Chapter Text
He is falling.
He wishes, now more than ever, that he could have somewhere else besides this Mandalorian cruiser to gather his thoughts. He's already sorted things out with Bo-Katan in an almost half-present state, their few wounded have been tended to, he’s locked down their battle stances and how they’re going to present this to the Mandalorian Council. And he’s grateful that all that has been sorted out, because if someone were to approach him currently and demand his opinion on such a thing, he’s not certain he would react with any sort of kindness.
He’s not certain.
That seems to be the main theme right now, doesn’t it? A laugh bubbles up within him- perhaps a byproduct of the earlier concussion, or perhaps the result of the delirious spiral he is no doubt heading down. He’s not certain.
What is he certain of?
That Satine is dead. That the Jedi Order is crumbling. That Anakin hates him. That he almost killed his brother. That Cody might die. That his hands shake when he stops pretending they don't. That he doesn't remember the last time he meditated and felt anything other than violence pooling in the back of his throat like blood.
He thinks about his saber. He wonders, absently, if it would still obey him, despite what he’s done to it, despite what he’s done . If it knows who its master is anymore. If he knows who its master is anymore.
Metal burns a hole in his back pocket.
He ignites the Darksaber without thinking, shifting fluidly into the opening stance for Form III. It feels wrong, despite all the years he put into mastering it, despite every stolen lesson behind his master’s back or one-on-one session with the older masters. It feels too solid, too defensive, too unnatural for the caged animal he is becoming.
He doesn’t realize when he shifts to Niman, then Djem So, then Juyo.
Slash. Parry. Underhand. Three consecutive strikes. Calm down, Kenobi. Breathe.
He tries a moving meditation, opening himself to the Force in a desperate plea.
It goes poorly.
The darkness isn't a pit, but a mirror. Every time he tries to settle his breathing, it shows him his face, scarred and twisted and glowing with yellow. It shows him red, blood and blade alike. It shows him standing over Anakin, rage overriding his thoughts. It shows him Dooku’s hands falling to the ground. It shows him Satine dying in his arms. It shows him Anakin looking at him like he's the villain, standing defensively in front of the Chancellor. It shows him a red saber at the end of his arm, held directly at Ahsoka’s throat-
He breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out.
Nothing. Not even as he brings his blade down once again.
There is a stillness to the Force now that he does not like. It is listening. It feels like a test, and he doesn’t remember signing up for it. Perhaps he did, when he killed that first Mandalorian all that time ago.
His feet shift on the floor, sweat cold at his temples. His boots skid as he attempts the Form III patterns once again.
When did his thoughts start sounding like Dooku’s?
When did his anger stop feeling righteous?
When did he justify crossing blades at Anakin's neck?
When did he become someone else?
He remembers, once, telling Anakin that a good Jedi- by definition of Qui-Gon- should not cling to identity. That names, attachments, and legacy are distractions from the will of the Force. That Qui-Gon believed such things were almost frivolous. And now look at him! Clinging desperately to Obi-Wan Kenobi like a lifeline, despite not even knowing who that is anymore!
Acheron is quieter.
Acheron is simmering.
Acheron ignores the blood on his hands, because he doesn’t ask questions about who deserved it.
Acheron is wielding the Darksaber, turning his attempts at patience into restless aggression.
"Who are you?" he mutters into the silence, unsure who the question is meant for.
And in the break that follows, he almost thinks he hears Satine say, “Not this.”
His breath catches. He might have paused his movements, he doesn’t know. A shard of clarity pierces through the fog. Not for long, but long enough.
Long enough to remember that she once told him love was not the same as surrender. That peace was not the same as silence. That he didn’t have to be right- he just had to be kind.
Long enough to remember when it was echoed by Cody, saying that they were fighting for freedom. That duty overshadowed everything else, but duty needed justice. That justice was nothing without mercy.
Long enough for him to recall his emotion that followed both of them. The emotion that he dares not name.
He can’t tell if the Darksaber is still in his grip.
He doesn’t cry.
He doesn’t scream.
He tries to hear the Force again.
It doesn't help.
The cold reaches him first- not a physical chill, but something worse . An internal frost, as if something ancient and immense has wrapped its hands around his ribs and begun to squeeze.
The Force is here.
The Dark Side is here.
He can’t tell anymore.
