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Chapter Text

This was not how Anakin had imagined his wedding day. He knew he wasn’t supposed to desire such things, knew that his commitment to the Order would always have to come first, but that did not stop a child from daydreaming. He had pictured himself incandescent with joy, the Force singing in jubilation around him as it bestowed upon him a gift made just for him. He had imagined something beautiful, not… This. 

The atmosphere inside the dressing room was somber, tension straining the shoulders of each of his attendants. His wedding party was grim and browbeaten, the weight of the galaxy pressing down on each of them. There was a bitter taste to the air, something like grief and despair. The Force was tainted with the feeling, a toxic essence that refused to disperse. 

Even in his fantasies, he had never dared dreamed the Jedi would be there, a silent support at his back as he broke every Oath he had ever sworn. But then, he had never thought the Republic would fall or that a Sith Lord, a monster of myth and bedtime stories, would rise to power. The world had turned strange and unfamiliar and Anakin could not seem to regain his footing in this bizarre new reality.  

“You look beautiful,” one of his attendants said when they were finished dressing him up like a child's doll. Anakin could only nod his grim thanks and watch as they hurried to other tasks.  

The robes were as lovely as a viper rearing to strike. They were light and airy, seeming to float and flow around him. The synthsilk was soft against his skin, the color as white as Hoth’s snow. A fine, golden lace had been delicately sewn into the edges. When he touched it, the thread panged with the memory of rock, of slumbering gold plucked from the soil and spun for this sole purpose. The robes spoke of wealth, of decadence, and it lay ill and awkward against the body of a former slave, a soon to be former Jedi. 

His hair had been twisted and tamed into a small braid that started above his ear and followed the shape of his skull to the base of his neck. It was not a padawan braid but it stung of mockery all the same. It was a desecration of something old and sacred, a spit in the face to everything that had once been. It was a message, one meant for the Jedi alone. 

It was a reclamation of ownership.  

It felt like a collar around his neck, a chip implanted in his hip. It was a reminder, with every turn of his head and tug against his scalp, that he could not escape. He had agreed to this for the sake of the galaxy, for the future of the Order. This was a choice he was making. Even if it had hardly been a choice at all. .  

The Chosen One had ended up being nothing more than the chosen sacrifice. 

“Distressed, I can sense,” Yoda said softly from where he perched on the edge of a lounge chair. His feet did not touch the ground and his cane swung gently against his knee. His ears were low and he looked every day of his nine hundred years. He had seen governments rise and fall, had seen the galaxy reshape itself a dozen times over, and yet he had not seen this coming. For all the Force whispered prophecies to her beloved children, she had kept her silence when it came to this destiny,  

“Nothing more than pre-wedding jitters,” Anakin dismissed and tried to will his tumultuous feelings into the Force. It did not work, the feelings spreading like blood dripped into a clear pond, clouding it and leaving it polluted.  

“To be expected, that is. A troubling day, it is.” 

“I have had worse,” Anakin said, perhaps to reassure the old master, perhaps to reassure himself. What was a wedding when compared to a war? 

Yoda thumped his cane on the marble floor. “Different, this is, as you well know.” 

Anakin strangled the laugh that wanted to slip out. A battle was a battle. This too could end with him dead at the hand of an enemy. What a way to go- murdered by his groom. 

Yoda watched him with knowing eyes. “Come here,” He beckoned, his hand steady despite it all. 

Anakin turned and went to him. He knelt when Yoda gestured for him to do so and jolted in surprise when Yoda's hand descended on his head. Anakin could not recall the last time he had been touched gently, much less touched by the grandmaster himself. 

“A difficult path, you have been forced to walk. Dangerous and uncertain, the future seems. But prevail, you will. Our support, you will always have.” 

Anakin swallowed past the sudden knot in his throat. His eyes burned and he didn't dare lift his head. If this was the end, he wished to meet it as a true Jedi. He would not let his emotions best him, not here, not now, on the eve of his knighthood. 

“Thank you, Master.” He whispered.  “I will do all I can to honor your trust in me.” 

“Know this, I do.” Yoda murmured. His hand lingered on his head for a moment before it retreated. His cane lifted and poked Anakin gently in the stomach. “Rise, Knight Skywalker.  Late to your own wedding, you cannot be.” 

