other. In the end, that hope, that kindness, and each other, are all we have. May the Force be with each and every one of you here. Always.”
“Master Skywalker,” Palpatine says, more than a hint of frustration in his voice, “please proceed.”
A pause.
And then, a saber igniting behind him. He can’t see it, only the blue light.
The blue light, and the shadow of his own hilt.
His saber. Palpatine is making Anakin do this with Obi-Wan’s own saber.
It is going to happen, isn’t it?
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Obi-Wan quiets his mind.
Listen.
He must listen for Qui-Gon.
One last thought goes through him before he is the moment, and the moment alone.
I’m sorry, Anakin.
He looks at the crowd. He chooses someone to focus on. Someone who stands shorter than the rest, but whose presence radiates light. Love. Serenity.
Yoda.
Yoda doesn’t let him go, holding Obi-Wan’s gaze and sending waves of calm through the Force.
Obi-Wan breathes in deep, listening for the sound of his Master’s voice.
The blade hovers above him, very, very close to his neck.
“Chancellor Palpatine has a response, Master Kenobi,” Anakin says. “I think you’ll be eager to hear it.”
What does …. this is either very good, or Obi-Wan was wrong about Anakin falling. But he can’t be wrong. He’s not wrong. Palpatine’s face changes. It shifts.
Something clicks.
What was …
Something starts playing.
The news cameras keep rolling.
He seems to be somewhat awake, Chancellor. But not very lucid. He appears to be speaking to someone who isn't there. No sign of him turning. Perhaps another session would...
Mas Amedda’s voice.
I don't have another vial of the poison! Palpatine snaps. And Kenobi is too stubborn to give in to any other method. Go be useful and keep watching the cameras. Keep me apprised.
“Anakin,” Palpatine tries, and he sounds … shocked. For once, he sounds shocked.
Anakin hits a button. The recording pauses.
“Try it,” Anakin says, his Force signature surging back to life. It’s full of light. Grief. Indignation. “There are more Jedi and people in this crowd willing to fight than you have chipped clones to control.”
Shouts of support come. Gasps. Anakin points the saber out in front of him instead, stepping into Obi-Wan’s line of sight. He nods at Padme. Padme nods at the Jedi. Several come running up the stairs with blasters in one hand and not-yet-ignited sabers in the other. Mace. Quinlan. Luminara. Siri. Ki-adi-Mundi. Ahsoka. Depa. Aayla. They form a loose circle around Obi-Wan.
Yoda and Bail stay close to Padme, all three of the inching toward the stairs.
Chipped clones in the crowd raise their blasters.
And Anakin hits the button again.
He didn't really pass out. He tricked us.
Probably, Chancellor.
Anakin's voice.
A huff. Maybe even a snarl. Palpatine again.
What does he think he's going to get? Refusing the dark side won't save the Jedi. Nothing can save the Jedi. The whole war was created to destroy them.
A pause in the recording, like Palpatine realizes what he’s just said aloud.
Out in the crowd, troopers from the 212th and the 501st work to stand in front of civilians. Jedi pull out their sabers. Thousands of them.
I’m sorry to say it, but the Jedi are the old enemy of the Sith, Palpatine continues. They must be gotten rid of so the Republic may … continue to exist. Or morph, as is required. The Jedi won’t allow it. And we must do whatever it takes to stop them. Kenobi has already forced me to slow down my plans. After he is disposed of, Anakin, it will be your job to go and … dispatch some of the more radical Separatist leaders. Then we will test the waters as far as the Jedi are concerned. Wait for their new and fragile support to die down.
Anakin hits pause again.
“We,” Tarkin snarls, “will fire on every one of you.”
Anakin points Obi-Wan's saber toward Tarkin.
“As I said”—he gestures out at the crowd, where the chipped clones, while many, are outnumbered—“try me.”
“Anakin.” Palpatine smiles. Tight. Sinister. “This is treachery. Treason. Think, my boy.”
“If that confession of treachery isn’t enough proof that Chancellor Palpatine created this war,” Anakin says, “that he’s been playing both sides of it, that he is responsible for the deaths of millions across the galaxy because he wanted to destroy the Jedi, then I do have one last thing for anyone else who needs to be convinced.”
Anakin squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder before stepping toward the edge of the top stair, Kit Fisto following behind to protect him.
A clone near the steps fires, without an order.
Kit blocks the shot, and Depa fires her blaster, set to stun.
The clone crumples to the ground.
Anakin hits play.
And Obi-Wan knows what’s coming.
The Jedi really weren’t ready, were they? For anything.
A beat. A breath.
Scream for me.
Obi-Wan's own screams echo down Processional Way. They shatter the sky, the sky that has been bearing down on his shoulders since Utapau. They’re louder than he remembers. Higher-pitched. Anguished. The screams are more than just what happened last night.
They’re everything. Every single thing that’s happened since Palpatine stabbed him with that shining silver dagger.
The recording keeps going. Palpatine’s words are torture afresh.
But Anakin had to do it.
You poor creature. I know. It hurts so badly, doesn’t it?
If you came to me on your knees.
Worthless doesn’t even begin to describe your insignificance.
Oh, how I wish everyone could see the great Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Negotiator, the Sith Killer, reduced to this pathetic, whimpering mess.
You, my perfect little Jedi, are a failure.
Anakin stops the recording.
A thick, horrified silence blankets the crowd, but the faces Obi-Wan sees speak volumes.
Senator Mothma, with both hands clapped over her mouth. Other senators, whispering. Clinging to each other. Looking at Palpatine.
Bail, wiping his eyes.
Padme, green around the edges.
Master Windu, one fist clenched and trembling. He steps over to Obi-Wan. He ignites that purple saber, cutting through Obi-Wan’s ankle cuffs.
No one stops him.
Tarkin turns white. He tries to move away, and Quinlan seizes him by the back of the collar.
“You played a part in this, didn’t you, you bastard,” Quinlan growls. “Touch Obi-Wan again and you’ll answer to me, huh?”
“Chancellor Palpatine,” Anakin says, while Windu undoes Obi-Wan's wrist restraints, “do you have anything to say?”
A long, long moment passes. Obi-Wan stands up. Cheers echo through the air. Palpatine glares at Anakin. His expression is twisted. Ugly. Yellow creeps into the cracks of his irises.
Mas Amedda stands frozen. For once, he isn’t so haughty.
The crowd chants.
Kenobi and Skywalker! Kenobi and Skywalker!
Something flows over Obi-Wan. His pain becomes an echo of what it was. Something shifts in the Force. Tilts.
Balance.
It’s balance.
Anakin started it, and maybe ….
Maybe Obi-Wan has to finish it.
Maybe he was always meant to.
He’s ready when Anakin tosses him his lightsaber.
And he’s ready when three words pierce the air. They sound like typical military speak.
But they scorch Obi-Wan’s bones.
“Execute Order 66!”
This is it. Obi-Wan knows it.
This is the order that was meant to wipe out the Jedi.
And Obi-Wan tries not to think of what would have happened if Palpatine’s plan had gone uninterrupted. If the Jedi had been spread out across the galaxy with only their clones.
Chaos erupts.
Chipped clones fire their blasters
Jedi ignite their sabers.
Palpatine runs. But he doesn’t run away.
He goes right inside the doors to the Temple.
Padme dashes up the stairs with Bail behind and Yoda beside her.
Anakin tosses her the reconfigured comlink.
“Protect her, I will,” Yoda promises, gesturing at Anakin and Obi-Wan. “Go, you must. Both of you.”
Yoda knows too. He knows it has to be them.
Anakin smiles. He touches Obi-Wan's shoulder again, and the pain from the poison eases yet more.
“Master, I—”
“Let’s go, my friend.” Obi-Wan returns the smile. “We have to get him. Now.”
Obi-Wan is exhausted. He’s in pain. But all of that fades into the background for now. Anakin’s touch seems to wash it away.
This new energy, this stamina, won’t last long. It can’t.
And they have a job to do.
Together, they run through the front doors.
Obi-Wan knows where to go. Immediately, he knows.
“The—” Obi-Wan begins.
“The creche, right?” Anakin asks. “I sense it too.”
They run and they run and they run. Obi-Wan doesn’t even know how he’s doing it. He only knows that Force flows around him and around Anakin, between them, like it never has before. He almost … sees it. Like a faint shimmering gold. The Force has always been warmth. Light. Safety. But now it’s more like strands connecting the two of them, making their movements match. Obi-Wan has long been able to sense Anakin, to predict what he might do next—it’s the way it should be between a master and an apprentice. And yet, this feels … different. Anakin’s own energy is lending Obi-Wan physical strength.
He's lighter on his feet as he goes. When they reach the doors the creche hall—which contains a myriad number of rooms for Jedi younglings of all ages—Palpatine isn’t here. Or, Obi-Wan doesn’t see him, to be more specific. A dark presence slithers through the space.
Caleb Dume is waiting outside the doors, along with two other Padawans.
“Master Obi-Wan!” he exclaims, jade eyes popping wide. “You’re alive! What—”
The darkness edges closer. A blade ignites.
Red.
Red light.
Obi-Wan breaks into a run, switching on his saber and spinning the handle around to adjust his grip. He leans back into the Soresu opening stance before lunging forward, blue meeting red with a loud sizzle as he thrusts the blade downward before Palpatine can slice through Caleb’s torso. It forces Palpatine back, but that won’t last.
“Go, Caleb!” Obi-Wan shouts. “Get inside. Quickly!”
Anakin sweeps Caleb and the other two Padawans behind him, opening the door and telling them to alert any older Padawans inside and to stay there. The door slams shut again, but as soon as Anakin ignites his own blade, Palpatine sends him flying through the air.
“Oh no, my boy,” Palpatine mocks. “You will not get in the way of your precious master’s death again.”
Anakin, much like a Tooka, manages to land on his feet.
"I'm going to kill every single Jedi," Palpatine snarls. "Right down to the younglings. Your children. I will wipe them out. I will burn your lightsabers and desecrate this temple."
"Not," Obi-Wan says, deep and deadly, "if I kill you first."
Palpatine comes at Obi-Wan fast. It’s not a terribly refined form—it’s sloppy, in fact—but his aggressiveness and speed give him advantage in some ways. The speed is not so much with the saber, but just his movements. Some Sith trick? Obi-Wan is sure it might be. The Sith, in his experience, are never willing to simply try and hold their own in direct lightsaber combat.
They always find some way to cheat.
Palpatine's saber bears down on Obi-Wan's with unbearable might, but he will bear it. He must.
Anakin rushes over, speaking into his comlink.
"Ahsoka, get someone in here! By the creche hall."
“Sorry, Anakin,” Quinlan says. “You hit my channel instead. You said the creche?”
“The creche!” Anakin shouts. “Send Ahsoka and some others to the creche.”
“Noted.” Quinlan pauses, and there’s the sound of blaster fire and the humming of lightsabers. Ahsoka’s voice comes next, garbled while she talks to Quinlan. “You two okay? Do you need—"
“Obi-Wan and I will take care of the Sith,” Anakin interrupts. “Just send them. Now, Vos. Right now.”
"Roger roger.”
Obi-Wan tires. But when Anakin reaches him, when two blades become three, Anakin’s energy zaps him back to life.
"You are not getting in here." Obi-Wan plants his feet and widens his stance so he can better stand the crush of Palpatine’s blade against his own. "You'll have to cut me into a thousand pieces first."
"Easily done." Palpatine grins. "Look at the great Obi-Wan Kenobi, stumbling against an old man. You thwarted my plans for the Jedi, it’s true, but I think the clones outside will have the chance to slaughter plenty of them anyway, don’t you? I’ll manage the rest in time. What is a poor old man to do, being overcome like this, with the Jedi trying to take over the Republic with false evidence?”
“They heard your voice, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes, and it takes a few deep breaths to manage his anger. “I wouldn’t be counting on your façade working any longer.”
Obi-Wan dares to release one hand off his saber hilt now that Anakin’s come up to help. Through a strength he didn't know he possessed right now, he draws up a statue into the air and hurls it in Palpatine's direction. It doesn't hit him, but it does make him release from their clash.
He'll have to try that again.
Then, the three of them truly begin. Obi-Wan and Anakin force Palpatine down the hall and away from the creche as they go, ending up just past the front doors near the turn toward the gardens.
Obi-Wan thinks as his blade meets Palpatine’s three times in rapid-fire succession. Four times. Five.
Palpatine is fast. Very fast. Obi-Wan’s mastery of Soresu can keep him at bay, and Anakin’s more aggressive Djem So should compliment that well, as always. But this is different, isn’t it? Palpatine will not be so easily worn down, which is the great advantage of Soresu.
However, Palpatine is angry enough to make a mistake.
Frustrate. He should frustrate with Soresu, and then, when the time comes, employ some of his old Ataru tactics. He must save his energy for that. It will tire him in this state.
Much like he knew, he just knew that Padme was pregnant with twins, he knows he needs to be the one to kill Palpatine. To deal the mortal blow. Anakin has done his part. Anakin has defeated the Sith in the hearts of those people outside. He played the long and patient game to do it, and now, Obi-Wan must finish the job.
They have, in some ways, switched their usual roles today. And maybe that’s the point. Stepping into each other’s shoes. Anakin has touched the dark side this past week. Almost fell. Killing Palpatine will only aggravate that wound of betrayal Anakin must surely still be feeling. He’ll have to lean into the dark to do it.
Obi-Wan knows it’s not the same with him. If he can resist the poison, he can kill Palpatine without touching the dark.
Sometimes, the light burns.
They move a bit further down the hall as they fight, and Palpatine has to focus entirely to keep up with both of them. Their blades hum and buzz and crackle. Obi-Wan parries and parries and parries. Anakin attacks and forces Palpatine to defend himself. No one gets a hit in.
Twenty Jedi at least, maybe more, come running through the front door with Ahsoka at the lead.
“We’ve got it!” she calls out to them. “Don’t worry about the creche!”
Obi-Wan trusts her. He trusts her entirely.
There’s no time to ask what’s going on outside. Blaster fire rings in his ears, but he has to trust the Jedi and the clones and the willing civilians and senators outside to take care of that. His attention must be here and only here.
Force lightning shoots out of Palpatine’s fingers. Toward Obi-Wan.
Anakin jumps in front, blocking it with his saber. Holding it back and back and back until Palpatine gives up with a roar of frustration.
A statue goes hurtling right toward Anakin, who is still catching his breath. Obi-Wan slices it in half with his blade. The pieces go flying, and Obi-Wan silently apologizes to whatever Jedi Master that once was. A shard of the nameplate tells him.
Bastila Shan.
Oh, yes. He’s read about her in the archives before. She and her love, Revan—also a Jedi—both came back from the dark, didn’t they?
“I see where I made my one mistake,” Palpatine purrs, focusing on Anakin. “And that mistake was ever believing that a rash slave boy from the backwater Outer Rim was ever worthy of being my apprentice. You’re too busy chasing after this fool’s approval, aren’t you, Anakin? His praise. Well, you’re never going to get it. He’s always going to be just a little bit disappointed in you. I suppose it’s a good thing neither of you have all that long to live.”
Anakin’s eyes go wide. His face flushes red. For a fraction of a second, he looks like the little boy Obi-Wan first met.
Obi-Wan remembers Qui-Gon’s words about letting Anakin be his friend and not always feeling like he needs to be Anakin’s master. How he will, in some ways, always be Anakin’s teacher even as their relationship changes. About how to discern when what is needed.
Right now, he must be both. This is the moment where he must be both.
What he wants is to Force throw Palpatine across the room, but he must not act on his anger. He must save his energy. He must.
“I am prouder of Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, his voice ice-cold, “than I have ever been of anything in my life.”
“Sentiment,” Palpatine spits.
And he swings his blade.
Obi-Wan slides in. He takes the hit. One two three four five. He blocks every blow. Palpatine changes his angle of attack, and Obi-Wan is ready.
The block from behind. An Ataru move he practiced with Qui-Gon until he perfected it. His wrist protests when he adjusts his grip, the saber flipping over and crashing against Palpatine’s. Obi-Wan winces. The wound on that wrist stretches, blood running in a thin stream down his forearm.
Then, Anakin is there on the offensive. Forcing Palpatine to move away.
To me, Obi-Wan says inside his head. Back to back.
Anakin responds by doing just that. No arguments.
They spin around, each taking one of Palpatine’s hits over and over again.
“I see,” Palpatine says, pausing their frenetic movements to push against Anakin’s blade. “You’re choosing your master over your wife. Over your children.”
Anakin grits his teeth. “No. I’m choosing all of them. I’m choosing a world where all of them will have a chance.” He breathes in, and light comes off him in waves in the Force. “And what will come will come.”
Anakin raises his blade lightning fast and swings back down, hard enough that it sends Palpatine stumbling backward.
Palpatine pauses for a second, just a split second, and those eyes are all yellow now. There’s nothing else left. He’s breathing hard, though. He’s tiring out.
They can do it. Obi-Wan is sure they can do it.
“You sound like a Jedi,” Palpatine says with disgust.
“Yeah.” Anakin’s blue eyes blaze and burn. “That’s because I am a Jedi. And Obi-Wan taught me how to be one.”
“Yes.” Palpatine lingers on the word, and a sense of danger fills Obi-Wan up to the brim. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “And he’s been in my way ever since.”
Suddenly, Obi-Wan can’t breathe. Suddenly, he’s being lifted into the air. All he thinks about is holding onto his saber. He kills the blade so he doesn’t hurt himself if he goes plunging to the carpet, and ah, yes, that happens almost as soon as he thinks it, and his saber goes rolling away regardless. Palpatine releases the chokehold, but Obi-Wan can’t get air for a few seconds anyway, all the oxygen knocked from his lungs when he landed hard on his back.
“Perhaps I should have been the one to remove your head out there.” Palpatine sneers, that snide smirk back again. “Don’t worry, my perfect little Jedi.” The smirk grows when Obi-Wan jolts at the words. “I’ll take care of that right now. Then I’ll make sure your body is displayed out there for everyone to see. Right on steps of this Temple. And there it will stay until you rot.”
“Cheater!” Anakin shouts, closing the distance between himself and Palpatine with a jump. He lands, knees bent into a crouch, his saber sliding beneath Palpatine’s. It blocks the blow intended for Obi-Wan. Palpatine outright kicks Obi-Wan instead. Once. Twice. Three times.
Right where he first stabbed him.
A punch of pain. Oh, that does not feel good.
Anakin uses one hand to pull Obi-Wan up from the ground, and the other to Force shove Palpatine away. Palpatine falls, almost rolling over backward, and Obi-Wan summons his lightsaber back to him with a trembling hand.
“Easy, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says softly in the few seconds they have to breathe. “Are you all right? Dumb question, I know you’re not, but can you—”
“I’ll make it,” Obi-Wan assures him. The touch of Anakin’s hand eases the pain. Gives him another zap of that energy. This particular thing hasn’t happened in the past few days—just things like seeing where Anakin was, and hearing Anakin in his head—so he can only assume it’s the high-intensity situation.
Force Dyad, indeed. He never thought he could be important enough to be part of so unlikely a thing, but his whole life has been unlikely, hasn’t it?
“Just take a second okay?” Anakin says, already tensing and ready to run.
Palpatine is coming.
The man Obi-Wan was two weeks ago, a few days ago, would have said no. Today, he only nods. If he doesn’t take rest where he can get it, he won’t be able to help Anakin at all. Anakin’s strikes are fluid and smooth and beautiful, in their way. Aggression runs through his presence in the Force, but not in an uncontrolled, reckless way. It’s just the right amount.
Obi-Wan’s own voice rings in his head. A lesson about six months before Geonosis.
You grow too aggressive, Anakin, be mindful.
Anakin has learned.
Anakin does his signature move—twirling his lightsaber fast behind his back and then around to the front.
And Palpatine isn’t ready.
Anakin gets a hit in. A small one, a light graze across Palpatine’s ankle.
It makes Palpatine furious.
Obi-Wan rejoins the fight, and Palpatine’s sloppier now. Aggressive. Chaotic. There’s no strategy, only rage. The three of them keep going and going and going. Sweat drips down Obi-Wan’s back. The ache is a part of him now, and he wonders, truly, if it will ever go away even if he survives this. He rolls into a somersault when Palpatine sends a wild swing toward his middle, and he skids across the carpet when he lands back on his feet. Something burns on his skin. What is ….
Ah, the tip of Palpatine’s saber scraped against his hip when he rolled. It could surely be worse, and he can keep going, but blast if it doesn’t hurt. And then Anakin’s there, faster than should be possible.
Except, then he isn’t.
Obi-Wan is flying through the air before he can even register his feet are off the ground. A shout of incoherent rage echoes through the Temple.
Obi-Wan slows himself down with the Force, and he lands somewhat gracefully on his shoulder facing away from Palpatine and Anakin.
A terrible sound cracks the air. The smell of ozone, pungent and putrid, fills the hallway and makes Obi-Wan’s eyes water.
Excruciating pain strikes him, but it isn’t his own.
It’s Anakin’s.
Anakin’s half-bitten-back scream rips through the air. It tears Obi-Wan’s skin. Cuts through flesh and bone.
Palpatine stands over Anakin, Force lightning aimed right at Anakin’s chest. His heart.
Hundreds of memories flood through Obi-Wan in a whirl of nauseating color.
Anakin shaking his hand.
Anakin examining his first set of Jedi robes in the mirror.
Anakin following him down the halls of this very building and asking about each and every statue.
Anakin, and the rain.
Anakin grinning over his first lightsaber.
Anakin on a mission at fourteen, when Obi-Wan overheard him saying that’s my master, Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s the best there is.
Anakin laughing in the sparring dojo and egging Obi-Wan on.
Anakin’s face-splitting grin.
Anakin, back to back with him through battle after battle after battle. Through the whole war.
Quinlan’s voice.
But I’ve found focusing on a fixed point helps. A good memory. Stops the descent, you know?
Obi-Wan is so, so tired. Exhaustion is not enough to describe it. Everything hurts. Everywhere. What it will entail to heal him body and soul he doesn’t know, but he takes those good memories, memories of the little boy, the young man, the student, the brother, the friend who has defined the last thirteen years of his life, and he turns them into tremendous light. The Force surrounds him. Power runs through his veins like never before. It sends him running forward. He is the Force’s child, and today, he will enact its will.
Balance.
Balance.
Balance.
A voice whispers in his ear, ethereal and otherworldly, but he knows it. He always will.
“I know, Master,” he whispers. “I’m going.”
Stopping Qui-Gon Jinn’s death proved impossible.
But stopping Anakin’s needn’t be.
His own voice comes next. His fight with Maul in the cargo hold of a stolen ship.
You know, when I cut you in half I should have aimed for your neck instead.
Balance.
Balance.
Balance.
Obi-Wan uses the last vestiges of his energy, the energy granted to him by his bond with Anakin, by the Force itself, and he jumps high into the air. He kicks his legs out to either side. Palpatine looks up, his eyes going wide.
The lightning stops.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master, the Negotiator, Jedi High General, youngest member of the of the Jedi High Council, and a boy who once wondered if he would ever be a Jedi Knight, swings his lightsaber.
He swings it straight for Sheev Palpatine’s neck.
And he aims true.
The Sith lord’s headless body crumples to the floor of the Jedi Temple.
The Force tilts again. Something shudders beneath Obi-Wan’s feet when he lands. Sunlight streams in through the windows, lighting up everything around them.
Anakin Skywalker sits up, glancing down at his smoking clothes with a small groan of discomfort, and then back up at Obi-Wan. The lightning only struck him for twenty, perhaps thirty seconds even if it felt like a lifetime, but still, Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief.
“Master,” Anakin says, staring at Obi-Wan with a grin made of pure sunlight, “that was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
Despite it all, despite the corpse on the floor, despite everything, Obi-Wan chuckles. His blade recedes with a hiss-snap.
“I’m glad you think so, Anakin. Are you”—a wave of wooziness hits him and threatens to make him drown—“all right?”
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin gets up. “I think I should be asking you that.”
“I don’t—” Obi-Wan sways, his vision blurring for a few seconds before righting itself. “I don’t feel … all that well.”
The legs which worked so well a moment ago give out.
And with a Sith lord dead a few feet away, Obi-Wan collapses to the floor.
Anakin’s chest still hurts.
That, however, ceased to matter when Obi-Wan collapsed to the carpet.
His master is on his hands and knees taking deep breaths. Shaking. He’s really shaking.
"Obi-Wan?" Anakin drops down next to him, tilting Obi-Wan's face up to look at him. Kriff, he’s pale. Sallow. His lips are dry and almost colorless. "You're all right. You're going to be all right."
Obi-Wan nods, though it’s probably more for Anakin’s benefit than any real agreement. Obi-Wan looks bad. The magnificent light around him during the fight, the energy he seemed to borrow from Anakin, is gone again.
"You killed him, Master. Don’t let go now. Don't give up."
Obi-Wan smiles faintly. "I'll try, dear one."
Okay. Obi-Wan needs him. He can’t panic. Everyone outside is going to be dealing with a lot. Rex and Cody with the civilians. Master Windu and Yoda and Senator Organa and Padme with the clones and … Force knows what else. He sent Ahsoka to the creche, and even with Palpatine dead he’s not willing to summon her away.
Vos.
Vos will answer.
Once, when Anakin was thirteen and Obi-Wan caught a virus that made him scarily sick in the middle of the night, Anakin commed Quinlan, afraid he couldn’t get Obi-Wan to the Halls on his own. Quinlan, home from a long mission, picked up instantly, and came with Aayla to help. Anakin lost that innate trust in one of Obi-Wan’s oldest friends—and, he suspects, but does not want to think about, perhaps something in addition to friends—when Quinlan had his tangle with the dark side.
Now, Anakin realizes, he never should have. Especially when his own tumble with the dark was for far more selfish reasons.
"Quinlan," Anakin says into his comlink. “You there?”
“Yeah, Anakin,” Quinlan answers back immediately. “You two okay? Is Obi-Wan—”
“He’s alive,” Anakin reassures him. “I—” He breathes in, scared to ask the question. “Is Padme all right?”
