Chapter Text
981 ARR – Utapau, City Tunnels
Grievous’ body spasms on the ground, electricity from damaged inorganic components discharging into muscles, causing convulsions. He thrashes once, twice, then goes still. After feeling the last flickers of life leaving the cyborg, Obi-Wan tosses the blaster away and takes a moment to breathe and assess.
It was a long chase but, ultimately, a short fight. He has some bumps and scrapes, a couple jammed fingers and probably a black eye, but nothing serious, all things considered. In the Force, there is a sense of conclusion, which Obi-Wan expects and is grateful for, but there is also a sort of…anticipation. He can’t quite get a read on it, so he puts it aside for the time being.
Turning, Obi-Wan calls Boga back to him. He gives her a tired scritch down the scales of her neck as he climbs onto her back, then spurs the veractyl into a quick gallop back the way they came, eager to check on Ghost company’s engagement with Grievous’ forces.
Without a battle to focus on, Obi-Wan’s thoughts stray to the future. With both Grievous and Dooku dead, the Separatists are out their two primary powerhouses. The war might actually be coming to an end soon. The relief at the possibility that they will finally be able to stop fighting, to put and end to the death and destruction, is enough to make his knees weak.
But that relief is bittersweet, tinged with the knowledge of just how much work is ahead of them to get things back into any semblance of order. With the knowledge that, in many ways, there is no going back to how things were before. The Jedi way of life, their place in the galaxy, they have been irrevocably changed. Fixing their shattered Republic will be its own kind of war, long and thankless. One that Obi-Wan just…doesn’t think he has it in him to fight.
It’s something he’s been thinking about for a while. He was lying in bed on the Negotiator one night cycle, between campaigns on the Outer Rim sieges. They had run into Ahsoka for the first time after she left the Order, and Obi-Wan was thinking about how everything had gone so wrong after the Temple bombing. About how he honestly couldn’t blame her for choosing not to come back, for losing her faith and trust in them so completely.
Thinking on that, it suddenly hit him that Anakin will probably leave, too. His mind just—put it together, observations of his former padawan’s thoughts and behaviors suddenly clicking into place.
He knows that Anakin has something going on with Senator Amidala, though not the exact details. At first he’d hoped it was purely physical, a loose relationship born of childhood comradery and a mutual desire for stress relief in harrowing times. But Obi-Wan has seen the way Anakin looks when he thinks about her, the way they stand together when they think no one is watching. They are close, closer than any relationship Obi-Wan has ever had, certainly.
(Except, possibly, what he has with Anakin, but that’s not…not the same, he knows.)
And beyond that, recently there has been a sort of…resignation that’s entered the younger man, especially visible during his clashes with the Council. The frequency and vehemence of his arguments with different councilmembers is unchanged, but Obi-Wan has seen in Anakin, with increasing clarity, a certain sense of impatience that floods him when he swallows down his anger. A feeling that the Knight is biding his time, submitting for now while reassuring himself that it won’t be much longer.
It’s this, more than anything, that brought Obi-Wan to the conclusion that he’s going to do it. Anakin is going to leave, and it’s going to happen soon. At the end of the war, if Obi-Wan had to guess.
His initial reaction to that night’s revelation was a nearly overwhelming sense of devastation, a desperate urge to reject the very concept. Just the thought of trying to be a Jedi without Anakin left him reeling, nearly panicking. As always, he admonished himself, tried again to release his shameful attachment that he was so careless and foolish to allow for so long. And as always, it was to no avail.
He started falling into the self-recriminations that always happen when he ponders his failure, but something else cut into his thoughts before he could spiral, pulling his mind from the well-worn path.
Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation, the feeling that he has to figure out how to resolve this before it happens, or maybe it’s just that his attachment has grown stronger than his guilt for not being able to sever it. Regardless, Obi-Wan realized he was far more upset over potentially losing Anakin than he was over having that desire in the first place.
That revelation eventually became his deciding factor. He lay awake for hours—despite not really being able to spare the sleep—turning everything over and over in his mind, and eventually came to a conclusion. If he is unable to let go of his attachment, as a proper Jedi should, and the source of his attachment is leaving the Order, then it only makes sense for him to leave as well.
So, Obi-Wan made up his mind. He will stay for as long as Anakin stays, and if (when) his former padawan chooses to leave, he will follow.
