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Chapter Text

“The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins – but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness: one lone candle is enough to hold it back.
Love is more than a candle.
Love can ignite the stars.” ~ Revenge of the Sith novelization

Chapter 1

This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it. 

It is a story of love and loss, brotherhood and family, courage and sacrifice and the rebirth of thought-dead dreams. It is a story of the blurred line between possible and impossible. 

It is the story of the repair of an age. 

A strange thing about stories—

Though this all happened so long ago and so far away that words cannot describe the time or distance, it is also happening right now. Right here. 

It is happening as you read these words. 

Twenty-five millennia have come to a close. Corruption and treachery have crushed a thousand years of peace. An Empire has risen from the ashes to seize the whole of the galaxy in its fist. 

Until it doesn’t. This is not just the redoing of events so cataclysmic and galaxy-altering it changed the lense through which everyone viewed everything else; this is day returning to civilization itself. 

This is the salvation of the Jedi. 

The beginning starts now. 

*

Sunlight streamed down, erasing the faint light of Tatooine’s stars, paling the moon to a wisp; birds of prey and birds of day alike crosshatched the sky with contrails of wind, bleaching away silence with their calls to themselves and one another; chill remnants of night slid down the whitewashed walls of the tiny home; and within the one room itself, a man sat with his eyes closed. 

His hair was white, his face tan and lined. Sixty or so, maybe. His lips, which appeared cracked and dry, moved silently. Speaking a prayer known to no one except himself and its intended. Master, said the man. Master. 

It seemed the man received no reply. Or else he hadn’t yet received the reply he anticipated. For his eyes remained shut, the faintest wrinkle working its way between his brows. 

Master, he repeated. Can you hear me? This repetition came not out loud but in his mind. 

Yet again, no answer greeted him. 

He breathed out, a little huff of annoyance. Yet his eyes remained shut, his breaths remained even, and his heartbeat remained steady. He stayed like that for a very long time until at last he stood. It seemed that Qui-Gon had other matters to attend to for now. Which was alright. As did he. 

The old man turned to make his breakfast, resuming the habitual routines which had so marked each of his nineteen odd years here. He could wait for an answer. 

***

This is Ben Kenobi: 

A mysterious man to all the locals, one children and adults alike whisper about and speculate on. A hermit who keeps to himself and neither offends nor compliments. A good negotiator, when it comes to getting his usual month’s worth of supplies in Toshe Station. One who lives quietly, circumspectly, and who never ever shows a shade of what is beneath. 

Hermit. Crazy old man. Recluse and enigma. And yet, inside, he is none of these things. 

Inside, he remains Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

Not all parts of Kenobi remain inside him. It goes without saying that even as his old friend died on that lava bank with its black glass sand, his own heart was burned to ash through the deed which helped to seal that fate. What sustains him is not heart or lungs or breath but purpose. The singular purpose of protecting the young Luke Skywalker, that he may someday rebuild the toppled Jedi Order. 

This Obi-Wan Kenobi no longer considers himself a Master. Where he once held the title, he now holds another, less official one. The only one he could ever hold. Padawan. Once more, Qui-Gon’s wise guiding hand is with him, in spirit if not in flesh. Every day, his Master teaches him more. 

It is these two pinpoints of light which allow Obi-Wan to go on. Ensuring the safety of Anakin’s son. Learning more of the true nature of the Force from his Master. And someday, perhaps, he hopes, he might pass on some of this wisdom to Luke. 

He doesn’t trust himself very much with teaching again, but he trusts his Master’s guidance. He trusts the light of the path he is on. 

After all, he is still a Jedi. Jedi do not cling to the past. They look only to the future. 

So he goes on, day in and day out, with a patience and fortitude unrivaled by any other. Though he never realizes it, or the remarkability of his own existence. Never wavering, never falling to the dark, even after losing everyone and everything he ever cared about. 

He remains the ultimate Jedi. 

But to everyone on the dusty brown-and-yellow world including himself, he is only Ben. 

Such remains until a young Luke Skywalker comes looking for two rogue droids, both of which the old man recognizes well. Too well. With the jolt of a woman who knew her time approached yet still thinks it too soon to begin travail, Ben gathers unto himself. And once more he becomes Obi-Wan Kenobi in the full. 

***

The crimson saber ignited, smearing the obsidian walls of the tech mech with a bloody afterglow. “I’ve been waiting for you, Obi-Wan,” said the thing which had once been his dear friend and brother. 

Obi-Wan smiled. Now he knew what Qui-Gon had meant in their last meeting, summoned while Luke sped to the Lars homestead. We will see each other again very soon. 

And here he’d thought his old Master had been promising to remain more responsive from now on. 

“The circle is now complete,” Darth Vader railed on. “When last we met I was but the learner. And now I am the Master.” 

“Only a master of evil, Darth.” 

Obi-Wan slashed, and the battle began. Exchanges flashed. Leaps were sidestepped or met with flying pushes; ankle sweeps skipped over and punches parried. Consoles exploded in fountains of white-hot sparks as they ripped free of their moorings and hurtled through the air. Terrified beings skittered like rats from a sinking ship, just avoiding a blade here or a hurtling object there. 

Obi-Wan caught every move, but barely. 

Darth boasted, “Your powers are weak, old man. Or maybe you’re just weak compared to me now.” 

Obi-Wan caught the edge of the red blade, then shook his head. “You can’t win, Darth. If you strike me down… I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” 

He said the words, and he believed them. 

So he didn’t hesitate when the time came. 

Obi-Wan had grown up knowing the power of the lightsaber. From his earliest memories in the crèche, the masters and nurses had warned against them making any mischief with their practice blades. Even those held only a shade of the true power of the laser swords he later wielded. He’d been cut by sabers, injured countless times by the sizzling swords. 

But he had believed that when the end came, there would be no pain. Too quick and instantaneous a blow to be documented before immediate oblivion rose up to greet him. 

However, when the blow came, there was a choking explosion of agony and a dreadful ripping through the center of his body. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt it flooding his nostrils as his upper half, horribly light now, hit the floor with an agonizing thud. He would have cried out, yet no sound came apart from a terrible, silent gurgling, and he wanted to clamp his hands to the mortal wound which had been dealt him. But his hands had been severed in the strike. They lay alongside the dark, crumpled thing that sat across from him. He blinked and tried to look away. Through his torment he could still make out the blurred shapes of people around him. White stormtrooper armor. Shining black floors. Ebony boots clack, clack, clacking towards him… 

And then his eyes dimmed and the merciful light arose. 

“Obi-Wan?”

The man sat up. After feeling surprise that he could sit up, he blinked. Rubbed his eyes. 

Frowned. “Master?” He looked… younger than Obi-Wan remembered. But then, he hadn’t seen Qui-Gon corporeal in many years. Surely the afterlife gave many forms. “Master, hello!” 

He hopped to his feet. Wow! What energy! 

“Hello,” Qui-Gon said, mouth quirking. “Are you feeling better?”

“Loads. I had no idea it would be so… painful.” His voice turned hushed at this last. 

“Your head is still hurting, Padawan?” Brow crinkled, the older man set a hand to his brow. 

“My head? No. I meant how I got killed.”

The hand fell away. The concerned look deepened. “…got killed. Did you have a…nightmare?” 

“Huh?” Obi-Wan frowned. “Look, it’s really good to see you again, Master, but this isn’t a very funny joke I’ve got to say.”

“I’m not finding it amusing either.” 

“Well—what—” His voice cut out as he caught a glimpse of himself in the room’s mirror. Yes, he’d thought it strange to be back in his old Padawan apartment. But who knew how these things worked? Death was a mystery to all in life.

His reflection, though… now that he couldn’t ignore or dismiss. He reared back, his eyes popping out. The eyes of the man in the mirror followed suit. No, not man. Boy.

Oh, I have a bad feeling about this… Obi-Wan mused. Qui-Gon suddenly taking him by the arm didn’t do much to allay the sense.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low and scratchy.

Obi-Wan remembered this tone. It was the same way in which Qui-Gon had spoken to his fallen apprentice. Before he had killed him.

He said, “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Maybe. Not the one I knew, though.”

Maybe. Not the one I knew, though. A younger Qui-Gon. Padawan’s quarters at the Temple. His face, no older than twenty-four or so.

Could it truly be possible? He both wanted to believe and didn’t.

“No,” said Obi-Wan, shaking his head. He took Qui-Gon’s hand in his, prising the fingers off of his arm; it had begun to ache. Covering the man’s one hand in both of his, he said, “I’m not. And, in fact, I’d appreciate you telling me exactly what year this is. Then I have a lot to tell you, Master.”

*

This is Obi-Wan Kenobi, twenty-four years old again:

A young man who isn’t young at all. An old man who suddenly doesn’t feel so old. A Padawan whose knowledge in many things is greater than that of his Master. A thirsty man given water. A starving man given food. A dead man resurrected.

He doesn’t know why the Force has given him of all beings this second chance, but he accepts the outreach with both hands. With gratitude, with reverence, without fear, and without anger, he prepares himself to go to war. Again.

And this time, it will be the Sith who are on the defensive.

Their end starts now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

As the electric-blue swirl of hyperspace receded, the soft blue-and-green sphere that was Naboo rose up to greet them. Stars twinkled in the panorama, minute pinpoints of light that threw their multicolored intensity against the ship’s cockpit window; the dark void of space loomed like a mammoth sarlacc prepared to swallow them whole; and as the tiny vessel floated along, it edged closer and closer to the true monster beyond. The Trade Federation vessels sat in a monolithic circle around the gentle world, fists raised, prepared either to crush or to…

Well, to crush and nothing else.

And by the time the jaws of the docking bay opened to receive the tiny Jedi ship, Obi-Wan was already angry.

He knew it, too. If Qui-Gon had asked, he would have said as much, laying his truth bare before the wiser man. But Qui-Gon didn’t ask, because he already knew, didn’t he?

It was just that Obi-Wan would rather be anywhere else but here. The trip had left him so long a time to stare through the smoot-smudged curve of the passenger bunk window and watch the swirl of hyperspace go by—and to think, Why are we here? Why are we playing by Sidious’s rules? Why not take the fight to him now, this instant, instead of playing out this charade? He had begun, he realized, to sound like Anakin. Anakin’s plans had always involved acting first and thinking second.

And Qui-Gon sounded like himself. “Temperance, Obi-Wan,” he murmured as they strode through the hallway, the shining gray protocol droid leading them. The whole ship stank of gluttony, and greed.

Obi-Wan ducked his head, acknowledging the gentle rebuke with the humility it deserved. He must get a handle on himself. He mightn’t be able to convince himself he didn’t feel upset, but if he told himself the whole truth, it might help.

The truth that the anger was only camouflage. For deep down inside of him, within the verdant garden that was his heart, the vines of a poisonous plant had curled around the other florae, slowly beginning to choke them one and all.

The plant wasn’t new. Its bitter structure had taken root long ago, the seeds sown on the day he learned of his former apprentice’s betrayal. But after Mustafar, he had been able to hack at the roots of that plant, wither it. Almost kill it.

Almost. But now, it had risen again. And behind Obi-Wan’s anger hid that fresh bourgeoning.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him, not really. After all, he was here, on Naboo, a second chance laid out before him like a thousand-course banquet. He ought to praise the Force to the heavens. Yet he couldn’t feel much of anything except that ire, that blood curdling sense of mingled hope and dread…

Maybe it’s that I’m an old man, he thought. An old man who doesn’t feel up to this task the Force has given me. Maybe it’s because, really, I was ready to die, not to come here…

He shut his eyes, dropping down into one of the conference room seats. Let them wait until the poisonous gas came. They could survive, just like last time. He could survive, yet again.

Qui-Gon’s musing voice slowly trickled into the prison of Obi-Wan’s thoughts. “Do you sense anything particular?”

“Nothing especially unusual.” They spoke with caution, picking their words with the care of one deciding how to step over a field of broken glass. Their argument remained fresh.

The elder Jedi—though of course he was no longer the elder—nodded. “Let me know if it changes.”

“Surely.”

Silence fell, and stretched.

Then the poison gas pumped into the room.

*

They got to the Queen in plenty of time. While Obi-Wan flew them through the blockade, however, they still ended up on Tatooine in need of parts. Even Jar Jar remained with them. In other words, nothing had changed.

Yet.

“Let me go, Master,” said Obi-Wan once the ship had docked and they began to discuss going for the part. “I’m better at haggling than you are.”

Qui-Gon arched an eyebrow, but all he said was, “Of course, you would be.”

No further exchange occurred, to Obi-Wan’s relief. Perhaps—just perhaps—Qui-Gon had forgotten his belligerence. For a moment or two as he went on his way, he let himself dream.

Reality, however, demanded its due. Reality, and the boy within the shop he now stopped just at the edge of, his heart cracked and bleeding out onto the landscape of an uncaring void.  

The boy. Anakin. How long had it been since he had thought the name with any impression of life or reality? Always, for nigh on twenty years, it had been with fond recollection or wry musings, or tortured cornucopias of regretful considerations.

Now, though, he thought of the name with life and hope. And disagreement. He and Qui-Gon had spent hours upon hours in the last week debating this point—whether or not to take Anakin off of Tatooine. In fact, their stances had changed little from the original timeline.

“He is the Chosen One,” Qui-Gon had averred, even after knowing all. “Born to bring balance to the Force. He must be trained.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What? That he is the Chosen One or that he should be trained?”

Obi-Wan’s expression had shaded only a scrape short of openly hostile. “Neither.”

Obi-Wan now regretted telling Qui-Gon where Anakin could be found. At least he hadn’t mentioned specifics.

Such could save the boy now.

But when Obi-Wan strode without hesitation into the shop, nerves steely and all emotion given into the Force, he found his heart juddering to a stop as the little head rose up and the sky eyes blinked. Will crumbled into dust under the intensity of that gaze. Vows of silence burned to ash with the sound of his soprano voice.

“Are you an angel?” the boy breathed.

*

Out of necessity, Obi-Wan accepted Anakin Skywalker’s insistence that he take refuge from the storm in the Skywalker home. This can work out, he told himself as he slipped off his shoes at the front door. I can personally warn them away from any Jedi-related matters.

If only he could get a word in edgewise. “You’re from here, aren’t you? But not Mos Espa?” Anakin asked as they sat at the dinner table.

“Why would you say that?”

“Well, you can’t be an offworlder. No offworlders know the customs like you do.”

“Perhaps I studied them.”

“Come on. Maybe the shoes thing, sure, but even if somebody cared enough to record Tatta customs, you couldn’t know about the watering.”

Darn. He has me there, doesn’t he? Obi-Wan smiled. How long had it been since he last had? “You’re very observant, Anakin. I did spend some time here on Tatooine, but no longer.”

“So—you don’t live here now?”

“No.”

“Oh.” The word fell from the child’s lips like overripe fruit from a tree. He spent the rest of the meal poking at his food. Until, that was, the subject of slavery was broached. Shmi mentioned how the Republic didn’t exist out here, but Obi-Wan shook his head.

“They have the resources. It is only because the Republic lets the Hutts run rife over this sector. They know the issues, yet they turn a blind eye out of desire to preserve the peace and line politician’s pockets. The system is irrevocably broken when a government advocating free will and liberty for all turns to such ends, but there it is.”

He stopped, swallowing. Whoops.

“Ah—I apologize. You didn’t sign up to hear any of my political tirades… Living on Tatooine gives one strong feelings one way or the other, I suppose.”

“Don’t be sorry, Obi-Wan,” said Shmi. “It’s nice to hear it from a free mouth.”

“Yeah, you’re brave to say so,” Anakin chimed in.

“Not brave. It’s the truth.”

“Not many people want to speak the truth.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Not many have so little to lose. In that vein… I should get going.” The planned warnings stilled on his lips.

“Get going?”

The mother and son exchanged a glance.

“You can’t go!” Anakin said. “It’s still storming. You can sleep in my room.” He beamed. “And I’ll show you the droid I’m building. He’ll be a fully functional protocol soon enough.”

“I couldn’t dream of imposing. If you insist I stay, then the floor will serve very well—”

“Nonsense. You’re our guest, Obi-Wan.”