“She’s right here with me, actually.” Anakin can’t see it, but he can tell Quinlan is grinning. “Telling Tarkin exactly how many Republic laws he’s broken and what she plans to do about it. I think she might be my hero.”
Impossibly, Obi-Wan laughs.
And Anakin does too.
“What’s going on out there?” Anakin asks.
"Well, Master Windu put his lightsaber to Mas Amedda's neck to get him to call off the order, and to one’s surprise the vice chair is a coward, so he did it. I’ll tell you more when I see you. I’m assuming Palpatine has been … restrained?”
"Palpatine is dead,” Anakin says. “Obi-Wan killed him. But Obi-Wan needs help. Now. He needs help now."
Quinlan exhales audibly over the comlink. "On it. I'm on it, Anakin. Just tell him not to give up or I'll kill him myself."
"I can hear you." Obi-Wan coughs, and touch of blood comes up. "And I'd like to see you try."
Quinlan laughs despite it all, and promises once more that he will be there as quick as he can.
"Come here," Anakin says softly. "Let's get you more comfortable, okay?"
Anakin gently rolls Obi-Wan onto his back before crossing his legs and maneuvering Obi-Wan's head into his lap.
"Just breathe, okay?" Anakin strokes Obi-Wan's sweaty hair, brushing it back out of his face. "We're gonna get you to the Halls, and then you're going to rest for weeks and weeks. I'm going to make you. And then when the twins are born I’m going to hold your hand so hard you might think your fingers will break. That’s your job. By then you'll be better enough to babysit when Padme and I aren't getting enough sleep. And they're going to love you, Obi-Wan. They're going to love you like I do. Padme and I fully expect you to basically be their third parent. Do you hear me?"
A bolt of pain makes Obi-Wan tremble, and he grasps Anakin's hand. "I hear you."
Blood seeps out from one of Obi-Wan’s stab wounds, the one Palpatine kicked, but there’s nothing for Anakin to stem the bleeding with, and he doesn’t want to move to do it with his tunic. Dammit. Dammit.
“I’m so proud of you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, sensing his distress. “You got the proof. You … balance, Anakin. You did it.”
“We did.” Anakin leans over, pressing his forehead to Obi-Wan’s and trying not to cry. “We did, Obi-Wan. It was us. It was always us.”
Everything from last night and this morning comes back. Obi-Wan’s screams. Holding a lightsaber over Obi-Wan’s neck. All of it. He feels like the eleven-year-old boy who first saw his caretaker get hurt on a mission but a thousand, a million times worse.
“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.” A small sob escapes him, his throat tightening. “I’m so sorry.”
What things is he even sorry for? Last night? This morning? Lying about Padme? Running off when Obi-Wan needed him? Every harsh word he ever said and every time he didn’t listen? Every time he was angry and complained that Palpatine listened to him?
Palpatine was never Obi-Wan, and if push had come to shove that day on the Invisible Hand, Anakin would have dropped Palpatine down the elevator shaft to save Obi-Wan. But he used Palpatine as a weapon sometimes to make Obi-Wan angry. Except Obi-Wan never really got angry about it, he just looked … sad. Frustrated. Worried. Calmly listing off the reasons Anakin should be wary of the chancellor—though not without a bite in his voice.
“No.” Obi-Wan reaches up, stroking Anakin’s cheek. Force, his hand is cold. “I’m sorry that you had to go through what you did. I’m sorry. For some of the things I said, I—”
“Obi-Wan.” Anakin shakes his head. “You had Sith poison in your blood. It wanted to make you think about anytime we’ve fought. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“I knew … I knew you were,” Obi-Wan continues, “still in the light. You know what kept me there? I was thinking about the first time you saw rain. Do you remember?”
“Yeah.” Anakin sucks in a breath, willing himself not to break down. “I remember.”
Quinlan and Padme run in at the same time, Quinlan kindly keeping up with Padme's slower stride. Quinlan has a medical bag with him. Padme squats, pressing a kiss to Anakin's hair before lowering herself to the floor and taking one of Obi-Wan's hands.
Quinlan drops down next to Obi-Wan. “Hey there, Kenobi. Not doing so hot, huh?”
Obi-Wan clears his throat, and he sounds hoarse. “Quinlan.”
“I think you’ll live if you can still say my name in that tone.” Quinlan smirks, but his eyes are a little wet as he jabs his thumb over in Palpatine’s direction. “Guess we don’t have to worry about him surviving out of spite.”
Obi-Wan laughs, except that only makes him cough up blood. It’s only a little, but Anakin doesn’t like it.
"We're doing that again I see," Quinlan murmurs. "Help him sit up, Anakin? But keep a hold of him, okay? That’s your main job.”
Anakin obliges. The gentle orders are helpful. Knowing what he’s supposed to do keeps the building hysteria at bay. He should be calmer. He should be calmer, but he can’t. He just can’t.
Obi-Wan groans when Anakin shifts him upward.
"Sorry, Master," Anakin whispers, setting Obi-Wan against his chest. "Is that better though?”
Obi-Wan nods. "What happened, Quin? Is everyone all right?"
"Mostly. Some serious injuries on our side—a few Jedi, a handful of clones, one civilian. Some clones dead on theirs. Windu got to Mas Amedda really fast, stopped the order. Windu and Yoda and Bail will be here in a minute,” Quinlan tells them. “They’re helping Rex and Cody and their men organize the chipped clones out there. We’re going to have to put them in the base prison until their chips are out. Most of them are upset. Eager to get them out. A few of the Coruscant Guard are … less so. Some of the Jedi are managing Mas Amedda and Tarkin and Sly Moore, plus any senators who might have known more about Palpatine’s business than they let on. Mon Mothma’s helping with that.”
Quinlan rustles inside the bag, pulling out a towel and an oxygen mask.
"Senator, if you could get that mask on him,” Quinlan says, “I’ll try and stem some of this bleeding.”
"Don't need—" Obi-Wan tries.
"The oxygen?” Quinlan cuts in. “Yeah you do, Obes. Need to take a few swigs off of this before we can move you. You’re wheezing.”
“Hold still just a second, okay?” Padme is so, so gentle with Obi-Wan that it makes fresh tears spring to Anakin’s eyes. “Let’s just get this on.”
Obi-Wan breathes in deep when the mask goes on, and while Quinlan puts pressure on the bleeding wound it gives Anakin and Padme a moment.
“Are you hurt, Ani?” Padme asks, and she’s not mad at him, is she? No.
Relief. Relief comes, and it’s so overpowering that at first, Anakin can’t answer. Were those visions he had about Padme what would have happened if he’d sided with Palpatine? He’s beginning to think they were. Padme’s spirit is stunning in the Force. Solid. Steady.
Maybe he won’t lose her after all. In childbirth, anyway.
Maybe it really will be all right.
Anakin smiles a little. “Chest hurts. Force lightning. But nothing some Bacta gel won’t fix. Palpatine didn’t get me for long. Obi-Wan made sure of that. Palpatine did graze Obi-Wan with his saber though. His hip.”
“What’s this?” Quinlan scrunches his nose, carefully examining Obi-Wan’s arm before stopping Obi-Wan from taking off the oxygen mask to answer. “No, Obes, you keep breathing. Anakin can answer.”
“Palpatine gave him Sith poison last night,” Anakin says, tensing as he waits for Quinlan’s judgment. “Or, well … he made me do it.”
“That’s not your fault, Anakin.” Quinlan offers him a small smile. “You were doing what Obi-Wan asked. And it worked. You caught him out.”
Anakin releases a breath. At least Vos isn’t angry at him. And Padme’s not. He’s angry at himself, though. He wishes he could have found a way not to put Obi-Wan through hell.
Windu, Yoda, and Bail come running into the room. All of them catch sight of Palpatine’s decapitated corpse, and Yoda mumbles something akin to oh, dead he is.
“Obi-Wan.” Mace kneels down, and Quinlan shifts over to give him room. “My friend. We were worried we’d lost you.”
Obi-Wan tugs down the mask. “Not quite,” he rasps.
“Youngling”—Yoda crouches down too—“Sith poison, did Palpatine give you last night? The marks on your arm, recognize, I do.”
Yes, is all Obi-Wan manages to say before Bail too is there, gently urging him to keep the mask on as Quinlan sighs, long-suffering.
“Anakin,” Master Windu continues, and this draws Anakin out of his current activity of counting Obi-Wan’s breaths.
“Yes, Master?” Anakin asks. He hears how flat and tired he sounds, but he’d rather sound like that than give in to the grief monster living in his chest. A Krayt dragon, perhaps.
“You did a very admirable job today.” Windu’s hand goes to Anakin’s arm, and their eyes meet. “The galaxy can be made safe, the Force restored, because of what you did. Your courage.”
Hot tears well in Anakin’s eyes. Dammit. No. Not now. He has to make Obi-Wan safe first.
“It was Obi-Wan’s plan,” Anakin says, looking away. “I … I had to hurt him to make it work.”
He sounds like a Padawan. Like a youngling justifying himself.
“You did what you had to,” Windu assures him. “And he’s going to be all right. We’ll all make sure of it.”
An alarming cough from Obi-Wan cuts off any further conversation. Blood smears the inside of the oxygen mask, and Quinlan rips it off, chucking it across the room. Obi-Wan sounds like he’s choking.
“Spit it up.” Quinlan claps Obi-Wan on the back. “No one cares if you get it on them, spit it out.”
Obi-Wan coughs again, blood and spit landing on his prison uniform. On Quinlan. On the carpet. His nose starts bleeding too.
“I can’t,” Obi-Wan mutters, his eyes falling shut. “I—”
“Obi-Wan.” Quinlan taps Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Obi-Wan, no. Stay with us. Eyes open.”
Obi-Wan complies, but his eyes close again almost as soon as he opens them. He’s breathing still, muttering something, but it’s not good.
“Dammit,” Quinlan says through clenched teeth. “Bail, you were with Master Che earlier, is she still out there?”
“She is,” Bail answers. “She was helping an injured Jedi.”
Well. Anakin knows what he needs to do next.
“Let’s take—” Windu tries, but he stops when Anakin gets up from the floor.
“Skywalker,” he says, “what are you doing?”
“Going to find Master Che,” Anakin replies, matter of fact. He hoists Obi-Wan up into his arms as gently as he can. “The front doors are closer than the Halls.”
It makes sense. Why doesn’t it make sense to everyone else? Master Che can help. Master Che can do anything.
Anakin starts running, a shout of Skywalker following behind as Quinlan does the same. The others, Anakin assumes, will follow.
With his arms full, Anakin can’t open the door. He could kick it, but that would jostle Obi-Wan.
“The door, Vos!” he exclaims. “Get the door. I have to find Master Che. She’s the only one who can fix this.”
Quinlan pushes the door open, and reporters swarm Anakin the moment he steps outside. Blood drips onto the marble steps. Onto Anakin’s boots. Obi-Wan’s blood. Sunlight drips from the sky, throwing Obi-Wan's injuries into relief.
“Is Master Kenobi okay?”
“Is the chancellor dead?”
“Palpatine is dead. Master Kenobi killed him. Now, move out of the way, or Master Kenobi won’t make it and you’ll be doing the job the Sith lord couldn’t finish.” Anakin shoves forward, and Obi-Wan makes a noise of discomfort. “Master Che!” He spots the famed Jedi healer at the bottom of the steps. “Master Che, please, we need you right now!”
Holocameras start flashing. The crowd chants.
Kenobi and Skywalker!
Kenobi and Skywalker!
Some people are crying. Staring at the state of Obi-Wan.
What a picture this will make, of Anakin holding his half-dead, half-conscious, bleeding, Sith poison-bruised teacher, his brother, his best friend, in his arms on the steps of the Jedi Temple. They might have gone back in time, when the Sith waged war on the Jedi and the galaxy alike. Trying to douse the light and plunge everything into darkness.
A shiver shoots through him. That other future. Vader.
“Move, please.” Master Che repeats Anakin’s request, picking up the bottom of her robe as she runs up the steps. “Force, Obi-Wan,” she says when she reaches them, his eyes caught on Obi-Wan’s bloodied face. She makes a worried sound in the back of her throat when he coughs again. “Let’s get him inside, Anakin. Right now.”
Padme and Quinlan both put a hand on Anakin’s back, ushering him through the doors. Master Che leads the way to the Halls of Healing.
Anakin keeps Obi-Wan in his arms once they reach the private room Master Che leads them to. He can’t let go. They can’t expect him to.
“Anakin,” Padme says softly. “Can you lay Obi-Wan down so Master Che can help him?”
“No.” Anakin shakes his head. Why is he saying no? Obi-Wan has to get help but he can’t let go. How does he accomplish both these things at once?
“Anakin.” Master Che steps up, putting a hand on the side of Anakin’s face, and she doesn’t lecture. She doesn’t chide. “I will take care of him. I promise you that. There will not be a moment when someone isn’t watching him.”
“I can stay,” Anakin protests.
“We have some complicated work to do and we’ll need our fullest concentration,” Master Che says. “And I think you might need some help yourself. You can wait here after you’ve been seen to, all right? No one will tell you otherwise.”
“He was poisoned.” Anakin points to the horrible black bruise curling around Obi-Wan’s wrist and up his forearm. “It was bad. It was really, really bad, Master Che. It was Sith poison. I don’t know if—”
Master Che gently cuts him off. “I will sort it out, Anakin. I will sort it out.”
Finally, Anakin relents. Finally, he lays Obi-Wan’s broken body down gingerly on the soft white sheets.
“I love you, Obi-Wan.” Anakin presses a kiss to his master’s glistening forehead.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan mumbles.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Anakin promises. “Not like last time. I’ll be here. I swear.”
Obi-Wan nods against the pillow, and whether he passes out or falls asleep Anakin doesn’t know. Master Che and her assistant ask Anakin to list off the injuries and drugs so that nothing is missed. He mentions the poison again. The other drug from last night. The stab wound that was kicked. The lightsaber burn. The coughing up blood. He tells her that Obi-Wan was choked and thrown across the room. That his wrists have been bleeding. He feels like he’s forgetting something. There’s too many things.
He lets Padme, Bail, Mace, Yoda, Quinlan, and another healer lead him to a small urgent care room. When the healer leaves to get some Bacta gel and something to calm Anakin down a touch, Anakin can’t hold on.
“I can’t leave him!” he shouts, tears spilling from his eyes. “He can’t think I’ve left him.”
“Anakin,” Quinlan says, “he won’t think that. You’ll be right outside once you’re done here. He’s going to be okay. He’s stubborn as they come.”
“No, you don’t understand. He was screaming,” Anakin sobs. “He begged me to stop and I thought he was going to die before they managed to kill him and I don’t … I can’t—”
Here, Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, the Hero Without Fear, loses his composure entirely. Sobs wrack his whole body. He slides down to the floor, and Padme goes with him. She holds him to her, and that’s probably not the best idea, but Anakin can’t care. They probably already all know anyway, and Anakin needs her. He needs Padme. His tears stain Padme’s dress. Another hand comes down on his shoulder, and with it, comfort. Some chance at peace.
“Good you did, young one. Restored, balance has been,” Yoda whispers, and he might be crying too. “Face this new world together, all of us will.”
This soothes Anakin enough to let the healer take care of him. He doesn’t talk much, after that. He just goes to the hall outside Obi-Wan’s room, and he waits. Padme sits with him. Quinlan and Bail. Ahsoka comes eventually, and Cody and Rex. Other Jedi come in and out as they’re able—there’s an unfathomable amount of things to manage. Bail begrudgingly leaves for a half-hour, muttering something about a vote for a new chancellor.
At some point after Master Che comes out to tell them that Obi-Wan has gone into the Bacta, Anakin’s eyes betray him. They start falling shut, and with his head on Padme’s shoulder and his arm looped through Ahsoka’s, he falls asleep.
And for the first time in days, he doesn’t dream.
Notes:
So, a few notes!
1) According to my outline, there are three chapters left in this fic. Unless something changes (again) that should be correct!
2) I am ... very much considering writing a sequel to this fic. I don't have all the details worked out yet, but it would be set 15 years after this one (or 9 years after the epilogue for this fic, which will be six years after the main events). So, stay tuned!
3) A few of you very sweet people have said I should write a book in the comments, and I do actually have one out! It's called Sailing by Orion's Star, the first book in a trilogy set during the golden age of piracy. Book 2 is out in March!
4) For anyone into Obi-Wan/Quinlan, I wrote a little one-shot set during the Kenobi era recently, called “I’m still here love like I’ve always been before” so feel free to check it out!
Chapter 12: I Promise You I'll Write I Love You
Summary:
The long process of healing begins.
Notes:
Thank you so SO much for all your absolutely incredible comments on the last chapter! I was floored, and I'm so pleased you all enjoyed it! <3
Lore notes for this chapter are once again, mentions of Dark Disciple that are pretty easily understood in context, as well as an appearance by Bant, Obi-Wan's childhood friend who is mostly in Legends but makes some appearances in canon. Also there is a reference to an early 2000s Quinlan comic featuring him and Obi-Wan as Padawans, and then once again some Wild Space mentions.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
12 Hours After Palpatine’s Death
The Halls of Healing
Obi-Wan wakes to semi-darkness. Quiet. Not in a jail cell.
Where is he?
He blinks, clearing his vision. In the low-light of a dim lamp, he makes out his surroundings.
Ah. The Halls. Yes. He vaguely—very vaguely—recalls Anakin carrying him. Calling for Master Che. Laying him down on the bed he’s in now. Flashes. He remembers flashes. Reporters taking photographs?
He jolts at the sight of an IV line inserted into the same hand as the other night, but a look at the bag hanging from the pole tells him it's fluids. He's hooked up to another machine as well, blood moving slowly through the plastic tubing.
Is he getting blood or are they ... cleaning his? Unclear.
His prison uniform is gone, replaced by the familiar white tunic and soft sleeping pants Jedi usually wear in the Halls.
A second machine beeps softly, keeping track of his vitals. Oxygen. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Those last two are high. He feels cold, too. Blood loss? Fever? Could be either. Oh. The machine beeping says fever. 102. The slimy sensation on his skin tells him he's been in the Bacta tank.
Something—or someone—shifts, rustling his sheets
Anakin. Anakin, sitting in a chair with his head resting on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed.
And he's not alone.
All around the room are others. Padme, in a little spare bed that must have been rolled in. Quinlan, Ahsoka, and Cody on the floor in a pile of blankets they got from somewhere. And Bail, leaning against the wall, fast asleep.
"Obi-Wan," a kind voice says from the doorway. "You're awake.”
Bant Eerin, Obi-Wan's old childhood friend who works as a healer, comes over.
"Bant, hello. What time is it?"
"About two in the morning. You've been out since they brought you in."
Obi-Wan tenses. Last time he was in the Halls, they didn't let him stay in the Halls.
"I'm not going back to jail, am I?" he asks. "For killing the Chancellor? Is there going to be another trial?"
"No." Bant speaks gently. "No, you don't have to worry about that. I want to give you a couple of medications. I know you've been through a lot with that, so I want to be clear and open. Is that all right?"
Obi-Wan nods shakily. It's Bant, who he's known his whole life. He can trust her.
She holds up the first syringe. "This is a fever reducer. You've been running hot the past few hours—no surprise."
She injects that, then holds up another. He barely felt the needle, and he wonders fleetingly if many Mon Calamari have such a gentle touch. Many of the one she’s met have been kind.
"This is some pain medication,” she continues. “Master Che thought you might feel better about having it in this form rather than the IV so you have more control about when you want it. If you’re in pain I can give it to you. I won’t force the issue, but it might be for the best.”
Obi-Wan takes stock of himself. Compared to last night the pain is nothing, but there is pain. A thudding ache beating against his bones. In his veins.
“Yes,” he admits. “I think it would be for the best.”
Bant smiles. “A lot for you to confess that. Our friend over there would be proud.” She nods her head toward Quinlan, who is snoring softly.
She injects the pain reliever, then presses his shoulder. "I'm going to go get Master Che so she can tell you everything that's going on. Then I’m going to comm Master Yoda and Master Windu, who wanted to know the moment you awoke. Someone will be right back.”
He thanks her, and the sound of the door opening and closing stirs Anakin from his sleep.
“Hey, Master.” Anakin rubs his eyes, stretching out his arms in front of him and cracking his back.
“Hello there.” The sight of Anakin here makes Obi-Wan want to cry, but he holds it back for now. “Are you all right? Did you get yourself treated?”
Anakin yawns, an affectionate twinkle in his eye. “I’m fine. Got some Bacta gel, though it seems like I’ll just have a red mark. No cool scar like yours. You’re looking a little less terrible though. The bruises on your face are just light purple instead of, you know, scary looking.”
Obi-Wan chuckles, examining his wrists, which feel much better. Both are wrapped in white gauze with just a little bit of residual blood peeking through.
The odd black bruise from the poison is still there.
“Yeah, that’s still there,” Anakin says, a hint of concern in his voice. “Master Che is trying some things.” He pauses, taking Obi-Wan's hand. “You know what, Master? I think we might be a Force Dyad.”
The feeling of Anakin’s fingers wrapped tightly around his eases the racing of Obi-Wan's heart. “I think you might be right. I’m glad you’re here.”
Anakin blinks back tears of his own, but he doesn’t look away. “I couldn’t be anywhere else. I’ll always be there when you need me, Obi-Wan. I promise. What happened before … that won’t happen again. Ever.”
There’s no time to say more, because the others are waking up. Padme first, joy brightening her face as she gasps in pleased surprise at seeing Obi-Wan with his eyes open. She hops down from the little spare bed—as fast as she can, given how pregnant she is—and dashes over, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his nose, and each cheek.
“It’s good to see you too.” Obi-Wan laughs, and oh, yes, that hurts a little.
“Obi-Wan,” she says with great fondness. She adjusts his oxygen cannula, which has twisted in his sleep. “We were so worried.”
“Master Obi-Wan!” ,
That's Ahsoka, who jumps up from the pile of blankets with such excitement that she might be fourteen again. This rouses Quinlan and Cody, both of whom seem confused about where they are
Ahsoka comes over, bumping Anakin with her hip so he’ll move over to make room—for which she earns a startled hey!
“I didn’t think you were capable of sleeping for so long,” Ahsoka teases, smoothing Obi-Wan's bedsheets.
“Me either,” Cody chimes in with a sly smirk.
“To be fair,” Quinlan adds, “he passed out, which is a bit different from real sleep. So don’t give him too much credit.”
“Thank you all very much for your input.” Obi-Wan glances over at Bail, who is getting up from his place on the floor. “Bail, assist me please? I’m being overcome by criticisms of my sleeping habits.”
“Sorry, my friend.” Bail ruffles his sleep-mussed hair to no avail. It’s little more than black cloud at this point. “I’m afraid I have to take their side on this.”
“Well.” Obi-Wan smiles around at all of them, his heart full to bursting. “Speaking of sleep, all of you need to go get some proper rest. I will be eager to see all of you in the morning, but please, go get some sleep. For me, if nothing else.”
Met with a chorus of grousing, Obi-Wan tries another tactic.
“First thing, you can come back,” he says. “But being horizontal tends to make sleep easier, and I suspect none of you slept last night. I’m not trying to be self-sacrificing. I promise.”
This works better than his previous plea. Ahsoka kisses his cheek, promising to come back in the morning. Cody presses his shoulder, saying that he’ll be back with Rex tomorrow as soon as they’re done helping another group of clones get their chips out. Quinlan retrieves an extra pillow from the cabinet before he goes, tucking it behind Obi-Wan’s back.
“I’ll be back with Dex tomorrow,” Quinlan says with a wink. “He commed. He’s planning on bringing some of your favorites.”
“Thank you, Quin.” Obi-Wan uses the old nickname from their Padawan years. “And sorry I got blood on you.”
Quinlan smiles, squeezing Obi-Wan’s fingers. “Told you not to be sorry.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can tomorrow,” Bail says. “We have a vote for putting in at least a temporary chancellor, though maybe a more permanent one. To manage things. Senator Chuchi sends her best wishes, by the way. I heard from her earlier in the night. Mon Mothma too. In fact I’ve … heard from quite a few senators. And we have their support.”
Obi-Wan wants to ask questions, but the specifics of the question he wants to ask tangle and tumble in his brain. They’ll have to wait.
“I hope it’s you they vote in,” Obi-Wan replies, though it’s only half a joke. Not a joke at all, really. Bail would be an excellent chancellor. It’s just a matter of other senators seeing it.
Bail laughs. “I think I’m too radical for them. But you never know.”
After everyone else is gone, Anakin and Padme stay put.
“I don’t know suppose I can convince—”
“No.”
Anakin and Padme speak at the same time before catching each other’s eye and outright giggling. There’s a slight edge of hysteria to it. No surprise, after the day.
Master Che sweeps in, a look of open relief on her face. Rare, but again, given the day. The week. Everything.
“How very like you, Obi-Wan, to wake up in the middle of the night,” she says, though the warmth belies her severity. “I am going to insist you go back to sleep after we talk. Bant commed Master Windu and Yoda, who will come in the morning. They too, wish for you to keep resting. You have what may be the worst case of Force exhaustion I’ve ever seen. You are not to try and use it just now. At all. It will tire you.” She smiles, just a little. “After seeing the holo footage of that last jump, however, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“For once, Master Che, I doubt I’ll have any trouble with resting.”
“You’re going to need to stay in the Halls for about two weeks,” Master Che tells him. “I’m not comfortable with anything less. How long you will need to be on mandated rest is still to be decided, but I intend to make my case for it to be a long while. I need you to take this seriously, Obi-Wan.”
“I will, Vokara.”
She arches one eyebrow.
“I will try.”
“The good news,” she continues, “is that with two more Bacta submersions those stab wounds should truly, finally be all the way healed. Those wounds on your face and wrists and the lightsaber burn too. We’re also going to be cleaning out your blood with that”—she points toward the machine Obi-Wan noticed earlier—“so we can make sure everything you were given is out of your system. The sleep inducers. The pain tolerance drugs. Those experimental Force suppressants. All of it. It will take a few rounds to do so to my satisfaction.”