He opens himself to it anyway, because what else is there? What more does he have to give, to take? It crashes into him like water through shattering glass-
The cold of a starfighter- staring down a clone’s starship as he blasts it to pieces. The pang of guilt that runs through him, before he pushes it down in favor of the battle. The presence in the Force disappearing with one flash.
Barriss, her body broken in the lowest levels of Coruscant. Her eyes wild, her voice shaking. “You’re what’s wrong with them.” Obi-Wan, silent in satisfaction as her pulse stops by his hand.
Cody, limp in his arms, whispering “Obi-Wan” like it’s a question and not a name. His own scream echoing in the void that is his mind. Red, red, red.
Rage. Anakin's terrified gaze. Blue mingling with black as he prepares to remove his head-
He gasps. His feet slip on the metal floor, and now his arm is against it. He doesn’t feel it.
Necessary.
The word slams into him like a command. Like scripture. He used to read the Jedi Code origin texts, he left them behind before he could finish them. Yet another pillar amongst all his failures.
Necessary.
He thought it when he left Anakin and Ahsoka behind.
He thought it when he swore his oath to Dooku.
He thought it when he killed clone after clone above Ringo Vinda, because he had to survive .
Because the galaxy needed him to do something .
Necessary.
It doesn’t sound like his voice anymore. It sounds like Satine’s. It sounds like Dooku’s. It sounds like Sidious .
He curls forward, hands clutching at his head.
What if this is what the Force wants?
What if this is what it always wanted?
The leaving of the Order. The deaths. The shell of himself, a void filled only by the Dark.
Was this always the plan? Was he just playing his part all along, a pawn in a game that no longer needed the Jedi to win?
What if this is what he wanted?
What if the Force had nothing to do with it?
Is he making it up, justifying his means to get to his desired end? Is the Force telling him he is a monster, that he should not be allowed to continue, to carve his wound against the galaxy?
Is he doing anything by the will of the Force?
Is he just feeding the fires that have forged him into something abominable?
Necessary.
It sounds like Qui-Gon, now.
He can’t breathe. He has forgotten how. His chest is too tight. The air is too thin.
The Force is too loud .
He sees himself in the Chancellor’s office. Sees Sidious smiling. Sees fierce lightning crackle in the air. Sees his own saber drawn. Not blue. Not anymore.
It’s all coming. He knows it.
And he's going to-
He must -
“It’s the only way!”
He can’t move. He’s on the floor. He doesn’t remember how he got there. He doesn’t remember where he is. He’s trembling. He’s cold . The mantra is spinning in his skull like the ship that he crashed in.
Necessary. Necessary. Necessary. Necessary.
Was this what Falling felt like? He doesn’t remember. Not rage, not fire. Ice. A slow, creeping cold that convinces him of its warmth, until he doesn’t remember what warm is.
Until he doesn't remember what he is.
He almost calls out. He wants to call out. To the Force, to Satine, to Cody, to Qui-Gon, to Anakin, to Yoda, to someone, anyone-
His mouth won’t open.
He is not a person. He is a storm barely contained in skin. He is a poisoned weapon pointed at corruption and wound so tight he might explode before he ever gets the chance to be aimed.
The dark side pulses around him like a second heartbeat.
-necessary necessary necessary necessary necessary necessary-
“Master?”
A voice. Familiar. Soft. Real. Light, cutting through the darkness.
Ahsoka .
He blinks. Once. Twice.
And breathes .
<()><()><()>
He’s walking fast. Too fast.
He has no doubt that anyone who could come across him now would sense his rage. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t seen anyone since he left the Temple- since he entered the Senate. Maybe he’s driven everyone away for fear of lashing out.
He can’t say he necessarily blames them.
His mechanical hand creaks, or perhaps it’s the glove he’s wearing over it. They sound the same, these days, the same as the creaking that follows him on every gunship he boards. The same as the creaking of his own mental shields as they attempt to keep him held together.
There’s a draft in here. Maybe not. Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe he’s lowering the temperature himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, it just makes him more eager to get to his destination.
Padmé is warm. Padmé is kind.
Padmé is the only person he allows to see him like this.
Obi-Wan was once on that list, but that was before he almost decapitated him with his own lightsaber. Before he put on that Force-forsaken armor. Before his eyes burned brighter than his rage.
The Senate halls creak around him, too. It is only then that he realizes the icy grip he has on them.
Not fit for combat, Master Elyyn said, in front of the whole council. Needs some time. Heal his mind.