He had expected to feel pain at this decision, the loss of giving up everything he’d worked for all his life, and while there is certainly a level of grief and sorrow, Obi-Wan was instead overcome by a powerful sense of peace once he’d finally accepted what he should do. He fell asleep shortly after, the Force trilling pleasantly down his spine, weaving between his ribs.
He hasn’t spoken to Anakin about it yet. Obi-Wan knows he needs to get on that, make sure that Anakin is even interested in Obi-Wan coming with him. Sighing into Utapau’s muggy afternoon, Obi-Wan absently strokes at one of his veractyl’s head-feathers as she sprints along.
“Frankly, there are a lot of things the two of us need to talk about,” he says quietly to Boga, the empty wind rushing past carrying away his words. There just hasn’t been time with the war, their every spare moment dedicated to trying to just get enough food and rest to keep on fighting.
Soon, he thinks, a promise to himself, the Force as his witness. It chimes back at him with an agreeable but odd note, underscored by that same anticipatory thrum. He strokes a hand down Boga’s neck, feeling the heavy pulse of her heart. Soon, they’ll finally have the time and space to sit down and sort themselves out.
But, right now, the war hasn’t been won quite yet. Obi-Wan shakes away the thoughts and refocuses on the present. There’s still work to be done.
*
Finally reaching the location of the main battle, Obi-Wan is pleased to see that Cody and the rest of their company are just about finished. The ground is littered with droid parts, and comparatively very few prone forms of downed clones. He sees the moment Cody notices his return from the battlefield’s impromptu command center, and steers Boga straight towards him, slowing to a gentle lope.
His commander meets him partway and holds out a hand as he dismounts. Ah, wait, no. The man is offering Obi-Wan not a hand down from his ride, but the hilt of his lightsaber. He takes it with a sheepish smile. “Ah, yes, thank you, Commander.”
“Not a problem, sir.” The clone’s voice and helmet reveal nothing of his expression, though Obi-Wan can still sense the man’s amusement at his expense. Cody is too professional to make a sarcastic comment, but his desire is clear as day in the Force.
Before either of them can speak again, the commander’s comm bleats with an urgent incoming transmission. They share a look, well used to being interrupted in such a way, and Cody turns to take the call.
Obi-Wan paces away, scanning the battlefield to see if there’s anything that needs his intervention. But it seems his men have things well in hand, almost no droids left standing anywhere he can see. He starts moving towards the field, intent on assisting with moving the injured, when the oddest sensation flickers to life. It grabs his attention like a match struck in a dark room, and then quickly flairs to a bright, all-encompassing inferno.
The Force rears up, a snake in a startled threat display, clamorous warnings of danger suddenly blaring through his mind. Obi-Wan whirls around, expecting to see droids crawling out of the earth like mites—but it’s just Cody, finishing up his holo-call. There’s something odd, though, and around the shrilling of mental klaxons, he realizes he can no longer feel Cody’s presence.
Actually, Obi-Wan slowly thinks, he can’t feel anyone, as if all the people on the battlefield have up and disappeared. A glance around shows that’s not true, though, there’s probably a good few thousand clones here.
But the feeling of danger is only rising, along with something else, a sort of heavy, pulling sensation. It is quickly becoming nearly intolerably intense, making him almost queasy.
Cody is looking at him now, and Obi-Wan can sense nothing from him, his presence an eerie blank wall. “Commander?” he asks, too bewildered still to really be frightened, but an awful dread sinking into his stomach nonetheless.
Then he sees Cody, reliable, loyal Cody, raise his blaster, to aim at him (What? What is he doing?)—and then that strange building pressure in the Force suddenly condenses to a single blazing point overlapping his body. Obi-Wan does not even have time to cry out as everything goes white, and then vanishes.
981 ARR – Coruscant, Chancellor’s Office
The sound of Master Windu’s shouting falls away in seconds, the silence left behind deafening after the screaming and crashing and electric crackling of the battle. The quiet is disturbed only by the sound of the wind, piercingly strong so high above the planet’s surface, whistling through what broken glass still clings to the window frame.
And then even that is interrupted by a low, triumphant chuckle.
Anakin doesn’t realize he’s sinking until his knees hit the floor. His body is an old marionette, spindly and brittle, collapsing under its own weight without the guiding hand of a puppeteer. His ‘saber hilt is still in his hand, grip lax in shock. He cannot feel its weight through his thick glove.
A thought bubbles up from the mire of his mind. What have I done?
Palpatine turns to him, then, looks directly at him, and suddenly Anakin can’t breathe. Gone is any trace of his kindly mentor, the man who helped him all his life, who he saw as something between a father and a grandfather. In his place is something sharp and malevolent and covetous, something that looks at Anakin like a newly won prize.