“Will it clear the rest of the poison?”
Here, Vokara grimaces. “Yes, that is the hope. The poison is what’s causing the fever. Some part of you is still fighting it off, even if you aren’t feeling the mental effects any longer. From what I’ve read, and from what Yoda has told me, the worst is behind us as far as the poison goes—you resisting the dark side is a tremendous testament to you. I am worried about lingering effects on your mind and body if any small part of it remains. That is what we’re most going to need to keep an eye on. That said, do you feel ready to eat anything? I doubt you’ve had much.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, the mere thought of food making him nauseated. “No. I don’t think I can keep it down.”
It surprises him when Master Che doesn’t argue.
“Anakin,” she says, still so gentle, “would you mind finding Bant and getting a nutrient bag from her? An extra blanket too, I think.”
Still hesitant about leaving, Anakin agrees when Padme offers to go with him.
“Anakin told me what he could about the events of last night.” Master Che takes Obi-Wan’s hand, yet his heart still picks up speed. “But he could only tell me what he saw. What you felt is something else. If you can talk about it with me a little, it may help with treatment.”
The last thing Obi-Wan wants to talk about, to think about, is last night. He reminds himself of three things.
Palpatine is dead.
Anakin is safe.
And the galaxy … well the galaxy just might make it.
Last night is just a memory, but it claws at him. Makes him bleed.
My perfect little Jedi.
“I’ve never been in pain like that, Vokara.” The admission is raw. Vulnerable. It cuts deep. “It hurt on its own. The pain tolerance dampeners made it worse, I’m sure. It hurt to resist the darkness. It hurt to call on the light. It eased somewhat as the night went on, after I got back in my cell, but it was still significant. My bond with Anakin seemed to make it better? When he touched me at the execution. But what it did to my mind frightened me even more. It made me so angry. It made me say things I didn’t want to say. Dragged me toward the dark. It took every ounce of my training, every fiber of my being, to say no. And if someone had said yes with that poison in their veins, I wouldn’t have blamed them.”
Please, Anakin. Please.
Yes, Master Kenobi. Beg him to stop.
“Do you feel that pull toward the dark now?”
Good. Good, Master Kenobi. Just let it come. Let the dark come, and we won’t give you anymore. The pain will go away. I promise you it will go away.
“No. Just … like I have a virus, almost. Like there’s a foreign invader inside me.”
I want to hear you, Master Kenobi. I want to hear how much it hurts.
Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his chest. His hands start shaking. Nausea wallops him.
“Obi-Wan?” Master Che asks, one hand still holding his while the other goes to his forehead. “You’re warmer than before is that what—”
The machine beeps.
“I was so frightened I would hurt someone.” Obi-Wan swallows, trying to calm himself and he can’t. Why can’t he? It’s what he’s good at it. He’s a Jedi. He’s ….
Master Che takes his face carefully in both her hands. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re safe. Palpatine is dead. Anakin is all right. Just breathe.”
With great effort, Obi-Wan slows down his breathing, but he can’t stop shaking. He can’t stop. That nausea bubbles. Threatening. Force, what has he even eaten to lose?
“I don’t want Anakin to see me”—he grasps the sheets—“like this. He’ll blame himself. It’s not his fault, Vokara. He had to. It’s not his fault. It was my plan.”
“Anakin will be fine.” She opens the drawer of the little nightstand next to his bed, taking out two syringes. “I promise you he will. All he wants is for you to rest and get better. And we’ll all take care of you both. We will, Obi-Wan. I’m going to need to give you more of the fever reducer. That’s all it is. Then I’m going to give you something for your blood pressure.”
Tension tightens Obi-Wan’s muscles. Just a fever reducer. Just something for his blood pressure. Normal things.
He nods, and Master Che injects one after the other just as Anakin and Padme come back in.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin questions, sounding a touch like a little boy. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a little bit of a panic attack,” Master Che says. “Anakin, come sit here on the bed while I hang the nutrient bag. Put your hand on his forehead. I think you’ll do a better job of calming him than anyone else could. Senator, if you could lay the blanket across his feet I’d appreciate it.”
Padme and Anakin both do as asked. Obi-Wan’s world blurs. It’s nothing more than voices, the pounding of his heart, and the real sense that he is going to throw up.
Anakin breaks through it all.
“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” Anakin murmurs, much as Qui-Gon did. He strokes Obi-Wan’s forehead. “We’re here, Master. We’re here. Padme and I are here. And we’re never leaving you.”
A warm cocoon of Force energy surrounds Obi-Wan. Anakin’s Force energy. That sun-bright smile made manifest. The soft pillow calls to him. The lure of sleep.
“Sleep, Obi-Wan,” Padme urges, taking his hand and Anakin’s both. “We’re right here.”
Another Force presence joins Anakin’s. A stubborn, determined affection. A soft, gentle reassurance.
The twins.
Obi-Wan’s heavy eyes fall shut. His breathing eases.
Sleep, Padawan.
Qui-Gon echoes Padme’s words, and with the feeling of his own apprentice’s hand resting against his head, Obi-Wan gives in.
24 Hours After Palpatine’s Death
Senate Building
“I shouldn’t have put my name in.”
“Bail.”
Affectionate amusement leaks into Padme’s tired voice.
“I listened to Obi-Wan while he was lying in a hospital bed half-asleep. That’s what I took as a sign.”
Padme smiles, resting her chin on one hand. “Obi-Wan’s advice is usually sound. Half- asleep or not.”
“Senator Teem would not be a proper choice,” Bail adds. Yes, that’s a good reason. “Bold of him to even put his name in, after the trial.”
“He claims he was tricked by Palpatine as much as the rest of us.” Mon arches an elegant eyebrow. “Not that I want to go arresting people simply on suspicion—that would be like Palpatine—but we’ll see what comes out as things progress. Quite a bit of corruption, I suspect, even if our fellows didn’t know the extent of what he was up to.”
Bail glances up at the vote counter. Senator Chuchi took up Mas Amedda’s duties given that Mas Amedda is currently locked up in Obi-Wan’s previous cell.
Bail’s not usually happy to see anyone locked up.
But Mas Amedda? He’s nothing less than gleeful. Tarkin too, the bastard.
He’s ahead. Somehow, some way, he’s ahead. By two-hundred votes.
“A lot of people in here singing a different tune today,” Padme mumbles. “I suppose the footage from the Jedi Temple probably swayed anyone who wasn’t sure after what happened at the execution. Though how they couldn’t be I’ll never know.”
Bails knows he’ll never forget that footage. The sight of Palpatine threatening to murder children. The sight of Obi-Wan jumping so high up into the air that it should have been impossible.
Force, Obi-Wan.
Those screams Anakin played.
Bail will never forget those either. He’s itching to pick up Breha and go back to the Jedi Temple so they can visit his friend. So he can make sure that Obi-Wan really is alive.
It’s going to take them all to help him recover.
“Palpatine was masterful,” Mon adds with a hint of bitterness. “As a politician, at least. I know less about his skills as a Force-user. We’ll be undoing his damage for quite some time.”
“At least we’ll be approaching the peace talks from the same place as the Separatists.” Padme looks up at the vote counter, her lips quirking into a smile. “We’re in a bit of a stronger position given the collapse of their command structure, but we’ve both been fooled. It should give us something in common.”
“Do you think Master Kenobi will be able to take part in the talks?” Mon asks. “He’s one of our best diplomats. But I know said he was quite ill.”
“The Jedi Council are waiting to see how he does.” Bail grasps the arm of his seat. He won’t look again. Not yet. “I think they’re very wary to throw him back into anything anytime soon. Even if he might want to.”
“We owe him more than we can ever repay.” Mon does glance at the counter, her smile reflecting Padme’s. “I hope he and Master Skywalker both get some rest.”
“The problem with Obi-Wan,” Padme says with fond exasperation, “is getting him to rest. I plan to try and make him.”
Senator Chuchi steps up to the front of her platform, and she too, is smiling. Grinning, even.
“I am pleased to announce,” she says, voice booming across the packed Senate auditorium,” that Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan will be our next Supreme Chancellor.” She turns toward him. “Senator, do you have anything you’d like to say?”
Bail stands. Damn, his hands are sweaty. Anxiety over public-speaking has never been an issue, but now? The whole galaxy will rest in part on his shoulders.
What was he thinking? He always has been a bit rash.
Stop the killing.
Make the Jedi safe.
Make Obi-Wan safe.
That’s what he was thinking.
And that’s what he carries with him when he starts talking. He doesn’t have a plan, not like he normally would.
He finds he doesn’t need it.
Everything almost broke yesterday.
With these two friends at his side, with so many good people around the galaxy, he’s determined to fix it.
Across the way in the viewing area, he spots three familiar faces.
Master Yoda.
Master Windu.
Master Vos.
And they look relieved.
“I am honored to be selected for this post,” Bail begins, “and I thank everyone who voted for me. First, let it be known that I will not stay in office past my term. Second, we must, all of us here, be willing to take part in an investigation to weed out anything that remains of Sheev Palpatine’s influence. We will not give into paranoia and rumors, but do our best to make certain that we collect all the information we can about what went on during his extended term. I suspect there is much we don’t yet know. It is a new day, but we must fully interrogate what has happened or we risk letting the Republic slip away.” He takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “Third, my first—and last—action under the state of emergency will be to order that every single clone in the Grand Army of the Republic have their inhibitor chip removed, both for the sake of their own autonomy and for the protection of the Jedi. As we all witnessed yesterday, these chips were made to destroy the Jedi. And we came far too close to that outcome. As chancellor, I will reinvigorate the Senate’s relationship with the Jedi, who have sacrificed a great deal for our Republic. The Jedi are our friends. No one here should ever forget that.”
There are some senators who look sour at this notion, but more cheer. Clap. Call out in support. There is a motion passed to bring up a bill that would name a holiday in Obi-Wan’s honor, and another to have statues of Obi-Wan and Anakin built at the senate building’s front entrance.
Bail smirks.
Oh, how Obi-Wan would hate that.
He takes questions from the press outside, with Padme and Mon at his side. Dozens of other senators come up to him. Exhaustion tugs at the back of his mind—a few hours of sleep while sitting up against a hospital wall does not count for much.
Breha. He just wants to go home to Breha.
And once he slips away in the mid-afternoon, he does.
Breha’s on the sofa in his apartment at 500 Republica, intently watching the news. She must have expected him, because there’s a second cup of caf waiting there.
“Hi there,” she says. “Do you still want to go visit Obi-Wan?”
“Yes.” He sits down next to her, taking one quick sip of the caf. “But I need to sit for a moment.”
She lets him. She flicks off the news, easing his head down onto her shoulder.
“Breha?”
“Yes, love?”
“They voted for me. I’m the new chancellor.”
Breha doesn’t say anything at first. Is she angry? He barely had time to even ask her about it, spur of the moment as it was.
“Are you scared you can’t do it?”
Bail nods. “I just … I want to do so many things. So many, Breha. But the first thing that made me want to do it, the first seed of the idea, was because I wanted to keep my friend safe. Did I do it for the wrong reason?”
“Love can’t be the wrong reason,” she says softly. “Because keeping Obi-Wan safe means keeping the Jedi safe. Keeping the Jedi safe means helping keep the galaxy safe. It means letting them go back to being peacekeepers rather than the soldiers they were never meant to be. That seed can make other things grow, my darling. You did it for all the right reasons.”
Bail’s been on the edge of breaking down for days. And now, in this stolen moment, he lets himself. He cries on his wife’s shoulder as the afternoon sun filters through the windows of his apartment, gilding everything gold.
Three Days After Palpatine’s Death
The Halls of Healing
“Rex and I ship out in two days,” Cody’s saying, the hum of the HoloNet News playing on low-volume in the background. “Along with some of the other lads in the 212th and the 501st. Senator Organa figures it’ll be easier if they hear about the chips from other clones. Some of the more willing Coruscant Guard are going too.”
Obi-Wan’s more awake than he has been since everything happened, sitting in his room in the Halls with Cody, Rex, Ahsoka, and all his myriad packages. Letters from the public. Notes from other Jedi. A few drawings from Younglings. At least five requests for interviews from various news outlets and talk shows—those are all on datapads. Boxes of food from Dex. Ahsoka brought some things from his room as well. A rock from Ilum he’s had since he was twelve. A pressed flower Siri once stuck behind his ear. The Force-sensitive river stone Qui-Gon gave him for a birthday. The photo of him with Anakin at Anakin’s knighting ceremony.
Goodness he is loved, isn’t he? Perhaps he’s never understood how much.
“I should think it would be.” Obi-Wan takes a bite of one of the donuts Dex brought. “It’s rather a lot to take in.”
“Master Che is going to kill you for eating that and not the soup she brought.” Ahsoka gestures to the half-empty bowl on the table from her perch on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed. “You should try and eat more of it before she comes back.”
Obi-Wan glances forlornly at the soup. He should, but eating is still difficult unless it’s something he wants in particular. Dex’s food tastes better than broth.
Rex hands the bowl over, and Obi-Wan gets a bit more down. The machine keeping track of his vitals beeps. 101. Half a degree lower than earlier.
This fever is tiresome.
“How many more times do you have to go in the tank, General?” Rex asks. “You’re looked less peaked today.”
“Just once,” Obi-Wan replies. “Thankfully the stab wounds and other injuries are healing well now. It’s the poison that’s the trouble. Hence that lovely machine.”
Ahsoka sticks her tongue out, looking at the currently unhooked blood-cleaning machine. “That thing freaks me out.”
Rex laughs. “Why, kid? It just cleans your blood.”
“I never really thought about blood being cleaned,” she protests.
“You sound like General Skywalker.”
“Wait wait.” Cody holds up a hand, turning up the volume on the news. “They’re saying something about Mas Amedda and Tarkin.”
Obi-Wan’s stomach turns.
Maybe the donut was a bad idea.
“The former Vice Chair of the senate, Mas Amedda, and Admiral Willhuff Tarkin are both set to stand trial in just over two weeks,” the reporter’s saying. “The final list of charges is not complete, but will include illegal torture, conspiracy to commit mass murder, and treason against the Galactic Republic.”
Video of Tarkin, his hands cuffed in front of him flashes on the screen.
I do wish I could stay and watch you beg, Master Jedi.
Mas Amedda comes next, and it’s odd to see him in that black prison uniform.
No mind tricks from you today, Master Jedi. You were meant to die when you rescued the chancellor, you know. Maybe you should have obliged.
“I think that list will be much longer by the time they’re done.” Cody frowns when he catches sight of Obi-Wan’s face. “You all right, General? Sorry, let me turn this off.”
“Sorry,” Obi-Wan says. “I just—”
“No need to be sorry, sir.” Cody slides his chair over closer, clasping Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “They put you through hell.”
“And I hope they’ll be locked in the slammer for a long time,” Rex mutters. “Kriffing bastards.”
Embarrassment makes Obi-Wan’s face warm. Not that he needs that—he’s too warm as it is, yet feels cold. Human bodies are ridiculous, aren’t they? Padme brought him a soft pullover emblazoned with Theed University across the chest yesterday, and he’s kept it on since.
Why can’t he relax? He killed a Sith Lord. He’s alive. Anakin is safe from the dark side. The Jedi weren’t wiped out and the clones’ chips are being removed. The Republic exists. Balance. Balance has been restored for Force’s sake. Bail is the new chancellor.
And yet ….
Obi-Wan feels the cracks. The could have beens. The almosts .The Republic is fragile.
It is those things and it isn’t.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Quinlan said last night, his feet propped up on Obi-Wan’s bed, but you’ve kind of been through a lot.
Most of what he can’t push away is Palpatine’s voice in his ear.
And maybe that’s the problem. The pushing. He’s not letting the feelings come and be what they will like he’s always been taught.
He’s so tired.
“Ahsoka.” Anakin comes in the door, and the lecture in his voice does make Obi-Wan chuckle. “You’re supposed to be in Padme’s office helping her prep for the clone bill. You said, and I quote, Master Obi-Wan would do it, but he can’t so I should.”
“Geez, Master.” Ahsoka rolls her eyes, but she does get up. “You know who you sound like?”
“Me,” Obi-Wan chimes in.
Anakin scoffs. “Go, Padawan. Or I’ll have to lecture you about responsibility. And you don’t want to disappoint Padme, do you?”
“That second part is my bigger concern,” Ahsoka teases.
She kisses Obi-Wan’s cheek before she goes, Rex and Cody following behind and saying they’ll come back before they leave for the Outer Rim.
Anakin tosses himself down in the chair vacated by Cody. “Kids these days. What can you do?”
“Only your best, I fear. What’s in the clone bill?”
“Don’t worry about it, Master.”
“Anakin. Hearing about a bill won’t stress me. I’d like to know.”
“Padme, Bail, Mon, and Senator Chuchi are laying out a framework for turning the military into a volunteer-based operation,” Anakin says. “We can’t get rid of the military, not now, but in six months—after things are calmer—clones can retire if they want, or they can sign a contract to stay for a set amount of years. If they leave, their necessities will be covered until they find other work, and they’ll get a lifetime monthly sum from the Republic regardless. They’re figuring they’ll get less than the amount they’re aiming for with that last part, but trying can’t hurt.”
“No.” Obi-Wan leans back against the pillows. “No it can’t.”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says after a beat. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m not a kid anymore.”
You are, Obi-Wan wants to say. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three next week. I was still a Padawan when I was your age. An experienced one to be sure, but still an apprentice. The war turned me gray but it made you grow up too fast.
“Are you still angry at me for leaving?” Anakin asks, an edge of desperation in his voice when Obi-Wan doesn’t answer quickly enough. “It would be fair if you were. I’m still mad at myself about it.”
“No, Anakin.” Obi-Wan takes his apprentice’s hand. “Not at all.”
“For what happened the other night?” Anakin’s blue eyes widen, those blue eyes that helped anchor Obi-Wan in the light. “I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. But if you were mad I’d get that too. Force, Obi-Wan, I’m so sorry. I think I will be forever.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says, very softly. “That wasn’t your fault, Anakin. You were following the plan. I don’t even need to forgive you for that—there’s nothing to be forgiven. It was torture for you too. Just different.”
“Scooch over,” Anakin insists.
“What?”
“You heard me. Scooch over.”
“Anakin, this bed is not big enough for—”
“Remember when I caught that nasty flu,” Anakin interrupts. “And I had to stay in the Halls for a few days? I begged you to get in the bed with me because I was cold and scared and you did it no questions asked.”
“You were twelve. And shorter than me at the time.”
“Obi-Wan, I swear if you don’t—”
“All right.” Obi-Wan gives in. “I’m too weary to argue.”
“See?” Anakin slides in next to Obi-Wan. He lays on his side, head propped up by one hand. “You admitting you’re tired is progress.” He pauses, earnest as he was when Obi-Wan first met him. “It’s okay if you’re not okay.”
Obi-Wan softens, and that wall, that wall that’s been there since … he doesn’t even know, really, crumbles a little.
“Did you get that from Padme?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Yeah,” Anakin says. “I figured using some of her smarts to get you to talk to me couldn’t hurt.”
Silence sits between them while Obi-Wan sorts out his thoughts. For once, Anakin doesn’t try and fill it. Their emotions tangle between them, and it’s the similarities Obi-Wan senses, the knowledge that Anakin feels as desperate and ill-equipped to help him as he does to help Anakin, that make the words come.
“I am relieved,” Obi-Wan begins. “That’s not even a strong enough word, really. Nothing is simple, but things are headed in the right direction. There is much joy to find. I just … I keep hearing Palpatine in my head. I find myself searching for shadows. And I am frightened to face the memories of the last few days. Frightened of what these events have turned me into.”
This is a confession to a brother. A friend. It is not that Anakin has never seen him vulnerable—it would be folly to say so—but this particular admission of fear? That would not be something he could have allowed himself to say before for worry of stirring up fear in his student. Teaching Anakin to manage his fears has been the work of thirteen years. Burdening Anakin with his own wouldn’t do.
“Yeah,” Anakin whispers, shifting so his head is on the pillow next to Obi-Wan’s. “Me too. About what it’s turned me into, I mean.”
Both of them let things sit. There is no need to rush in to fix it now. Anakin knows that Obi-Wan is proud of him—Obi-Wan can sense it without needing to say it again, though he will a thousand times over to make Anakin knows it for certain. Obi-Wan knows that Anakin is here to stay. That he won’t leave again. And he trusts that.
“I just have to say though”—Anakin yawns—“that what you did the other day, jumping up into the air like that, striking Palpatine down … it was incredible. I’ve never felt so much light in the Force as I did then. And it was all coming from you.”
The light from that moment clings to Obi-Wan’s skin. It’s kept him sane these past few days. Never before has he felt such a surge of pure power in himself. It was, without a doubt, the most significant swing of his saber.
“I couldn’t let him kill you,” Obi-Wan whispers.
“Always looking out for me.”
“Hmm.” A smirk tugs at the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth. “I believe before you said you were always looking out for me. The ninth time and Gundarks and all that.”
“I have been known to tease, and maybe I have a bit of an ego,” Anakin jokes, then turns serious again. “You saved me from the dark, Obi-Wan. Changed the trajectory of my life. But then, you’ve been doing that for a long time, haven’t you?”
Obi-Wan’s throat tightens. Tears well in his eyes.
“You did the impossible, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, a crack running through his voice. “You tricked Sheev Palpatine after he tricked us all for years.”
“I did do that.” Anakin pulls Obi-Wan’s blanket up when he notices Obi-Wan shivering again. “But you made the plan. We’re a team. We always will be. And sometimes that means you have to let me take care of you.”
“That’s what Qui-Gon said. Essentially.”
“You can’t shun advice from a ghost, I think.”
Obi-Wan laughs, his eyelids heavy again. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m not a ghost”—Anakin laughs too, and it soothes Obi-Wan’s anxiety—“but you should listen to me and sleep.”
“Will you stay?” Obi-Wan asks. Before he can stop himself. Before he can think. It’s just impulse.
“Yes, Master.” Anakin places a hand on Obi-Wan’s forehead like he did the other night. “I’ll stay.”
Five Days After Palpatine’s Death
The Halls of Healing
“Six months?” Obi-Wan asks. “All my respect, Masters, but I will be physically healed before that.”
Obi-Wan might be the rebellious Youngling again rather than a master and a council member himself for that slight whine in his voice. Not that he’s opposed to spending more time at home, but being bound to Coruscant for six months when there are peace talks ongoing? He can’t imagine it. What is his silly moniker for if he’s absent from them?
Mace, Yoda, Plo, Ki-adi-Mundi, Kit, Depa, Saesee Tiin, Shaak Ti, Agen Kolar, the whole council, are crowded around his bed. Luminara and Quinlan are here too, likely, Obi-Wan suspects, because they are both masters themselves, and good friends of his who might influence him. Quinlan, of course, has wedged himself in to sit on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed.
A datapad rests on on the nightstand, the cover of the Coruscant Global Newsgrid’s print edition visible on the screen.
Kenobi and Skywalker—a Legend for Our Time.
Below the splashy headline is a photograph of Anakin standing on the steps of the Temple holding Obi-Wan in his arms. Blood stains the ground, and one of Obi-Wan’s arms hangs limp. He barely recalls anything about this moment other than the vague sensation of the sun on his face, but reporters were there to capture it. He can’t blame them. It is a dramatic photo that will surely sway hearts—but he does dislike this level of attention.
“Obi-Wan,” Mace says, drawing Obi-Wan back to the matter at hand, “this is not a punishment. And it is also about more than physical ailments. You have been through an ordeal. Even before all of this happened this you were commanding a sector of the army. You suffered the loss of a friend when the Duchess died. Fought Maul. You killed Grievous. Your body and your mind, your spirit, need time to heal. Master Che has insisted, and we have agreed.”
“I—”
“Obi-Wan,” Plo echoes. His voice goes even deeper than usual—a sure sign that he means for Obi-Wan to take this seriously. “You were almost executed. Tortured. Beaten. Stabbed. Poisoned. You have killed a Sith lord. You have done enough, my friend.”
“Saved the Order, you have.” Yoda folds his hand over his gimmer stick. “Rest, you must.”
“But the peace talks,” Obi-Wan says, more softly this time. He glosses over Yoda’s words, because that compliment is almost too much to take. “Can I holo in?”
“Perhaps.” Mace puts a hand on Obi-Wan’s arm. “In a few weeks, if things turn tricky, we will consider it. We are also putting you on non-combat duty for a year. Diplomatic missions only.” He smiles when Obi-Wan opens his mouth to argue. “I know, sometimes diplomatic missions can turn. But our hope is to assign you to those that won’t, as much as is possible. We might even have some of the newer knights shadow you, to learn. With the war, that skill has not been taught as much as it ought to have been, natural to the Jedi as it is.”
A thought occurs, popping into Obi-Wan’s head with a jolt of anxiety.
“This isn’t because of the poison, is it?” he asks. “I understand if you have concerns. I’m very willing to monitor and report in if I have any pull toward the dark. As of now my fever is going down, and I only feel ill, not like I did when I was first subjected to it. The rage is gone. There is some pain, but it’s better.”
“If there is any Jedi we most trust to manage anything like being injected with Sith poison,” Mace says, “it’s you. That’s not what this is about. This is for you.”
Obi-Wan has long divided his life into two distinct parts—before Qui-Gon’s death, and after. Before, he accepted the fact that he had needs. He learned to manage and take care of them like any Jedi should. He accepted his feelings and worked through them. He let himself be moody when he was a teenager. Argued with his master. Rebelled as a youngling. After, there was no time. He still worked through his emotions, but he did it faster. There were other priorities. Anakin. The war. Ahsoka. Anakin. The war. The council. The war. It was better, easier, if he simply tried not to need anything at all. Rest. Comfort. Those were things for other people. Not for a Jedi Knight raising the Chosen One. Not for a Jedi Master on the High Council. Not for a general managing thousands of clones.