Probation, Master Mundi suggested.
To protect, Master Yoda agreed.
Desertion, Master Tii uttered.
Because of Kenobi.
He doesn’t even know who said that one. Maybe no one did. Maybe they all did.
His jaw locks, tongue heavy in his mouth.
He continues walking.
He should be with his men. Probation. He would be fine with that were his men not being stolen from him. Were they not being given to a- a Jedi Shadow, of all things! Master Vos has never been on the front lines, as far as he knows, and if any of his men were to get killed on his watch, he’ll- he will-
Obi-Wan’s- Acheron’s- burning eyes cut through his vision.
He stops, wind knocked out of him.
He can't stop seeing it, not since Ringo Vinda. He can’t stop running back that black blade, wielded with the intent to kill, to tear apart his limbs in a furious flurry of strikes and slashes. As if someone had taken control of his master’s body with the intent to taunt him.
But they hadn’t, had they?
In the end, Obi-Wan’s actions were his. And if he stabbed who he thinks he did, he can’t necessarily blame him, either.
Guilt pierces through him like that cursed blade.
His own blade feels sticky, now. Poisoned. He would give anything just to cross blades with his master once more, this time with his head cleared, to wield it in the way he knows he can and-
His feet stop abruptly.
He’s felt anger like this before. On Tatooine, all those years ago. It honed him, turned him into the weapon that struck down being after being. It caused him to do unspeakable things, but things that he’s not entirely regretful of.
But this isn’t the same.
This is worse.
Because it’s not just anger, is it? It’s guilt. It’s fear. It’s shame. It’s betrayal. It’s every manner of horrible emotion swirling around him at once, and it’s been swirling for a long time now-
He doesn’t know when he started moving again, breaths coming in quick bursts.
Betrayal. Yes, that is the crux of it. More than the fear he had for his life, for his master’s life. More than the anger he directs at the man now, at the council. Betrayal is what he’s feeling now. He’s surprised he can even identify it at all, with how entangled it is with his other emotions.
Even the most mastered at releasing their emotions would not be having the best time right now.
Thank you, Master Elyyn, Anakin thinks sourly, recalling how she preached against him to the council.
It’s a true statement, however. It would be normal for anyone in his shoes to feel betrayed. By his master, by his apprentice, both with Mandalore, now.
So why does he feel like he’s still slipping?
He misses a step.
He remembers Obi-Wan’s face. The way it was before the war, and then even during it. Lined with exhaustion, tired of Anakin’s antics, but crinkled with kindness. Almost cold in its calm collectedness. Always the picture of the perfect Jedi.
He remembers Acheron’s face. The way it looked by the glow of two lightsabers. Twisted in hatred, eyes wild, hair out of place, teeth bared. His skin made pale by the darkness of his armor. The scar across his face nearly tearing open at the expression.
His breaths feel like fire, now.
That was not the man who taught him, he’s sure of that now. Because if it was, then- then who does that make him? What does it make him?
Anakin doesn’t remember what he said to him. He does remember what Obi-Wan said in reply. And what it felt like. It felt like-
Like looking in a mirror.
The realization comes unbidden and unwanted. The cold seems to solidify him, slowing his movements even as he redoubles his efforts. His fists are shaking now, he’s sure of it.
That’s what it was. A mirror.
I’m not like him! A portion of his mind yells. I’m a Jedi, I’m Light!
But another portion, a twisted portion, hisses the events of Tatooine into his memory once again. He never saw what he looked like that day, but to the Tuskens, he must’ve- must’ve looked the same-
Oh, Force.
He’s drowning in it. The same pull that took his master. He sees it now, feels the oily slick that has covered him from head to toe.
He doesn’t want to get rid of it.
He immediately casts that thought out, barely noting his alarm. He forces his hand to his chest, as if he can stop his heart from leaping straight out of his ribs. He’s on his knees, in front of a door. It might be his wife’s.
I won’t do it!
Do what?
I won’t become him!
That voice has reared its head inside him once more, but even as he states it out loud, he can feel his resolve slipping.
He’s always been the less-Jedi between him and his master.
So how can he hold onto the Light, when his master has Fallen?
How, when he has already done so many-
“Oh my goodness, Ani?”
Ah, so it was his wife’s apartment. Perfect.
He looks up at her, relief flooding his senses even as the rest threaten to overtake him.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
And breathes.