“Yeah!” Anakin crossed his arms over his chest and his face set with sternness. He seized Obi-Wan’s hand and began dragging. “C’mon! No floor for you! We’ll get you sorted nicely—” He went on chattering—and dragging—and Obi-Wan let himself be pulled along by the riptide that was ten-year-old Anakin Skywalker.

If he drowned… he did not especially care.

***

Obi-Wan lurched upright in bed, gasping, staring blindly into alien darkness.

How Anakin had screamed for him—how he had begged for him, how his strength had failed on that black glass sand, how at the last moment he could only scream, I hate you!—thundered inside his head, blinding him to the contours of the night-shrouded room, deafening him to every sound save the turbohammer of his heart.

His hand found unfamiliar coils of coarse blanketing wrapped around his waist. His touch found a small, inert figure beside him, lying on his side, eyes closed, half a smile on his precious lips. And when Obi-Wan saw the long, slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest with the cycle of his breathing, he turned away and buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

The tears that ran between his fingers were tears of gratitude, of hope, and of bewilderment.

Was Anakin truly alive and with him, or was he only dreaming still?

In silence so deep he could hear the whirring of the electrodrivers in 3PO’s metal plating shifting with his movements, he disentangled himself from the blankets and Anakin and got up.

Through the room, a small set of stairs led to the balcony that overlooked a slice of Tatooine night. Leaning on the night-chilled railing, Obi-Wan stared out upon the endless nightscape.

Was that burning in the distance, or was that only his blurred eyes?

Tatooine at night was like a sleeping dragon. The starscape stretched out, a tin-foil collection of twinkling lights; the moon rose high above all else, chalking the scene with its grayish glow; and an ice wind sluiced through the crevasse of land and human alike, spreading fingers of cold where the morning would bring punches of heat. The town twinkled with a few spare lights here and there, but otherwise the ramshackle locale remained quiet and dark.

Obi-Wan didn’t know how long he stood there, staring. The view looked like he felt. Damaged. Broken in time.

Stained by a bygone age.

And he’d rather look out at the view than think about why he was out here looking at it in the first place.

She moved as quietly as the icy breeze, but he felt her approach.

She took a place beside him at the railing and then simply stood with him, staring without words out across the planet that had become her home. Waiting for him to tell her. Trusting that he would.

He could feel her patience, and her trust, and he was so grateful for both that tears welled once more. He had to blink out at the burning night, and blink again, to keep those fresh tears from spilling over onto his cheeks. He drew deep breaths of icy air until he could let himself speak. How long had it been since someone treated him with such faith? Even Luke’s had been dashed with a heavy dose of hero-worship and desperation.

“How much do you know, then?” he asked finally.

She accepted this with a slow, serious consideration. “Not much. But I can tell you aren’t just some random traveler.”

For the first time, Obi-Wan wondered if the mother had been like the son: If Anakin’s Force-sensitivity hadn’t only come from his miraculous birth.

A beat, then, “Are you here for my son?”

He shook his head. “He isn’t the reason I’m here,” he said, and wondered if he’d just lied. “But… the Force brought us together for a reason.” The admission squeezed down his voice and clenched on his heart, erasing all sensation except a sickly slithering.

Silence again.

She grasped his hand. Deceptive strength radiated from the hold. “Will you take him, Obi-Wan?”

“I’m only a Padawan—a Jedi learner. I can’t take an apprentice.”

She processed this. “But—”

He shook his head. She stopped, waiting.

When he could make himself speak again, his voice was raw and hoarse as though he’d been shouting all the day long. “I know someone who could, who would take him as his apprentice.”

Shmi’s mouth compressed. “And you trust this person?”

“With my life. He is my master, the teacher all of my years.”

She shook her head. “My Annie deserves better than a slave’s life. He needs better. You understand this, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan couldn’t look at her. He looked to the view, at the deck, at the stars, and he found no place he could bear to see.

All he could do was close his eyes.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Then please. Take him.”

“…why?”

“I thought you understood.” Her voice had turned but an edge short of harsh.

“I do, about that. But why do you trust me? He’s your son, the only good thing in your life—”

“He is exactly that.” She inhaled sharply. Now her voice sounded as cracked as his. “But I have always known that I couldn’t keep him. He’s too special, too good, too talented… Maybe I’m mad to trust a strange Jedi with his fate, but I do. I trust you. I know… you’d never hurt him.”

Not intentionally. Obi-Wan smoothed his fingers out, then clasped them around hers. A knot of prayer.

Sometimes, the will of the Force proved very clear. Raging at it was as useful as running in a lightening storm. You win, then, Qui-Gon, he mused.

Oh, let us all win by this…

Obi-Wan looked up into Shmi Skywalker’s chocolate-brown eyes and vowed, “I will take him, then, and he will be a Jedi. I promise you.”

He couldn’t fail this time.

He wouldn’t fail this time.

***

The sand flew out behind them in a long stream as the speeder bike sliced through the air like a bullet; Anakin gripped his waist, his fingers showing the veins beneath, so fervent was their hold; Obi-Wan had his eyes half screwed shut but his senses open, so he could get away with the stricken gesture. Years hadn’t eroded his loathing of flying. In fact, recent trips had only added to it: like on that freighter with the cocky pilot who ultimately led him to his death.

A convoluted way to look at it, he knew, but Obi-Wan had not enjoyed Han Solo’s company especially.

The bike put-putted to a stop at the edge of the mirrored ship, and Anakin gasped.

“We get to go in this?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan flicked a glance behind his shoulder. According to his calculations, they had Maul by a few hours yet, but it never did to get cocky.

“You alright?”

For a moment he couldn’t tell how to answer that. “Naturally,” he replied, glad of the breezy tone in his voice. He set the keys on the bike.

“Wait. We’re leaving that?”

Well, he had stolen it earlier, so—“I think the scavengers should get a boon today. Let’s go.”

So they did. When they reached the ship edge, they found the expected greeting party. Obi-Wan handed the pilot the part and set Anakin’s hand in Qui-Gon’s. “Anakin Skywalker, meet Master Qui-Gon Jinn, your new teacher.”

The look he shot Qui-Gon grew up directly from that poisonous plant seeded within his heart. No words. No smugness. No conversation. If he so much as mentioned this, Obi-Wan would never speak to him again.

Qui-Gon nodded, though he could just as well have been nodding to Anakin. “Very nice to meet you, Anakin. Obi-Wan has told me a great deal about you.”

Let it be enough, Obi-Wan prayed to the Force. Let it all be enough.

Maybe he imagined it, but he swore he felt the brush of a soft soft hand against his cheek. A hand not of flesh but of spirit. And he swore, too, that he heard a voice say, Worry not, Obi-Wan. All is going as I will it.

Under the assurance, which unlocked his gut and set the faintest of smiles upon his lips, the poisonous plant lost its hold in his heart-garden, shriveling down into its dormant position. And Obi-Wan could breathe again. For now.

Now was all that he needed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Anakin Skywalker huddled in the empty room of the ship, squinting against the flickering blue glow of the lighting. Reaching out a hand, he ran it along the latticed edge of the table before him. Like everything on the ship, it was metallic and unyielding. Beautifully frigid.

He shivered, hugging his arms to his body. Space was so cold. He missed the warmth of home. 

It wasn’t the only thing he missed from home. But it was the one on which he could bear to focus. 

Master Qui-Gon—a tall, wise man with knowing eyes and a voice like an ocean—had needed to attend to something. So here Anakin was. Alone. Untended. Cold. Wondering if this might be some kind of test to see if he made the cut for Jedi-ing after all. 

But no. They wouldn’t do that to him. They were too kind. Obi-Wan was too kind. (It never occurred to the child that not all Jedi followed the model of the man who he now considered the one and only example.) 

Anakin got up and continued wandering around, the better to keep some blood flow going. The cold continued to leech in, though, poisoning everything in its path, including his previous excitement at leaving his world. 

With the cold came the inescapable thoughts. I wonder what Mom’s doing right now. Is Watto really mad about Obi-Wan freeing me…? Is he treating her okay…?

Will he sell her…? 

Anakin shivered again, biting down on the corner of his lip. A metallic taste filled his mouth; he’d cut the flesh. He sucked harder, drawing yet more blood. 

He turned a corner in the ship. The cold was growing now, rather than shrinking. Growing up inside his gut, expanding from the fist that clenched it into something else, something unidentifiable. Something that snaked through him, slimy and oozing. Something that made him set his chattering teeth. 

Something that made the boy wonder if he ought to have stayed home after all, freed his mom, and been content on Tatooine. Something that said he’d been very, very selfish to go after all. A red-hot strike splintered through the core of his body, all but physical, at the thought. 

Before the serpentine thing could further torment him with its ideas, however, he stopped short. Was he imagining it… or did he suddenly feel… warm? 

No. No, he wasn’t imagining it. 

Anakin’s feet shuffled a moment, undecided in their course. Then he caught the feel of the warmth again, and headed its way. With every step, the chill gave way. At last, he found himself in a small room at the back of the ship—

And sitting in its center was Obi-Wan, his eyes closed, his breaths even. Anakin’s heart gave a judder. How pretty Obi-Wan looked, with his long auburn lashes and faintly flushed cheeks, the dull glow of the room playing with the gold and red strands of his hair—

“May I hep you, Anakin?” The eyes opened.

The little boy colored. Busted. “Uhm… no?” He tried again. “You just… looked peaceful. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Mission accomplished,” Obi-Wan remarked. But given the amusement which laced his tone, Anakin could tell he wasn’t really in trouble. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh! I—well—I wanted to give you this.” Thankfully, he’d finished the project, a perfect excuse. His hand almost didn’t tremble as he presented the wood to Obi-Wan. Almost. “I made it for you. Carved it out of a Japor Snippet.”

“Ah.” The young Jedi hummed. “The luck tree.”

Anakin’s smile lost its tentativeness. “Exactly! I knew you’d get it.” He could only pray that Obi-Wan didn’t know the whole of the legend behind the Japor tree…

A fist clenched in his heart as he saw a ripple of confusion pass across Obi-Wan’s face. Worry blossomed in accordance, worry that he really did know of the full meaning—

“This is a lovely gift, Anakin. Thank you.” Obi-Wan’s hand closed around Anakin’s for just a moment, then was gone. His lashes fluttered as he peered down, examining the wood. Turning it over in his hand. He held it like it was as precious as a gem. “Very lovely.”

Thank goodness Anakin hadn’t been prompted to speak. His vocal chords had been buried so deeply beneath a mountain of adoration and gratitude he doubted he’d ever find words again in this man’s presence. How could it be possible that he was here? He, Anakin Skywalker, who just yesterday had held only as much value to the galaxy as the slave assessors decreed? And now, he’d be a Jedi. His greatest dream come true.

All because of Obi-Wan.

A new shiver ran through him, not going unnoticed by the Jedi.

“Are you cold, dear one?”

Anakin flushed—nothing to do with his body temperature. “A—a little.” At least he had his voice back, even if it did squeak at irregular intervals.

“Of course you are. Space is cold; this is your first trip, isn’t it? Come here.” Obi-Wan wrapped a blanket around him, pulled him close. “But of course, you also miss your mother. Worry for her.”

Anakin blinked. He felt hot, but not because of the blanket. “I… I do miss her.”

“It’s alright, Annie,” Obi-Wan said gently. “It’s fair to worry about her.” 

The boy looked down, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “D’you think… maybe… once this’s all done… we could get back and free her?”

“I don’t think so. The Jedi forbid any kind of attachment like that, or even contact.” 

Anakin’s eyes flew upward. Accusation stabbed in them. “You didn’t tell me that!” 

Something strange happened. Obi-Wan went on talking, his tone detached, but he nodded his head at varying intervals that didn’t match the melody of his words. “It’s a part of the Jedi Code. You’ll learn soon enough. I apologize for not mentioning it sooner, but I didn’t have a lot of time to explain everything to you. Qui-Gon will be doing that, anyways. 

“You see, if someone heard me saying we might free your mother or you could keep in touch with her… well, I’d probably get in trouble. It’s just not now being a Jedi works. So I can’t tell you that. You’ll need to learn to let go.” 

And then Obi-Wan pressed his pointer finger down into Anakin’s palm, very hard. Listen to me, the pressure said. Look into my eyes, and really hear me. 

Anakin’s anger evaporated, ephemeral as a spring dew-mist on Tatooine. Though he didn’t know why Obi-Wan thought someone might overhear him, he understood well enough to take on a breezy tone. At least, he thought so. “Well, thanks anyways. I appreciate the lecture on the Code. Guess if I want to be a good Jedi I’ll just have to get with the program.”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched. He let Anakin’s hand loose, then winked. “As we all must, my dear Anakin.” 

Anakin felt warm for the rest of the day, for the warmth didn’t come from the outside. It shone out from his heart, blazing everything in its path with strength and light, like the binary suns of Tatooine had come to rest there. And the worm of fear that had been working within him vanished, as if it had never been.

***

Fingers of morning drew streaks of rosy pink and deep violet across the cityscape, illuminating the streams of traffic which poured from the metropolis and crosshatched the sky. The ship streaked toward the landing pad, the ride as smooth as possible but ultimately unsettling for anyone with a less-than-firm hold on their stomachs. Such as Obi-Wan. 

He fell against the wall, shutting his eyes. Almost sixty years of flying and he still felt like his stomach had been turned inside out and stomped on every single time. Every. Single. Time. 

“Well,” a voice remarked with cheer, “you shouldn’t have any trouble convincing the Senator you’re the same as ever. He’ll recognize that look from a few months ago.” 

Just barely, Obi-Wan held onto tart words. “Please… don’t remind me of the other nauseating encounter coming soon.” 

Qui-Gon smirked a little. Though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose… you’ll be alright,” he broached.

“I’ll be alright.” Obi-Wan had his calm. But it didn’t come from the tenants of Jedi serenity. It came from crystalline determination. He’d long been able to do this in the worst of moments, so much so that people thought he didn’t feel at all when it came to danger. That just wasn’t so. He gave all of his feelings to the Force, yes, but the emotions remained—only encased in a structure that would not yield. Crystalline, he didn’t have to think, he could do.

It was when the crystal shattered that had ever been his issue.

Now was not that moment.

Palpatine’s gaze skipped right over Obi-Wan, landed speculatively on Anakin, before turning to the Queen’s. “It is a great gift to see you alive, Your Highness.”

“Senator Palpatine.”

For a brief instant as they strode off of the platform, Obi-Wan found himself possessed by the red-hot urge to grab the old man and shove him off into the abyss. Even if Sidious took him along, he’d do it. But he hadn’t been a Jedi for so long to give into such desires.

Nonetheless, his fingers itched all the way back to the Temple.

He’d listen to Qui-Gon. The man’s insistence that they keep the timeline as preserved as possible for the time being made sense. After all, Obi-Wan’s knowledge only served them as far as what had happened to him. But the reality of letting Sidious run rife, manipulate the Queen, and seize power all over again… it was like a saber strike to the midsection.

And he would know.

***

Chalky pale light streamed into one corner of the space through the soot-blackened window, pooling on the tan tiling and sending sparks of warmth up into and around the boxy room. The space smelled of antiseptic and staleness and a neglected air hung about.

In the center of the old space lay a mat. On that mat sat a man, his eyes closed. He noticed neither the heat, nor the scent, nor heard the thrum of traffic pulsing just outside. The quiescence in this wing of the Temple didn’t bother him; it enriched him. 

He wanted to soak it all in for a while—sun, silence, and spirit. The spirit of illumination given in the Force by a thousand Jedi collected within the walls, each focusing on peace, harmony, and union with the Force.

Well—most of them.

“Hi, Obi-Wan!”

“AAAGH—!”

“Anakin. I told you we really shouldn’t interrupt him.”

“…oops.”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, rubbing the spot on his face he’d smacked when he jarred back to consciousness. “Ah. My personal ghosts come to haunt me,” he deadpanned, sitting up. At least he’d been at meditation long enough to release his emotions and find his center again. Else he wouldn’t have been so amenable.

“Sorry,” Anakin said, his eyes wide and his face repentant. He didn’t fool Obi-Wan, who recognized the look.

An eerie sensation slid through him, almost like anger. No, not anger. A stab of accusation.