“I want to be useful.” Obi-Wan grasps at the soft sheets beneath him. “There’s much to be done.”
He’s being silly, isn’t he? Paranoid. Why is he worrying about the council, his friends, not trusting him when he was willing to die to protect the order? When he killed Palpatine?
He did do that, didn’t he? Yes. It still seems unreal.
“Obi-Wan,” Quinlan pipes up, “you literally cut Palpatine’s head off. That’s about as useful as someone can be.”
Next to him, Luminara nods.
“See?” Quinlan points at her. “Luminara agrees, and she loves to tell me when I’m wrong.”
“Anakin also played a rather large part in getting rid of Palpatine,” Obi-Wan argues.
“And that’s why he is also being put on mandated rest,” Depa adds, raising her eyebrows at him. “For three months. Then we will check back in. And the best use of your time right now is to let yourself heal. You would say the same to any of us, were we in your position.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan admits. “You’re right.”
“An idea we have, for you to consider.” Yoda draws Obi-Wan’s attention. It quiets his whirring mind. “Listen, will you?”
“Of course, Master.”
“After six months have passed, like, we would, for you to begin teaching some of the Younglings.” Yoda smiles, and it makes Obi-Wan smile too. “Enjoyed, many of them have, the talks you have given when invited you were, by their teachers. Look up to you, they do. Take them to Ilum as I do, you will, if agree you do. Discuss we can, the specifics, when you are well.”
Obi-Wan’s Adam’s Apple bobs. Speaking is required, though perhaps not possible just now.
The Younglings.
They trust him with the Younglings. With the children Palpatine wanted to murder.
With the future of the Order.
He always pictured himself, in his older age, taking up Yoda’s mantle with the Younglings. Thirty-eight is quite a bit younger than he expected, but the idea of it warms him. It gives him relief like he hasn’t felt in days.
“I would like that very much, Master Yoda. Thank you.”
“There is one final thing,” Mace says, and his eyes might be a touch damp. “Master Che has said you may attend council meetings in a month’s time to weigh in on matters, vote, that sort of thing. She said she feared that you might go mad otherwise.”
“She’s not wrong,” Obi-Wan confesses with a soft laugh. “If you require a proxy, Master Vos, if he’s willing, knows me well.” Obi-Wan turns to his friend, who still sits on the edge of the bed, one leg stretched out, the other foot propped up on the metal bar. “Quinlan?”
Quinlan taps a finger against his lips. “I could be Obi-Wan Kenobi for a month. A tiring job, surely, you are so fussy—”
“Quinlan.”
“We did have some assignments in mind for Master Vos,” Ki-adi-Mundi interrupts. “We’re looking into sending scouts to Sith planets, that kind of thing. He could holo in, but sometimes his work doesn’t lend itself to—”
“Oh, I’m not leaving Coruscant right now,” Quinlan says, matter-of-fact.
“Vos,” Shaak Ti says, a bit stern. “The sort of work you do is unique and not easily done by many Jedi.”
“I’m aware of that.” Quinlan grows serious here, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “And I will be at your disposal when I’m certain Obi-Wan is more fully on the mend. Not to make too much of myself, but the discussion here has been about helping Obi-Wan, and unfortunately for him I’m one of his closest friends. So I’m asking, Masters, to give me leave for a few weeks.”
Obi-Wan would argue, but he can’t make himself. He doesn’t want to make light of Quinlan’s request, and truth be told? He’d like to have Quinlan here.
“All right,” Mace agrees. “You may have leave, Master Vos. Do you agree to be Obi-Wan’s proxy?”
“If you all promise not to toss me out the window of the council chamber if I annoy you, then yes. As much as I enjoy a good jump, I don’t think I could come back from that.”
Quinlan winks at Obi-Wan, who falls back against his pillows with a huff.
Master Plo, however, laughs. He tosses his head back and slaps his knee. The laughter spreads to the rest of the council.
When was the last time they all laughed together?
Master Che chases them all out a few minutes later—the only person who could get away with such a thing—and gives Obi-Wan a small dose of pain medication and more of the fever reducer. He’s been stuck at 100.5 for a while, but still. Slow and steady. Slow and steady.
Every needle, every syringe, gives him a shot of anxiety. Maybe that will go away one day. Maybe it won’t.
The door opens again as sleep hovers around him, waiting to stake its claim.
“Shh, Anakin,” Padme says. “He’s asleep. Why did you open the door so loudly?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Anakin protests, and there’s the sound of both of them pulling up the chairs next to Obi-Wan’s bed. “You made your chair squeak.”
Padme shushes him again, and Obi-Wan smiles once more before falling asleep to the sounds of two of the people he loves most in the world.
One Week After Palpatine’s Death
The Chambers of the Jedi High Council
Anakin can’t stop twitching.
The council room is familiar. He’s been in here a hundred times. A thousand. Today, though, he’s afraid of it. It should be nothing, shouldn’t it? His secret marriage. Not after everything that’s happened. And yet ….
And yet ….
“Anakin,” Padme says from the other side of Obi-Wan, who sits between them. “You’re shaking the chairs, my love.”
My love. Such a small thing, but it does ease Anakin’s heart to hear Padme say it in front of Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan knew for so long. Kept his secret. Said nothing. Why did he think Obi-Wan didn’t know? Why did he hide it? That was stupid. On the council Obi-Wan may be, but he’s spent plenty of that time justifying Anakin’s … rasher choices even if he chided him in private.
Obi-Wan has one hand slipped into Padme’s, the other resting on Anakin’s back.
“You should be in the Halls,” Anakin mutters. “I can’t believe Master Che let you out.”
“She gave me an hour,” Obi-Wan replies. “And my fever broke this morning. I can manage this.”
What Obi-Wan neglects to mention is that his fever has broken before and come roaring back. It has been lower, hovering around 100 for the past few days. Obi-Wan’s temporary cane leans against Anakin’s chair. It’s difficult to see Obi-Wan need it. To see him walk so slowly down the hall. He will improve, Master Che said in a private moment yesterday, but he is exhausted, Anakin. Normal will take time.
Normal’s going to take time for him too. Sleep hasn’t been easy these past few days. Nightmares plague him. Nightmares of Obi-Wan’s screams. Anxiety during the day that meditation does not banish entirely. He’s always been better at meditating with Obi-Wan, anyway. Maybe he should ask Ahsoka until Obi-Wan is better. Yes. Maybe he should. Safety seems out of reach. Not the safety of the galaxy—though of course that is fragile—but the safety inside himself. Inner peace. The stuff Obi-Wan talks about all the time that Anakin usually only half-listens to.
Every time he leaves Obi-Wan, he fears he won’t see him again. Letting that fear control him won’t do. He did that with his mother’s death, and that led to, well, a lot. It eats at him, though.
Maybe he ought to have put this off, but with the twins on the way in seven to eight weeks, it didn’t seem right. After everything the Jedi have been through, he couldn’t bear to keep this a secret any longer.
The funny thing is, he’s never felt more a part of the Order than he does now, when he might have to leave it.
Except, Obi-Wan doesn’t think that will happen.
Maybe he should just trust Obi-Wan.
Face this new world together, we will.
Yoda’s words of a few days ago ring in Anakin’s ears. They soothed him then. Yoda knows. Doesn’t he? Together. He said together.
The truth comes spilling out minutes after the whole council is seated. Anakin practiced what he would say, but did he remember any of it? Not really. The facts, at least, are made clear. That he and Padme are married. That they are expecting twins. That they have been married since just after Geonosis. Obi-Wan, likely wanting to take on some of the burden, admits that he knew, but didn’t discuss it with Anakin or Padme until recently.
“I—” Anakin stands in the center of the room like he’s done a thousand times before. “Leaving the Order is the last thing I want. The events of the past weeks have shown that I … that I did not always see how much you trusted me. Cared for me. But I see now. And I care for all of you. If I must, I will exit the Order. I want to be there for Padme and my children. I leave the choice in your hands, Masters.”
Silence falls. Anakin doesn’t know what to make of it. He sits down again, and Obi-Wan speaks.
“I understand we have rules,” Obi-Wan begins, “and perhaps it is time to consider altering some of them in a way that suits the Order’s ideals. Anakin helped vanquish the Sith. He restored balance. He turned his back, as all of you here know, on the dark side. He proved that he could and did choose the safety of the galaxy over his attachments. He was willing, if it came to it, to dispatch me in order to gain the advantage over Palpatine, which is no small matter. He let go of his fears about losing Senator Amidala. I cannot imagine the Jedi Order without Anakin Skywalker. To add to that, Senator Amidala has long been a true friend to us, and has shown time and again her commitment to the greater good. We are in a new world, my friends. I think changing a little bit with it cannot hurt.”
“Hurt it cannot, Master Kenobi,” Yoda says with a twinkle in his eye.
Wait.
Anakin tenses in his chair, ready to spring up.
“Lied to us, we wish you had not, young Skywalker,” Yoda continues, a slight lecture in his voice.
“I know.” Anakin twists his fingers in his lap. “I’m sorry, Master Yoda. Truly. I want to do my best by the Jedi.”
“Suspect something I have, for some time. Glad I am, glad we all are, that you came to us yourselves. Here with us, we wish you to be. Excellent work you have done, through the war. An impossible task accomplish you did, by helping stop the Sith. By helping save Obi-Wan’s life. And proud we are, to call Senator Amidala our friend. Stayed by our side through these difficult times, she has.”
Now, Anakin does jump up.
“I can stay?”
“With some rules in place.” Master Windu bites his lip against a smile. Anakin can tell. “First”—Windu raises a finger—“you and Senator Amidala may not go on missions together—that is a conflict of interest. Second, you are to see one of the healers inclined toward mental wellness once a month—Master Che will make a suggestion. You will check-in with the council as requested. Third, we will more carefully consider your missions. Anything happening on Naboo, for instance, will not be assigned to you. More specifics may come as we adjust to this new situation. What we are discussing here will be the basis for a dispensation process we are working to create for situations such as these, when they arise. Is this amenable to you?”
“Yes, Master Windu,” Anakin says with so much enthusiasm he might burst. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Senator Amidala.” Mace grows softer here. “Not to press you on personal business, but if the Queen requires anything from us, we are happy to grant it. We need you in the senate. And the Order is grateful for everything you have done for us. For Obi-Wan. We are still here today in part because of you, and we hope to continue our friendship.”
Padme’s eyes shine with happy tears, sunlight pouring through the window and making her skin glow. She is beautiful, isn’t she? Smart. Good. So, so good. She is an unstoppable force, and it is Anakin’s privilege to have earned her love. The moment he didn’t trust her instincts? That was when he lost his way.
He should have listened to her about Palpatine. He should have listened to Obi-Wan.
Making it up to both of them is his first priority.
“I spoke to her yesterday,” Padme says. “And she is eager for me to stay in the senate. But thank you, Master Windu. Thank all of you. You will have one of your greatest advocates in the senate in me. I promise you that.”
A sly smile slips onto Ki-adi-Mundi’s face. It reminds Anakin of that day during the second battle of Geonosis, when the Jedi Master played the “how many battle droids did I destroy” game with him and Ahsoka.
“We did have a thought, Anakin, about how you might spend some of your rest time,” he says. “While our Temple workers are experienced, we all know that you are excellent with repairing ships and droids. It might be something that can help settle your mind after what you’ve been through. And might be something you can do more regularly, as time allows.”
“Yes,” Anakin says breathlessly. “Yes, I think that’s perfect.”
Everything is heavy, it’s so heavy, but today? Anakin could jump for joy. Well, he sort of did earlier, didn’t he?
They talk a little more. Yoda makes a wry joke about the little Force-sensitive Skywalkers on the way. Padme helps him get Obi-Wan back to the Halls, and they don’t leave until he falls asleep. As Anakin drives them home, the breeze blows through his hair, and he feels … complete seems like the right word. Two pieces of himself need war with each other no longer. It probably didn’t hurt that Obi-Wan was there today. He doubts the council will deny him anything, much as Obi-Wan hates special treatment. The implementation of a more general dispensation process means it wasn’t just that, though. It means maybe they’ve been considering something like it for a while, and now was the right time to try.
So many parts of him ache right now. He is battered. Bruised. Haunted by a hundred almosts. Who he nearly became. What he nearly did. Obi-Wan nearly dying. The Jedi nearly being wiped out. It was all so close, but somewhere within this still healing wound, a new beginning is possible.
When they reach the apartment, Padme pushes him against the door as soon as they go inside, granting him the miracle of a long, lingering kiss.
“See?” she whispers against his ear. “It’s not always nightmares that come true, Ani. Sometimes dreams do.”
Two Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
Chancellor Organa’s Office
In order to avoid attending Mas Amedda and Tarkin’s joint trial, Obi-Wan agrees to give a deposition in front of their shared representative a day after he’s released from the Halls. It takes place in Bail’s new office, which is not Palpatine’s old one—that is still being searched by Jedi for any Sith artifacts. Master Che is present as well, having insisted that Obi-Wan was not well enough for the stress of testifying in-person at the trial.
That, indeed, is true. His fever is gone, though sometimes it spikes in the night. His stab wounds are healed. The bruises on his face. The cuts on his wrists. The lightsaber burn. The deep scratches on his neck, though the lightning scar will not budge. But well he is not. He tires easily—physical exhaustion and Force exhaustion are quite a combination. Using a cane for the next few months is necessary given he’s so weak on his feet. The black bruise from the Sith poison has mostly faded, leaving some of the veins in his forearm permanently stained gray. He is to go to the Halls every three days for an IV infusion of vitamins. He takes medications now. A fever reducer to keep any lingering poison effects at bay—that he’ll do for another month. Pain medication as needed—an ache persists. Something else for his blood pressure—Master Che muttered under her breath that she might keep him on that forever. Rest, Master Che has told him, time and rest must come before he is anywhere near normal.
So here he sits at Bail’s desk, Tarkin and Mas Amedda’s senate representative asking questions while Bail stands behind Obi-Wan’s chair like a well-dressed guard dog.
What was your relationship with Mas Amedda and Admiral Tarkin like before the events of the past few weeks?
Did you behave in a difficult manner when being escorted by Mas Amedda that caused him to strike you?
Are you certain the implements in the torture room discovered in the base were Admiral Tarkin’s invention?
He talks about Mas Amedda’s behavior in the Halls of Healing and outside on the landing pad. He talks about the general disregard for his physical well-being. He talks about the drugs he was given, focusing especially on the painful Force suppressants. He talks about Tarkin and that night in the torture room. Keeping calm is his main goal through this interview. Keeping calm and steady. He breathes in and out. In and out. Managing his anxiety, being calm, has been the work of many years. Qui-Gon taught him how.
And then a question comes that threatens to break him open.
“As you have made clear, Master Kenobi,” the senator says, “it was the former Chancellor Palpatine and clones under his command who administered the drugs that night in the torture chamber, as well as Master Skywalker—though you indicate the latter was coerced. May I ask why a jury should believe that particular part of the story? You admit that your relationship with Admiral Tarkin was less-than-friendly. Perhaps you are minimizing Master Skywalker’s part in this while laying the blame on someone else. Perhaps what happened to you that night is not so severe as you have said. What is the truth, Master Jedi?”
Panic flutters in Obi-Wan’s chest. The truth? Force knows he’s been telling the truth this whole time. It took him almost losing his head in front of a crowd for it to matter. Palpatine has injured the galaxy with his propaganda.
It’s going to take time to fix.
Palpatine’s voice slithers into his ear.
You are so terribly good. This will be a pleasure. I’ll take care of your apprentice, shall I?
You have given me such a gift. The gift of tearing you to shreds for all the world to see.
A tremble runs from the tips of his fingers and up his arms. Grasping the edge of the desk chair does no good.
“Can we—” he tries, but can quite finish.
“Pause,” Bail says to the camera operator. The senate representative huffs, but Bail only shoots him a look. “You are upsetting him on purpose, Senator. It is unkind and inappropriate. You know well enough that Master Skywalker only took part in the events in that torture chamber in order to uncover Palaptine’s machinations. It was torture for him as well, which Master Kenobi has already said. Besides that, we have a very visceral recording of parts of the torture session.”
“I would think a Jedi of Master Kenobi’s caliber,” the senator says, “would be able to stand up to a difficult line of questioning. What is it they’re calling him? The Sith Killer?”
“Please don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps.
They called him that after Qui-Gon died. They called him that and Maul kept living when Obi-Wan’s master was dead, rising up from the depths of some hell-planet to come back and cut Obi-Wan open again. Superstitious though it may be, Obi-Wan doesn’t want to hear that name. He doesn’t want it to summon some impossible resurrection.
Bail’s hand goes to Obi-Wan’s back. He bickers with the senator while Obi-Wan tries and tries and tries not to break. Cold sweat beads at his hairline. Master Che also steps in, saying something about ending the interview unless the senator stops upsetting her patient.
The conversation sounds distant in Obi-Wan’s ears.
Has he been made of glass all this time instead of flesh and blood?
Qui-Gon’s death.
Crack.
Taking on a Padawan, the Chosen One, when he had just been knighted himself.
Crack.
Every single time he worried he’d failed Anakin.
Crack. Crack. Crack. A thousand cracks.
The war. Every dead clone. Every dead Jedi. Every time he was sure he could never be enough to be a master. A general. A member of the council.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Maul’s return.
Crack.
Satine’s death.
Crack.
He feels the fault lines within himself, the endless, half-healed, hairline fractures running up the glass.
Maybe Palpatine found all those cracks, those fault lines, those old wounds, and reopened them. Tore him apart to create new ones. Broke him. Maybe he is only the shards left behind. A Shatterpoint that’s already shattered.
Did he break that night when he was strapped to that gurney? Or was it beneath the noontime sun on the steps of the Jedi Temple, when he was forced to his knees to await death?
Even if he didn’t, every mention of what happened, every day, threatens to make him.
Palpatine is dead, but Palpatine is still here.
You’re alive, he reminds himself. Impossibly, miraculously alive.
He can pick up the pieces. Yes. He has people who will help him if he’ll let them.
That thought makes Bail’s hand on his back feel more solid and less like a ghost.
When the deposition is finally over, Obi-Wan sits in Bail’s office for a while. Bail makes them caf, and maybe he puts a little brandy in it. They discuss the peace talks which are going—mostly—well. Some in the Separatist senate hold quite a bit of anti-Jedi sentiment even as Republic citizens are warming to the Order now. That Dooku was openly a Force-user doesn’t seem to matter.
“Palpatine’s body is being burned tomorrow,” Bails tells him. “Privately. Off-world. Master Yoda and Master Windu said burying it wouldn’t do, and I would worry about loyalists trying to exhume the remains.”
“The Sith of old used to try their hand at immortality.” Obi-Wan takes a sip of his caf, and it warms him. This feels normal, sitting with Bail in his office. “There are legends that some transferred their essence to objects, and their spirits would then possess any weak-minded person who picked up said object.”
Bail leans back in his chair, heaving a sigh. “Before Zigoola I would have thought you were off your rocker for saying that. But after? I believe it. The council wants to set up a process for sending a Jedi paired with a non-Force-sensitive to do scouting missions to Sith planets in the near future, to keep tabs. I agree.”
Obi-Wan runs a finger over the rim of his mug. There are a few planets that once belonged to the Sith. Zigoola, obviously. Malachor, a place where Jedi have never been allowed to go. Moraband.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, “Palpatine may be gone, but in this chaos I worry for any potential new converts. The Jedi feel more united than ever, but a small handful have announced their intentions to leave, recently, including Bil Valen, and one of the temple guards, too. Mostly, I’m hearing, because they need to reconstitute themselves after the war. That they might be back once they have. But I worry for unprotected Force-sensitives right now, I suppose. Worry they might be attacked or manipulated. There is more fear of and hatred toward us than I think I understood. Hopefully the change recently will stick.”
They sit in the quiet for a while, and Obi-Wan watches the sunset outside Bail’s window. It’s a small thing, the red-gold glow against the glass, but it soothes him.
“What are you doing tonight?” Bail asks in a way that implies he has something in mind.
“Oh.” Obi-Wan considers. “I hadn’t thought of it. Meditate, I suppose, if I can find a moment alone. Sort out my quarters.”
When he is alone he’s usually sleeping. Between the healers in the Halls, Anakin, Padme, Quinlan, Ahsoka, all the members of the Jedi council, Cody and Rex before they left, Siri, Prie, and his other creche-mates, Qui-Gon’s ghost, and also Dex, Obi-Wan hasn’t really been alone.
“Come to mine for dinner.” Bail takes Obi-Wan’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Breha’s cooking, and she’d love to see you. I’ll have you back early so you can meditate, and so I don’t risk Master Che or Anakin’s displeasure. Does that sound all right?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, grateful that he’s alive to enjoy such a thing, “that sounds perfect.”
Three Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
Padme’s Apartment at 500 Republica
A shout yanks Obi-Wan out of deep meditation.
Sleep has eluded him for most of the night despite the fact that he desperately needs it, and he thought meditating might do the trick. After a series of nightmares and a mention of said nightmares to Anakin, Obi-Wan’s found himself in Padme’s guest room the past two evenings. Watching melodramatic holovids with Anakin and Padme, he must confess, has been oddly comforting. A way to stop his mind from spinning. Since he left the Halls, falling asleep at a reasonable hour has been difficult—it’s almost always impossible until near dawn when the light is near at hand. That means he sleeps in quite late, and that means he can never right the cycle.
A beep resounds. Artoo. Worried, if a beep can be so. Is something wrong with Padme? Is she in early labor?
But no. There’s the sound of a door opening and Padme’s soft murmuring. Footsteps approach. A knock.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks when he opens it, Padme just behind him. “Are you all right?”
“Just couldn’t sleep,” Obi-Wan admits. “I heard a shout.”
“Nightmare.” Anakin ruffles his sleep-mussed hair. “Can I … can we sit in here with you for a while?”
“Of course.” Obi-Wan slides over to the side of the bed—which is much larger than he’s used to.
Anakin climbs in, helping a very pregnant Padme up afterward.
“I need these next five to six weeks to go by fast,” Padme says with a pronounced yawn, “or these two”—she pats her stomach—“are going to drive me mad.”
“Kicking?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Endlessly.” Padme giggles, and this draws a smile out of Anakin.
Padme leans back against the pillows—so many pillows—and Anakin flops down flat on his stomach, stretching out his long legs.
“I know that pose.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to fall asleep here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“Anakin, I have known you since you were nine.”
“So—”
“All right, you two.” Padme shakes her head. “He’s right though, Anakin.”
“Hey!”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t sleep here,” Padme clarifies, winking at Obi-Wan. “I just said he was right. Do you mind if we stay, Obi-Wan?”
“No.” Obi-Wan smiles at her, pressing Anakin’s shoulder before laying down himself. “I don’t mind.”
Silence falls, but Obi-Wan can sense that Anakin isn’t asleep quite yet, though Padme seems to be. She’s never been an easy sleeper by her own admission, but carrying twins, everything from the past few weeks, has worn her out.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan whispers. “What did you dream?”
Given Anakin’s anxiety over dreams, the real visions he’s had, the vision Obi-Wan himself had, the question can’t go unasked.
“Just … that night.” Anakin answers more easily than expected. “In that room. Except I … I stabbed you with a lightsaber. Palpatine made me do it.” He pauses, and the anxiety in his apprentice pricks the pit of Obi-Wan’s stomach. “Don’t worry. It was just a nightmare. I’m not going to try and make decisions based on it or anything.”
“I’m not worried,” Obi-Wan says, putting one hand on Anakin’s shoulder, hoping he can soothe him through the Force. Through their bond. Their dyad, if it is that. It seems to be that, impossible as it might sound. “I think we’ve both learned to handle our visions with care, lately.”
Obi-Wan shuts his eyes, but he feels Anakin smirking.
“What was that you said once? About how I hadn’t learned anything?”
Anakin yelps when Obi-Wan jabs him lightly in the ribs.
“You’re going to wake Padme and then feel terrible about it,” Anakin hisses, though this is belied by his laughter.
“Both of you go to sleep,” Padme mumbles. “Or I’ll tell Master Che you aren’t getting enough rest. Then you’ll be sorry.”
This threat, real as it is, makes Obi-Wan and Anakin obey.
Obi-Wan doesn’t fall asleep until light starts creeping across the sky, lending the bedroom a hazy blue glow.
Maybe tomorrow he’ll have more luck.
Four Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
The Jedi Temple
A soft knock at the door wakes Quinlan, light sleeper that he is. The knock was so soft, in fact, that were he less so it would have gone unheard.
He knows who it is already.
He tosses off his covers, padding to the door of his quarters. There’s not too much shit on the floor, thankfully.
“Hey,” he says, finding, as expected, Obi-Wan standing there. “You okay?”
The answer is no. Obi-Wan's pale, eyes dull and red from lack of sleep. Not that he looks as bad as he did a few weeks ago—Quinlan can’t stop thinking about the way blood smeared the oxygen mask—but he doesn’t look good.
“Can I sit in here a while?” Obi-Wan asks in a small voice. “I … I was having nightmares and I can’t settle myself.”
“Course.” Quinlan gestures Obi-Wan inside. “Tea? I actually do have some.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Obi-Wan sits on the edge of Quinlan’s well-worn sofa, perched like he’s ready to run at any moment.
“None,” Quinlan replies, heading to the kitchen and reaching into the cabinet to pull out the mug he always thinks of as Obi-Wan's. Light blue. Over-sized. Sturdy handle with a little chip in it. It’s the one Obi-Wan drank out of the first time he and Quinlan fooled around as Padawans, and it’s been his ever since.
“Sorry to bother you, Quin. I’m trying to be better about asking for help, but I admit it’s harder than I wish it was.”
“You’re not bothering me, Obes.” Quinlan flicks on the kettle. “No Anakin tonight?”
“Oh.” Obi-Wan looks at the floor. “I … well I stayed at Padme and Anakin’s twice last week and Anakin … he was having nightmares too. Came into the guest room to make sure I was still there. He’s been sleeping in his rooms here more because of me and I just wanted him to have a night with Padme, after all this.”