“You have made the right choice, my boy,” says the monster, its jaws already around Anakin’s neck. (He’d walked right up to it and bared his jugular. He only has himself to blame.) “You will do great things as my apprentice, far more than you could as a Jedi.”
The old man continues speaking, but all Anakin can hear is a roaring in his ears. The room smells like a battlefield, plasma and ozone and blood. He’s shaking, badly, and some of it is from adrenaline, some from hunger, but there’s also—he’s scared. Terrified.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s all spun out of control, he doesn’t know what to do. It’s all his fault. Windu is dead at the hands of this Sith, and it’s all Anakin’s fault. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe it isn’t, maybe he’s dreaming. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept.
What is he going to do?
Palpatine—Sidious?—is still talking, monologuing, but Anakin isn’t listening. He couldn’t listen if he tried. Windu could fly back in through the window and start tap-dancing in a sparkly skirt and Anakin would probably just sit there, still. He’s so exhausted.
Apparently content with Anakin’s silence, the Sith has gone to his desk and pulled out a comm unit. Anakin can see the figure of an armored clone speaking over holocall. He hopes his own men are alright. What’s going to happen to them? Anakin suddenly, desperately wishes he could talk to Rex, if only just to see if he’s okay. Rex should be with Ahsoka, he remembers. Force, Ahsoka, is she—how can he—what should—
The Chancellor closes his comm unit with a loud snap that jolts Anakin to attention. He blinks—and then exhales a shuddering gasp when he feels it.
He feels death. An upheaval in the Force, a great, juddering wave of horror speeding across the galaxy. The fabric of the world heaves and roils around him, Its distress evident, grief and loss. Anakin scrabbles for purchase, disoriented, what’s happening, what—?
Oh.
It’s the Jedi.
They’re dying. All over the galaxy, they’re dying, all of them.
He sees Palpatine looking at him again, smiling with a cruel smugness, but Anakin doesn’t have any attention to spare. The Force keens in his ears, desperate, flailing. He feels lightheaded, vision swimming as his sense of It swells and swells over him. The vastness, the depth of it hurts, like his mind is an overfilled container, stretched and straining. He might be screaming, but he can’t hear anything over the universe’s grief.
Unable to think through fear and pain, he casts out desperately, grasping for anything to hold on to, and comes upon his unsanctioned mental bond to Obi-Wan. The man is much too far away to sense him, but he clings anyway, begging for comfort and safety. Obi-Wan! Master!
The Force is compressing in around him, layers and layers of pressure. Anakin can almost see It now, a brilliant array of technicolor. He…he can see It. The Force has become a tantalizing kaleidoscope, blocking out his view of the red, red, room and its fledgling despot. It gets brighter and brighter and brighter, reaching out with a frantic plea, a question.
Anakin doesn't know the answer. He closes his eyes, but it does nothing to block out the colors. He grips his link to his old Master with everything he has, so very, very scared.
But the Force has been with him all his life.
He decides to trust.
The colors reach a climax, and Anakin does not fight as his first parent claims him entirely.
The Force watches and despairs as Its children are slaughtered, their faithful companions turned against them in a defilement of the Life and Will It grants.
It loves them, even with their mistakes, their misjudgments, their misapprehension. It loves all Its children, and It cannot save them. Not all of them. Not most of them.
But maybe, maybe It can save a few.
Its Scion, fierce and bright, herald of balance, led astray and on the brink of soul-loss.
Its Favored, so dedicated, guide and guardian, led astray nearly to the point of heart-death.
Together, they may reach safety. And, with a little effort, perhaps their deliverance can in turn save others…
968 ARR – Coruscant, Jedi Temple
Yan can feel the way the Force swirls around him as he storms through the halls, prickling with his icy anger, the other Jedi he passes flinching away from the barreling maelstrom of his presence. And yet, he cannot bring himself to care, not with the image of his former padawan, still and pale as the sheets he lay on, a ventilator forced down his throat, still burns in the back of his eyes.
It’s a miracle Qui-Gon survived at all, even with the man’s own padawan’s quick action and the generosity of Naboo’s crown, the Queen having ordered her own doctors to treat him immediately. Even then, the Temple healers have no idea when he will wake up from the coma. If he will wake.