How long had Anakin fooled him before with that same look in its adult version?

“Never mind,” said Obi-Wan. “What can I help you both with?”

“The Council wants to see us.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Obi-Wan turned around to fold up his mat, but found it already folded and tucked away—in the wrong location, granted. Anakin, dusting off his hands, smiled up at him like he was the sun and stars. “Let’s go, then!” He grabbed Obi-Wan’s hand and began pulling. His new habit, it seemed.

It had not been before.

What had changed?

Well, the tightness in Obi-Wan’s chest, for one thing. The way he suddenly found breath difficult. The queasy knot working at his back, threading through his abdomen, erasing any of his former peace…

Anakin babbled the whole way there. “I’m glad you’re coming with us. Those guys are scary. Why didn’t you tell me so? They were all like—” A descriptive gesture followed.

“Firstly, they are not all guys, Anakin,” Obi-Wan corrected. He gently let the child’s hand loose from his grasp. “Secondly, I’m sure they were only… speculative.” But he thought, They all sense that you are dangerous, and they are right.

At least they didn’t know the Chosen One piece. Not now. He had fought Qui-Gon tooth and nail on that one on the return flight, and finally won out when the Jedi conceded that keeping him under Sidious’s radar was important.

Or they might never have brought Anakin here. That might have been a better way to keep him under Sidious’s radar.

Anakin shook his head. “You didn’t see them.”

He grabbed Obi-Wan’s hand again.

…

In all fairness to Anakin, they did look stern. Yoda seemed a puppet—one made to frown perpetually. Mace’s face—oh, how good it was to see his old friend again!—might as well have been carved of stone. The others completed the sculptured collection, looking like the portraits of an ancient Order.

Accurate, perhaps.

As before, the Council didn’t approve of Anakin being trained. “And an apprentice you already have, Qui-Gon,” added Yoda.

“Obi-Wan is ready.”

The man in question said nothing. Could he really have leapt to declare his preparedness once? Such seemed so long ago.

So far away.

“Ready, do you feel, young Obi-Wan?” Yoda asked at last.

Obi-Wan smiled, and the word fell from his lips with ease. “No.”

Silence, and a divide flung across the room. On one side, the Council and himself. On the other, Qui-Gon and Anakin.

He hadn’t finished, though. “But when should we ever be? Is it not one of our truisms that the student only begins to learn once he becomes the Master? I am not…” He raised a hand—“suggesting I take on a Padawan. I mean it only in the proverbial sense. In the sense that those who feel so very sure often tell us of that exact unreadiness; and those who do not have the opportunity to learn how to be. At some point, we must make the leap, trusting in the Force to give us our true lessons.

“We speak of the ‘will of the Force’, but really, how can we ever know its truth? Such a phrase is a metaphor, something we utilize to put words to our ignorance. Like someone who knows nothing of gravity might say it is the ‘will of a river’ to flow downhill.

If that is what you’re asking, then… yes. I am ready to face that.” 

If he sounded assured on this last, well, he couldn’t help that. He knew that he could. It had been the majority of his life. Thinking he knew much. Realizing he knew next to nothing at all. Repeating the cycle and each time submitting to the Force.

Ah, but that was they great mystery of the Force, wasn’t it? They could only embrace it.

Or fight it.

Obi-Wan’s gaze found the young Anakin again, and his mouth compressed. He didn’t even realize. Others noticed, though.

“Obi-Wan,” Mace called as he prepared to make his exit from the chamber alongside his master and the boy. “Stay a moment.”

His gut dipped. They didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

Right?

The doors closed with a ‘clang!’ leaving him alone in the secret-shrouded chamber. Alone, to face the music. The whole room smelled of sage and something sickly sweet, like the preparation to put down permacrete. How had he never noticed that before? Obi-Wan wanted to reach down to wipe his hands on his robe, but managed to avoid doing so.

Just.

He wasn’t used to being in the company of others any longer, of observing proper social customs. Or it could be the way in which they were looking at him now. That wasn’t especially comfortable.

“What think you, Obi-Wan?” Yoda asked him.

Obi-Wan was thinking that he’d rather be anywhere but here in this moment. An eerie sensation in light of his former elation over being back in the Temple. “That I’m in trouble,” he blurted out.

Kriff.

He’d said that aloud. He sounded like a preadolescent Padawan.

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, pausing him. Well—maybe not trouble, then.

“A reason there is, why in trouble you should be?”

The tally would take some time. Obi-Wan asked slowly, “How may I help you, Masters?”

He no longer suspected that they knew. If they had, then they would have come out with it already. And they wouldn’t be laughing, either.

“Hmm. Avoided the question, you have.” But Yoda looked mischievous, not mad. “Another we have for you. What think you of the boy?”

That queasy knot returned, throbbing through his core like the pulse of blood beneath a bruise. He took a long time to choke out an answer. Though his voice sounded steady aloud. “I think that it isn’t my place to think anything.”

“We’d like to hear anyways,” Mace said. The whole of the Council nodded in agreement, as if every member were party to a series of pre-choreographed actions, axioms, and entreaties.

Obi-Wan had never noticed how compressed the space could be when it was filled to capacity. Thirteen. Might as well have been three-hundred for all the air he found for his starving lungs, all the purchase he found for his stability-seeking self.  

***

This, then, is Obi-Wan Kenobi considering the timeline:

Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. He can be certain of some things; he can be certain of nothing.

He has made a promise about Anakin again, this time to Shmi Skywalker. He will see it honored. Didn’t he just lie to ensure as much? “I think that with proper training Anakin will make a fine Jedi…”

But now, all he can do is wonder if he has made a most grievous error. Or several, perhaps. He is so fond of Qui-Gon, so thankful to him. His master was half of what helped Obi-Wan retain his sanity.

But… this Qui-Gon isn’t that Qui-Gon. Not yet. Not really. Maybe never. The netherworld of the Force taught him many things before he in turn taught them to Obi-Wan. Sometimes Obi-Wan finds himself regretting his own admission, his forthrightness. The truth hasn’t affected Qui-Gon the way it ought to have.

Or else he doesn’t care the way he ought to. Maybe it must be lived to be fully appreciated.

Fully dreaded.

And the thoughts which now course through him are enough to burn his heart and feed him back the smoking ashes.

It is over now, though. It’s over. He lied to the Council. Whatever happens, Anakin will be trained, whether Obi-Wan thinks it is best or not. He must move on. Focus on preserving the timeline as much as possible. About that much, he knows Qui-Gon is right. They must preserve things, keep to Obi-Wan’s knowledge.

That way, when the time comes, he can use that knowledge to raze the Sith plot to dust, and the Sith themselves to the same. He won’t rest until he does.

***

“Obi-Wan.”

“Master.”

Perfunctory greetings exchanged, they headed toward the mirror-ship. Queen Amidala had set in motion the events that would elect Palpatine Chancellor. Then she decided to go back to Naboo to invade and take back the world herself.

All continued as it had before.

“Where is Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Coming. I thought we should have a moment to speak alone.”

“Of course. What about?”

Qui-Gon arched an eyebrow. “What did the Council keep you back for?”

“To tell me I looked pretty, of course.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“You don’t think so?” He smiled. It fell away swiftly, like a mask taken off after the merrymaking of a ball. “Why does it matter? You clearly have your opinion of me formed.”

“That is not true. I know that you promised his mother. I trust you to keep to your word.”

“But not in anything else?”

“I never said that.”

Obi-Wan wrestled back the urge to swear at the man. Stars. When had he begun to loathe being in Qui-Gon’s presence so? “I told them nothing,” he said coolly. “Since that’s what you’re asking.”

“So. They wanted to know your opinion of Anakin.”

He wavered. “How did you know that?”

“After what you said before that, they’d probably seek your wisdom.”

He didn’t understand. He didn’t have to. “Like I said, I told them nothing. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Obi-Wan breathed out, a little huff.

Qui-Gon’s gaze turned sorrowful. “I am sorry that you so disagree with me about this, Obi-Wan. I very much want for us to work together. Though I do understand how, fond as you may be of Anakin, it isn’t so easy for you…”

“He’s dangerous, Master!” Obi-Wan burst out.

He shut his eyes. Drew several deep breaths. He couldn’t bear this conversation. He couldn’t bear this situation.

When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting into a void for hours, days. “It isn’t that I don’t… enjoy his company sometimes.” Sometimes, he could almost forget. Those moments were golden. But then on its heels came the dark night. “But he is dangerous. Everyone sees that apart from you. I only wish that you would—”

“His future is uncertain, like everything else.” Qui-Gon’s voice had taken on an edge as chilly as the night around them. “You’d be wise to remember that. Things are always in motion.”

Obi-Wan smiled, a precise smile as cutting as a knife’s blade. “Yes. Thank you. I do remember.” Those polite words said, he flourished a bow and then strode away, his cloak flapping in the wind.

Qui-Gon ran a hand over his face, stooping slightly. At last, he turned to follow the retinue into the ship.

Neither of them noticed the small figure emerge from the shadows, the moonlight splashing across his face to illuminate the tear tracks and flushed cheeks, the look of utter desolation in his puffy eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: One Golden Day

A shroud of night descended on the encampment with pinpoint precision, blotting out all but the most minute sources of light, cloud cover precluding even the moon and stars. The forest remained alive with sounds of the wild, hoots and caws and crickets’ chirping, though. And other life remained, too; everywhere the eye could see, dark figures slumbered on the moist earth. Some, whose breathing proved overly even, may not have been as asleep as they pretended. But only the guards showed the signs of wakefulness, pacing around and checking all corners with narrowed gazes and dull flash-beams.

After all, everything depended on their ability to remain alert—and, when necessary, warn of impending danger. The invasion drew near. As did the enemy with every step they took.

Obi-Wan should be sleeping too. But he couldn’t. And so, he had done what was right: kept volunteering for shifts with those who didn’t realize he’d just finished one. He made another round now, but stopped just short of finishing.

Anakin lay next to Qui-Gon, his tiny face turned up to the sky. In the faint glow of his flashlight, Obi-Wan could just make him out.

He really was a terribly handsome little child. So helpless looking in sleep, so innocent. Perhaps that, first, had ensnared Obi-Wan in the net. That which he still found himself tangled in.

He almost reached out a hand to touch the boy’s brow, whisper words of prayer. Sleep well. Be well, Anakin—

“Have you come to kill me?”

Obi-Wan jarred; barely, he stifled the cry which tore from his throat; and memories of If you’re not with me, you’re against me—trampled through his mind, strafing all in their path—

But he hadn’t said that. Anakin—this Anakin—hadn’t said those words. He’d said, Have you come to sell me?

He had no time to imagine if he’d misheard. He spoke before his higher brain could stop him. “No. I—of course not, Anakin. Why would I ever—?” I just freed you.

The boy’s eyes were open now. He got to his feet, and Obi-Wan couldn’t see his expression in the darkness; he’d dropped his flashlight on the grass in his shock, and it had tumbled away somewhere unknown. “Oh, I don’t know,” Anakin shot back, not bothering to keep his voice low. “Maybe because I’m ‘dangerous,’ and you don’t want me to join your precious Order?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “What?”

A scoff. And goodness, how much he sounded like his grown-up self when he spat, “I know, don’t you get it? I heard everything. ‘Oh, yes, I spend time with Anakin because I pity him, but I don’t really like him. We should toss him out on the streets the first moment we get cause he’s awful and dangerous’—”

“Anakin—you should not have eavesdropped on our conversation.”

“Is that all you have to say? You don’t—you don’t deny it—?”

“What would be the point? You heard, though you now twist my words to meanings I never intended.” He started to say something further, though I’m sorry seemed so pitifully inadequate in light of the blaze of Anakin’s fury—

And the none-too-subtle hurt he radiated.

“I thought you were my friend,” Anakin said, and now his voice was quiet, and shard-like. “I thought… but you just pitied me. Pitied me, while you were planning to stab me in the back—”

“It isn’t so.” Obi-Wan dug his fingernails into his palm so hard drops of blood began to trickle down, plopping onto the grass. “If you would just let me explain—”

“I don’t need any explanation. I don’t trust any explanation from you.” In his voice, you sounded like an expletive.

That brittle hold he had on himself shattered, and Obi-Wan’s planned words were drowned by the ocean of feeling roaring up to swallow him. Oh, death had been less painful than this, the way he had unintentionally hurt this little boy. A boy who hadn’t done anything. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

What could he do now, though? He wondered, getting a new hold on himself with the use of all his mental disciplines. Anakin thought what he thought. Wouldn’t listen. If he knew anything, he knew that Anakin could raise grudge-holding to an art form.

“You don’t have anything to say?” the boy demanded, and for a moment Obi-Wan thought he sounded a little choked.

What could I say? You heard words never meant for your ears. They were wrong of me to say. And yet… I wouldn’t take them back, either. They are truth. I owe you an apology for you hearing them, but you wouldn’t hear that apology. It’s not a very good one at that.

Even if I could speak, I would have nothing to tell you.

“Not especially, Padawan Skywalker.” Obi-Wan found his voice in its lighthearted incarnation. “You should get some rest. The battle will begin soon, and your Master will want you well rested.”

“He’s not my Master, cause he’s not been allowed to train me by your precious Council of old codgers and idiots!” Anakin said back, his voice shaking. “But he’s promised to train me regardless, so don’t think you’ll win! And thank goodness, cause I’d never want you for a teacher, cause you’re just like them. You couldn’t—you couldn’t care about anyone if your life depended on it.” He ground out the last. “I—I—I hate you.”

“Yes,” the Jedi murmured, “I know that you do.”

He’d go off guard duty now, he decided. And once he had been relieved of his post—and apologized for the lost flashlight—Obi-Wan lay down in a remote corner of the encampment. Then he put his face in his hands and sobbed.

A few dozen feet away, Anakin was also curled up in a ball and crying.

And so was Qui-Gon, awake the whole time. But he shed his tears on the inside.

…***…

“Well done, Obi-Wan,” Mace said, a hint of a smile working at his lips.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile back, though he ducked his head under the praise. The origin of the smile wasn’t self-pleasure, but the satisfaction of being a needle in Sidious’s side. “I didn’t do it alone. Master Qui-Gon—”

“Saw the security footage, we did. Being too modest, you are.”

Obi-Wan winced. There’d been footage—? He might have fought differently had he known that.

Would they suspect, now?

Would Sidious get his hands on it? Oh, he shouldn’t even wonder about that one.

“Ah…” Obi-Wan said. “Well…”

“You’ve become quite skilled at Soresu. I didn’t even know that you practiced.”

The comment seemed innocent enough, but Obi-Wan knew his friend’s sharp mind. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been practicing.”

Lies were best kept simple, and woven with threads of truth if possible.

Yoda nodded. “Ready for Knighthood, you are. Defeated the first Sith in a millennium, you have.”

Obi-Wan considered pushing that point—introducing the idea of more Sith, of them missing the Sith’s existence—but he didn’t get the chance.

“And now, a new apprentice, Qui-Gon would take.”

“Ah… yes.” Obi-Wan cringed. Give a better reply than that. “I think he is rather determined in that regard.”

Mace shook his head. “I don’t trust him. Either of them.”

Obi-Wan flecked a glance behind his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to double up now on people hearing what they oughtn’t. “I understand why you would feel that way,” he said slowly. “But letting Qui-Gon go rogue is not the answer. You must realize that keeping him—and Anakin, as the two are a package deal now—under Jedi supervision… Jedi oversight… is the best solution.”

“Is it? Or does it just enable him in his rule breaking?”

Yoda shook his head. “Grave danger I fear in young Skywalker’s training.”

Obi-Wan bowed his head and steepled his fingers and kept silent.

“But right you are. Go off on his own, Qui-Gon would.” The Grand Master’s mouth compressed. His tone turned gruff. “If want to avoid that, we do—”

“—which we definitely do—” Windu said.

“—then right you are. Permission, we must grant him, and under our sight we must keep them.”

Obi-Wan nodded, relieved. It was the best of the worst. “That seems like a worthy solution—well, the best possible solution, Masters.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Mace. “Because we’d like you to help us.”