Quinlan would lecture Obi-Wan about worrying too much over Anakin, but given what Obi-Wan has trusted Anakin with in the last few weeks, he can’t bring himself to. Besides, he’d do the same with Aayla.
You never really stop trying to protect your Padawan. Not entirely, anyway.
Quinlan lets Obi-Wan have a minute while the tea finishes. Pushing never got anything out of Obi-Wan Kenobi, besides. He hands Obi-Wan the full mug when it’s done. Obi-Wan takes a taste, and the smile eases the knot in Quinlan’s chest.
“You hate green tea,” Obi-Wan points out.
“But you love it.”
Obi-Wan hums softly in agreement, taking another sip before putting his mug on the table.
Quinlan shifts, resting his back against the arm of the sofa and crossing his legs. “Come here.” He pats his lap. “I’ve heard it said I’m a pretty comfortable pillow.”
“And who said that?”
“You did, after a little too much brandy about two months after Qui-Gon died.”
“Quinlan.”
“Obi-Wan.”
That smile tugs at Obi-Wan’s lips again, and he relents, settling his head in Quinlan’s lap.
“See?” Quinlan says as Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force settles. Calms. Resembles something like the sunlit meadow it usually makes Quinlan think of. “Just relax for me, all right?”
Except, Obi-Wan tenses. Immediately, he tenses.
“Obes?” Quinlan asks.
“I—” Obi-Wan catches himself, some of the fear evaporating, though he’s still anxious. “I’m sorry. Something … something Palpatine said. Innocuous speech pattern. Silly of me.”
Scream for me.
Quinlan remembers that well enough from the tape.
He won’t ever forget it.
Quinlan inhales through his nose, soothing his rage by summoning mental images of himself kicking Palpatine off the roof of the Temple. Is it befitting of a Jedi, especially one who has been steeped in the dark side before? Probably not. But Palpatine is dead, so he can’t act on it besides.
“Not silly,” Quinlan says. “Let’s try again. Relax. I’m here.”
Obi-Wan nods, shutting his eyes. Quinlan might be holding a frightened animal for all that he worries Obi-Wan might bolt at the slightest change. Still, the fact that Obi-Wan is here asking for help is monumental.
“Was that what your dream was about? The torture?”
“Yes.”
“Is that also why you didn’t want to talk to Anakin about it? Because Palpatine made him do it?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I know he feels horrible about it. It was torture for him, too.”
“Yeah.” Quinlan speaks softly, daring to stroke Obi-Wan’s hair. Rather than making Obi-Wan flinch, it eases his breathing. Good. “Yeah, it was.”
They used to do this when they were young. When Qui-Gon did something maddening. After Quin had a tough mission with Tholme—learning to be a Jedi shadow was no easy task. Then Qui-Gon died. Obi-Wan started raising Anakin. Obi-Wan stood straighter. Tried even harder to be perfect. Quinlan went on longer and longer missions. Their time spent together turned into a quick catch-up drink when they were both home. Maybe they fell into bed from time to time. They lost the opportunity for quiet moments like this. Obi-Wan lost track of the fact that he might need them, though he was always there should Quinlan ask.
That was certainly true when Quinlan needed him most a few months ago. Without Obi-Wan? He’d be dead right along with Ventress. Or worse. But he hasn’t lost Obi-Wan like he lost Ventress. He swore that day when Obi-Wan stood up for him in front of the whole Jedi Council that he would be thanking Obi-Wan for it forever.
And he intends to try.
“I thought of you and our talk about the dark side when I was being poisoned.” Obi-Wan’s eyes stay shut, though he leans in to Quinlan’s ministrations. “What you said about acknowledging it. Focusing on a memory. So, I thought of the first time Anakin saw rain. It helped. It might have been what kept me from falling over the edge.”
“I’m glad it could help.” Quinlan barely manages to keep his voice from cracking. “But if there’s anyone who could resist that kind of darkness, it’s you.”
They sit for a while. Quinlan drinks his tea and watches Obi-Wan's face. The throbbing vein in his forehead—high blood pressure. The tightness around his eyebrows—maybe a sign of an oncoming headache. The clenched jaw—that's not new. Quinlan’s pretty sure it only goes away when Obi-Wan meditates. The puffy purple bags beneath his eyes. He’s still so pale, isn’t he? It makes that red lightning scar on his neck stand out even more. A few silver strands of hair shine at Obi-Wan's temples. By his ears. The auburn locks are longer than they have been in a while, falling into Obi-Wan's eye one one side.
“Hey,” Quinlan says. “I think you’re falling asleep, Obes.”
Obi-Wan jolts. So not falling, then. Actually asleep.
“Apologies.” Obi-Wan sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “I should go.”
“I think maybe you shouldn’t be alone. And hey, my bed’s pretty comfortable if I do say so myself.”
“Quin, I couldn’t. You need your rest too.”
“Unless you simply can’t resist me,” Quinlan teases, “all we’ll be doing is sleeping. The biggest risk you’re taking is me kicking you. Though, when you’re better, if you had interest in picking up some of our old habits I wouldn’t be, you know, opposed.”
Obi-Wan smiles ruefully, shaking his head. He pauses, putting a hand on the side of Quinlan’s face. Quinlan’s breath catches, just a little. Even Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had this effect on him, much to his chagrin. Once, when Tholme left Quinlan under Qui-Gon's care for a few weeks not too long after Obi-Wan became Qui-Gon's Padawan, Quinlan quite literally fell into a river doing acrobatics to impress his new friend.
Obi-Wan, of course, dove right in to save him.
Obi-Wan tilts his head, then presses a quick, chaste kiss to Quinlan’s lips. Quinlan returns it very, very gently, utter contentment shooting up his spine.
“You’re impossible,” Obi-Wan says fondly, a little blush in his cheeks. “I’ll stay. Thank you.”
The climb into Quinlan’s bed. Obi-Wan curls up on his side like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. Quinlan lays on his back, waiting for Obi-Wan to fall asleep—which he does almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Quinlan reaches for the datapad on his bedside table, sending a quick text comm to Padme, who has become a friend.
Obi-Wan came to see me. I got him to sleep, finally. Let Anakin know? Hopefully it will help him rest.
Despite the late hour, Padme answers back within a few minutes.
He fell asleep as soon as I told him. Thank you, Quinlan. Caf on Thursday?
Quinlan responds in the affirmative, then pulls the bedcovers up over himself and Obi-Wan both.
Palpatine is dead.
And they can get Obi-Wan and Anakin through this.
Quinlan’s almost out himself when Obi-Wan starts shaking. Turning over on his side, Quinlan slips one hand into Obi-Wan's. The Force hums between them, and Quinlan tries sending comfort through it. Tries to coax Obi-Wan out of his nightmare.
Obi-Wan's breathing steadies.
But Quinlan doesn’t let go.
Notes:
Just two more chapters to go! One to tie things up and give these kids some joy, and then an epilogue set about 6 ish years later.
Also, I have fully decided to write a sequel to this fic (title incoming). I am in the midst of outlining it, but it will be set 15 years after this main story (get ready for teenage Skywalker twins and Uncle Obi-Wan!) So, if you're interested in that subscribe to me and be on the lookout!
Chapter 13: The Light I Thought Was Blinding Brought Me Here
Summary:
The Republic finds its feet while Obi-Wan finds his. Healing is the order of the day, and for the first time in thirteen years, Obi-Wan has the space to breathe. To think about what he wants.
And finally, the Skywalker twins come into the world.
Notes:
Okay! A few notes. First, thank all of you SO MUCH for your continued support on this fic. You're amazing! Second, I'm dedicating this chapter to my bestie coruscantrhapsody. We both have fix-it verses that we get to differently, but we tend to share a lot of things in the "after the war is over" stage, and so this fic wouldn't be the same without her. You should go check out her fic, especially her lovely Skywalker Snippets series!
Also, I am officially working on the sequel to this fic, which will be called "Whispers From the Dead." So, if you want to see what happens next, be sure to subscribe to me!
I hope you enjoy this chapter! There will be one more, an epilogue, taking place six years after these main events.
Lore notes for this chapter are mostly more mentions of Dark Disciple and some references to various Star Wars news agencies (with a bit of a nod to our own real-world Daily Show). Also, it's important to know for a section of this chapter that Padme's real last name is Naberrie (Amidala is for political use), and there are also mentions of her sister, Sola.
Chapter Text
Five Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
The Chambers of the Jedi High Council
“I’m late,” Obi-Wan grumbles. “My first proper meeting in over a month, and I’m late.”
“Obi-Wan.” Anakin sighs, long-suffering. “Please.”
“Careful,” Obi-Wan says, “or you’re going to start to sound like me.”
Anakin rolls his eyes. “No one in that room is going to care that you’re five minutes late. You literally killed a Sith lord. You were almost executed. Put through a trial. I could stand here for a half hour and repeat everything that happened and probably that wouldn’t be long enough.”
“I should use that as my excuse forever, I suppose.”
“It’s been five weeks, Obi-Wan.”
They pause outside the door. With a pang deep in the pit of his stomach, Obi-Wan recalls another meeting near these chambers not so long ago. Everything about it left him unsettled, but he still didn’t know Palpatine’s true aim.
Even then, the Sith had his claws in Anakin.
He just hadn’t yet drawn blood.
The Chancellor is not a bad man, Obi-Wan. He befriended me. He's watched out for me ever since I arrived here
Our allegiance is to the Senate, not to its leader who has managed to stay in office long after his term has expired. Use your feelings, Anakin. Something is out of place.
Anakin was on the council with him, then. Technically.
With Palpatine gone, Bail has rescinded the request to have his own representative on the council. His friendship with the Jedi is such that it is, needless to say, not necessary. Part of Obi-Wan wondered if Anakin would be angry, but they haven’t had a chance to discuss it—there have been a few other things on their mind.
“It’s okay.” Anakin smiles, putting a hand on Obi-Wan’s forearm. “I know what you’re thinking about. Even when I’m a master one day it doesn’t mean I’ll be on the council. That is, I hope when I’m a master.”
“You will be,” Obi-Wan says with the utmost sincerity. “I know that.”
Most Jedi who become masters—a rank only a few hundred Jedi attain at any given time, as it is not an automatically natural progression, but a privilege—are in their thirties at least. Older. Obi-Wan was thirty-five, and the war vaulted him higher faster. Younglings became Padawans earlier. Padawans became Knights in the same manner. Anakin was knighted at nineteen, when most don’t achieve that until their early twenties.
The war has changed so much.
Obi-Wan hopes they can change it back. Slow down. Regardless, given what Anakin has done, he will be a master soon enough, no matter his age.
“You go in there and be the youngest member of the council,” Anakin teases. “I’m not sure it’s for me, anyway. It is for you, though.”
Obi-Wan leans on his cane, tugging Anakin into a hug with his free arm.
“Getting sappy on me, Master.” Anakin’s voice is muffled against Obi-Wan’s tunic, but the love in his voice is fierce. “I kind of like it.”
The events in Palpatine’s office flash in Obi-Wan’s mind.
You’re not going to die, Master, Anakin said, himself and not all at once. That odd fugue state he was in was new to Obi-Wan. Never, not once, had he seen his apprentice like that.
He hopes he never will again.
Anakin pushes the door open for him, and the sound of the other council members talking with each other reaches Obi-Wan’s ears. His cane echoes when it thumps against the floor.
“Hello,” he says, when this draws the attention of the rest. “Apologies for my lateness—Master Che cannot be denied.”
“Obi-Wan.” Mace smiles. Grins, almost. It is not that they haven’t seen him—they have, and very often, but he’s back here with them in this room.
Where he’s supposed to be.
“All right are you, young one?” Yoda asks with a rare hint of worry. “Rush you into this, we do not wish to do.”
“I am as well as I can be,” Obi-Wan says. “My usual check-up just went a touch over, that’s all. Sitting in here with you all should be no trouble.”
He’s a touch self-conscious as he makes his way slowly over to the chair. His chair. The one he always sits it. The one he admired as a Padawan when he was here with Qui-Gon. Something about it called to him, like some part of him knew, even if the lad he was could not have fathomed actually being on the council.
The future teases, sometimes.
“How are you feeling?” Depa asks, her olive-green tunic vibrant in the sunlight streaming through the window.
“I’m doing better,” he replies. “I’m relieved to report that I have stopped spiking fevers in the night as of two days ago. The poison has left behind some other effects—blood pressure issues, that sort of thing. Mostly, I fear, I’m simply quite tired. But Master Che is very attentive.”
This is, perhaps, putting his remaining issues lightly, but it’s not as if the others here don’t understand the severity of his physical injuries. He is doing better. What kept him today was a discussion of the frequent headaches the poison—or anything else that happened—seem to have left him with. Headaches have plagued him on and off for periods of his life. These, however, are more insistent.
He shoots a glance at one of the windows. “I see you didn’t toss Master Vos out any of these.”
This earns him laughter from the entire council, Master Plo loudest of all. His laugh is so jolly, isn’t it? It’s the small things, Obi-Wan has noticed, that he’s appreciated most recently.
“It was a close thing,” Ki-adi-Mundi says with a wink. “Quinlan is a very smart man, of course, and a gifted Jedi. He spoke as you would have. He has come a long way since his ordeal with Dooku and the dark side. You believed in him when some of us could not see.”
I wish I could have figured out that Sidious was Palpatine, Quinlan said one late night a few days ago, sitting on Obi-Wan's sofa when Obi-Wan couldn’t sleep. Could have saved you all this. I was so close, and I just couldn’t get Dooku to budge one last time.
No, Quin, Obi-Wan chided gently. We almost lost you as it was. I’m afraid we would have if you’d gone any further.
I got Ventress killed
No, Obi-Wan repeated. Dooku did that.
The way you stayed in the light, even during that torture, Quinlan replied, is something I’m always going to admire.
Quinlan certainly knew about torture. Dooku tortured him to within an inch of his life.
The advice you gave me is what helped me stay in the light, Obi-Wan said. Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t?
“I appreciate all of you giving him leave to stay,” Obi-Wan says. “Without him, Anakin, Ahsoka, and Senators Amidala and Organa—not to mention all of you—I’m sure I would be recovering at a slower pace.”
“Recovery of the spirit is crucial,” Mace adds. “Especially after what you’ve been through.”
“I think we’re all a bit in need.” Obi-Wan leans back in his chair, folding his hands and crossing ankle over knee. “I’m at your service, Masters.”
They get him up to speed on the details of the peace talks. All battle droid factories have been shut down and the droids shut off. Clones are set to leave Separatist planets after their chips are removed. Nute Gunray has stepped out of leadership. Lott Dodd, senator for the Trade Federation, finally had his war profiteering and double-dealing uncovered and was removed from the senate just this morning. Most of what is left of any sort of Separatist leadership are more than willing to seek a solution.
The war is, once and for all, truly over.
The next stage—how to reintegrate Separatist planets into the Republic, and what that will involve—is trickier.
Obi-Wan manages to convince the rest of the council to let him comm in to a session scheduled for next week on Raxus—the location of the now disbanding Separatist senate.
Shaak Ti, who is holoing in, updates them on the initiative to get all the clones’ chips removed, which is no small task. A quarter is complete, and it will take several months to finish the rest. Rex and Cody, she tells Obi-Wan in particular, have been irreplaceable help. The two of them commune with the clones on each planet while she speaks with the medical staff. Both have been insistent that she not be around clones who haven’t yet had their chips removed.
Obi-Wan supposes both Rex and Cody will be gone for a while longer. He should comm them, just to talk. Cody has been at his side for almost every action of the war, and Obi-Wan misses him now.
There is also the news that the Kaminoans have exited the senate altogether. Non-Jedi Republic representatives have been sent to talk with them, close out contracts, and sort out what to do with the young clones who still live on Kamino.
The rest of the meeting is focused on the Sith.
Palpatine’s office and apartment have been searched for signs of other Sith, or any plans that might have been in place.
Nothing has been found.
“Trust, we cannot,” Yoda says gravely, “that all traces of the Sith have vanished with Palpatine’s and Maul’s deaths. Too close, far too close, we were, to the destruction of our Order.”
What might have happened if he’d never heard that message on Grievous’ holocomm strikes Obi-Wan full in the chest. He worried for the destruction of the Jedi even after it was clear something was coming, but at least then, even if the worst had happened that day when he was scheduled to die, there would have been a warning.
If he’d never seen that message? If he hadn’t known it was Palpatine?
There would have been no warning at all.
That vision he saw. That lava planet. The sense of unfathomable despair, might have come true.
“I firmly believe we need to have more protocols in place to protect our Younglings.” Obi-Wan tries not to yawn. Force, he’s tired already. “At least for a time, guards in front of the creche hall at night could not hurt. I also feel that some kind of teaching campaign is needed, to inform the public more about Force-sensitives after the damage Palpatine did. I am concerned for the safety of Force-sensitive children out in the galaxy, whether before they are brought into the Order, or if they never are—if we miss them or if their parents choose not to send them. The list of Force-sensitive children that was nearly stolen must be doubly secured.” He swallows, his hand trembling slightly. “It was clear to me during the duel Anakin and I had with Palpatine that his intent was to exterminate us, right down to the youngest Jedi in this temple. The creche was the first place he went.”
The room turns solemn, and every single master present agrees.
With Bail as chancellor, Obi-Wan is sure they can start to build a network to protect Force-sensitive children and undo Palpatine’s anti-Jedi propaganda. Given the Jedi are the ones with innate power, Obi-Wan has never thought, exactly, that this sort of protection would be required. There are structures in place to keep balance and to guard against Jedi becoming power hungry. Jedi aren’t allowed to be politicians, for one.
Now, they must see to taking care of both the galaxy, and their own.
Before they adjourn, Mace has one last question.
“Obi-Wan,” he says, looking at Obi-Wan with such deep affection, with a kind of reverence, that Obi-Wan almost cries. “How did you have the energy to fight Palpatine? That holo footage … in your normal state I wouldn’t have been surprised—though I would have been impressed—but after everything, how did that happen?”
No one on the council has asked for the details of the duel with Palpatine yet, having, perhaps, worried about upsetting him given that they had to ask questions about the torture and the poison. The holo footage seemed to be enough for them as far as the duel was concerned.
“A Force Dyad, young Skywalker and Obi-Wan are,” Yoda answers. “Think the same do you, Master Kenobi?”
“I do.” Obi-Wan waits for judgment. Scoffing. Dyads have always been more of a Sith interest given that most of them begin with a dark and light side user.
None comes.
“It must have been triggered when Anakin was tempted by the dark side,” Obi-Wan continues. “And remained even after he turned back to the light. He didn’t heal me, exactly, not like some of the older dyads supposed, but his touch did ease my pain, and it was as if he was lending me energy. Staring on Utapau I began seeing bits of where he was, and it happened more once I was in prison. The same happened to him. I wasn’t sure at first, but the duel made the potential of a dyad clear to me.”
Master Plo shakes his head with a smile. “You and your apprentice have always had a remarkable bond. A Force Dyad. Sounds like something Qui-Gon would have appreciated.”
Fondness fills Obi-Wan up, and he thinks of the master who kept him from drowning in the darkness. He thinks of Qui-Gon's love of old prophecies and mystics that sometimes drove Obi-Wan mad. He wasn’t always right about them, but this time? He was.
He was right about Anakin. He was right about Obi-Wan needing to be the one to train him.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, with just a hint of grief. “He would have.”
The meeting ends, but everyone stays behind to talk to Obi-Wan. Finally, as he’s about to leave, Mace stops him by gently taking his shoulder.
“We all agreed not to ask you this in front of everyone so you would have a more difficult time saying no directly to me,” he begins. “But the council wants to do something for you, Obi-Wan.”
“No.” Obi-Wan waves Mace off with the hand that isn’t on his cane. “I don’t want special treatment.”
Mace frowns, folding his hands together beneath the sleeves of his robe. “I’d hardly call doing something to support our friend that has done what you have special treatment. Obi-Wan … the choice to let them kill you if Anakin hadn’t managed what he did? It was one of the hardest I’ve ever made. That any of us on the council have made.”
“I know,” Obi-Wan says softly. “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
“We are of the mind to get you a pet. They’re very good with helping people to heal, and to be support when needed.”
“But,” Obi-Wan tries, and he is so touched he can scarcely get the words out, “we don’t have animals in the temple.”
Mace smiles. “We are changing some things. You may have noticed. And you have always liked animals.”
“Yes.” Obi-Wan blinks. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I have.”
“Is there one you might like? Within reason of size and care, of course.”
Obi-Wan thinks wildly that he has always loved Varactyls, which are, of course, far too large to fit inside his room.
He does hope Boga fares well.
And then, another thought.
“Could I get a Tooka?”
The Next Day
Coruscant Tooka Rescue
“They’re staring,” Obi-Wan says from the passenger seat of the parked speeder. He pulls up the hood of his robe. “I can’t go in.”
“Obi-Wan.” Siri yanks back the hood with the ease of a childhood friend. “Stop. You’re being silly.”
“You’re going to look like you want to buy spice instead of take home a Tooka,” Quinlan jokes.
“Vos.” Mace glances back at Quinlan in warning.
“Mace,” Quinlan adds with a laugh, “if Obi-Wan can’t take my teasing I’d really be worried. Have you not been out in public since, Obes?”
Obi-Wan’s cheeks warm. “Not anywhere other than the senate building and 500 Republica.”
“You haven’t even been to Dex’s?” Quinlan asks.
“No. He’s been to see me.”
“Well.” Siri hops out of the speeder, putting out a hand. “Today’s the day. Obes.”
“Hey,” Quinlan protests, “that’s my nickname for him. Get your own, Tachi.”
“I’ve known him longer. Quin.”
“Barely. And only Obi-Wan and Luminara can call me that.”
“I held your locs back the first time you drank too much and threw up and didn’t want Tholme to know about it,” Siri argues. “I can call you whatever.”
Mace, ignoring all of this, walks up to the front gate of the rescue, saying something in a low voice to the worker there, who then shoos some of the onlookers away.
Obi-Wan supposes he’s going to have to get used to this.
With one of Siri’s arms looped through his, the opposite hand grasping his cane, Obi-Wan lets himself be led to the front entrance.
Sith Killer, indeed.
“Master Kenobi.” A woman who must be the owner of the rescue rushes up, wearing a shirt with an artfully drawn Tooka on it. “We’re so honored to have you here.”
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, getting a hold of himself. This is a Tooka rescue. Why is the thought of people staring at him more frightening than walking straight toward a thousand battle droids or Count Dooku?
“What kind of Tooka are you looking for?” she asks. “A kitten or one who’s fully grown? What kind of personality?”
Obi-Wan considers. What does he usually look for when seeking out animal companions on missions?
“Fully-grown, I think,” he begins, “just given my work. Friendly. Independent with a good spirit. Perhaps a medium sort of energy level. Does that … help?”
“Yes!” the woman chirps. “Come on, I’ll show you the adult Tookas. There’s one in particular I think you might like.”
Obi-Wan, Mace, Quinlan, and Siri follow behind, trailing through this quiet, grassy area on the edge of CoCo Town—not far from Dex’s. Tookas frolic here away from the glimmering towers of the Galactic City’s core. They’re all sorts of colors: blue-green, purple, fawn, brown, gray. Several twist around his ankles, meowing in greeting, and he bends down to scratch their ears.
And then, he feels it.
A tug in the Force.
One Tooka—a Loth-Cat, based on the black and brown markings—trots up to him and headbutts his leg.
“Hello there.” He hands his cane to Quinlan and squats, putting out a hand. The Loth-Cat tilts her head—with that adorable squished face—and rubs her cheek against it. Once. Twice. Three times. Just covering her bases.
“Would you like to come be a Jedi cat?” Obi-Wan asks. “What are your feelings?”
The Loth-Cat purrs, and there’s that pull again. The Force flows through everything, and it glows in this little creature.
“I think she likes you, Obi-Wan.” Siri’s leaning against Quinlan with a fond smile. “And isn’t a giant reptile.”
“She’s got a good spirit,” Quinlan adds. “I can tell.”
“This is the one I was thinking of.” The rescue owner clasps her hands together. “I’ve never seen her run up to someone like that. Loth-Cats are harder to domesticate. We found her about a year ago on the streets—no idea how she ended up here all the way from Lothal. But she was good-natured. Less feral.”
“Obi-Wan connects well with animals,” Mace supplies. “Which is why we wanted to bring him here.”
“There have been some studies done on Tookas promoting healing,” the rescue owner says, a touch hesitant. “And I’m no scientist, but I’ve seen it myself. Lots of people who come through this rescue have anxiety, or have been through something. When they leave, they already look happier. Not to be too forward, Master Kenobi.”
“No, not at all. Master Windu was saying the same when he mentioned coming here.” Obi-Wan picks up the Loth-Cat, who doesn’t seem to mind in the least. “I do believe this one has chosen me.”
The rescue owner bounces up and down on her tip-toes. “Would you like to take her home?”
“Yes.” Obi-Wan scratches behind the Loth-Cat's ears, earning a headbutt in return. “I would.”
Later that night, as Obi-Wan sits on the floor of Padme’s apartment with takeout in his hands and his new friend on his lap, Anakin asks the obvious question.
“What are you going to name her?” he asks, tentatively patting the Loth-Cat's head, for which he receives a friendly trill.
“Oh yes, that’s the most important part!” Padme claps her hands together, loose curls framing her face. “Do you have an idea?”
Obi-Wan looks at Padme. Without her, he wouldn’t have made it through. She was there every second. She risked everything to stand by his side. She has been one of his dearest friends for so long, and while he can’t share a Force Dyad with her, he can do something.
An idea pops into his head.
“Naberrie,” he says, like he’s known all along. “I’m going to call her Naberrie.”
Padme pauses, tears springing to her eyes before she gets up from the couch—fast, for how pregnant she is—and throws her arms around Obi-Wan's neck.
Obi-Wan smiles. Anakin, tempting the newly named Naberrie with one of the bags of treats Quinlan and Siri insisted on buying, laughs.