All because the senate had seen fit to send only two Jedi, one still a padawan, into a warzone. Perhaps if he was feeling charitable, Yan could admit that they may not be entirely at fault for initially underestimating the severity of the conflict. But because they had then sent the two of them back to Naboo, with no backup, after the situation had been made crystal clear, Yan was very much not feeling charitable towards those imbeciles.
The government’s clear thoughtlessness of their treatment of the Jedi, while still utilizing their services for their every whim, has long been a sore spot for him. The senate has been undermining their work for far too long, the corruption festering in its ranks leading to bad intel, failed missions, and unnecessary death. (Yan pushes away thoughts of Galidraan, the way snow steamed as it came into contact with fresh blood, the hollowness of such carnage.)
The Council will gripe and grumble about the senate’s more asinine requests, will speak somberly of tragedies that could have been avoided if certain people actually did their jobs. But at the end of the day, they have done nothing to actually fix the problem.
They cannot continue in this manner. The Jedi must course-correct, or things will only continue to worsen. They need to find some way of maintaining their duty to the galaxy that does not rely on the will of a court of shortsighted, greedy, negligent egoists.
It is because of their carelessness in such matters that Qui-Gon nearly died. That he nearly died to a Sith, the first documented in a millennium, and the senate will not ‘allow’ them to investigate further adds insult to injury.
Arriving at the ornate doors to the Council’s chambers, Yan finally takes a moment to calm himself. It would not due to be dismissed out of hand for being overly antagonistic.
He pushes into the room without hesitation to see the full Council assembled. He’d asked to meet with them yesterday, only somewhat surprised when they immediately accepted an appointment with him.
One look Yoda’s face shows Yan that he knows why he’s come, and does not expect to be swayed. Yan tries not to let it rankle. He and his old Master have become less and less agreeable over their core beliefs for decades now, it should not have been a surprise to the older man that things have come to a head.
A few chairs to the Grandmaster’s left, Yan sees Sifo sitting with his head in his hands, posture slumped with defeat and tense with pain, and stifles a grimace. His old friend’s reaction does not bode well for Yan’s success, the powerful Seer usually having some insight on the prospects of such things.
Well, regardless, Yan is not one to give up out of turn. Glancing at the rest of the Council reveals they also know why he is here. He can see they think his action is spurred only by his emotions, and he is grimly satisfied at knowing he will be able to prove them wrong. Yes, Qui-Gon’s near-loss is the final straw, but Yan’s thoughts on the matter have been building for quite a while. He knows his arguments are solid, that the evidence is in his favor.
Yan straightens his spine and clasps his hands behind his back. This is not a battle they can afford him to lose, and so he will not lose.
*
The argument does not escalate to yelling only because everyone in the room has been a Jedi for at least four decades, with the self-restraint to match. It’s a near thing, though.
Yan simply cannot understand. How do they not see reason? How can they remain so blind?
“This is unsustainable! You must see it.” Something has to change, they cannot go on as they are.
“A duty to the Republic, we have,” Yoda recites. A lance of irritation jolts down Yan’s spine at his old Master’s refusal to even respond to any of his points, allowing mindless dogma to cloud his vision.
“That does not mean we must blindly follow orders!” He sweeps a hand through the air, gesture as sharp as his voice. “The senate use us as tools and throw us away at their leisure!” Before he can stop himself, he goads, “Do you enjoy being their dogs?!”
Rancisis, stringently orthodox as ever, snaps, “The senate is the Republic, the representations of its will. This organization is loyal first and foremost to that will, as all who want a place in it must be!” The tension in the air swirls higher as the room registers the raising of stakes inherent to that declaration, the mixture of affront and challenge.
And then, just before Yan can say something in his outrage that he will regret, they are interrupted by a disturbance in the Force. It chirps a single note in warning before a sensation like a roof caving in sweeps over them.
A heavy light that is in no way physical fills the room, loud enough to drown out exclamations of surprise and confusion from its occupants, growing to such a brilliant weight it’s nearly painful. Yan closes his eyes, to no effect. He isn’t sensing the disturbance with his body, he knows, closing his eyes was never going to help, but he still could not fight the instinct.
It feels like no disturbance he has ever encountered before in all his years.
It’s over in seconds, the bright flash fading back to the natural light of Coruscant’s midday sun shining through the chamber’s many windows. The Force springs back to its normal density, feeling spent but pleased, like one would at the end of a long, satisfying spar.
It almost would seem that the strange anomaly did nothing at all, if not for the two young men who have suddenly appeared out of thin air right in the middle of the Council room.