He blinked. “Help you? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Of course, I’d do anything that the Order needed of me—”

“And need, we do, for you to keep a watch on your former master and his new apprentice.”

“…what?” It was a whisper. But he couldn’t hide from the truth for long. “You want for me to spy on them?”

“And inform the Council, yes.”

…***…

Obi-Wan wound his way through the sunlit halls of the Theed Palace, his gut twisting with every turn. Words and phrases bounced in and out of his mind, nonsensical and far too sensical. We need to know what they’re up to. The boy is dangerous. We must make certain that he doesn’t end up another—far more powerful—Xantanos. You understand this, Obi-Wan. I’m sure you do. He shut his eyes, but the barrage only loudened.

‘Knock, knock, knock.’

The door swung open, revealing a tiny figure with blond hair and blue eyes that stabbed with accusation.

Obi-Wan tread lightly. “Good day, Anakin.”

The boy met his gaze coolly. After a moment or two, he turned his head and shouted, “Master! Knight Kenobi is here!” He turned back, bowing low and sweeping out an arm. “Won’t you come in, sir?”

He’d expected the coldness. The mockery… well, he supposed he ought to have expected that, too. Yet that brittle band snapped within him all the same. “Thank you.”

“Why, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon came into the room, drying his hands on one of the fluffy Nubian towels all the suites contained. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Anakin laughed. “Oh, sorry! The cartoon is just so funny.”

To his credit, the TV was playing. But his ingratiating smile made his intent pretty clear.

“Anakin.” Qui-Gon’s voice held an unexpectedly stern edge. “You will treat Obi-Wan with respect.”

The little boy’s jaw set. “Yes, Master Qui-Gon,” he said after a full minute had elapsed.  

He shot a poisonous look Obi-Wan’s way as he attempted to stalk off. But Qui-Gon caught him by the sleeve edge. “Not yet. You owe him an apology for what you said to him last night.”

Anakin’s eyes bulged. Obi-Wan jarred. “What about last night?” Anakin asked. “We didn’t talk.”

“Lying doesn’t befit a Jedi.” Qui-Gon’s voice was calm but stern, like a father dealing with a wayward son. “You were both right next to me, and unfortunately you didn’t keep your voices very low.” He cocked a brow.

A flush blossomed on Anakin’s cheeks, patchy and red. “Why should I apologize to him? He’s a much bigger liar than I am!”

Obi-Wan found his voice. “Master Qui-Gon, really, I don’t think that Anakin should—”

“Well, I think he should. And I am his master.”

The cool set to his countenance made Obi-Wan think of his early days as Qui-Gon’s apprentice, when the man constantly reminded him (in deed and look if not in words) how he had not wanted to take him on as an apprentice. But this was… something different. Defense on Obi-Wan’s behalf.

His heart squeezed, and he lost breath for a moment.

He’d come here to come clean, confess all. Tell of the assignment given him.

But now, he realized that if he told true, it would shatter this newfound peace between them. Because Qui-Gon would see in his eyes that accepting had been no hardship for him.

That no matter what assurances he received either from his old Master or even the Force itself, he could not stop worrying. Could not stop wondering. Could not help regretting.

Anakin turned to Obi-Wan, glaring with enough potency to raze this palace. “I,” he enunciated, “apologize most humbly, Knight Kenobi, for some of what I said. Last night.”

For some reason, he found his lips twitching. Ah. Anakin never did want to get out without his caveats…

Did he even know for what he apologized? Probably not. Probably this wasn’t the best way to go about things, but it was better than nothing. Something to break the ice, if he played it right.

He was pretty good at playing things right, if nothing else.

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath. “Apology accepted, Anakin. I know that you were hurt and said things you didn’t mean. And I owe you an apology of my own, much for the same thing. I want you to know that when I said what I said on the landing platform… I meant that you have a lot of potential. Potential that can be harnessed for much good, but also could be dangerous. Most Jedi aren’t your age when they start learning, you see. But I trust that my master—my former master—can guide you properly. And that’s what I told the Council when they asked me.”

Some of the flush had drained from Anakin’s cheeks. He glanced to Qui-Gon, gaze no longer so venomous; Qui-Gon nodded at him. “Really?” he demanded of Obi-Wan.

“Really.” Obi-Wan hesitated for a heartbeat. Lies and half-lies over, he thought to give some truth. “And I do plan to free your mother, Anakin. As soon as I’m able, I’ll go back to Tatooine and free her.” He gave thanks for the sonic neutralizer tucked within his tunic. On the ship, he’d never been sure who might be listening—and if Sidious might have had it bugged or tracked.

How else could Maul have found them before?

The boy cocked his head, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “How? Thrash Watto at Sabacc again?”

“I’m not sure he’d agree to play again,” deadpanned Obi-Wan.

“Is that how you did it? I wondered.” Qui-Gon chuckled, and some of the ice in the room shattered at the sound. “Unfair advantage taking, my wily old apprentice.”

Obi-Wan shrugged. The desert rather burned the scruples out of most. He kept his tone equally light. “I did what I must.”

“Okay.”

Obi-Wan paused. paused. “Okay?”

“I forgive you,” said Anakin.

His heart went, Boom. “Really?” He wanted to believe it could be so simple, and yet…

“If it means that much to you, yeah.”

He wavered. I shouldn’t… But—“It does. You mean a great deal to me, Anakin. More than you should. In the sense that Jedi aren’t supposed to form attachments,” he explained hastily.

“Well, we don’t have to be good Jedi, then,” said Anakin, waving a hand. “We can be average or even bad Jedi.”

The laughter bubbled up from him before he could stop it. “You and Qui-Gon are going to get along very well, I’m certain of that.” He always had been, for they had always been so alike.

He could only hope that their alikeness proved to their—and the galaxy’s—advantage rather than its downfall. A hope he’d never express to the Council. For if Qui-Gon could become so great, then surely, surely, Anakin could, too, under his tutelage. He’d always seen the seeds of such in him.

With the right water and sunlight, Anakin might truly blossom this time round.

Obi-Wan just wouldn’t be a part of that.

Which didn’t hurt. Or sting. Or scorch.

He gave all his emotions to the Force.

…***…

Obi-Wan had come up with a game for himself. Every time he found himself fantasizing about killing Sidious, he gave gratitude. He thought of every good thing he’d ever seen a sentient being do, and listed it out in his mind.

A tedious game to play, but one that grounded him during the Peace Parade and the greetings he was forced to exchange with the newly-elected Chancellor.

“Congratulations on dealing with that Zabrak,” said Palpatine, his smile one of a career politician’s. “I hear he was quite fearsome. A fine accomplishment, Knight Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan inclined his head. “Just doing my job, Chancellor. It’s the Jedi’s ultimate duty to put the Sith in the ground.”

Maybe it was only the angle of the light, but Palpatine’s eye seemed to twitch.

“Oh, is it?” He chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t know much of such things.” He waved a hand, then smiled afresh, this time at Anakin. “And you, young Skywalker. We will watch your career with great interest.”

For an instant, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s gazes met before he looked away.

“Thank you, sir,” Anakin said, straightening. He beamed at Qui-Gon, then gave a smile to Obi-Wan, who ignored the self-satisfied undertones and reached out to squeeze his arm.

The squeeze was a shield.

If he couldn’t kill Sidious, he’d darn well make sure Anakin was insulated from him.

The Sith Chancellor passed on. As they took their places, Qui-Gon murmured, “Obi-Wan…”

“I know.” He sighed. “It was one time. I won’t do it again.”

“I trust you. Besides,” Qui-Gon added, a sparkle in his eyes, “I think you got his eye to twitch a bit.”

“You saw that, too?”

They stifled their laughter like children fearing grown-up reprimand, and positioned themselves outward, facing the mouth of Theed’s grand plaza. Queen Amidala floated out, her face comparatively barren of the whitish makeup, and then Boss Nass arrived. The Orb was passed from Queen to Boss, and the beings rejoiced.

“Peace!” shouted Boss Nass.

Peace, Obi-Wan thought in agreement. For now. So let us savor it.

And he did, gazing up into the azure sky with its soaring birds and butter sun spilling light down onto all of them. Looking out into the crowds of Naboo and Gungan alike, finally united under one goal, one word, one world. Regarding Qui-Gon, alive and whole, and Anakin, whose smile was a bit less tentative toward him again. Savoring the moment. Savoring the day. One golden day.

Alright, he thought. Let’s do this. Better to paddle with the current than continually swim upstream. He had to let go. He had to trust.

Nothing had ever been harder, or easier. For without the burden of Anakin Skywalker—legacy, life, or death—he almost knew not who he was. Almost. But not quite. I’m a Jedi, and nothing can take that away from me. So long as I don’t take it away from myself. I can never forget who I am. Who I will always be. 

I'm thankful for that. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

This is Master Yan Dooku:

The most gentlemanly Jedi in the Order. One of the wisest, too. And one of the most powerful in all twenty-five millennia. No one can rival him in his ways. His elegance, from verbiage to sword-fighting style to courtly manners, is renowned far beyond the Jedi. But it is in the Jedi that he has the name, and it is great.

Consultant and friend to the likes of Mace Windu and Yoda. Held up to the Padawans as an example. Studied by the recordists, the better to examine the intricacy of his Makashi fighting style, thought long lost to the fires of time and poor etiquette. No one can stand even close to the kind of name, the kind of brand, which Dooku has carved out for himself in the Jedi Order.  

And it doesn’t matter one whit to him any longer. Because the Order has become a cancer in the body of the galaxy, as opposed to the cure they tout themselves as. Which means his entire life has been a lie. Strangely, Dooku is not so shaken by this as one might believe.

See, he has always been a bit… different. He knows not when he first recognized this. His first, earliest memory of such a jarring realization is in his youth. Playing a harmless game of grav ball with some of the Padawans, he had the ball stolen by a particularly eager youngling—who then took the credit for winning. As he gazed into her eyes, his heart grew cold and hard as stone, and he thought, Enemy. Soon, he came to realize his world order therein.

Two orders: assets or enemies. Formerly, the Jedi were assets to him. Now, he doesn’t know. He must decide, and soon, for he is not… though he sometimes feels young… a young man in any sense of the word.

He has no friends, either. They may consider him friend. But he does not consider them friend. He considers them assets—or, in some cases, he considers them enemy. In fact, he has never been entirely sure what beings mean when they speak of friendship. Love, hate, joy, anger—even when he can feel the energy of these emotions in others, they translate in his perception to other kinds of feelings.

The kinds that make sense.

Jealousy he understands, and possessiveness: he is fierce when any being encroaches on what is rightfully his.

Intolerance, at the intractability of the universe, and at the undisciplined lives of its inhabitants: this is his natural state.

Spite is a recreation: he takes considerable pleasure from a good grudge.

Pride is a virtue in an aristocrat (even one taken from his rightful station at such a young age): when any dare to impugn his integrity, his honor, or his rightful place atop the hierarchy of The Way Things Obviously Are and Must Always Be.

And moral outrage makes perfect sense to him: when the incorrigibly untidy affairs of ordinary beings refuse to conform to the plainly obvious structure of the natural order.

He is entirely incapable of caring what any given creature might feel for him. he cares only what that creature might to do him. Or for him.

Very possibly, he is what he is because other beings aren’t very… interesting.

Or even, in a sense, entirely real.

In fact, Dooku has risen so high above that he has no weaknesses at all, unlike many. Well—no weaknesses except one. He adjusts his cloak, breathing out; his breath makes puffs in the early spring, steel-sharp Coruscant air of the docking bay.

Qui-Gon makes him weak, for Qui-Gon makes him proud. He is, in fact, Dooku’s one regret. Oh, he had other Padawans, but they are no more real to him than they ever were: abstractions, simple schematic sketches that lay out the lattices of archetypes. The Perfect. The Stupid. The Overeager. Then, Qui-Gon, his final project: the Rebellious, and the Wise. Qui-Gon grew beyond his sketch to full life, blossoming before Dooku’s very eyes into the maverick everyone in the Order whispers—and has been whispering lately—obscene things about.

Loose canon.

Completely disrespectful.

Doesn’t he care about our laws at all?

Yes, Dooku is proud of him. For Qui-Gon understands the same things that he does, and has been bold enough to act on them—even before Dooku. He regrets introducing Qui-Gon into the ways of the Jedi. He would have made a much better man.

And now, though Dooku isn’t entirely sure why himself, he now waits at the edge of the landing platform. Waits in the cold and early light. Waits for Qui-Gon’s return.

Perhaps he is somewhat sure why. He would like to assure himself that his apprentice yet lives. Such stupid sentimentality does him poorly, indeed. More than that, though, he would like to see the child about whom so many whispers have gone up, traveling like a poisonous mist through the whole body of the Order.

He says he’ll train him no matter what the Council says.

Ten. Years. Old. Can you believe that? Ridiculous.

I heard he has a higher midichlorian count than even Master Yoda.

Please. No one could have that.

Alright. So, he is intrigued. After Xantanos, Qui-Gon had to be dragged kicking and screaming into partnership with the Kenobi boy. Now he launches into rock-solid commitment for a boy he doesn’t even know. It is… curious.

But no more than that. Once Dooku satisfies his curiosity, he will leave. Not just the landing platform.

The Order can turn without him. Yea, they shall probably rejoice at his leaving. And after that… well, he doesn’t know. But no man so resourceful as him can remain in bleak circumstance for long.

…***…

The ship wheezed to a stop, then jarred. Obi-Wan moaned softly, gripping the edge of the table harder.

“Jeez,” Anakin uttered. “You really don’t like flying.”

This would be the moment to bust out a witticism. Obi-Wan mumbled, “No.”

A small hand reached out, brushing along his back. “You’ll be alright. It’s over now!”

He smiled.

“See? You’re already feeling better?”

Well, yes. But that had less to do with the flight’s end than the child realized. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

“I don’t believe it,” Qui-Gon breathed.

“What? What?” Anakin jumped up like a dog seeking treats.

“It’s my master!”

“Your master? You are a master!”

Qui-Gon smiled. “We all do have a Master, Anakin, no matter how old we grow.” He ruffled the boy’s head.

Though Anakin still seemed perturbed by this revelation, they headed out from the mouth of the ship. Obi-Wan’s heart went pit-a-pat as they wound their way towards the waiting figure.

He bowed; his limbs were stiff and cold. “Master Dooku.” Just, he stopped himself from saying Count.

“Knight Kenobi.” A nod. “A pleasure that our paths should finally cross.”

At least it didn’t have the undertone of malice from Geonosis. Mostly. “Yes. My master has always spoken very highly of you.”

“Former Master, you mean?”

“Ah… of course.” He ducked his head, blushing. That would take some getting used to.

Qui-Gon was smiling so widely that it eased a good deal of the tension coiled within Obi-Wan. He hadn’t told Qui-Gon of Dooku’s defection, calling the Separatist Sith only “Tyrannus”, which was true. From a certain point of view.

“It’s so good to see you, Master,” said Qui-Gon, looking almost like a little boy again. Obi-Wan realized, quite abruptly, that he must have been a mischievous child. That light in his eyes… “How long has it been?”

“A few years.” Dooku nodded. “It is good to see you as well, old apprentice. I understand quite a few events occurred on your trip to Naboo.”

“Oh, yes. I’m thankful to young Obi-Wan here. He saved my life in the duel with the Sith.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “It was nothing, Master Qui-Gon.”

“And who is this?” Dooku asked, looking to the little boy who clung to Obi-Wan’s robe hem.

“I’m Anakin,” he said, straightening, chin going up. “And Qui-Gon is my teacher.”

The left corner of Dooku’s mouth twitched upwards. “So I’ve heard.”

“Did the Council ask for you to come meet us?” Qui-Gon asked, cocking his head.

“No. I had no particular assignments today, and since our paths had crossed… I thought we might catch up.”

“I’d like that.”

…

They walked along the hallways, quite the intergenerational collection. Heads turned wherever they went, for a wide variety of reasons. Whispers sprung up, the voices a soft rain in the background of the conversations being exchanged among the four.

“So—that’s Qui-Gon’s old Master?” Anakin whispered to Obi-Wan.

“Indeed.”

“He scares me,” he mumbled.