“I’m very glad you’re pleased, dear one.” Obi-Wan hugs Padme tightly, sensing the twins’ gleeful presence. “Very, very glad.”
Six Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
Coruscant Daily Show Studios
“I look foolish.”
“Obi-Wan,” Bail says with exasperated fondness, “you do not. Are you going to tell Padme you don’t like the cape she picked out?”
Obi-Wan, gazing at himself in the full-length mirror of the green room, knows the answer immediately.
“No.”
Obi-Wan studies himself in the glass. The new set of tunics—a bright, sandy white rather than the usual tan—do look nice. The new boots too. He’s always been fond of boots. The belt also, is new. Given that three sets of his clothes were either ruined or taken away during his stint in prison, he saw fit to replace them and refresh his closet. The war had already been hard on his minimalist wardrobe. This cape, however, was a purchase Padme insisted he make for this appearance, and any others in the future. It’s a rich brown, connected by a slim gold chain across the front. It actually looks similar to the one Dooku used to wear, though that was not the intention.
Is one of my usual robes not suitable even if it’s new? Obi-Wan asked. I bought four.
You always look nice, Obi-Wan, Padme replied, apparently reading his mind. But I think it will be useful to have something more formal, just in case.
His heart pounds, and he doesn’t know if it’s panic or the lingering effects of the poison. He’s stronger than he was last week, less weak on his feet, but the high blood pressure problems persist.
At least his hair is recently trimmed, and his beard too. He’s pale still, and the lightning scar is visible, but he doesn’t look like he’s been in a fist fight anymore.
Why did he agree to this?
You did mention wanting to start working on an informational campaign about the Jedi and Force-sensitives in general, Mace said, helping him sort through the pile of interview requests that had come in. Celebrity is not the place of a Jedi, but Skywalker and yourself have achieved it without seeking it out. It can’t hurt to use it for good, if you’ll agree. It might be a place to start. We might as well use what Palpatine created to fix what he broke.
Obi-Wan couldn’t argue. Beginning the work of making Force-sensitives safer, of undoing the nasty anti-Jedi propaganda, could not start soon enough. Besides, it’s something he can do while on his mandated rest.
“Obi-Wan,” Bail repeats, putting a hand on his shoulder. “This won’t be so bad. I promise. It’ll be twenty minutes or less.”
“What if I—”
Obi-Wan swallows, remembering the anxiety attack he had just two days ago. Luckily it was while he was in his room, but he wasn’t alone. Ahsoka was visiting, and while she isn’t the most embarrassing person to have such a thing occur in front of, he still wishes it hadn’t happened. Ahsoka made him tea while Naberrie curled up in his lap, and Mace was right—the little creature did calm him down.
I’m terribly sorry, Ahsoka, he said, accepting the mug of green tea with honey. I didn’t sleep well enough last night and that apparently sets me on edge these days.
You don’t need to be sorry, she replied, curling up on the couch next to him and giving Naberrie’s head a pat. One day it won’t be so hard, but don’t beat yourself up. That’s what you’d say to me.
“I’m a Jedi,” Obi-Wan finishes lamely, something more articulate eluding him. “I shouldn’t have this problem.”
“Anyone would have anxiety trouble after what you’ve been through.” Bail sidles closer, slipping an arm around Obi-Wan. “Including any other Jedi. It’s not even been two months. I’ll tell you what—I'll sit on your other side, and if anything goes wrong, just nudge my foot and I’ll call for a commercial break. I’m just a finicky senator. They won’t think anything of it.”
Obi-Wan laughs, and it does slow his racing heart. “Of course. Thank you.”
“You’re looking dashing if I do say so, Master,” Anakin says, coming up next to Obi-Wan and leaning his arm on Obi-Wan's shoulder. “Just got a text comm from Rex. He and Cody are back here for two weeks of rest while Gregor and Jesse help Shaak Ti. They’re out in the audience with Snips and Master Windu.”
This, too, prevents a full attack from descending.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Obi-Wan repeats the trusted phrase inside his head, tapping into the very early stages of meditation like he does during combat.
Padme kisses his cheek, and then it’s time to go. The assistant leads them to the edge of the studio stage. The audience is at capacity. Obi-Wan can sense it. This will play live on the HoloNet as well. It will be watched tomorrow by people all over.
But in twenty minutes it will be over.
He can do this. Yes.
The crowd claps and whistles when they come onto the stage, Padme first, then Anakin, then Obi-Wan, then Bail. Chants of Kenobi and Skywalker erupt. Anakin grins—though he is blushing a little. Obi-Wan gives a small, shy wave before taking his seat. The host is not the sort to appreciate scandal or peddle in anything but the truth—sometimes with a bit of humor—which is why Obi-Wan selected this show in particular. It hadn’t hurt that they hadn’t just asked for himself and Anakin, but Padme and Bail as well.
Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka smile from the front row, all three of them looking close to laughter. No one can appreciate how often Anakin, and Obi-Wan even more so, tried to elude being on the HoloNet as much as possible during the war. They failed at every turn, much to their chagrin. Still, an interview like this is something different. They have more power over the framing.
Anakin rests his hand in the crook of Obi-Wan's elbow, and the press of his fingers sends a wave of calm through the Force.
He keeps his hand there through the entire interview. It grounds Obi-Wan. Keeps him calm. He doesn’t need to use his emergency ploy with Bail at all.
It goes better than he expects.
“Master Kenobi,” the host says when their time is almost up, “I do have one last question. You knew you were innocent, but you developed this plan with Master Skywalker rather than attempting to escape. It obviously worked, but I think many out there are wondering—why not try and escape instead, and bring the truth to light that way?”
Obi-Wan sits up straighter in the cushy chair, leaving his legs crossed and focusing on the weight of Anakin’s hand. On their once-in-a-millennia connection in the Force. He spent a great many nights comforting Anakin when he had nightmares—when Anakin would admit to them—and this feels like Anakin’s answer to that, keeping Obi-Wan safe now.
“I felt certain that escaping would make me look guilty even if I was anything but,” Obi-Wan explains. “Palpatine harmed public opinion of the Jedi during the war, and I didn’t want to damage the new support that the Order and myself began receiving during my trial. The citizens of this galaxy were smarter and kinder than the former chancellor gave them credit for. I wanted to protect my fellow Jedi as best I could. Escaping would cause distraction, and perhaps even urge Palpatine to active the clones’ chips faster. It would cause people to wonder if I had done what I was accused of, and I wanted the focus on one thing and one thing only—getting the truth about Palpatine. Risking my life was worth that. That would remain true even if it had gone differently, and the truth wasn’t revealed until later. But Master Skywalker did exactly what I knew he could.” He takes a deep breath, grasping the arm of his chair. “My allegiance will always be to the Republic. To democracy. It’s what the Jedi are honor-bound to protect and defend, and it was the Jedi who raised me. I couldn’t have done anything else.”
He didn’t intend to make people cry, but after it’s over, he hears that he did. At least twenty times. It’s late when he gets back to his quarters at the temple, having been coaxed to a small after-party of sorts in Bail’s office.
“Hello, little one,” he says when Naberrie leaps off the sofa to greet him. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”
She chirps in response, and Obi-Wan lays on the sofa for a good half hour or so idly petting her while she lays on his chest. Exhaustion tugs at him, and yet there’s a buzzing beneath his skin, lingering anxiety that tells him he won’t be able to sleep just yet.
So, for the first time since everything happened, he checks out one of the temple speeders on his own, and drives to Dex’s.
The steering wheel feels good beneath his fingers. It’s the independence, he supposes. There hasn’t been much of that since everything happened. Coruscant glows around him as he merges into the late-night traffic. People are out and about. Colors whirl in his line of sight, advertisements for clubs and museums and restaurants. The silver-white light of a HoloNet screen spills down onto his speeder at a stop, and of course, it’s playing a clip of the interview he just gave.
Dex shouts in delight when Obi-Wan steps through the door.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite celebrity!” Dex exclaims, bounding toward Obi-Wan as much as a Besalisk can do such a thing. “And don’t you look fancy, huh?”
Obi-Wan leans his cane against the nearby booth as Dex envelops him in a warm hug.
“Hi, Dex,” Obi-Wan says, finding himself near tears. Again. “I thought it was about time I came to you instead.”
“Sit, sit!” Dex gestures him toward the red leather booth that’s closest. “Flo, pour us a Dorian Quill, would you? Obi-Wan's old master used to drink it with us.”
“Quit acting like I don’t remember Qui-Gon,” Flo shoots back, patting Obi-Wan on the back. “Hi, honey.”
Obi-Wan chuckles. Honey. He might as well be eighteen again. To Flo, who’s been here since Dex opened, maybe he always will be. She pours them the drinks, and the first sip of whisky is pleasant on Obi-Wan's tongue. He hasn’t really had much to drink until tonight. Master Che hasn’t said anything about it mixing oddly with his medicine, though perhaps he should ask in the future. Just in case. Flo lays out some cake too, a treat that Obi-Wan used to bring Anakin here to have on his birthday, or if he accomplished something important in training.
“So.” Dex knocks back more of his drink. “How are you, kid?”
“I’m thirty-eight, Dex.”
“Practically a baby to me. You’re not answering my question.”
Obi-Wan takes another sip. “I’m all right. Better than I was. I have the cane for a bit longer, and the major wounds are healed. It’s the remnants of the … of the torture that are most plaguing me. Sith Poison. I bet even you haven’t heard of that.”
“Well, I know Master Che will have you healed enough to be back to business when the Jedi will let you,” Dex says. “And I have heard of Sith Poison, thank you very much.” He leans forward, crossing one set of arms on the table. “But how are you, Obi-Wan?”
Ah. So this conversation is not to be avoided, then. Not that Obi-Wan truly expected anything different from Dex.
“All right,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I have nightmares. Anxiety. All the things you’d expect. I think it will be easier when things die down, though I don’t expect that will be soon. I’ve got plenty of people looking after me.” Obi-Wan stabs at the piece of cake with his fork, picking up a bite. “And it’s nice to be here with you, like old times.”
Dex smiles, but Obi-Wan's never seen him look like this before. Sad. Dex is always laughing—a lot like Quinlan, really.
“I try not to be too serious as a rule,” Dex answers, “but I can’t tell you how relieved I am, kid. The day is gonna stay with me a while, I think. Almost went up there and killed Palpatine myself.” Dex pats Obi-Wan's hand. “You raised Anakin right. I hope you know that. The boy tricked a man who had tricked us all, and he could only have learned that from you. It was, I assume, your design?”
Obi-Wan smirks. “It was mine and Anakin’s both. But thank you, Dex. I’m very proud of him. And I’ll be an uncle, soon. That should be an interesting adventure.”
Dex grins. “With Anakin and Padme’s little ones? I’m sure it will be. What are you gonna get up to when you’re better?”
“Teaching Younglings.” Obi-Wan runs a finger over the rim of his glass, pondering a future he wasn’t sure he would get. “There are some other things on the horizon, too. Letting new Knights shadow me when I go on diplomatic missions. Working on ways to protect Force-sensitive children. I’ve been going since I was twenty-five. Training Anakin when I’d just finished training myself. Fighting in the war. And now—”
“Maybe you get to think a bit about what you want,” Dex says softly. “When the Republic allows, of course,” he jokes.
They talk for an hour at least. Dex shares some of the Coruscant gossip he gets in here. Obi-Wan talks about some of the changes around the Temple and shows Dex a photo of Naberrie on his datapad. It feels so wonderful. So normal.
When Dex is called back to the kitchen after a group of teenagers come in—more than a little drunk—Obi-Wan stays in the booth.
He’s not quite ready to go home.
Maybe you get to think a bit about what you want.
Obi-Wan's never been good at that. Even for a Jedi he is, perhaps, selfless to an extreme. He doubts that he’ll ever be wonderful at thinking of himself, but the sight of all those people who stood out in the crowd that awful day, the people who protested on his behalf, all the friends, his family, who have been taking care of him … well, they’ve taught him something, haven’t they?
Before he can think twice, he fishes his holocomm out of his pocket.
“Obes Kenobes.” Quinlan pops up in hologram blue, already smiling with a tilt of his head. “It’s one in the morning and you still look dressed up from your interview. Why are you awake?”
Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “Why are you awake?”
“You obviously assumed I would be. You’re the one who called me.”
“You have strange habits. I made an assumption.”
Quinlan laughs. “You know, normally when people call at this hour they’re looking for—”
“Quinlan,” Obi-Wan interrupts.
“Terribly sorry, Master Kenobi.” Quinlan tucks a loc behind his ear, and his grin makes Obi-Wan silly. “How may I be of service at this ridiculous hour?”
“Come meet me for a drink?” Obi-Wan asks. His shyness is foolish. Quinlan’s seen him vulnerable in more ways than one. He’s known Quinlan forever. And yet, in the wake of Satine’s death, and Ventress’, in the wake of all of this, old feelings have shot up like flowers in the crack of a sidewalk—finding life, somehow. Maybe it’s time to do something more … formal about them. “I’m at Dex’s.”
Quinlan’s smile grows. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Obi-Wan has a drink waiting for Quinlan like he used to in that ratty bar in the lower levels where they met for check-ins during the Dooku mission.
“You know,” Quinlan says from behind him, one hand coming down on Obi-Wan's shoulder, “I should probably lecture you for going out this late on your own when you’re still recovering, but that’s more your forte, so I won’t.”
“Wise of you,” Obi-Wan shoots back. “I doubt you’d be terribly convincing.”
Quinlan comes into view, wearing his usual black and tan tunics with his locs tied up. He used to wear them like that when they were younger, and it feels like a sign. Like something he might have done on purpose.
“I dunno.” Quinlan sits down, taking a swig of his drink. “I’ve been around you enough. Obi-Wan Fussy Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan sighs, fighting a grin. “You’re obnoxious.”
“Mmm.” A spark comes to life in Quinlan’s eyes, a spark of that something Obi-Wan was thinking of earlier. The flower in the crack. “I try to be. Mostly to annoy you. Have you been giving Naberrie those treats we bought? If not, I’m gonna have to break into your room and do it myself.”
“You know the code to my room, Quin.”
“Not the point, Obi-Wan.”
“Yes.” Obi-Wan gives in. “I’ve given her too many, probably.” He pauses, finishing off his drink. “Did you watch the interview?”
“Of course,” Quinlan says, more seriously. “You did a good job. Eloquent as always. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Quinlan!” Dex calls out, coming out from the kitchen to stand behind the counter. “Hope you’re taking care of our boy?”
He winks, and Obi-Wan does his best not to blush. Obi-Wan doesn’t remember his blood family, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a nosy uncle.
Quinlan shoots Dex a thumbs up. “Anakin, Padme, and Bail are doing the hard work,” he says. “I’m just picking up the slack.”
“He’s been very kind,” Obi-Wan cuts in. “Don’t listen to him.”
Flo calls Dex back again, the buzz of the diner—even this late—lending them a little privacy.
Quinlan rests his hand on the table, close to Obi-Wan's but not quite touching. Hesitation runs through Quinlan’s Force presence. He’s rarely hesitant about anything. Maybe hesitation is the incorrect word. Shyness might be right, though Quinlan is rarely shy, either. Both of those things mix with a more familiar enthusiasm.
A beat passes. Obi-Wan takes a sip of his drink when another of the waitresses pours him more, and good with words as he is, for once, he doesn’t have anything quippy to say.
So, he tries for earnest instead.
“I really appreciate you putting off missions the past few weeks.” Obi-Wan reaches for Quinlan’s hand, carefully, loosely, intertwining their fingers. “For both of us, our work matters. It’s who we are and it comes first. So, thank you. For … everything.”
Quinlan’s flirty smile turns soft, and he tugs Obi-Wan's hand closer, sliding their fingers tighter together. “You were there for me after everything with Dooku. I wouldn’t still be in the Order if you hadn’t fought for me. I might even be dead. You sat with me while I grieved Ventress. You defended her honor to the Jedi. I’d do anything for you, Obes.”
Obi-Wan sucks in a breath sharply through his nose. If the temptation to cry—whether in happiness or grief—could come less often, it would do a lot for his dignity.
The way Quinlan said that, like Obi-Wan was, in this moment, the brightest point in Quinlan’s galaxy, has left him unsteady, but in the best sort of way.
Maybe he isn’t a Shatterpoint that’s already shattered. Maybe he’s not glass, after all. He's just a person. A human being covered in half-healed wounds.
Maybe, finally, it’s time to properly tend to them.
“So.” Quinlan waggles his eyebrows, keeping hold of Obi-Wan's hand. “Tell me how we’re going to corrupt those Skywalker twins when they come out. We have to plan ahead.”
Obi-Wan bursts out laughing.
When Dex finally closes, they drive the speeders back, drop them off, and walk around Coruscant, which never really sleeps. With his cane in one hand and Quinlan’s hand in the other, they walk through the city where they both grew up. For a little while, Obi-Wan isn’t the Sith Killer. He isn’t a member of the Jedi High Council or a war hero. He isn’t the man whose best friend almost had to cut off his head in front of a crowd.
He’s just Obi-Wan.
They get back to the temple at sunrise. Obi-Wan's been better at sleeping during the night the past two weeks, but the closer he gets to dawn, the more soundly he slumbers. Tokens of appreciation litter the stairs. Art children have drawn of Jedi with their lightsabers. More art of Obi-Wan and Anakin—Quinlan picks one of those up, saying something about teasing Skywalker. Flowers. Signs of support for the Jedi.
At the foot of the stairs, one word is painted in blue.
Kenobi.
Some of the more nocturnal Jedi greet them as they come through the door. Obi-Wan tenses, aware of how much everyone perceives him right now. How nothing he does is a secret. Not that Quinlan needs to be a secret, but he wants something to himself, just for a while.
Blessedly, none of the Jedi stop them. The only say hello. Some of them smile knowingly.
“Do you … want some tea, or something?” Quinlan asks with a half-smile that makes Obi-Wan go weak in the knees. “We could go to mine. It’s … pretty clean.”
Obi-Wan agrees—partly because Naberrie will be very curious if they go to his room.
Obi-Wan pauses when they reach Quinlan’s quarters, not letting go of Quinlan’s hand. A memory slides into his head. The two of them at twenty, in this very room. Quinlan leaning against the door with a smirk. Obi-Wan pressed close.
First time? Quinlan asked between messy, desperate kisses.
Don’t flatter yourself, Obi-Wan retorted, his fond grin belaying the snark.
Siri, Quinlan said. Of course.
Quinlan, Obi-Wan reached down for his friend’s belt, his grin widening when Quinlan shivered at the way Obi-Wan said his name, stop talking.
“Can’t believe they were playing holo footage of your duel on the HoloNet screens at four in the morning.” Quinlan doesn’t let go of Obi-Wan's hand either, and he doesn’t make a move for the kitchen. “That’s when you know you’ve made it.”
“I suppose they aren’t going to stop doing that any time soon, are they?”
Quinlan shrugs. “No. Sorry, Obes. But hey, I’ve always thought you looked hot with a lightsaber in your hand. So, it’s not all bad, huh?”
Obi-Wan's heart pounds. He’s a grown man who raised a Padawan. He fought a war. He can do this, for Force’s sake.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean”—Quinlan swallows, a sharp spike of nerves in his Force presence—“you’re the diplomat, right, so people don’t expect you to come in there and ruin them, but—”
Desire thuds beneath Obi-Wan's skin. Before he can overthink it, before his mind can say think of all the reasons why not, he tugs Quinlan forward into a kiss, cutting him off mid-sentence. Quinlan tastes sweet like the whisky they drank, and he laughs against Obi-Wan's mouth. Quinlan’s kiss is a conviction. It grounds Obi-Wan in the here and now. It makes him feel safe. Jedi do not search for control—life can happen at any time, and letting go of fear is central to their lives—but peace in the moment? That’s what Obi-Wan has in his hands. Who knows for how long. A minute. An hour. A day.
He decides it doesn’t matter.
Quinlan pulls back first, fingers threaded through Obi-Wan's hair. “Yeah?” he questions softly. His eyes gleam, and in the Force, an old, deep affection glows. It radiates from the base of Obi-Wan's spine and goes up up up.
Obi-Wan breathes hard, and maybe he’s shaking a little. They’ve done this dance before, but it’s different now. It’s more.
Obi-Wan meets his old friend’s eye, and for once, maybe for the first time since his master died in his arms thirteen years ago, he thinks about what he wants.
“Yes.”
Quinlan kisses him again. Hard. Not like something that might break. Like something that is, indeed, made of nothing but light.
They fall into bed and they laugh and laugh and laugh until Obi-Wan's ribs ache in protest.
When the sun rises fully in the sky, casting light through Obi-Wan's window, he falls fast asleep.
And Quinlan stays.
Seven Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
Padme’s Apartment at 500 Republica
“Just so I understand,” Obi-Wan says, a toolbox in his lap and a wrench in his hand, “you don’t want me to help you build the crib. You just want me to hand you the tools so you can build the crib on your own.”
Anakin, inadvisably holding a screw between his teeth, doesn’t look away from the half-put-together crib in front of them. “Exactly.”
Pieces of the crib for the soon-to-be-named Luke and Leia are spilled across the floor of the apartment’s living room while the HoloNet News plays in the background. Tarkin and Mas Amedda’s sentences are meant to be announced today after the trial took almost five weeks as evidence against them mounted. Obi-Wan can only assume Padme and Anakin wanted him over here when it was announced, though he’s here so often that it’s hard to tell.
“The creche-masters suggested this one when I asked.” Anakin wipes his brow, peering at the piece of furniture that is so frustrating him. “They gave me a spare, but it was the only one they had. That was put together, but this new one we bought wasn’t. What they didn’t mention was how hard it would be.”
Padme and Ahsoka, sitting over on the sofa, are picking out paint colors for the nursery. Obi-Wan suspects he would be better at that task, but he won’t abandon his apprentice in this obviously great time of need.
“Master Ani,” Threepio says, shuffling over with a glass of water and a plate full of cookies. “You really should drink something.”
“I’m all right, Threepio,” Anakin mutters.
“Anakin,” Padme chides from her seat on the sofa. “You need to eat and drink something. You’re focusing too hard on that crib.”
“Yeah,” Ahsoka echoes, drawing a chuckle out of Obi-Wan. “And we all know how angry you get when your blood sugar is low.”
“Do not,” Anakin grumbles, instantly subverting his own argument.
He does take the cookie and the water.
“They’re playing some of the holo footage from your duel in the temple,” Ahsoka points out. “How did they get that?”
“It’s matter of public record and interest.” Obi-Wan glances at the screen just in time to see himself parry five of Palpatine’s attacks in row.
His wrist chrono beeps.
He’s thankful for the distraction.
“I will be right back to hand you tools in just a moment, dear,” Obi-Wan says to Anakin, getting up from the floor. “But if I don’t take this medicine Master Che will know.”
“True,” Anakin adds, taking a bite of his cookie.
Obi-Wan rifles through the small leather bag he brought, searching for the pill bottle. Naberrie, annoyed by the tools, jumps down from her place next to Padme, twining around Obi-Wan's legs in greeting.
“Hello little one,” he says absentmindedly, finally pulling out the bottle and accepting a glass of water from Threepio.
“What’s that?” Ahsoka asks.
“Medication for my blood pressure,” Obi-Wan tells her, pausing to swallow the pill. “Master Che seems to think I’ll need it for the near future. Possibly permanently.”
You are doing much better, Master Che told him at his check-up this morning. You haven’t spiked a fever for two weeks. Your heart rate is a little quick, but getting back to normal. I think you should be able to put the cane aside after another week. It’s your blood pressure and these headaches we’ll need to keep an eye on. And you need to keep resting, Obi-Wan. I insist on it. A case of exhaustion like yours is not something to trifle with. How are your energy levels?
Better, Obi-Wan said. I still tire more easily than before, but I feel the improvement.
I think we can do the vitamin infusion once a week for now, Master Che replied. And I’d like you to sit down with myself and one of our mental wellness healers twice a month. You’ve been through a great deal. And, if this encourages you, it seems to have been of great benefit to Anakin, so far.
He was telling me, Obi-Wan answered. I’m listening, Vokara. This time I promise I’m listening.
“Oh,” Padme says, drawing Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. “They’re about to announce the sentences.” She pats the space next to her. “Come sit, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan obliges, smiling when Padme takes one of his hands. Naberrie, sensing Obi-Wan's anxiety, jumps up into his lap. Anakin abandons his work too, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa and leaning his back against Obi-Wan and Padme’s legs.
“The joint trial of former senate vice chair Mas Amedda and Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin ended earlier this week, with convictions for both of the accused on all charges,” the reporter says. “After two days of deliberation, a sentence has been returned.”
The camera switches from the anchor’s face to a courtroom scene, and adrenaline shoots through Obi-Wan's veins. Too much of it. His hand trembles, and Padme holds it snugly in her own. His heart, at a steady pace all day, beats in an uneven rhythm.
“Found convicted of conspiracy to commit mass murder, treason against the Galactic Republic, and other charges, Mas Amedda was sentenced to life in prison.”
Ahsoka crosses her arms over her chest. “Most people don’t deserve that. But he does. Good.”
“Admiral Tarkin, convicted of performing illegal torture,” the anchor continues, “treason against the Galactic Republic, and other charges, was sentenced to fifty years in prison. Both men will be held at the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center—”
“All right,” Padme says, switching it off. “That’s what we needed to know.”
Anakin stares at the black screen, his eyes wide and glazed over. In their Force-bond, Obi-Wan feels a blast of rage, before a concerted effort to regain calm.
“Tarkin deserves life.” Anakin’s voice shakes. “After what he did.”
“Proof of how much he knew about other than the torture room was hard to come by,” Padme replies. “I assume that’s the reason.”
The room, expansive and full of light as it is, closes in around Obi-Wan. It squeezes the air from his lungs.
“My apologies,” he says, pressing Padme’s hand, “I need a moment.”
Obi-Wan steps out onto the veranda, Naberrie following behind and curling up by his feet. He leans his arms on the rail. Coruscant lives and breathes in front of him, the noontime sun shining bright.