Obi-Wan winced. Once upon a time, you’d be right to be. Maybe you still are… Unless—well, unless Dooku didn’t depart the Order. It had been timed around Qui-Gon’s death the first time; he’d never much considered this fact.

“Well, well, well. The Order’s resident MILFs!” a voice called, then gave a bawdy laugh.

Obi-Wan’s gut clenched, then unclenched, then clenched. “Knight Vos,” he remarked. Last he’d seen the man, he had been entombed in the Fortress Inquisitorious’ horrific display hall of slain Jedi.

Even though he was being ingratiating in this moment, he couldn’t help but feel a little happy to see him again.

Others in their little group didn’t appear to share the opinion. “Vos,” Dooku drawled. “If you insist on being crass, I will have to insist that you leave us.”

Vos bowed low. “I humbly apologize, Master Dooku,” he said unrepentantly. “Couldn’t help my curiosity at this reunion. Hey, kid.”

“Hi!” Anakin said. “I’m Anakin!”

“I’ve heard so. I’m Quinlan. Call me Quinlan.”

“Awesome!” Then, “What’s a MILF?”

Vos laughed, then said, “Well, kid, it’s Master I’d Love—mmmph!”

Dooku had a hand over his mouth; Qui-Gon was shaking his head, glaring; and Obi-Wan casually finished,

“—lovingly fancy. If one could. Just a terminology for crushes in the Order.”

“Ooh! That makes sense.” Anakin nodded. But then he frowned. “But… why’d you cover his mouth, Master Dooku?”

“He has a more inappropriate way of putting things,” Obi-Wan said sadly, as Dooku slowly removed his hand, one brow arched witheringly all the while. “No respect for the tradition of Jedi anti-courtship.” He deployed his most winning smile on Anakin, who smiled back and seemed to forget all his questions in light of the flush blossoming on his cheeks.

“Make that KILF,” Vos muttered under his breath.

Dooku Force-shoved him back without turning his head or moving a muscle, and they went on their way.

…***…

It took them a few weeks to get a proper sit-down. The young Anakin seemed to be everywhere, tearing up Qui-Gon’s life like a spastic hawk-bat with its sight gone. But finally, Qui-Gon got Anakin off to one of his classes and they sat down.

“I think I may be getting too old for this,” he murmured, sipping a glass of water greedily.

“No. The lad just needs a firm hand of control.”

“Feel free to try, Master. I’d welcome it,” deadpanned Qui-Gon.

Dooku waved a hand. “Your responsibilities are yours. Mine are mine. Besides. I didn’t come here to talk about the child.”

“What did you come here to talk about?”

“I think you know.”

“I think so, too. But why not humor me anyway?”

They were three hours into such humoring when Obi-Wan came through the door, setting down what seemed to be a personal key. Padawans were supposed to relinquish those once they were Knighted; Obi-Wan had had his official ceremony a week ago. Apparently, he hadn’t obeyed protocol in this. Which was… interesting, given Dooku had thought him the Council’s lapdog.

“Hey, Master,” Obi-Wan said, still in the hall. “Sorry to just drop in like this, but I had something I wanted to ask you about that I thought of on the mission—

“Oh. C—Master Dooku. Hello.”

Obi-Wan’s smile snapped onto his face like the releasing of a rubber band. Or the putting on of a very carefully crafted mask.

“I apologize. I hadn’t realized you would be in company, Qui-Gon.”

“Not at all, Obi-Wan. We had just reached a… pausing point.” Meaning a stalemate in their rank disagreement.

“Had you? I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Sit down,” Dooku said, waving a hand. Their conversation hadn’t been going anywhere anyways.

Obi-Wan did.

“So, what did you need to consult me about?”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded, then came out with a scrupulous series of queries about proper Knight protocol on offworld missions. In other words, he lied.

Dooku knew he lied. He just couldn’t figure out why, or about what. But he knew. No person in their right mind would come to Qui-Gon Jinn for protocol instruction, and as dull as Kenobi seemed, he could go to any one of the other Masters. They all treated him like a pet of theirs these days.

Repulsive.

So no. He lied. But why, and about what?

Dooku didn’t know—yet. He did know he planned to find out, for all his senses told him he was on the edge of something very relevant. Something his Padawan and practical grandson were keeping from him… and probably from everyone else.

“Speaking of protocol,” Dooku jumped in, growing bored with this charade. “You might want to get a handle on your Padawan. He’s been spreading ‘KILF’ around and everyone thinks it’s adorable.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened before he put his head in his hands, a low moan leaving his lips. “Why, Anakin? Why?” He stood. “I’ll go handle it.” 

“Thank you, Obi-Wan. I suppose we can finish this another time.”

“Of course. I look forward to it. And thank you for your instruction.” The lad’s tone remained light, tip-of-the-tongue rolling off in short staccato syllables. “Good to see you again, Master Dooku.” He bowed, then rushed off to wrangle the boy, long hair flapping in the self-made breeze. 

“He acts more like a master than you do,” Dooku remarked. 

Qui-Gon only smiled. “I’m sure he’ll do fine.” 

“You’re getting lax in your old age, Qui-Gon.”

“I’m doing just fine, Yan. But I thank you for your concern.” 

I’m sure you are, you wily old coot. (Though of course that made him an older coot…)

…***…

Obi-Wan rushed down the corridors and wove through the halls, and by the time he found the right place, his blood had been replaced with fire. Smoke obscured thought, and all that ran through his mind was, How dare they? How dare they do this to him? How dare they mock my Anakin—

He pulled himself back using every ounce of Jedi mental discipline he had. Then he took his place, breathing deep, listening for a moment before he made his entry.

“And of course,” Aayla was saying, “there’s then the KILF anti-courtship declaration.”

“Really? How is that done?”

Obi-Wan stepped out just as Stass Ali opened her mouth. “Don’t listen to them, Anakin. They are… well, I’d say ‘being petty’ but it’s their version of pulling your leg. Making a joke,” he specified.

Anakin frowned, far too innocent. The various Knights and Padawans set their lips, far too guilty.

After Obi-Wan had gotten him away from the group, Anakin burst into tears. “They all hate me, don’t they?” he wept, voice muffled in the folds of Obi-Wan’s robe.

“Of course not.” Obi-Wan paused. That was all he’d left it at last time. Now, he went on, stroking Anakin’s hair, “They don’t know what to do with you, Annie. I think… they’re upset at the usual order of things being overturned.”

“But I’m not trying! I didn’t do anything…”

“No. And I think that may be what upsets them most.”

“Huh?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “You’ll understand in time. For now, just remember that it’s not a bad thing to be different. The way the Jedi are right now… it stifles a lot of individuality. That doesn’t mean that they are right.”

“Really?”

Until he’d said it, he hadn’t realized he had formed the opinion. When had he? In the fires of Mustafar, or the ashes of exile? Before that? Just now?

“Yes,” he said. “Really.”

Anakin smiled tentatively, then said, “You’re loads more precious than kyber, Obi-Wan.”

“Do you even know what kyber is, Anakin?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. He had a feeling ‘you’re more precious than kyber’ was one of the lines the jesting Knights and Padawans had given him.

“Nope!” He popped the ‘p’. “Doesn’t matter. You are.”

Obi-Wan’s heart squeezed and his voice box closed over, and no longer could he joke. He could only pull the boy tighter to him, settle his head on top of his, and forget about the concept of non-attachment. Because he’d never be ready to let go of this.

…***…

Obi-Wan and the boy returned a while later, all smiles and flushed cheeks. “Obi-Wan explained everything to me, Master Qui-Gon,” Anakin said. “I know they were just making fun of me. But he got back at them.”

“He did?” Qui-Gon’s brows lifted.

“Oh, yeah. He called them ‘morally repubnant’.”

“Repugnant,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“Mmmhm. And they seemed pretty miffed. It was great. Then, he helped me with my practice Katas.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” began Obi-Wan to Qui-Gon.

“Of course not. I’m glad. You were always very skilled at those.”

Anakin beamed, nodding. “He helped a lot. It makes a ton more sense now! I’m ready for a real saber.”

From behind, Obi-Wan shook his head and mouthed, No, he isn’t.

Dooku snorted softly.

Qui-Gon’s tone was indulgent. “I’ll have to assess that for myself, of course.”

“Sure!”

“I don’t think he means right now, dear one,” Obi-Wan said, ruffling the child’s hair.

“Aww.”

“Tomorrow,” Qui-Gon promised.

But that’s so long, said the boy’s expression. “Come on, Annie. We’ll make dinner, and then I’ll look over those math problems with you that you couldn’t figure out.”

“I didn’t mention them cause I wanted to work on them.”

“Yes, which is precisely why you need to work on them.”

“Qui-Gon?”

“Don’t look at me, apprentice. He’s right.”

Anakin stuck out his lower lip and uttered, “Ee chuta.”

“Chuta torba. Sor tanten,” Obi-Wan replied, eyebrow arched. He ushered a hand toward the kitchen.

The boy’s eyes bulged comically before he scurried to obey whatever command had just been given him, looking like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“What language is that?” Dooku murmured.

Qui-Gon lifted a shoulder. “Something from Tatooine, most likely.”

“Do you know what was said?”

“Not especially, though I’m guessing Anakin’s was rude.” He smiled.

Dooku huffed, shaking his head. He was right. Qui-Gon was getting old.

Or just relaxing into the life he’d chosen. As the evening went on, Anakin and Obi-Wan cooked up a grand meal, one which Dooku somehow found himself dragged into. At the table, Anakin kept stealing food off of people’s plates and using the Force to pull dishes toward him while Obi-Wan attempted to explain his latest holoNovel, a tome discussing in gratuitous depth the function of the office of Senator, and Qui-Gon alternately asked questions and swatted Anakin’s hand to make him stop his grabbing. Dooku tried to participate coherently in the discussion but eventually gave such up for the bad job that it was. After a half hour, people were laughing and joking, though he didn’t much know why it seemed so funny to them. Or to him. Because he began to laugh as well.

It wasn’t the food, or the stories, or the jokes that got him though. It was them. These three people—insane, old, and stern as they may be. They were his lineage. They were, whether anyone else realized it or not, the future of the Jedi. A future he might actually like to be a part of.

Maybe Dooku wouldn’t leave, just yet. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Setting Sun

***

He stared into the water, then shifted. As he did, the reflection shifted, too. Only the reflection was wrong. Far too young. Far too… something else he couldn’t put his finger on. But he didn’t like it, not one bit. He’d made a habit of avoiding reflective surfaces in exile. 

Seemed he’d keep up the pattern here. 

Obi-Wan turned his back on the fountain, drawing in a deep breath. Coruscant in spring always proved extreme, whether too floral or too crisp or unseasonably warm. Whoever controlled the weather seemed to like it that way. (Whoever controlled the weather!) But he found the breath easing enough for the moment. 

Lacing his fingers together behind his back, Obi-Wan stood. His boots—newly purchased—made creaking, clacking noises as he went along the latticed stone walkway. In the past couple of months, he’d gone on his first mission as an independent Knight. He had been partnered alongside Adi Gallia, and together they handled the situation tidily. Though she complimented his diplomatic prowess, and they even got a day off on the beautiful, beach-filled world, Obi-Wan had been unable to feel much. He knew he ought to enjoy his time as a Knight, freed from burdens like hair tumbled out from a coif. Instead, he only felt sucked under, as if from a current. 

The burden of teaching may be gone, but many others faced him. Many far greater ones. It seemed that every moment, another thought occurred to him, adding a new smear to the canvas of peril and precision that his opportunity in this time painted. He’d intended to speak to Qui-Gon about one particular point, but Dooku had been there, and they were required to dissemble. 

Which brought up another problem: Dooku’s wily nature. Though the Master had made no mention, Obi-Wan knew that he had suspicions. Highly unlikely to suspect time travel, doubtless, but he knew something. That something wasn’t quite right about all of this. 

How could Obi-Wan convince him otherwise? He wasn’t sure it was possible. If he avoided Dooku, he confirmed the man’s queries. If he didn’t… Well, that presented its own issues, the least of which the fact that Dooku still made him severely uncomfortable. 

He hadn’t left the Order yet, but Obi-Wan kept waiting. Bracing. Wondering how he might comfort Qui-Gon after it happened. 

Obi-Wan stopped at the edge of the garden, lifting up his sleeve to reveal the patchwork of bruises on his left arm. One of the droids he and Gallia had fought caught a good grip. Reaching out, he pressed a finger down on one of the yellowed ones, and the surge of pain and pulse of blood surged through the limb, as if it had become a live wire. 

“Ah. Knight Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan tugged down his sleeve and snapped his gaze up. “Oh. It’s you.”

Vos mock-pouted. “Is that any way to greet the guy inviting you out?”

“Sorry, but you aren’t my type.” 

“Firstly: ouch. Secondly: that’s pretty brisk and cutting. Thirdly: You aren’t my type either, so let’s just forget you ever mentioned the concept.” He shuddered. “Anyways,” he went on, grinning now, “I meant there’s a few of us going clubbing tonight. You should come.”

“I don’t—” Obi-Wan began on instinct. Then, he stopped. Really thought. Of course, he didn’t want to go clubbing. Such hedonistic pursuits were not at all his style. And yet… “When do you leave?” he asked briskly. 

Vos seemed startled. Then, he laughed. Loudly. “Good for you, Kenobi. Nine. By the statue of the elf thing. Don’t be late.” 

He wagged a finger like a reprimanding parent, a thoroughly incongruous image, before giving a wink and heading off. 

Obi-Wan had a bad feeling about this. Maybe that’s what drove him to going after all, even after obsessing for hours and repeatedly deciding that he wouldn’t go. 

…

He quickly came to regret the excursion, of course. Sitting in the booth that the majority of the group had long abandoned in favor of dancing, grinding, or chatting with various partners of a variety of species, Obi-Wan watched. And felt old. What am I even doing here? he wondered. 

He had no answer, except that he had hoped to feel something different. Well, he did. A nostalgic kind of grief instead of the usual planning frenzy or traumatized grief. What a win. 

“You know, I’ve seen happier faces as I escorted people to prison,” said Vos, plopping down beside him and arching an eyebrow. 

“I thought you’d left.”

“Almost did. She turned out to be a cryer.” He shook his head. 

“You know, you’re kind of an asshole,” said Obi-Wan calmly. 

A laugh. “So she told me, too. Only in not so many nice words. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you. You need to relax.” 

Obi-Wan didn’t possess much of an argument for that. Still, his words came out snide. “Have any suggestions?”

“Yup.”

He dug in his pants pocket, then pulled out a white pill. 

Obi-Wan yelped. “Is that a drug?” 

“Don’t call it that. Call it a little help. Come on, Obi-Wan. I can’t stand how pathetic you are right now. It’s no fun.” 

He locked his jaw, prepared to retort, goaded, when a pretty young man stopped before the table. “Hello.” 

“Hello,” said Obi-Wan, and then turned back to Vos. “If I am such a buzzkill, I will happily leave—”

“Oh, no. Don’t.” Why did the man still stand before them? Smile like that? “Dance with me.” 

Vos laughed. “I think you’re out of luck. He’s pretty exclusive.”

By which Obi-Wan felt sure he meant insult. 

Something inside him snapped. It wasn’t Vos, not really. He had better control than to let the man’s goading get to him. Instead, it was the frenzied desire to escape, in any way possible, the cage of his existence. On Tatooine, he hadn’t allowed himself to think too hard about his entrapment; if he had, he knew he might lose his mind. Now, it was all that he could think about. 

“This better not be something ineffective,” Obi-Wan muttered harshly to Vos before snatching the whitish capsule from his hand, swallowing it dry, and swinging out of the booth. He grabbed the young man’s hand and yanked him onto the dance floor. 

From then on, the night grew progressively dimmer, yet also brighter. The floor sprouted trees of black granite, and the man he danced with grew handsomer, and everything got a whole lot funnier, even the stupid jokes one of the Knights started telling. Then, the click, click, of a speeder unlocking. Someone’s lips on his, and the dim knowledge of heat and tongue and sensation, and the feel of sheets beneath his skin, the scent of lemongrass and sage. The sound of a horn honking, and someone muttering on a comm, and his head spinning and pounding and his body aching, and a pulsing blood beat shock-waving him into oblivion. 