Noon.
He was supposed to die at noon.
Center yourself, he hears Qui-Gon say, so, so long ago. Focus on the living Force. On the moment. Ground your mind in the life around you.
The stone is warm beneath his fingers. People he loves are right here. He is alive. Alive when he so easily could be gone. The Jedi, his family, are alive too.
Everything was so close, standing on a knife’s edge.
Obi-Wan senses Anakin’s presence seconds before hearing footsteps behind him. Even before his former apprentice touches him, some of the tension tightening the muscles in Obi-Wan's neck, the headache threatening behind his right eye, eases.
Anakin slides his arm around Obi-Wan's waist. They stand together for a minute. Two. Three.
“Part of my vision took place on this veranda,” Obi-Wan whispers. “I was laughing with a tow-headed boy and a dark-haired girl in braids.”
Love spills into Anakin’s Force-signature. Love for Obi-Wan. For Padme. For the children soon to come.
“Luke and Leia. I remember you mentioning.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says with a note of reverence. “I believe it was.”
Silence comes again, and after a moment’s hesitation, after his own brain—the shadowy parts of it that never want him to rest—says it’s your job to look after him, Obi-Wan leans against Anakin, slipping his arm around his apprentice’s waist in turn.
As it should be.
“You know what, Master?” Anakin looks at Obi-Wan, and his smile could break the night. “For once, I’m going to be happy to see a vision come true.”
8 Weeks After Palpatine’s Death
Dex’s Diner
“Obi-Wan.” Anakin rolls his eyes magnificently. “You’re supposed to be resting, not holoing into the peace talks all the time.”
“I hardly think twice qualifies as all the time,” Obi-Wan protests. “Besides, it was a tricky bit of discussion. I sat in my quarters with Naberrie and a cup of tea, it was no bother.”
“He was very helpful,” Padme adds, a demolished milkshake sitting in front of her.
Anakin shoots a wounded glance at his wife. “Traitor.”
It’s Padme who rolls her eyes this time. “Hardly. I lecture him as much as you do.”
The two of them bicker for a few minutes about who lectures Obi-Wan the most right now—it's Mace, but he won’t tell them that—and Obi-Wan gazes around the diner, fiddling with the straw of his own milkshake. They came to celebrate the passage of Bail and Padme’s clone rights bill, which won in the senate just this morning. Six months from now, clones will be able to leave the military if they wish, and those who stay will sign five-year contracts like any other non-clone member of the GAR. Pensions will be given to those who leave until they find new employment, and they will continue to receive a small amount of money even once they do. There are other things in the bill too, things Padme and Bail and the Jedi have been wishing for since the war began. Cody and Rex both intend to stay, which is no surprise. They’re good at what they do. The Jedi, meanwhile, are set to serve as consultants for the military, and not active soldiers. That, to everyone in the temple, is a relief. They will fight if needed, but can now return to the matters of diplomacy and peacekeeping.
Obi-Wan's datapad lights up, his comm blinking at the same time to alert him that he has a text communication.
Just checking in. Aayla said to tell you she’s proud of us and intends to knit you a sweater for Life Day this year. I have a whole collection.
You better be resting, Obes.
Quinlan and Aayla set off on a brief mission yesterday to discuss the handover of the Citadel prison back to the Republic, as well as what is to be done with it generally. After what happened to Obi-Wan, with the torture room and the Force suppressants, there is talk of closing the place entirely and destroying the experimental drugs and other implements.
It was meant for Force-sensitives, after all.
Obi-Wan is sure that should any Sith appear, they can be held elsewhere.
“Is that Quinlan?”
Obi-Wan looks up to find Padme smirking at him. The fact that Quinlan and Padme are now friends is surely going to make his life even more delightfully chaotic than it already is at present.
Anakin groans. “Don’t tease him about Vos, Padme. I can’t take it.”
Padme raises her eyebrows. “Can’t take it, Ani?”
“You know”—Anakin gestures vaguely—“Obi-Wan is my brother. Best friend. Sort of a dad. Combo. Whatever.”
“I hate to break it to you,” Padme says with loving sarcasm, “but brothers, best friends, and sort of dads also sometimes date. And maybe tell their friends about it.”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t tell me about it,” Anakin complains.
Obi-Wan, feigning irritation, crosses his arms over his chest. “Thank you for your support, Anakin.”
“No, I support you!” Anakin insists. “I do. Vos is weird, but he makes you happy, and he was a big help with everything lately, and he was nice to me when I was a kid even if now I think he likes to annoy me on purpose. I’m just saying I don’t want to hear about, you know.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you about, you know,” Obi-Wan echoes with a teasing grin. “Though I should, after you told me about your Padme dreams when you were a teenager.”
“Obi-Wan!” Anakin whines. “Not so loud.”
Obi-Wan's about to reply when something shifts in the Force. A persistent presence.
Two of them.
“Ow.” Padme puts a hand on her stomach. Even in her billowing maroon dress, it is very, very obvious how far along she is, and she’s due any day.
Or right now.
“Padme?” Anakin questions. The color recedes from his face.
This is the moment that almost brought Anakin down.
The twins are coming.
She’ll be just fine, Obi-Wan says in his head, pushing the words toward his apprentice. It worked in the courtroom, but he’s still getting the hang of this Force Dyad business. And I’ll be right here.
Anakin calms. Obi-Wan feels it.
“They are … coming.” Padme grits her teeth. “I think. I don’t know if my water has broken, but that was definitely a contraction. Anakin, comm Captain Typho and Dorme, please? When we’re on our way?”
“I’ll drive,” Obi-Wan says immediately. “We need to get you to the medcenter. And I’ll be right in the waiting room.”
“Not in the waiting room.” Padme winces, and Obi-Wan is almost hurt before she continues. “You have to come in. You have to hold Anakin’s hand while he holds my hand.”
“Padme, surely you don’t—”
“I do,” Padme insists as Anakin helps her waddle to the speeder. “You’re our family. And you’re already on the list at the Grand Republic Medical Facility. That’s where we have to go.”
“The list?”
“To be in the room!” Padme exclaims. “I set it up weeks ago. Anakin, you, my mother, and Sola, but Mom and Sola can’t get here soon enough. Are you going to argue with a woman in labor, Obi-Wan?”
“No, no, of course not,” Obi-Wan replies. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As it turns out, he holds Anakin’s hand and Padme’s hand.
And hours—many, many hours—later, he sits in the dark living room of Padme’s apartment while the new parents sleep curled up on the couch. Padme, much to Anakin’s relief, is perfectly healthy.
That vision, the one that almost drove him to the dark, didn’t come true. Maybe it might have if he’d gone down the path of the Sith.
They’ll never know, and Obi-Wan is so, so grateful.
The twins, by some miracle, are asleep in the same crib here in the living room for tonight. They’ll move into the nursery tomorrow. Anakin and Padme, in desperate need of sleep, didn’t want to be away from Luke and Leia, so they hauled one of the cribs in here so they could all be together. Obi-Wan supposes he should be sleeping too, but a nap this afternoon leaves him awake now.
Obi-Wan strokes the sleeping Luke’s head, the blond fuzz soft beneath his hand.
“You’re going to be your mother’s boy, I think,” he tells his nephew. “Though with your dad’s love for flying. I’m sure I’ll be right.”
Next to her brother, Leia slowly opens her eyes.
“Hello, darling,” Obi-Wan whispers, his heart so full he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He strokes the palm of Leia’s hand, her tiny fingers grasping one of his. “You’re going to run me around like Anakin did, aren’t you? I’m looking forward to it, my spirited girl.”
“Making predictions already?”
Obi-Wan turns, having been so enraptured by the twins that he didn’t sense Padme coming up behind him.
“I’m not a betting man,” he says, “but I could be convinced. Padme, dear, you should be asleep. I won’t let anything happen.”
She sits down gingerly next to him on the little settee. “Of course you won’t. I’m just excited even though I’m exhausted. It took so much to get here.”
Obi-Wan can’t help but recall that moment in the Halls when Anakin was missing, and he told Padme he would help her if Anakin never came back.
Needless to say, he’s glad to be helping in this situation instead.
“Anakin and I are thinking of going to Naboo for a week soon so my family can meet Luke and Leia. We won’t be gone for more than that—there's too much to do here.” Padme rests her head on Obi-Wan's shoulder, and he slips a careful arm around her waist, not wanting to jostle her. “We were hoping you would go with us.”
“Oh. That’s very kind, Padme, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Obi-Wan,” Padme chides. “You’re our family. I want you to meet my parents. My sister and her children.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Well, technically I’m not allowed to leave the planet.”
Padme sits up, swatting him on the arm. “You silly man. I’m sure Master Windu, Master Yoda, and Master Che would not object to a vacation, and for so brief a time. In fact, they’d probably welcome it. When they said you couldn’t leave, I think that was to make it clear you couldn’t go on missions.”
“Fair point.” He smiles, touched beyond words. “I would love too, then. If you’re sure.”
“I think Anakin will cry if you don’t come. I might too, to be honest.”
“I can’t have that.”
Padme shifts. “Can you hand me Leia?”
Obi-Wan reaches into the crib, careful not to wake the sleeping Luke, and hands the bright-eyed little girl to her mother.
“I think she is going to run us around.” Padme agrees to Obi-Wan's earlier thought, nuzzling Leia’s nose. “It’s going to take all three of us to manage these two.”
A pronounced yawn and Anakin’s presence pushing gently at the back of Obi-Wan's mind draws his attention toward his former apprentice, who is standing up from the couch while doing a magnificent stretch.
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “You two are both supposed to be asleep.”
“Look who’s talking,” Anakin retorts, padding over to them and pressing a kiss to Padme’s cheek before sitting down on the arm of the little settee. “Got a comm from Ahsoka. She’s coming tomorrow with a bag of Force knows what.”
“Bail too.” Padme chuckles. “So much for my elegant senatorial apartment.”
Anakin kisses Leia’s hair before getting up again to retrieve Luke, whose eyes are also opening.
“Hey, kiddo,” Anakin says softly to his son.
The sight makes Obi-Wan weepy. Since Anakin was nine-years-old, Obi-Wan has watched him grow. Over the past weeks, Obi-Wan has watched him shine even as they both struggled with the fallout of everything that happened to them.
“Obi-Wan.” Anakin smirks. “Are you crying?”
“Perhaps, Anakin.”
“Is it because you’re proud of me?”
“The miracle of life and all that,” Obi-Wan replies before an inevitable smile creeps across his lips. “But of course I’m proud of you. Of both of you.”
“They’re perfect, aren’t they?” Anakin asks, gazing at Luke in his own arms and Leia in Padme’s.
Nothing and no one can be, Obi-Wan knows, but Luke and Leia? They might be the closest thing Obi-Wan's ever seen.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, accepting a sleepy Leia from Padme. “I do think they are.”
Six Months After Palpatine’s Death
The Jedi Temple
Six months to the day after Palpatine died, Obi-Wan stands on the steps of the Jedi Temple.
A drop of blood, his blood, has dried on the stone where he was set to be put to death, a stain missed after everything was cleaned up.
A reminder. A memory. A could have been. A warning that everything is fragile.
The Jedi are hosting a meal tonight, a celebration of sorts, for those who have helped the Order in these tumultuous few months.
Master Che deemed Obi-Wan healthy yesterday, with some caveats. He will need to take the blood pressure medication permanently. The headaches too, seem to be here to stay, though they are manageable with another medication. He runs a finger over the gray-stained veins in his arm, over the scar on his neck. Those will remain. Master Che has set check-ups for him once a month for his physical health, and once a month for his mental wellbeing.
He feels better. Less tired. He sparred two days ago with Anakin, and it felt wonderful. They’ve made a habit of sparring once a week for the last month, sometimes with Ahsoka.
He leaves next week for the closing peace summit of the war—the first time he’ll have left Coruscant in six months other than the leisure trip to Naboo. During said trip, Padme’s mother declared that Obi-Wan had to come every time thereafter.
“Obi-Wan?” Bail questions from the front door, Breha standing next to him. “Are you coming?”
Obi-Wan gives a smile to the steady, loyal friend who has been there for him without pause. Being chancellor suits Bail, much as it keeps him busy. He’s patient. Steady. Smart. Not interested in clinging to power, but doing good. He and Breha are adopting a baby girl soon, the daughter of a single father who was killed in the last days of the war when Separatist droid fire rained down on civilians on Grievous’ order.
“Yes. Just a moment.”
Bail gives him that moment.
Others pass by, greeting him. Cody. Rex. Many members of the 212th and the 501st. Some members of the Coruscant Guard, who, horrified by what the chips made them do, have sworn to protect the Jedi. Mon Mothma. Riyo Chuchi. Mace and Kit and Plo. Depa and Caleb. Yoda. Siri. Prie. Ahsoka.
“Doing some serious contemplation up here?”
Quinlan’s voice draws Obi-Wan's gaze away from that spot on the stairs.
“I’m always thinking,” Obi-Wan admits, daring a quick press of his lips to Quinlan’s—there’s no need for it to be a secret. The Jedi Code doesn’t forbid romantic relationships between Jedi—likely a technicality—and things are shifting on that front, anyway. Besides, he and Quinlan both put their work first, and Obi-Wan is sure they can manage themselves. He turns to Aayla, who is just behind Quinlan. “Hello, dear.”
“I see the senate finished building those statues of you and Master Skywalker,” she teases, pointing out said new statues just down Processional Way. “I’m sure you’re thrilled.”
“He hates it.” Quinlan laughs, and as always, it settles Obi-Wan's heart. “It is a pretty attractive statue though. As far as statues go.”
“Master,” Aayla chides. “Don’t make him blush.”
“It’s my right, Padawan,” Quinlan says fondly, pressing Obi-Wan's hand. “You all right, Obes?”
“I’m all right,” Obi-Wan echoes. “I’ll be right in.”
Next comes Padme with a contented Luke in her arms, and several steps behind, Anakin with a squirming Leia.
“We’re a little later than we meant to be, sorry.” Padme kisses Obi-Wan's cheek. “Diaper emergency.”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Obi-Wan says when Padme holds out the nearly asleep Luke for Obi-Wan to greet.
Obi-Wan tickles Luke’s chest, earning a sleepy giggle in return. The little boy’s presence in the Force is sweet and warm, and despite the fact that he’s four months old, Obi-Wan always feels calmer around him.
“Leia, my love,” Anakin says, half-desperate, “Why are you so angry today? Obi-Wan, I think she wants you.”
“She can’t talk, Anakin, how do you know?”
“You think I don’t know what my own child wants?” Anakin protests with an affectionate brush of his finger against Leia’s cheek. “I can tell. She wants her uncle.”
Obi-Wan takes Leia, who settles in his arms.
“Hello, my darling.” Obi-Wan presses his forehead to baby Leia’s, and her presence in the Force shines.
“See? Yesterday she was attached to me and wouldn’t be moved, but today? Things are more complex, apparently.” Anakin too, glances at the spot on the stairs. At the tiny bloodstain. “We going inside?”
“I’ll be right in.”
Padme squeezes Obi-Wan's shoulder before going inside, but Anakin waits.
“Sometimes I take the back way in,” Anakin whispers, leaning close to Obi-Wan's ear, “because I can’t bear to look at this spot. But someday … well, the healer I’ve been talking to says someday it won’t be so hard. You taught me that, too. I just wasn’t always listening. But it won’t always hurt so much, Master. I love you, you know?”
“I know.” Obi-Wan's voice trembles. “I love you too, Padawan. And thank you.”
Anakin leaves him alone, and Obi-Wan holds Leia closer. The red-gold sunset spills blood down the steps of the Jedi Temple, but it’s only a mirage. The echo of a could have been.
It’s all right. It will be all right.
“We’re going to make a better world for you, my darling,” Obi-Wan says to the baby in his arms. “I won’t promise it will be perfect, but I will promise to make it as full of light as I can.”
For now, he leaves behind those could have beens. He leaves behind the visions of Mustafar and that desolate cave and the searing sight of Anakin’s yellow eyes. He stores away, in some deep part of his still-wounded heart, the sound of his own screams. The sight of Palpatine’s shining silver dagger and his own blood poured out on the carpet. The hum of his own lightsaber hovering above his neck. Those things happened, and they will always be a part of him.
But they are not everything.
Leia reaches up for Obi-Wan, her tiny finger bumping against Obi-Wan’s nose. He laughs, and she laughs in turn. The warm breeze ruffles Obi-Wan’s hair, and the Force tugs at him from behind, encouraging him toward the people just beyond the door who love him, and who he loves more than life itself.
With one last look out toward the city skyline, he spots it.
Graffiti, written in gold on Processional Way, right where he got out of the speeder that awful day. It’s just visible from this distance, but the sun makes it sparkle.
Long Live The Jedi.
Chapter 14: Epilogue
Summary:
Six years after Palpatine's death, life goes on.
And despite all the scars, Obi-Wan is thriving.
Notes:
Oh my gosh so??? Here we are?? Somehow at the end of this fic?? I truly cannot thank everyone who has read this enough. You all have been so kind, and I constantly come back and read your comments. Thank you so, SO much.
As I said last time, I'm already working on the sequel to this fic, which will be called "Whispers from the Dead." It will be set 15 years after Palpatine's death (so, 9 years after this epilogue). Subscribe to me, and you should get an alert when the first chapter is posted!
Just a couple of other things! Thank you to mad4thedoctor for a great idea in a comment that I ended up using here! It just wouldn't leave my brain. :D Also there are some things in here that are shared fix-it verse headcanons I share with coruscantrhapsody, who is a constant source of inspiration.
I hope you all enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Six Years After Palpatine’s Death
Naberrie is something of a celebrity among the younglings Obi-Wan teaches.
So, as the Jedi cruiser soars through hyperspace, it’s no surprise that the group of ten twelve year olds is crowded around her, despite the fact that they see her regularly in class.
Loth-Cats, it would seem, are the only thing more interesting than building a lightsaber.
“She’s soaking it up, huh?” Caleb Dume asks, joining Obi-Wan where he’s leaning against the work table where the younglings are meant to build their lightsabers when Huyang joins them in a few minutes. “I couldn’t stop staring at my kyber crystal when I came to Ilum. Though, I didn’t have a cool teacher with a Tooka, either.”
Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure I’m the furthest thing from cool, Caleb.”
Gesturing at the scene before them, Caleb grins. “All evidence to the contrary.”
“Naberrie is the center of attention, not me.”
“Right.” Caleb draws out the word. “Them thinking your Tooka is cool has nothing to do with them liking you. At least three of them have those trading cards with your face on them, and two more have the one with you and Anakin.”
Oh, the trading cards. And the … action figures. Being a public figure means, unfortunately, that no company has to ask before putting his face on anything.
“Come on.” Caleb elbows Obi-Wan gently in the ribs. “It’s funny that there are trading cards of you. Admit it.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, biting back a smile, “I suppose it is funny. And horrifying.”
Helping with a youngling journey to Ilum is one of the last things Caleb has to complete before being knighted. For Padawans who went through the war, formal trials have been waived—the war was enough of a test. Obi-Wan, having grown close with Caleb over these last few years, was pleased when it was Caleb’s turn to join him on these trips he splits with Yoda. It’s always interesting to see how different Padawans interact with the younglings, and Caleb, Obi-Wan is sure, will make a magnificent master to an apprentice one day. No surprise, given Depa’s own love of teaching.
Soon, Caleb will be a Knight. Soon, all these little ones will be Padawans.
Life, it seems, does go on.
“Master Obi-Wan?” one of the younglings, Aima, asks, scratching under Naberrie’s chin with focus. “I know a lot of Jedi connect with animals—we’re meant to. But Naberrie really seems to know what you need and when you need it. She does everything you ask. You said before that she’s supposed to be like that? That she helps you?”
Obi-Wan’s heart picks up speed. For all the peace of the last few years, for all they’ve given him, whenever he creeps closer to the anniversary of that day, he is always haunted by shadows. Things that could have been. Things that almost were. Like the intricate mark on his neck, like the still grayed-out veins in his right arm, some scars, unseen though they may be, will always remain.
“She does help me, yes,” Obi-Wan answers. “Animals can sense our anxieties, and some of them can be trained to help with them.”
“Did you get her after you fought Chancellor Palpatine?” another youngling, Lahek, asks.
Obi-Wan’s natural inclination is not to talk about this, but talk about it he must—he’s famous, inside the Jedi Order and out, whether he likes it or not. And these children, about to begin a huge new chapter in their lives, deserve to know that having feelings you might need help with is normal. His nerves as a new Padawan were nearly crippling. He wanted to make sure his new mentor liked him. He didn’t see the friends and creche-mates he used to spend every day with quite as often. He was terrified he would never be good enough to earn the rank of Knight.
It's quite a lot for someone so young, and he thanks the Force that these initiates won’t be thrust into the war at fourteen like Ahsoka or Caleb or so many other Jedi.
The war was enough for the adults. The war scraped against the heart of the galaxy, and they’re still trying to heal the wound.
“I did,” Obi-Wan says. “That was a difficult time for me. It was Master Windu’s idea, actually, to get me Naberrie. She came from the Tooka rescue I’ve taken you all to visit.”
He’s spoken to each of his groups of younglings about what happened with Palpatine—it’s been impossible to avoid—but details that can’t be found in official records, and even some that can, he’s been sparse on. Not that news reports and other materials on what happened are difficult to find. The senate and the Jedi have the holo footage of the trial and the duel. The Jedi Archives also has the recording Anakin took of Palpatine’s confession and the torture—though that is not accessible to younglings or Padawans, only Knights and Masters. Hundreds of articles on the matter are out there, too, and interviews Obi-Wan did—not to mention that damned statue on Processional Way—but children, he’s found, like to hear about it from the source.
When Obi-Wan was growing up, the Sith had been thought extinct for nearly a thousand years. Younglings were taught about them, of course, but things are different now. Nearer.
The Order is taking any sign, any whisper of resurrection, very seriously.
With the anniversary of Palpatine’s death coming up, Obi-Wan’s students—all older younglings, while Yoda takes the smaller ones—have been asking him more questions. Still, he can spare them the worst particulars while teaching them to appreciate the dangers of the dark side and the Sith.
He’ll need to make certain that the creche masters are aware of the interest, should any of the younglings stumble across anything upsetting on the HoloNet and need to talk about it—they are almost teenagers, after all, and teenagers are the curious sort.
“Getting her wasn’t Master Skywalker’s idea?” another curious youngling asks—Dexen, who was very excited on the occasions Obi-Wan brought Anakin in to speak to the class. “I’ve seen Luke and Leia playing with Naberrie in the temple.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “Not Master Skywalker’s idea, though Naberrie is very popular in the Skywalker household.”
“Were you scared?” Reva, one of the younglings who has bonded most with Obi-Wan, asks. She toys with one of her braids, nerves emanating off her in the Force like she feels silly for asking the question. “When everything happened with the Sith? I was there, outside, when they brought you out of the temple to take you to the base. You looked so injured. And I was scared.”
Obi-Wan gestures the younglings closer to him, and Naberrie trots over, sitting down at his side. They gather around in a circle, and Obi-Wan, still quite a bit taller—though this lot will be getting their growth spurts soon—squats down.
“I was scared, yes,” Obi-Wan tells them, scratching behind Naberrie’s ears.
Reva’s eyes go wide. “You were?”
“Master Obi-Wan,” Myn, a Kiffar youngling says, “you never seem scared of anything. You’re so … calm.”
Obi-Wan chuckles. “Well, I see I’ve managed to fool you all into thinking I’m never scared. We all know Master Yoda’s old adage about fear leading to anger, but what he’s talking about is letting fear control you. It’s not the emotion of fear itself—emotions are going to come to you—it’s how you react to it. What you do with it.” He looks around at them all, making eye contact with each of the ten children in front of him. “Fear feels more powerful than other emotions, doesn’t it?”
The children all nod, and Caleb, squatting down too, does as well.
“That is the trouble with fear,” Obi-Wan concedes. “I was afraid of a lot, in those terrible few days. That we might lose our Republic. What might happen to the Jedi. I went through a great deal of pain, and though Force-sensitives can handle that better than most, I was afraid of reaching my breaking point. Once I accepted that I was afraid, admitted it out loud to someone else, it became easier to manage. It helped me ground myself in the light. Accepting the fear, acknowledging it rather than letting it fester, is the key to letting the fear go. The dark side thrives on lies, and fear, I believe, is the greatest liar of them all. Those are the sorts of things the Sith deal in. It’s as my friend Master Vos says: only when the eyes are closed, can you truly see.”
“See what?” one of the younglings asks.
Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan sees Caleb grin.
“The way,” Obi-Wan answers. “What do you think that means, in this situation?”
Aima, the youngling who initially asked about Naberrie, furrows her brows. “That when you let go of your fear, you can see the situation more clearly. Fear distorts perception.”
“Yes.” Obi-Wan smiles at her. “Exactly.”
“But you still could have died,” Abric, a Nautolan youngling, says. “You were convicted of something you didn’t do. So, what did you see? Metaphorically, I mean.”
“That I wasn’t alone,” Obi-Wan explains. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing away the pesky piece that’s always falling into his eyes. “That people out there in the galaxy were seeing past the lies of the Sith and wanted to support me, and, along with that, the Jedi as a whole. That was no small matter in those days, when the former chancellor had worked to turn people against us.” He pauses, taking a deep breath and letting Naberrie rub her face against his hand. “I saw that I needed to trust that I had taught my apprentice well. That he could do what I asked of him. That my friends and the Jedi would do their best to save the Republic, even if I was gone. That trust didn’t go unwarranted—Master Skywalker did the impossible. And Senator Organa, Senator Amidala, and the rest of the Jedi were crucial to the effort.”
He is light on the details of said plan. These younglings are old enough to have heard chatter about Anakin having to pretend that he was going to kill Obi-Wan until the last moment—that he might have had to if things have gone differently—but there’s no need to mention it.
“It wasn’t about saving yourself.” That’s Reva again, and her eyes are bright with admiration. “You knew that if you escaped, people would think you were guilty.”