***

He woke up slowly, then all at once. The world tilted on its axis, then tilted again. His stomach churned. Just, he managed to hold on, gripping a fist full of unfamiliar sheets. 

For a petrifying instant, he knew nothing about himself, his mind a blank slate. Then, he remembered himself—but none of last night. 

“Get up,” Obi-Wan uttered. 

Vos groaned, rolling over. When he caught sight of Obi-Wan, he gave a yelp. Looked to where his clothes remained. “Oh, thank the Force.”

“What happened last night?” Obi-Wan demanded, not even bothering with sarcastic preamble. 

“I don’t… a hundred percent… remember.”

Obi-Wan slapped a hand to his forehead. “Fabulous.” A terrible thought occurred to him. “I didn’t… say anything strange, did I?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Vos would know if he’d heard. 

“What would you’ve said?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” reiterated Obi-Wan, and he stood up. His head pounded and pulsed, and being trampled by a herd of Banthas was preferable to how his body ached. But it could have been worse. He could have spilled all his secrets. 

He had acted very foolishly last night. 

Something rustled in his pocket, and he reached inside, then squinted. Grayson. 770-AX. 

A comm number. Wonderful. Seemed he’d been charming last night. Vaguely, he recalled something… kissing… a blond young man with green eyes and a reckless kind of countenance that dared and jested in equal parts… 

Obi-Wan crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash. 

Vos stumbled up from the bed, rubbing his face with his hand. “You know,” he began conversationally, “you’re a lot more fun when you’re relaxed.”

Obi-Wan possessed no good retort. Probably it was true. “Good to know.”

Vos shook his head. “Tsk, tsk. What happened to ‘brothers for life!’? I’m hurt.”

Brothers for life. Little could this young man realize how short his life had been cut, once upon a time. “I apologize for my coldness,” Obi-Wan said, meaning this. “I am only regretting my own choices last night, no fault of your own.”

Well. Vos had offered the drug, but Obi-Wan had been the one to take it. 

“…that’s…”

“What?”

Vos lifted a shoulder. “Chill of you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Ah.” He snapped, nodded. “And the sass is back.”

As they decided that one or the other covertly leaving the room would only make this situation look suspicious in a way it wasn’t, they left together. Unfortunately, while Vos had been able to change into proper Jedi robes, Obi-Wan had to remain in his clubbing clothes—slightly rumpled from sleeping in them but otherwise unharmed—and face the stares of the Jedi populous until he returned to his rooms. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vos said, smirking. “You look sexy.”

As fate would have it, on their way they crossed paths with Anakin, who on spotting Obi-Wan dashed over, ditching whoever he’d been talking to. “Obi-Wan!”

He skidded to a stop, then cocked his head, eyes widening. “You look… different.” 

“Handsome, eh?” Vos said, grinning. “See? I told you it’s a good look.”

“Thank goodness Jedi don’t hate,” Obi-Wan said sweetly. 

“Wow. See how mean he’s being to me, Kinny? You need to tell him off for me.”

Anakin shook his head, smiling. “Sorry, Quinlan. I don’t feel like it today.”

“Nuts. Well, I should be heading off anyways. Thanks for your thoughts on that section of the Code, Obi-Wan. Very, very enlightening.”

“Nice to see you too, Vos.”

The young Knight shook his head somberly. “Brother,” he emphasized, then loped off, laughing his ass off.

Obi-Wan snorted softly, despite himself. The man had some gall. He always did….

“So, you were lecturing him on the Code?” Anakin asked, repeatedly poking Obi-Wan’s arm to make him turn his gaze back.

“A finer point, you might say, yes,” was the wry remark.

“And he asked for it? Every time anyone starts talking about the Code, my eyes and ears glaze over.”

“I have noticed.” His mouth twitched.

“Not that your lectures are boring!” cried Anakin, expression exuberant. “I just don’t have the intellectual capacity to handle them.”

“With that, I’d agree,” drawled a voice, and Dooku strolled up, Qui-Gon alongside. The aristocrat’s brow furrowed on seeing Obi-Wan. “I hadn’t realized we’d become so lax in the dress code.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be changing soon,” Obi-Wan remarked, smirking. “No need to have your sensibilities offended, Master Dooku.”

“I think it may be too late for that.” He shook his head at Qui-Gon. “Here I thought only the current one was the rulebreaker.”

“Hey!” Anakin cried. “I’m not that bad. Am I, Master?”

“Of course not,” Qui-Gon soothed, patting the boy on the arm. “You follow the flow of the Living Force wither it wills, a perfectly sound thing.”

“How exactly did he ‘follow the Living Force’ when he released that swarm of mice on the Younglings in Creche E?” Dooku asked, eyebrow arched.

Anakin’s expression turned utterly angelic as he protested, “I would never, Master!”

“Just because the security cameras happened to fail doesn’t mean I don’t know that it was you, boy. I just couldn’t prove it. Which, in case you were wondering, is exactly what I told my friends on the Council when they asked me to investigate.”

“Nothing can be proven because I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan said, drill. “Just look at how stricken you’ve made him by even suggesting it, Dooku.” He tsk’ed. “For shame.”

Anakin went into Obi-Wan’s embrace and “wept”, managing to look thoroughly stricken as he did so. But he radiated smugness in the Force so strongly all could feel it. Dooku rolled his eyes, while Qui-Gon’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Obi-Wan had a very difficult time indeed keeping down his smile.

“Besides,” Anakin added later, peering up at Dooku with wise eyes and smug face. “If you couldn’t find the culprit, I’d say it was on your investigating skills. As you’re fond of saying, sir, there’s no such thing as the perfect cover-up.”

“Why, you little—”

***

Six years later…

            “For the record, I think they’ve made a great error,” Dooku said.

            Qui-Gon cocked his head. “You think Obi-Wan isn’t deserving?”

            “Naturally.” He waved a hand, as if dismissing a servitor droid come for his plate too early. “But let’s face it: He isn’t exactly going to shake things up in that overstuffed Congress.”

            His former apprentice’s lips twitched. “I think you might be surprised.”

            “Oh, am I about to be enlightened?”

            “…beg your pardon?”

            Dooku shot him a look. “You two have been hiding something for years. I have only avoided prodding in order to respect your privacy. But I am beginning to tire of being on the outside.”

            A pause.

            Qui-Gon spoke gravely. “I understand why you might be, and I did have the feeling you knew that we hold some measure of secrecy between us, Obi-Wan and I. But it is not my secret to tell. Believe me, Master. If I could… I would.”

            Dooku shook his head. “I am not injured by it, Qui-Gon. No need to be so sorrowful.”

            “Are you sure you aren’t?”

            Before he could answer that ridiculousness, the Skywalker boy stormed in, chaotic as a spastic hawk-bat, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. At fifteen, he’d grown tall as a weed, but possessed no muscle or fat to temper it, so he had the look of a shucked corn husk that might be blown down with the wind—and a pair of webbed feet to match, it seemed, as he tripped over Dooku’s tenth century Valsi table in his haste to reach them. Once he had, he set his hands on his knees, wheezed a little, and then breathed, “Did you hear the news?”

            “Yes.” Dooku rolled his eyes. “We’re all so very proud of young Kenobi—”

            “Not that! Mina Bonteri announced the succession of, like, three hundred worlds to the Separatist cause!”

            Well, that got Dooku’s blood pumping through his congealed arteries.

…

Anakin looked so grown up these days. In the teenage way, of course, the overstretched, somewhat misfitted fashion that always occurs with those who grow tall and strong later on. But already, Obi-Wan could glimpse pieces of the man he would become, and it made his heart stir with a confusion of feelings, all of them quite potent.

Fear and joy were the most powerful among them.

But right now, he must focus. Not just for his own good, but for the good of this mass meeting. A sea of somber faces looked out at him from his perch on the middle-right chair of the Council chamber, and Obi-Wan gave thanks that he would not be the one required to speak. What possible comfort could he provide?

Certainly not Yoda’s useless, senseless words about their job being to calm the crisis and keep the peace and depend on the guidance of the Force in all while they never exceeded their mandate. “To the Senate, we leave the politics,” he said, and of course, yes.

But also no. What naivete.

It was Dooku who took up the mantel of speaker for the assembled. “You do realize, Masters, that this is a gravely concerning development for the future of the galaxy—and not just that, but closer to home, the future of the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan was so busy silently cheering Dooku on (a surprise enough in of itself) that he nearly missed Windu’s reply. “So long as we stay to our tenants, this situation cannot hurt us.”

His response hurt one, at least. Obi-Wan felt as though he’d been sliced through all over again. He shut his eyes, unable to stop the stream of thoughts that flowed from that one beautifully ignorant comment. It already has hurt us, he thought. It began hurting us the moment the Battle of Naboo occurred, the occupation. Maybe before that, when we failed to realize that the Sith had returned before…

Before so much damage could be caused.

“Master Obi-Wan. A thought you have?”

He opened his eyes to find everyone staring at him. Everyone. No matter how many yeas of diplomatic or Council experience he might have, he knew he should never like to be the center of attention.

It didn’t do well to lie on one’s second day on the Council, Obi-Wan reflected. So he hunted for an acceptable truth. “This situation disturbs me,” he said finally. “The dark side of the Force surrounds the Separatists.”

A ripple of conflicting currents surged in the Force.

Finally, Dooku said, “I’ve sensed it as well. Have you considered, Masters, that this may be a part of a larger plot?”

“What kind of a plot?” Windu said, and shook his head. “The Confederacy of Independent Systems stems from discontent with the political system. Mina Bonteri is an idealist, not an evil woman.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that she was.” Surely Obi-Wan wasn’t imagining the emphasis on she. “But given the recorded, known return of the Sith, does it not make sense that they may have some involvement in this?”

The moment Dooku spoke, the rain of voices began. Quickly, it turned into a downpour, as conflicting tones fought to be heard over the others. It didn’t exactly live up to Jedi tenants of peace and serenity, of calmly discussing issues until a resolution arrived.

“Speculation, this is!” Yoda cracked his gimmer stick on the ground. Rapp! Rapp! Rapp! “Quiet down, you will!” No one, even the angriest or most discontent at Dooku’s suggestion, dared go against the Grand Master; quiet soon descended. Yoda went on, “Waste our time on such fruitless pursuits, we will not. Focus only on the moment, and how to address that which immediately faces us, we will. In that vein, take this a day at a time, we must, and jump to no conclusions.” His lambent gaze narrowed in on Dooku.

Obi-Wan knew a stab of something akin to pity as the older man wilted the slightest fraction under his old master’s disapproval. He cares about what Yoda thinks of him, Obi-Wan thought, something of a revelation. Even if he’ll never admit it to himself, he cares.

But not more than he cared about justice. With tight countenance and lips pursed so much they’d turned almost ashen, Dooku inclined his head. “Very well, Master.”

With that, the meeting concluded. Obi-Wan said nothing else the whole time, and very little in the Council meeting after. He really had nothing to say. Felt it should be rather like shouting into a gale, or waiting for rain during a drought.

Useless, and disappointing.

He would spend his words more wisely.

Which was what found him knocking at the door to Qui-Gon’s apartment at quarter to seven, freshly showered and meditated. Dooku opened the door, wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled a rotted fish, then smoothed out his expression and announced silkily, “Master Kenobi is here.”

Anakin hopped down from the counter, scattering his homework papers on the way. Flushing, he fumbled to scoop them up, though he really only ended up messing them about further, and finally he dashed toward Obi-Wan. “Hey!”

He laughed. “Hello, Anakin. Working on those reflexes, I see.”

“It’s not my fault!” the boy wailed. “Qui-Gon says you were clumsy, too, at this age!”

The liar sat up from his easy chair, taking off his reading glasses and maintaining a perfectly sober mien. “I thought he might relate to your experience,” he said.

“I see,” said Obi-Wan. He couldn’t stay irritated about Qui-Gon’s fictions, though. “I’m glad to find you all together. I hoped to.”

“Oh, does the Council have an assignment for us?” Dooku sounded entirely polite.

Exactly that tipped Obi-Wan off. “Not that I’m aware. It was a discussion of a different nature I intended.”

“Of course! Just tell us what you wanted to talk about, Obi-Wan! Did you want to share secret scripts from the Council meeting? Are they plotting a deep state operation of spying? Or do you want to crowd-fund for a new chair, cause that one looks so old and uncomfortable—”

“Qui-Gon, I beg you. Make the child stop talking. I’m getting a migraine.”

“There’s pills in the cabinet if you need one, Yan.”

Obi-Wan held up a hand, and silence fell. Remarkable. His new power as a Master, he supposed. “As much as I appreciate the suggestion, Anakin, the chair I have is perfectly fine. I came to discuss the Sith infiltrating the Separatist movement.”

“The Council knows?” Dooku’s gaze had narrowed, his voice lowering an octave.

“Naturally, no,” Obi-Wan said. Just, he stopped himself from saying, They don’t want to believe it. There are none more determined than the willfully blind. He went on, “But I am hoping that, together, we might gather enough evidence of it to alert the Council. More than that, though, I am hoping…” He paused. “—I am hoping that we will be able to find out the Sith’s greater plan, and stop them. Perhaps even prevent a war.”

“Oh, come on! It couldn’t come to that.” Anakin hesitated on seeing the expressions on his master’s and Dooku’s faces.

“I hope not,” Obi-Wan said, from the bottom of his heart. “But I cannot be so certain, not when the only end between Jedi and Sith is conflict. I am coming to you all because I know and trust you, and believe that you can keep confidence among yourselves—and perhaps a few others. And because… unfortunately I think it better we work on this privately rather than involving the greater Jedi Body, or the Council.”

“You’re suggesting we form a cabal?” Dooku said, and for once he didn’t look disdainful.

“A resistance group, perhaps. But only to the Sith, not the greater Jedi,” he added swiftly. “I very much still believe.”

“You are too idealistic that way, Obi-Wan. Frankly, I am no longer convinced either the Republic or the Jedi can be saved. Not like this, anyways.” Dooku shook his head. It was the first time he’d called Obi-Wan by his given name. “Which is why I will absolutely do what you suggest. Consider me ‘in’ on this, as they say.”

“Me too,” Qui-Gon said, softly. “You know that already.”

“And me!” Anakin cried, exuberant as his nine-year-old incarnation, though his eyes held a gravitas those eyes hadn’t. “I’ll go on the DarkNet right away and get a pack of a dozen thermal detonators—”

“Oh, yes. We should definitely begin by building up our reputations as illegal arms’ merchants. Excellent suggestion, boy.”

“Hey. At some point, we’re gonna need to detonate some kriff—sorry, Obi-Wan. It just slipped out—and I want to be ready!” He pulled himself to his full height—just at Obi-Wan’s eye level, now. “I’m in.”

Their support warmed him, though nothing in this moment truly could. Not with what they faced. Together, though, and with the backing of the Force… Obi-Wan prayed they might do this. “The sun is setting on the old, that much is sure,” he said. “It’s time for something new to rise and take its place. Let it be what we create.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: All the Day Long

This is Anakin Skywalker: 

The best Padawan of his generation. Of any generation, maybe. The fastest. The strongest. Quickest on the coil. Best on the spring. He fails at nothing and succeeds at everything. He makes his Master proud, and lives up to his midichlorian count each day. 

At least, that is what he tells himself in the mirror each morning. A year or so ago, he read a book called the ‘Manifesting Manifesto,’ and one of the critical steps within it was that the reader gain a sufficient level of self-confidence before attempting any of the manifesting steps. So it is Anakin’s solemn duty to acknowledge his prowess and build himself up. 

How else will he manifest his heart's desires?

Two in particular. 

One: Become the best Jedi Knight in the Order’s history, bring peace and justice to the galaxy, and free all the slaves. (He lumps this into one congruous category for the sake of streamlining.) 

He doesn’t worry much about this goal. Even without the help of the Manifesting Manifesto, he is strong enough, powerful enough, on the right track to accomplish all of these things. He will do it. He never allows himself to question.

Then comes two. Obi-Wan. 

This one he does end up questioning, far too often.

This one he has never told anyone of.

He has always been careful to conceal the truth of his feelings. His crush. For that was what it was, until lately. Until his revelation that somewhere along the line, as his body matured his heart did also, and no longer was it boyish feelings that rose up within him at the mere sight of the one everyone now calls “Master Kenobi” with a reverence close to that of how they refer to Yoda. 

And Anakin hates himself for this second one. Because his desire makes every day a torture of inexpressible proportions, as he knows he yearns for what he can never have. No book can change that. No amount of growing up. No compliments paid or Anti-Courtship rules followed or even the barest hope that Obi-Wan might ever feel the same way. 

Of course he doesn’t. Anakin is fifteen, and while he suspects he will turn out handsome, that would mark no difference in the sand-scape of the older man’s fearless dedication to the Jedi Code. 

Oh, Obi-Wan might break a rule here and there. The White Suns prove that well enough. But never for a cause outside his precious, his beloved. His Jedi Order. 

Anakin would like to hate Obi-Wan, too, just for that. For tempting him in like a siren, then turning round and dunking his head under the water until breath abandons his body. But Obi-Wan means every word he says, every action he does. 

It makes him thoroughly impossible to hate. He is, quite simply, a true believer. 

And a great one at that. 

Because—and Anakin admits this to no one else, hardly even himself most moments—where Anakin might be the best, Obi-Wan is the greatest. A warrior who’d rather not fight. A negotiator without peer who’d prefer to sit in a room and meditate. A wise man unparalleled who thinks others have more value than he. A master of a form considered unusable by so many, yet who manages to make it fly such that everyone now looks to him. 

Everyone looks to him. Between his humility, his gentle smiles, his soft jests, his wisdom, and the twinkle in his eye when he battles, why wouldn’t they? He is the example Masters hold up to Padawans, the prize hero of the next generation of Jedi. He is Anakin’s hero, also. 

He is what Anakin knows he can never be. 

Which, of course, is also why Anakin could never deserve him. 

He hates knowing that, too. 

There are moments, though. Moments when he lets himself delude himself. When Obi-Wan walks into a sun-filled room that makes his hair shine like spun silk, red and gold, and his full lips quirk into a smile at the sight of Qui-Gon (sometimes Dooku, too) and then the special look crosses his face. The one reserved just for Anakin. And Anakin lets himself imagine that Obi-Wan smiles not at his Master’s Padawan, thinking of Anakin as a child, but as a growing young man, and that he knows the same stirring within his soul, the same fissure within his gut. And then Obi-Wan might make the walk over in a few staccato steps—one, two, three—to tap, at the beat, on Anakin’s arm before he says, “My goodness, dear one. You’ve grown up.” 

And Anakin could be content forever to stand here, watching the rays play across Master Kenobi’s—Obi-Wan’s, his Obi-Wan’s—face, seeing the soft smile on his lips, breathing in the scent of sage and lavender that is distinctly him…. 

“Stop daydreaming, boy.” 

The balled-up piece of flimsi swats him in the head and jars him back to reality. “What was that for?”

Dooku smiles calmly, but his eyes glitter. Guy holds malice in him like some Sith. “You weren’t paying attention to my lecture.” 

“You aren’t here to lecture me! You’re waiting for Qui-Gon, and I’m doing my homework!”

“Yes. But I got bored of waiting.”

“Then watch the HoloNet!”

“Far too much propaganda these days,” Dooku sniffs, adjusting the folds of his emerald cloak. 

Well, Anakin can’t disagree with that much. 

“Besides. I’m helping you,” Dooku adds. 

“I missed how giving me a flimsi cut helps me.”

“Please. That flimsi hardly scratched you. I meant in teaching you that your hopeless crush will yield nothing.” 

The flush bursts out on Anakin’s cheeks, crawling down his neck and onto his chest, and he yelps, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” and his voice, which has been doing so lately, squeaks on this last. 

Dooku regards him with the aristocratically unimpressed look of a gentleman who has heard it all and believed very little of it. “Yes. I’m certain that you don’t. Just take my advice and stop it. You’ll only end up embarrassing yourself and tormenting the boy.”

Anakin sets his jaw. He should remain silent, feign ignorance, but—“I’d never torment him!”

“Yes, you would. You never do well when you don’t get what you want.”

That’s it! Anakin throws himself to his feet, marches over, and realizes Dooku is still several inches taller than him. Too late now, though. “Neither do you! So don’t give me a lecture, alright?”

Dooku’s lips turn downward in a humorless lilt. “I am aware,” says he simply. “Which is why I hoped to spare you the torment. Such a thing does not mesh well with our prized Jedi tenants.”

Anakin’s mouth opens and closes as he tries to find a reply to that, because is Dooku actually trying to mentor him somewhat? He’d say stranger things have happened, but—

“I don’t need your help!” Anakin stomps his foot on the ground. “I’m grown up and I can make my own choices!” 

With that, he storms off, ignoring Dooku’s snide, “Oh, yes. Very grown up.” After he slams the door to his room and locks it (and shoves a desk against it) he flops onto his bed, grabs his pillow, and snatches the item beneath it. 

Obi-Wan smiles out from the holo image, and Anakin’s stomach gives a fresh flop, his heart a new squeeze. 

And in this moment, he knows that being the best will only mean that he is never quite good enough. Not for what matters most to him.

***

“Good morning, Anakin.”

Anakin nodded, and smiled in an ingratiating way at Dooku, who sniffed. “Good morning, Obi-Wan!”

“I’m looking forward to going on this mission together,” Obi-Wan began conversationally to the group at large.

“Oh, yes. Should be lots of fun.” Dooku downed three of the cabinet pills and swallowed them dry.

“We’re looking forward to it,” said Qui-Gon. “Very fortunate that the Council saw fit to assign us all to this.”

“I don’t believe in fortune!” Obi-Wan said with cheer, and the twinkle in his eyes was so pretty as he—

“AAAAGHPPH—!”

“I am so sorry, Anakin. Did I spill all my caff on you? Poor boy. My reflexes just aren’t what they used to be. Muscle spasms, you know. I best go take my medication…”

Anakin ripped off his scalding-hot shirt, throwing it in Dooku’s face before he took off to rinse in a cold shower. The asshole’s sole intention, no doubt.

When Anakin emerged, dripping-wet and prickly as a kitten bathed for the first time, he found only Dooku waiting for him. “Master Jinn and Master Kenobi are waiting on the ship. I told them I’d stay here and escort you,” he said, setting down the tome he’d been flipping through and giving Anakin a thoroughly tidy smile that made the boy want to claw him.

Dooku added, “Did you enjoy your shower?”

***

In Anakin’s defense, it wasn’t his fault. Sure, Qui-Gon always cautioned him about keeping his lightsaber with him, and he worked to! That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that his lightsaber liked to run away from him when he least expected it. Or when it was least convenient.  

Which is how he found himself cowering in a corner, breaths coming hard, wondering how he’d ever get out this one while the scary lady glided toward him, tsk’ing as she rolled his lightsaber in her spidery fingers. “Little Jedi. You shouldn’t have come along on the grown-up’s mission, and you definitely shouldn’t have stormed on ahead.” She shook her head. “So reckless of you.”

Anakin could think of no good retort, but that was what heroes did, right? In situations like this? Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan would have a good line. Channeling him, Anakin cried, “You won’t get away with this!”

Okay. Maybe not quite the Obi-Wan-esque answer he’d hoped for.

“I already have. The Separatists pay very well.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said a new voice, and Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan emerged from the cave entrance! Breath surged back into Anakin’s body. “Now stop scaring the child, Ventress, and give me back his lightsaber. That is his, I presume?”

Anakin’s face burned. Child. And, of course, lightsaber. Even worse was that Obi-Wan knew it was his…

The woman, Ventress, sniffed. “He is an insipid little fool, Kenobi. I don’t know why you bother with him.”

“He’s my Master’s Padawan. Now, how much did the Separatists pay you to guard here?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to pay you more, obviously, to go.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, and Anakin scrambled to his feet since the woman didn’t seem about to attack with her red blade again.

Ventress paused. “Ten thousand credits.”

“It wouldn’t have been more than eight.”

“Nine.”

Obi-Wan pulled out a wallet, took out a shining credit solid, and handed it to her in exchange for the lightsaber.

Ventress smiled. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, but I would have done it for eight, you know.”

“And I, my dear, would have done it for ten.”

His dear?

“Oh, you are a rat.” She huffed. “I still can’t believe what I heard, that anyone thinks you scrupulous enough to appoint to the Jedi Council.”

Yeah. Anakin was wondering a bit himself…

Obi-Wan simply shrugged. “Sometimes the ends justify the means. We’ll be heading out now. Oh, and please don’t go after any of the prisoners we released. The Republic really wants them back, and I paid for intact beings.”

“Fine, fine,” Ventress said lazily. “I will see you again, Kenobi.”

“I’m counting on that.” And then he winked.

Anakin’s gut curdled.

“You’ve been quiet,” Obi-Wan remarked after they’d made their way back to the ship and waited for Dooku and Qui-Gon’s return.

He shrugged. “I thought you’d like to keep thinking about your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend? You mean Ventress?” Obi-Wan laughed, hard. “Believe me, Anakin. That is not the dynamic there.”

“So you just flirt with everyone you meet, then?” Anakin wailed. He didn’t mean to wail. He’d like to say he didn’t wail.

But it was a wail. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He set his jaw, his lips trembling.  

“Of course not.” Obi-Wan had the nerve to look offended. “I wasn’t flirting with her, just…”

“I know what flirting looks like, and you were flirting with her!”

“And how would you know, Anakin?” Obi-Wan smiled now, a teasing light in his eyes. “Have you tried your hand on a recent mission?”

It wasn’t to be borne, these insults! Between Obi-Wan calling him a child, the way he’d had to rescue him, and now this—it wasn’t to be borne! “I wouldn’t need to,” he spat. “Unlike you, apparently, I don’t just give it out at free will.”

“Well!” Qui-Gon tromped through the mouth of the ship, put his hands together. “I’d say that was successful.”

“Except for the fact where that red-blade wielder got away,” returned Dooku. “I saw her running to her ship. You didn’t even try to take her, Obi-Wan?”

Anakin smiled sweetly as he stood up. “I’m sure he’ll do it someday, Masters. You can depend on him for that.” Take her. Take her. Take her stormed through his mind like the thunder of a thousand chariots over barren ground. Heading for sure battle.

With that—a solid, witty retort of which he felt quite proud indeed—Anakin tromped from the room. Kriff Obi-Wan! He didn’t need him.

He wouldn’t want damaged goods anyways, he decided forcefully. He didn’t want that. He’d find others he wanted. Forget goal two. He—he hated Obi-Wan.

***

It wasn’t that Anakin was being a jerk, because he wasn’t. So some of the Padawans said so. What did they know? It wasn’t like he was breaking any rules. Far from it. He was the one enforcing them, in a sense.

Kissing a new being every other day, then ditching them, lived up precisely to the law of non-attachment. The others just weren’t as mature and evolved as him, and couldn’t get it through their heads, tentacles, or sensory-stim-organs that he was a one-and-done kind of man. Exclusive. Cool about everything. Done when he was done.

Certainly, the species flocked to him. Why should he turn them away? Many were pretty, and even if they weren’t, they were all a pair of lips and a set—sometimes more than a set—of warm hands to caress him, and a voice to assure him that he was such a good kisser, and very desirable, and did he want to go to the supply closet…?

That was where Anakin drew the line, every time. And for some reason, they all got offended! So he didn’t want to grope and/ or touch and/ or take them by pistoning his—

Violet Prior, a human girl with purple hair and hands that liked to wander despite his efforts against them, breathed one day when Anakin was sixteen, “You want to go to the swimming pool tonight?”

Anakin frowned internally. Why was she inviting him swimming? But he knew the necessity of keeping up the bad- boy know-it-all air that seemed to send all the species flocking to him. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, he ran a single finger down her cheek, as though he longed to do more. (Really, he’d grown bored of her halfway through Day One.) “You know that’s not how I roll, Vi. You shouldn’t even ask.”

She sighed desolately. “I know, but I just thought, maybe, for me…”

Her hand tried to wander again. Anakin found himself drawn in, if only by the heat of another body, because his thoughts had begun to stray horribly. He’d managed, after that one incident, not to say the name “Obi-Wan” when kissing anyone, but he hadn’t ever managed to stop thinking the name, or about other things. Like imagining that was who he kissed…

Prior giggled, obviously thinking his bodily response had come for her. If only. She deepened the kiss, and Anakin allowed her to, striving to lose himself, rid himself of the disease that was these circular thoughts about one single person he didn’t want and anyways couldn’t have even if—

Someone coughed, and the two broke apart, Anakin just missing getting his tongue bit down on.

Whoops, he mused, seeing the stone-like face of Windu. Then, he perked up on seeing Windu’s companions. Yoda (that didn’t matter). And Obi-Wan, pink as a modest bride on her wedding eve, eyes darting this way and that as a means to avoid any prolonged contact with anyone.

Anakin decided keeping up the persona served best. “Oh, hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

Windu looked as if he’d been force-fed a whole raw lemon. “What is ‘up’, Skywalker, is that we require the use of this room, which is intended for dueling.”

“Sure. I’m all about two people duking it out for a few hours until they’re nice and sweaty.” He winked at Violet, who burst into giggles, even while trying to hide herself behind him. Before Windu could say anything else, he added (loudly) to Violet, “See you tonight.”

Then he strode off, head high, that swagger in his step he knew everyone liked. Well, not the Masters, but regardless.

He had no intention of meeting the girl. But the look on Obi-Wan’s face had been more than worth the lie.

And besides! Such a ditch could only stoke the flames of their ardor for him! He was the one they all craved!

Well, except for one who didn’t.

Which didn’t bother him!

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Only Just Beginning

“This acrimony is escalating too fast,” said Mace as he, Yoda, and Obi-Wan walked along the halls of the Jedi Temple, their heads bowed in conversation, their hearts asunder over the latest news. 

At least, Obi-Wan’s was. But he made sure to carefully keep projecting calm. Ease. The kind of emotions a Master would be feeling in this moment. “It is… an unfortunate situation,” he ventured. 

“The Separatist’s refusal to hold talks and the Republic’s refusal to recognize them is only exacerbating already taught threads.” Mace shook his head. “There are shatterpoints all around this, though I can’t see where they lead…” 

You don’t want to, thought Obi-Wan.

“With all due respect, Master Windu, it isn’t the Republic that refuses to hold talks with the Separatists. Several senators, including Organa and Amidala, have offered to do so. It’s the offense that the Chancellor caused by refusing to recognize the movement as a valid splintering.”     

Mace shot him a look. “It isn’t a valid splintering. The constitution doesn’t allow for succession.”

“Actually, I’d say it’s a matter up for debate, since it doesn’t directly specify.”

“Interpolating, it’s entirely clear that–”

“Useless, this argument is!” Yoda rap-tap-tapped his gimmer stick on the floor, and both men straightened to attention. The Grand Master shook his head, his green eyes narrowed. “Useless, this is, and does nothing in help.”

Obi-Wan bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Master. You’re right. Political… technicalities are for the Senate, and thank goodness.” He shot Mace a wry smile.

The Korun softened somewhat. Though it was all on a relative scale from stone to grit.

“Back to the topic, we must go,” continued Yoda.

“Yes, Master,” Mace agreed. “But what options have we, really? If—for whatever reason—we can’t arrange peace talks with the Separatists, then there is little recourse. The conflict will continue to escalate, one thing we can’t allow. Besides. We gave our word, and shouldn’t have to disappoint the Chancellor.”

Oh, I have a feeling you’ll make his day by telling him there will be no easy resolution, Obi-Wan mused.

He said, “I have an idea. Why don’t I head up a mission into Separatist space? Very hush, hush. We wouldn’t even tell the Chancellor, so as not to disappoint him if nothing comes of it.” And so he can’t ruin it before we get there. “Senator Amidala is friends with Senator Bonteri. I’m sure that she could arrange something, even come with us, perhaps.”

Yoda and Mace exchanged a glance. Given Yoda didn’t object, Mace lifted a shoulder. “It’s not a bad idea. Force knows you’re a master operator in tricky spots.”