“That’s right, young one. I was willing to let myself go if it meant saving the Order. But seeing the situation with a clear mind did help me make a plan. And that plan saved me, too. It is my very sincere hope that nothing of the sort will ever happen to any of you.”
Obi-Wan waits, letting the younglings digest this before continuing on. Reva, for her part, shyly reaches out and squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand before pulling back.
“Things that have happened to us in the past can cause pain, and that’s what Naberrie helps me with.” Naberrie chirps as Obi-Wan speaks, apparently in agreement. “Much like the Force, she shows me the light when my mind wanders toward darkness. You’ll find many creatures can do that.”
All the younglings grow solemn, taking in the lesson and thinking on their own for a moment or two.
Then, of course, their curiosity gets the better of them.
“Are you really a Force Dyad with Master Skywalker?”
“Did you really cut off Palpatine’s head?”
“How did you do that jump in the air? I saw the holo footage.”
“Okay,” Caleb says with gentle amusement. “I’m sure Master Obi-Wan will tell you all about his daring lightsaber techniques after you’re done building your own. Here comes Huyang.”
Obi-Wan watches with delight and affection as Huyang talks about different types of materials for lightsaber hilts, using Obi-Wan's and Caleb’s as two of the examples. This particular ship—meant specifically for these journeys—is full to the brim with all sorts of things with which to build a saber as unique as every Jedi. He goes through the different parts of the weapon: the handgrip, the emitter matrix, the lens, the power cell, and the crystal itself.
At the behest of the entire group, Obi-Wan ignites his own saber, showing them the Soresu opening stance and the Ataru block from the back. More questions come about why he switched forms, and can you use more than one form, which Obi-Wan patiently answers.
When his wrist chrono beeps he steps away for a minute to take his blood pressure medicine. The alarm reminder is necessary, otherwise he might forget with how busy he tends to be.
Padme’s voice rings in his head.
I see you ignoring that alarm, Obi-Wan. Take your meds, or you’ll have to answer to me.
Even here, where Padme can’t see him, he heeds the warning.
“I heard Master Secura is interested in taking on Reva as her first Padawan,” Caleb says when Obi-Wan comes back. “Do you think they’d be a good match?”
“An excellent one. Aayla is very grounded, which will help with Reva’s nerves and quick-temper, I think. And Aayla’s creative, thanks to Quinlan’s influence.”
They observe the younglings in contented silence for a while until Caleb speaks again.
“Master?”
“Hmm?”
“I know this wasn’t the point of your story.” Caleb catches Obi-Wan’s glance, and maybe there are tears in his teal-blue eyes, or maybe it’s just the light, “but I, for one, am very glad you’re still here.”
Obi-Wan presses Caleb’s shoulder, and it is, he decides, all right that his fingers tremble a bit.
“I am too,” Obi-Wan says softly, watching the future of the Jedi in front of him. “I am too.”
Two Days Later
The Sixth Anniversary of Palpatine’s Death
Obi-Wan has always seen fit to view this particular day with reverence.
Flying back home with a ship full of younglings did not leave much time for said reverence, but he did snatch two hours alone last night to meditate. To think upon his gratitude for what he has, and to give his anxieties their due without giving them undue air. As he rides up in the elevator at 500 Republica, he mulls over the nightmare that kept him awake on the journey to Ilum.
Palpatine, standing in front of the creche hall. Palpatine speaking the words that have forever seared into Obi-Wan’s brain. The words that will never leave him. Ever.
I’m going to kill every single Jedi. Right down to the younglings. Your children.
The dream, unlike life, ended with Palpatine breaking into the creche hall.
And it was the screaming that made Obi-Wan jolt straight up in bed.
Naberrie crawled into his lap, purring and purring and purring.
Ten of those younglings you and Anakin protected are right down the hall of this ship, he reminded himself. They are alive. Palpatine is not.
What unfathomable sacrilege, to speak of gleefully murdering children.
Children.
The Sith wanted to seize power. They wanted to massacre Jedi. These things never surprised Obi-Wan. But it wasn’t just that, was it? No. It was the desire to simply wipe out any Force-sensitive who could not be turned to darkness.
Genocide was Palpatine’s aim, and nothing less.
One slip after a thousand years, one crack in the perfect plan, and that genocide was thwarted.
It was too close.
Public opinion of the Jedi has vaulted much, much higher since the end of the war, but there is still hatred out there.
And the Sith, though quiet for now, may not remain so.
Obi-Wan has vowed not to get lost in these thoughts.
He has vowed to fight. To teach. To live.
He barely has time to unclip Naberrie’s leash when he reaches Padme and Anakin’s familiar apartment.
“Uncle Obi-Wan!”
Five-year-old Leia Skywalker launches herself into Obi-Wan’s arms the very moment he steps inside.
As always, Obi-Wan catches her.
Luke, tow-headed as ever, races up too.
For her part, Naberrie trots over to Padme, who is standing in the refurbished kitchen making cocktails.
“Leia!” Luke complains. “You’re always hogging him. Come on.”
Leia frowns, a funny expression on the face of someone so young. “Fair’s fair, Lukey. I got here first. I didn’t say I wouldn’t share him.”
“Easy, you two,” Obi-Wan says, though close as they are, the twins rarely actually argue—this banter is just their usual back and forth. “You’re not so heavy yet that I can’t pick both of you up. Come here, Luke.”
Between the knapsack he hasn’t put down and a growing child on each hip, Obi-Wan has his hands full.
“Did you even drop your bag off at the temple?” Padme chides with great fondness. “I’d have thought you you’d want a nap after your trip.”
“Quin isn’t home and I don’t have a council meeting until tomorrow, so I just came straight here. Caleb took the younglings back and I got a speeder over,” Obi-Wan explains, searching around for the one face he hasn’t yet seen. “Where is Anakin?”
“At the temple.” Padme laughs, a sparkle in her eye. “He was going to drive you over. I’ll comm him. Where’s Quinlan?”
“Out with Aayla. She’s thinking of taking on her first Padawan and wanted his advice. He should be here after a bit.”
“Bail and Breha too,” Padme adds, grabbing her holocomm off the kitchen counter. “Cody, Rex, and Ahsoka are their way, and Yoda and Mace and some of the other Jedi should be soon.”
“Did you help the older younglings find their kyber crystals?” Leia asks, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention back to his armful of children.
“Well, technically they find the crystals on their own.” Obi-Wan eases each twin down onto the now much bigger—and more comfortable—sofa in the living room before sliding off his knapsack and sitting between them. “But hopefully I’ve taught them well enough. They each found their crystal without too much trouble.”
“You’re a great teacher,” Leia replies. “If they hadn’t found them then that just means they’re stupid.”
“Leia, baby,” Padme says. “What have I said about using that word too much?”
Leia sighs. “Mommy, I can’t help it that some people are stupid. You’re really smart, so you should know that.”
“You think I’m smart, huh?” Padme asks.
Leia blows Padme a kiss, and she is so full of life—both the twins are—that it makes Obi-Wan’s heart sing.
“Of course I do,” Leia replies, matter of fact.
“Daddy said it was just you and him when he built his lightsaber the first time,” Luke chimes in. “Why wasn’t he with the big group?”
“Your dad joined the Order late and became a Padawan early.” Obi-Wan slips his arm around Leia when she leans against him. “So it was a bit different. He found his crystal quite fast though—I didn’t even have too much time to get cold waiting for him to come out of the cave. No surprise, really.”
“Really?” a voice says from the direction of the kitchen, and when Obi-Wan looks over he sees his former apprentice in holo form.
“Sorry, Anakin,” Obi-Wan calls out across the room. “I just came straight here.”
“Obi-Wan.” Padme turns the comm around just in time for Obi-Wan to see Anakin shake his head. “Sometimes you’re so stubborn about letting people do nice things for you.”
“Next time, my young apprentice, I will let you pick me up from the temple when I come home from Ilum.”
“I’m a master now, Obi-Wan.”
“So you are.” Obi-Wan bites back a smile, which makes the twins giggle. “A master who has time enough to nag me, it would seem. And you call me old.”
This makes the twins burst out laughing.
“Hey!” Anakin exclaims. “Making my kids laugh at me isn’t fair, Master.”
“Uncle Obi-Wan is just teasing, Daddy,” Luke says, kicking his feet against the couch in glee.
“Yeah, Daddy,” Leia echoes. “You tease him all the time.”
Anakin smiles. “All right. I’ll be home in ten.”
Padme comes over, handing Obi-Wan a brightly colored drink he doesn’t question, and oh yes, it does taste delightfully sweet. Knowing full well that Leia won’t move from her spot, Padme puts an obliging Luke in her lap so she can sit next to Obi-Wan.
“Hello,” she says, pressing a kiss to Obi-Wan’s cheek. “You know, in the few days you’ve been gone, Anakin tried to convince your fellow council members to let him build an entirely new type of droid for the Jedi and Republic Navy scouts to take with them on their missions looking for dark side activity.”
“For what purpose?”
“I couldn’t claim to know yet,” Padme admits, and it is wonderful to see her looking so happy and pink in the cheeks. “All I know is and these two came home from the temple the other day covered in some kind of substance.”
“We did!” Luke chirps, reaching down to pet Naberrie, who has trotted over to lay at Obi-Wan’s feet.
“Oh, I can imagine you did,” Obi-Wan says. “They didn’t ask me to holo in, but I’m assuming they said no.”
“For once”—Padme grins, taking a sip of her drink—“they said yes. Quinlan was reporting in too since he’s part of that effort, and apparently agreed with Anakin’s idea. Not that Ani wants to admit that perhaps that helped.”
“No.” Obi-Wan chuckles. Anakin and Quinlan, both chaotic in their own ways, have quite a time ribbing each other. “I suppose he didn’t.”
The twins chatter about all the things Obi-Wan’s missed in the few days he’s been gone—some kind of adventure with their creche-mate, Ezra Bridger. The twins go the temple during the day and sleep at home for now, though they do spend a night a week with their agemates. When they’re Padawans, they’ll sleep at the temple more often, no doubt.
Obi-Wan gazes around at the apartment, which has become messier and softer around the edges. Padme, rising in prestige though she is, cannot keep things pristine with two rambunctious little ones. Truth be told, the sight makes Obi-Wan happy. His own young adulthood was cut short by Qui-Gon’s death and raising Anakin. Padme and Anakin’s was invaded by the war and everything leading up to it. Some of those years they got back. Burdened with so much responsibility, they get to be silly, sometimes. Raise their children. Have an apartment littered with toys.
Both of them lost their innocence, and Obi-Wan grieves that.
If he can help it, they won’t be losing anything else before it’s time.
Memories of the last few years decorate the space. Paper photos hang on the walls rather than the more common holo versions.
Anakin and Obi-Wan at Anakin’s master ceremony about two years after Palpatine’s death—Anakin was one of the youngest Jedi ever to be made a master, but given what he accomplished with Palpatine, and his efforts at balancing his family and his duties as a Jedi, the council felt it was only right. Sometimes it makes Obi-Wan ache, because while Anakin deserved the honor, at his age he shouldn’t have had to have earned it.
There’s another of Obi-Wan, Anakin, and the twins at the Coruscant Zoo when Luke and Leia were four.
One of Padme, Anakin, Obi-Wan, and the twins from one of the trips to Naboo. There’s a second Naboo vacation photo next to it, and Quinlan is in the frame, one arm slung around Obi-Wan and one around Padme, Anakin sprawled in the front with Luke and Leia.
Ahsoka is here too, of course, in a photo of herself, Anakin, and Obi-Wan from her knighting ceremony three years ago—Anakin is pretending not to cry.
The last one is of Anakin and Padme on their fourth wedding anniversary, which they did not have to celebrate in secret.
What these last few years have given him, Obi-Wan will truly never be able to fathom. He functions like a third parent to Luke and Leia. He is, as Anakin has put it, as much a Naberrie-Skywalker as the rest of them. Anakin himself has flourished, and so too, have the Jedi at-large. Obi-Wan finds deep joy in teaching the younglings, and has also designed a class for new Knights to learn from him about negotiation and diplomacy. Some shadow him on diplomatic missions, or he matches them with other experienced Jedi with whom he believes they will work well. There is, after all, much to learn even when one’s apprenticeship is over. Quinlan, doing work seeking out Force-sensitive children in former Separatist space, is entwined with Obi-Wan’s daily life now. Obi-Wan never really imagined that for himself—not since he and Satine parted ways—but the easiness of it with Quinlan has surprised him. Old friendships, he supposes, make the best romance, at least in his case. The senate, though imperfect, has managed to pass actual legislation with Bail at the helm and Padme always at his side. Obi-Wan’s sure that Padme will be chancellor one day.
Peace, of course, is not complete.
Skirmishes still break out on some Separatist planets, even if they agreed to re-enter the Republic. Planets like Mandalore still strive for basic stability—that breaks Obi-Wan’s heart, but things are improving there in the wake of Satine’s loss and Maul’s destruction. There is unrest on some Outer Rim planets between those citizens who want to join the Republic and those who don’t.
But the galaxy is not on the edge, anymore. Things are getting better.
A loud whirring noise draws Obi-Wan from his thoughts, and Anakin drops his speeder down on the small landing area next to Padme’s veranda. As his apprentice, his brother, his best friend hops effortlessly from the driver’s seat, Obi-Wan can’t help but watch him. Anakin Skywalker is magnetic. He always has been. And to be trusted with his love? With his children? There’s no greater privilege.
Maybe it’s the trip to Ilum stirring up old memories of Anakin’s childhood, but there is something in the way Anakin smiles when he sees them all on the sofa, an easiness that eluded him before. In their bond, Obi-Wan feels only contentment. There is nothing bubbling beneath the surface. That is not always true, of course—Anakin is Anakin—but the storms in him as a younger man are now only brief dark skies.
These moments of simple, uncomplicated joy are few and far between no longer.
Anakin is present, he is whole, and it makes Obi-Wan whole, too.
“Getting cozy without me, I see.” Anakin bends down to kiss Padme before ruffling Luke’s hair. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, smiling when Leia puts her cheek out for a kiss. “Mind scooching over so I can sit next to your uncle for a minute?”
“I’m sitting next to Uncle Obi-Wan, Daddy,” Leia replies with a cheeky grin. “But you can sit next to me.”
“Leia, kiddo, come on. Just for a little bit.”
“I made you an offer, Daddy.”
Padme, holding Luke a little closer, tosses her head back when she laughs. “Babe, you should have gotten here first if you wanted that seat.”
Anakin opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again in defeat.
Anakin, Obi-Wan thinks, has rather met his match with Leia.
They talk for a long while. Obi-Wan shares anecdotes from Ilum. People begin arriving, and Padme gets up to go make more drinks.
“I’m going to go help Mommy,” Luke says to Obi-Wan, giving him a tight squeeze. “But I’ll be back. Don’t tell any cool stories without me.”
“I promise I won’t, dearest,” Obi-Wan vows.
Obi-Wan too, gets up to greet the Organas, Leia sticking close to his side while Anakin goes with Threepio to set the table.
Bail envelops Obi-Wan in a hug as he always does now—whether it’s been two weeks since they saw each other or two days. Bail and Breha’s little girl, Vara, is over with Luke “helping” with the cocktails. Leia gives Bail and Breha both big hugs as well—a sure sign of her affection. She doesn’t do that with just anyone. Leia loves hard, but she loves discerningly.
“You always look younger when you come back from Ilum,” Bail says. He points at some of the silver hair near his own forehead. “Is there something in the kyber?”
“Just the youthful effects of teaching,” Obi-Wan quips.
“But Uncle Obi-Wan,” Leia chimes in. “You said that teaching Daddy gave you your gray hairs.”
Bail belly laughs, and Leia, for her part, looks rather pleased with herself.
“You make your Uncle Bail laugh more than anyone I know, little miss.” Breha touches the end of Leia’s nose, drawing out a big grin.
Something tugs at Obi-Wan in that moment. A what-if he can’t name. It’s gone as quick as it came.
More friends arrive. Rex and Cody and Ahsoka. Mace and Yoda and Plo and Kit. Obi-Wan attempts to help Anakin and Padme ready things for this gathering they’re definitely hosting to distract him from the fact that it’s been six years since he was almost executed, but they won’t hear it, so he goes out to the veranda with Luke and Leia to watch the sunset.
When he puts an arm around each of them, a warm breeze blowing through his hair, a surety strikes him in the chest.
This.
This was his vision, the one he had in Palpatine’s office that awful night. Leia’s braids are just the same. Luke’s head leaning on his shoulder. They both called out his name a moment ago, urging him to come outside with them. He’s sat with the twins like this countless times, but this … this is it. He holds them closer, and while Luke snuggles up, Leia pulls back a touch, meeting Obi-Wan’s eye.
“Are you okay?” she asks with a perceptive tilt of her head.
“Yes, my darling,” he whispers. “Thank you for asking.”
She kisses Obi-Wan’s cheek before resting her head on his shoulder and clasping her brother’s small hand in hers. They sit like that, the three of them, for at least ten minutes.
Obi-Wan has never been more at peace.
“Nothing like a Coruscant sunset, is there?” a familiar voice asks, a playful presence lighting up the now shadowy veranda.
“Uncle Quin!” both twins shout, instantly dashing over to hug Quinlan, who scoops them up with a booming laugh.
“Hello, you two,” Quinlan says, giving each of them a tight squeeze. “I don’t want to interrupt, but do you mind if I have a few minutes with your uncle here?”
“You can have five,” Leia tells him. “And I’m sitting next to him at dinner, so you’ll have to battle my dad, Luke, and my mom to sit on his other side. I’d say you could win, if not for my mom.”
“Understood on all counts, Master Naberrie-Skywalker.” Quinlan winks, and both the twins giggle again. “I won’t keep him any longer than five minutes.”
The twins run back into the living room, and Quinlan picks up Obi-Wan’s glass, which has been sitting on the rail.
“Did Pads make this?” he asks, taking a sip of the bright blue drink. “Never mind. I know she did. It’s sweet and it’s perfect.” He sets the glass down. “Hi, love.”
“Hello, dear,” Obi-Wan replies, kissing Quinlan in greeting. Quinlan smiles into it like he always does, and despite the years, it still makes Obi-Wan’s heart beat a little faster. “How is Aayla?”
“Ready for her first Padawan. I think you’re both right about her taking on Reva. They’ll be a good fit.”
Quinlan takes Obi-Wan’s hand as the sun gives its last gasp of gold. Twilight falls, and soon, the chaos of a Coruscant evening will take hold.
“You okay?” Quinlan asks, much as Leia did a minute ago. “I know today is never easy.”
“No, it isn’t,” Obi-Wan admits, and the feeling of Quin’s fingers laced with his own lends him safety. “But I’ve got all of you, haven’t I?”
“You sure do, Obes,” Quin says softly. “You sure do.”
“Quinlan?”
“Oh, full name instead of Quin. This must be serious.”
“Quinlan.”
“Sorry.” Quinlan grins, a brightness in his brown eyes. “Go ahead.”
Obi-Wan clears his throat, his voice coming out a touch shakier than he likes. “I love you. You know that?”
Quinlan blinks, and in his Force presence, there’s a burst of warm light when he squeezes Obi-Wan's hand. “Yeah, Obi-Wan. I know. I love you, too.”
Dinner is a jubilant, tipsy affair. There is food—so, so much food. Laughter. Music—a playlist that Padme and Quinlan apparently put together, with input from the twins. Leia sits on one side of Obi-Wan and Anakin on the other. Padme’s at the head of the table, so Anakin won said seat by telling Luke he could sit next to Quinlan, who would no doubt tell him some of his wildest—and hopefully child-appropriate—stories. Rex, on Luke’s other side, also adds some, and all of them make Cody laugh more than Obi-Wan ever saw him get to laugh during the war.
Mace raises his glass sometime around dessert, looking to Padme at the head of the table for permission.
Beneath the table, Naberrie curls up at Obi-Wan's feet.
And Leia takes his hand.
“We were close to something terrible six years ago,” Mace begins, solemn and slipping, perhaps, toward tears. “But all of us here today, the friends around this table, have dedicated ourselves to the Republic and to each other. Bail and Padme, Cody and Rex, all showed such courage, such love for the Jedi that I will never forget it. And then, it all came down to one moment.” Mace looks at Obi-Wan, whose face warms, and at Anakin, who smiles. “It all came down to Obi-Wan and Anakin. So, here’s to you, my friends. I’m glad you’re both with us. To Obi-Wan and Anakin.”
To Obi-Wan and Anakin!
After dinner, Mace is accosted by all three children asking for a lightsaber demonstration, to which Padme says please be careful, we’re inside, but with the combined power of Luke and Leia’s pouty lips, Mace Windu, Master of the Jedi Order, cannot say no.
Obi-Wan, for his part, steps back out on the veranda for some air.
He almost died on this day six years ago, but now, he is alive, now. He is blessedly, miraculously, deeply alive. When he runs a finger over the grayed-out veins in his right forearm, a pang resounds in his chest. These are a reminder, always, that life, the simple act of breathing long enough to see a new day, should never be taken for granted.
He senses Anakin’s presence before Anakin joins him. They can’t read each other’s minds, of course, but a nudge at their bond, even from lightyears apart, gives them insight into each other’s feelings. It shows them where the other one is and what they might be doing.
The Force, Obi-Wan thinks, really is a gift. The universe bestowed that gift upon him.
The universe gave him this bond with Anakin Skywalker—the Force’s own son—and he is a better man because of it.
Anakin is the Chosen One, and Obi-Wan chose him. At first because he made a vow to his dying master, and then over and over and over again, because he wanted to.
And Anakin chose him in return.
The two of them chose each other, and the galaxy was saved.
“That was your vision, wasn’t it?” Anakin asks, the soles of his boots slick against the marble of the veranda. “When you were out there with the twins earlier. You’ve sat here with them a hundred times, but it felt … important.”
“It was,” Obi-Wan agrees. “I’m sure of it.”
Anakin bumps Obi-Wan with his hip. “I’m a little drunk, I think. You?”
“Definitely a little drunk.”
“You know what that means, then?” Anakin smirks, and it draws out parts of Obi-Wan that haven’t been seen since his chaotic youngling days.
“It’s time for the annual statue defacement.” Obi-Wan finishes Anakin’s thought.
“It’s hardly a defacement,” Quin calls out from the doorway, arm in arm with Padme and a spray paint can in hand. “You’re such a nerd, Obes.”
“Says the Jedi with the spray paint,” Obi-Wan says with great affection. “What, pray tell, is it, if not a defacement, Quin?”
“Instruction,” Quinlan retorts. “You should appreciate that.”
“Let’s goooo.” Ahsoka comes up, slinging her arms around Obi-Wan and Anakin both. “Master Windu left so he could have plausible deniability, but Master Yoda, Master Plo, and Master Fisto said to make sure to do a good job.”
Obi-Wan laughs until his ribs ache.
Leaving Rex, Cody, and Breha with the twins and Vara—who are busy playing with Naberrie—Obi-Wan, Anakin, Padme, Quinlan, Ahsoka, and Bail run out into the night.
“I would say this is not befitting of the Supreme Chancellor,” Bail says, wearing his hood up to hide his face, “but actually I don’t care.”
It’s warm out, so they make the decision to walk the twenty minutes or so toward the statues of Obi-Wan and Anakin on Processional Way. Obi-Wan breathes in the night air, keeping the stack of paper pamphlets—a rare thing—tucked beneath his robe. They’re stories about the Jedi throughout history, and each one contains something different. They’re part of the program that’s been launched across the galaxy to correct bad assumptions people may have about Force-sensitives—Palpatine and the Separatists did a great deal of damage there, and the Republic is fighting to correct it.
It’s been a tradition since the first anniversary of Palpatine’s death to go out and playfully draw on the statues of Obi-Wan and Anakin, while also leaving out these pamphlets.
Palpatine wanted to suck all the love out of the world. He wanted to use the miracle of the Force, the life in it, and twist it for his own means. To steal it for himself. To wipe out anyone else who might tap into its magic. To engender only suffering and death.
The Sith have long wished to tell a story of darkness.
Obi-Wan is determined to cast only light.
They reach the statues, which were built right next to each other. Spray paint and pamphlets come out. Obi-Wan’s eyebrows are gold. Anakin’s are blue. Both lightsabers are painted blue as well. They all write things like The Hero With No Fear and The Negotiator and The Team and Long Live the Republic. Pamphlets are scattered at the statues’ feet and tucked into crevices, and maybe anyone who picks them up will learn more about the Jedi and the Force. Maybe they’ll spread the word. Maybe something as silly as this can make the galaxy a kinder place.
Quinlan and Padme spray paint toward Ahsoka and Bail, who retaliate. They all laugh and laugh and laugh, and nearby, the Jedi Temple glows with life.
It could have been a tomb.
But it isn’t.
An impossible star shoots across the city sky, visible, somehow, among all of Coruscant’s lights.
Anakin comes up, standing next to Obi-Wan. Glitter shines in his hair, a smear of Padme’s lipstick on his cheek. Obi-Wan puts an arm around Anakin’s shoulders, and the bond between them thrums with life.
“We can never see the stars here,” Anakin says, sidling yet closer to Obi-Wan. “Do you think it’s a sign, Master? Of good things to come?”
Off in his periphery, Obi-Wan catches a glimmer of Qui-Gon. Watching. Smiling. Laughing with them.
And for the first time, Anakin sees him too. Obi-Wan can tell by the way his eyes, those blue eyes that grounded him in the most painful moments of his life, widen in surprise before he gives a happy little wave.
Qui-Gon waves back.
“Yes, dear one,” Obi-Wan replies, and despite the grief this day always brings, joy springs up in his soul. “I do.”
Notes:
And there we are, folks! Thank you again to everyone who has read, or left kudos, or comments, the reception of this fic has been more than I ever could have imagined.
Update: The first chapter of "Whispers from the Dead" the sequel to this fic, is now posted!
Also! I've made a little series for one-shots in this verse called “Shoulder the Sky: Bonus Scenes.”
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