“That’s very kind of you to say that I’m a ‘master,’ but really—”

“Not a Master. The Master.” Before Obi-Wan could muster a reply to that one, Mace asked, “Who would you take with you?”
And Obi-Wan found himself smiling now. “Oh, I know just the people.”

…

“Another mission after only a couple months? Wow! They must really be fans of our work on Tessin.”

“Fans of ‘our’ work? Yes, they must be.” Dooku took a sip of his caff, and Anakin danced away from the projectile distance of the cup to beam at Obi-Wan. The good news of the coming mission, it seemed, had melted the frost between them of late. Or thawed it, at least. Obi-Wan felt glad.

“When do we go?”

“In a week or so. Senator Amidala and I need to make sure everything is organized and ready, and must do so quietly as well.”

“…Padmé’s helping you with this?”

“Indeed.” Obi-Wan couldn’t help a stirring at the clear eagerness in Anakin’s gaze. Seemed that crush had still taken its course. Though he knew not whether to feel good or bad about that… so much destruction had come of that breaking of the Code. At least Anakin didn’t seem so set on her, as evidence of late showed. “Speaking of, I should get going to meet with her. I just wanted to notify you all so that you had plenty of time to prepare yourselves.”

Dooku was slipping something into his cloak pocket. It looked to be one of the headache pill bottles, but surely Obi-Wan was mistaken. “I appreciate the early notice. I’ll be going on meditative retreat for this week before we go. No one contact me.” With that, he left in a fluttering of ruby-red cloak and soft sneering at Anakin.

“Won’t he need the coordinates of our meeting spot to take off?” Qui-Gon mused at last.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to interrupt him at some point.”

“Don’t,” said Anakin. “Just let him meditate himself off the mission.”

“I’d rather not.” For more reasons than one, though Obi-Wan had no plans to share. Slowly over time, he’d become more secure in the idea that Dooku wasn’t imminently going to stab them all in the backs and fly to the Separatists. Though he doubted he’d ever feel entirely comfortable around the man, he also recognized the usefulness of maintaining Dooku on the Jedi side—and the White Suns side—as well as getting his expertise on certain Separatist-related matters.

Like this mission. “Anyways. Thanks for agreeing to come on this. It’s much appreciated.” He paused. “But I did want to say, Anakin, if you don’t feel comfortable coming, there’s no shame in saying so—”

“Why wouldn’t I come? I’m sixteen! I’m not a kid!” (Whilst pushing out his lower lip and crossing his arms in front of his chest.)

Qui-Gon stepped forward. “Anakin, I think what Obi-Wan is saying is that this is a highly delicate diplomatic mission and—”

“And I’m just going to mess it all up, right? Because that’s what I do? I mess things up? Cause I’m a bratty little kid who can’t handle himself or control his urges?”
Obi-Wan’s mouth opened and closed. No sound emerged. “I… I really am not sure that I should… be here for this conversation—”

“I’m going!” Anakin whirled on him, poking a finger into his chest with each staccato syllable. “I. Am. Going. And you’ll just have to deal with it, alright? Sorry to inconvenience you, Master Kenobi.” With that, he set his chin high in the air and took lofty-yet-swift steps into his bedroom and slammed the door.

The reverberating sound gave Obi-Wan a pulsating ache behind his left eye. Rubbing his temples, he mused, “No matter what I say lately, it seems wrong…”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Qui-Gon sighed. “Whatever I say is wrong, too.”

///

I walk along the half of 500 Republica, my heart in my throat at what I must now do. A terrible time. A perfect time. The only time. I have never shied away from doing what is required of me, but now… Now I find myself hesitating horribly before I rap on the door.

“Master Kenobi?” Padmé adjusts her face to remove the smile, wipes away the light in her eyes. Secures the folds of her robe over the center of her body. “What a surprise. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, Senator.”

After I’m seated, I begin, “Senator—Padmé—I don’t mean to pry, but I think that you can help me.”

“Help you? Of course, I’ll do whatever I can. But what—?”

“It’s about Anakin.”

“Anakin?” she echoes, eyes carefully wide. Lips carefully parted. “I’m sorry, but how could I help you with something related to Anakin?” The speculation in her tone times just right, a tap on ‘t’.

“Please, Padmé. I am not blind, though I have tried to be, for your sake. And for Anakin’s. You know not the kind of trouble you could both get into if the details of your relationship are exposed.”

“Relationship? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not—” I put up a hand—“asking for details. It’s far better that I don’t know. I just had to come here to warn you, and to ask you to help him.”

“…he’s in trouble?” The flush in her cheeks dulls to a snowy pallor. “How?”

Oh, how I wince internally at her lack of artifice. Skilled though she may be on the Senate floor, does she realize the light that comes to her eyes when someone so much as mentions his name? “I can’t entirely say,” I reply slowly. “But he’s been under a lot of stress lately… he hasn’t been sleeping well, of course—”

“Sleeping? How would you know how he’s been sleeping?”

“We sleep in the same tent, Padmé,” I say drily. “Often the droids attack in the middle of the night and we need to be ready.” And Anakin said he didn’t want to sleep alone after Jabiim. Neither did I. But I keep that to myself. “My point is that he’s under great strain right now, and while I have tried… while I am trying… to help him, I’m not certain that… I am being of any help.”

“You’re right. You aren’t.”

Both Padmé and my heads whip around to find Anakin standing in the doorway, precluding the exit with his bulk. But… it isn’t Anakin. I shrink back, heart going, Boom, like a canon shot. I take in the yellow eyes, the blood-red saber, the sickly smile dancing on his lips—

“So. I see you’ve come to my wife to interfere with my life yet again, Obi-Wan.”

“Your wife?” I gasp. But—I knew that already, didn’t I? Yes, I did. They married. I knew that because… because? I can’t quite catch the gossamer thread of answer. “Anakin,” I say, my mouth dry. Put my hand up. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“You lie to me. You’ve always lied to me. Nothing you ever say is the truth! I know the lies of the Jedi now! And they’ve paid for it. They’ve paid.”

My knees turn to water and I sway. “No… not again…”
“They’ve paid,” he repeats, his sulfur gaze burning with rage and hatred and, yes, vindication. “You’re the only one left now, Obi-Wan. You’re the last Jedi.”

“No…”

“I’ll give you a chance. You know, for old-time’s sake. Walk away.”

I draw in a deep breath. The air tastes of lemon cleaning solution and steel, and something icy-sharp. Slowly I remember what it means to be a Jedi. And I turn myself crystalline in that knowledge, letting go into the Force. Nothing matters but that.

Nothing.

“If only I could.”

For a single instant, something like anguish cracks across Darth’s visage. Then, it’s gone, a snarl in its place. “Then you will die.”

“If the Force wills it.”

Padmé rushes forward, trying to get between us. “No, Anakin! No! You can’t fight him! What’re you doing? What’s happened to your eyes…?”

And after he chokes her, she crumples into the sea of corrupted carpeting.

///

“Obi-Wan.”

“Obi-Wan!”

“AAAAAAGHHHH—!”

“Get away from him, you foolish boy! He’s not yet fully aware, don’t you see?”

Ironically, it was Dooku’s durasteel tones that brought Obi-Wan back to said awareness. His heart thundered in his chest like a caged animal seeking escape. His limbs trembled. Sweat dampened his body and the sheets.

He lay back down, remembering where he was. The ship. The mission. The meditation he’d gone off to do.

The nightmare.

More than a nightmare?

He couldn’t look at Anakin. He couldn’t look at Qui-Gon. In fact, the only person he could stand looking at was Dooku.

“Seemed like an intense vision,” remarked the Master, that familiar note of probing in his voice.

Obi-Wan found no words. Silver tongue having abandoned him, he knew only the nakedness of shame and exposure. He looked down to the bedsheets. Took a fist of them and held on for dear life. It was only a dream, he told himself. It was only a dream.

What if it wasn’t only a dream…?

“I think I’d like some time alone before we land,” he said, and his voice sounded measured enough. No one who didn’t know him very well would notice. Alas. Most here did know him well enough.

But they didn’t argue. It was only as the last filed out that Obi-Wan said, spur of the moment,

“Master Dooku, can you wait a moment?”

Since he was still looking down, only the clack-clack-clack of the man’s leather boots alerted him to the stopping. The door clicked shut. Good. They didn’t need anyone eavesdropping.

Obi-Wan looked up. “Something’s coming. It wasn’t a vision, just a dream, a nightmare, almost a memory, but… it was also a warning. I’m sure of it. Something is coming.”

“The Sith.”

He suppressed a flinch. “Why would you say so?”

“You kept screaming, ‘Darth, no’. But even if you hadn’t… I’ve sensed the dark growing stronger the closer we drew to the world. Though I had hoped I might be wrong and this could end today.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, equal parts resignation and anticipation flowing through him. “Unfortunately, I do believe that this is only just beginning.”

Chapter Text

Note to readers:

So... hi, there. It's been longer than the one month I think I said I was taking off almost a year and a half ago. 😂 The short version is that life has been wild and adulthood is difficult, as I'm sure you all can understand. But in the prolonged hiatus, many of you have left the loveliest comments, which I absolutely treasured reading today when coming back to look at this story. Thank you for your amazingly kind words, which warmed my heart so much. It's wonderful to know that One Lone Candle continues to bring joy to readers. 💜🥰💜

As mentioned, real life has taken over a lot more of my time, so I've had to very strictly prioritize which writing projects to work on. Pretty much, I've been able to work on one fanfiction and one original novel at a time, and both somewhat sparsely at points. This work just wasn't making the cut for a long time. Yet, as I get closer to finishing my main long-term fanfiction on another account of mine, I am playing with the idea of returning to this work. 

My question for you, lovely readers, is whether or not you are still interested in seeing One Lone Candle finished. I know it's been a while, and I understand that life moves on for you all, as well. Given my time constraints and real-life challenges, I need to be very circumspect about how I invest my time. So this is a sort of poll that'll help me decide whether or not to seriously consider continuing this work.

If you're able, please leave a comment letting me know your thoughts, because it would help me out a lot! 

Thank you for your thoughts and support. 

Best wishes,

Lavender 

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

            Sweat slicked the inside of Obi-Wan’s shirtsleeves, and it wasn’t just the jungle world around them. As a neutral, sparsely populated world, Haruun Kaal was an ideal meeting spot in every way—except for the horrific multispecies animal population the minute you stepped anywhere south of the hotel they’d met in the restaurant of. Glittering black beetles tried to skitter up his pant legs; shining golden and green birds swooped overhead, about the size of Obi-Wan's own body; and mischievous-looking monkeys peered from tree branches, their eyes oddly unblinking. An unsettled Obi-Wan strode alongside Mina Bonteri, Senator Amidala, and the rest of their coterie, Dooku at the head. As a count by birth and an astute politician, he could cut through much of the Jedi formalities and speak with the two leaders as an equal. So far, the discussion was going remarkably well. Too well Obi-Wan found himself thinking, his old cynicism rising like the tide before a typhoon.

            But it wasn’t just that. Someone—some thing—was here in this place, just as his dream had warned him about. The Sith. He knew that Dooku sensed it, too, and Qui-Gon. Whether or not Anakin did wasn’t clear; the young Jedi seemed a bit too preoccupied with Mina Bonteri’s young assistant, who kept giggling every time Anakin twirled a lock of the being's hair around his finger.

            Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh. He’s probably trying to make Padmé jealous, though that’s a futile effort at a time like this. The Nubian senator was far too busy discussing matters of peacemaking with her old friend. “—could recognize the Confederacy’s legitimacy,” she was saying, “if you would offer certain concessions in turn, like agreeing to a peace treaty….”

            Mina was nodding. “That may be possible. None of us want war, Padmé, you understand.”

            “None of us do either,” Padmé replied firmly.

            “What we want—what we need—is for our legitimacy to be recognized and let to be as independent systems under the new governance. If you truly think that could be arranged—”

            “I do.” Padmé sounded convincingly firm for one who’d confessed - with the air of a sinner at the confessional - to Obi-Wan not an hour ago that she wasn’t sure they could get the Chancellor to agree to any of this. Palpatine would need to agree, for anything official. The perfection of his plot, having figures on both sides….

            “Then the best next step would be for us to meet on a neutral world like Ivera and discuss more of the details.” Mina was smiling now, her relief tangible in the echoes of the Force. Echoes that were stained with darkness and rot. A darkness and rot that were seeping into the cracks of Obi-Wan’s defenses, like water through the slivers of open shale in a cave, spiraling down into his chest and expanding with whispers of, You know Anakin will turn here, don’t you? It doesn't matter what you've done, what you will do. None of it matters. 

            He is Vader; Vader is him, and that can never change. It's the legacy of the jungle, his inheritance from the dark. 

            Metallic tang gushed into his mouth; he’d bitten down hard enough on his cheek to slice the skin. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he drew several deep breaths clocked on a six-count, and made himself stay patient. If a confrontation was coming today, rushing out of here would do more harm than good. He must stay firmly rooted and wait.

            The fight would surely come to him if it wanted to.

            And it did want to. He knew that much.

            After the two female leaders had embraced each other, promising to keep in touch and arrange the so-called Peace Conference—on Alderaan, perhaps?—, the Republic delegation headed back to the ship. In the high sunlight of the azure afternoon, its buttery rays casting playful dances onto the concrete of the hotel landing deck, it seemed like nothing could touch them. But Obi-Wan felt frigid fingers drawing up and down his spine, the hand threatening to reach inside him, tear out his heart from his chest—

            “Well! That went pretty great!” Anakin grinned, not too surreptitiously pocketing the comm number he’d gotten from Mina’s assistant. For once, Dooku and Obi-Wan were in complete alignment when they exchanged an exasperated glance. “Looks like none of that other stuff’ll be necessary. (You know what I mean, Obi-Wan.)" (A wink and nod like the White Suns weren't strictly secret or anything.) "No war coming here!”

            “Yell about our secret covert mandate here to all the galaxy, why don’t you, foolish boy?” Dooku groused, then uttered, “Your arrogant assurance is ludicrous.”

            “Hey,” Anakin began hotly, then his comm. rang. It turned out to be the assistant, checking this was the right number. “You bet it is, baby,” he answered in a sultry voice, and probably would’ve said more if Dooku hadn’t summarily grabbed the comm. from him and hung up with a,

            “Goodbye, ‘baby’.”

            Obi-Wan turned his laugh into a cough faster than Qui-Gon did, but thankfully Anakin didn’t notice either. He was shaking his head at Padmé. “You see how this guy treats me, Padmé?” he whined.

            “I’m sorry for your suffering, Anakin,” the Senator replied, poker-faced.

            He nodded, still pouting. Poor boy. For all his annoyance, Obi-Wan couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. Anakin was all eyes for Padmé, whose mind remained solely set on the conference ahead. For all she lacked Anakin’s arrogance, in her mind, too, the problem was practically solved. “It’s such a relief,” she espoused as they boarded the ship. “No one wanted a war except a few mongers.”

            “Yes. Hopefully, it will be so simple,” Dooku said, a touch darkly. He eyed Obi-Wan. "What do you think?" 

            Surprised the older Jedi had sought his opinion, Obi-Wan took his time in answering. By the time he did, the ship had lifted off, soaring over the heart of the jungle in preparation for liftoff into hyperspace. "I think..." But he didn't get any farther than that. The ship rocked, coughed like a wheezy old man, and then belly-flopped about. While the gravity safety precautions inside the ship prevented them all from smashing into the walls, the Force was required to stop small injuries, and by the time they'd managed that, every sensor on the ship console had lit up like a Life-Day tree. Anakin, poised at the console, had a hard grip on the manual controls.

            His voice sharp, Obi-Wan said, "What's going on? Anakin? Can you land the ship?"  

           "I can land it," he said tightly. "But we'll be going down right in the heart of the jungle."

           The jungles of Haruun Kal were known for many things, driving anyone who entered its confines to insanity among them. Depa Billaba had been one such. He will turn, you know, the voice whispered once more, its echoes mingling with the eerie chorus of the forest and the scream of the downing ship as it spiraled downward, swallowed by the emerald embrace of towering leaves. It's his destiny. In that singular moment before they crash-landed, Obi-Wan could've sworn he saw a spark of yellow light Anakin's eyes.