Anakin rose to his feet. Dust had gathered along the edge of his robes and at the knee, marring the blinding white robe. He dusted it off with the back of his hand, but the mark remained. Yoda tried to help, beating the material with his cane as if Anakin was a dusty rug back on Tatooine, but it stubbornly persisted. Anakin huffed out a wet, brittle laugh, and pushed Yoda’s cane away. What was a little dust on your wedding day? 

It wasn’t like his groom would turn him away. 

“Walk with me, Master?”

“To the end,” Yoda agreed and got to his feet. 

The wedding venue had not been picked with romance and whimsy in mind. Even this was meant to be a power play, a show that the Emperor had brought the entire galaxy to heel. The flowers could not hide the gray walls of the Senate building, could not soften the harsh edges of ferrocrete. The music languished in the halls, humming like machines on the battlefield. It was unpleasant, a facsimile of what it should have been. Anakin was grateful that he was not alone. 

Mace was waiting outside the doors. 

“Knight Skywalker,” he greeted, face impassive. His presence was quiet within the Force, his thoughts and feelings shrouded. Despite the months spent under his tutelage as a young padawan, Anakin had never cracked the shell of serenity that surrounded the man. He remained an enigma, even now. 

“Master. Have you come to see me off?” They had never been particularly close, their time together as brief as all the others. And yet it did not entirely surprise Anakin to see him here, though he could not say why. Perhaps a whisper in the Force, a twinge of intuition, a ripple of intention. 

Mace dipped his head. “Indeed. The others wanted to be here, but were not allowed past the guards. The Emperor seems quite wary of the number of Jedi in attendance today. He wishes to keep us spread thin and separate from each other.” 

“Right to be wary, he is,” Yoda said, his voice low enough that it did not carry. “Assembled for this, the Order has. Witnesses to history, we all are. But fight, we shall not.” 

“Not today,” Mace agreed, hand briefly touching the empty space where his saber ought to have been. To carry a weapon inside the Senate would have been seen as an act of aggression. It would have done little but prolong the war that had worn them all thin. Leaving it behind was another choice that had barely been a choice at all.  

Anakin’s saber had been taken by an attendant when he arrived. He wondered where it was, if he would ever see it again. He feared the answer was no. Its absence felt like a missing limb. He would have rather been stripped bare before a firing squad than face a lifetime without his lightsaber, but here he was. 

Resignation- his, Mace’s, perhaps even Yoda’s- slowly bleed into the Force. It dispersed slowly, swept away like leaves on a gentle breeze. 

Mace turned his attention to Anakin. “I have a message for you, from all of us.” 

Anakin frowned, confused. “What’s the message?”

Mace held out his hand. Anakin stared for a beat, aware of the eyes of the attendants lingering on them. Slowly, he mirrored the gesture. Mace clasped his arm firmly and Anakin returned it.

“May the Force be with you,” Mace wished him gravely. His hand slipped away, but not before their palms pressed together for just a second. And then his touch was gone and Anakin was left to curl his fist closed on the memory.  

Anakin’s eyes were wide. Quickly, he schooled his face and folded his arms, hiding his hands inside his robe. “Thank you, Master. May it be with you as well.” 

 “Take care of yourself.”  For a single moment, an unknown emotion shone through the serenity on Mace’s face. And then it was gone, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. 

“Thank you.” Anakin said. He watched Mace’s back as he walked away, his gaze lingering until the man had turned the corner and was gone.  

“It is time,” Yoda said and began to walk. His cane clicked with every step forward, his pace slow but unfaltering.  

Anakin could do nothing else but follow. 

Anakin was not unfamiliar with being in the limelight. He could recall his very brief brush with it as a child, after winning his freedom, but that had lasted only a moment. The war had brought it back with a vengeance. The Republic wanted to know the man who fought for it and they had not taken “no” for an answer. There had been journalists on the front lines, some hoping for action, others hoping to reveal the true horrors of war. There had been the foolish ones, brave ones, selfish ones. In the end, many of them had shared the same fate- struck down by droids, their names lost among the list of qualities. 

This was worse. 

Anakin kept his expression even and unaffected as he and Yoda were lowered towards the senate floor. The crowd was deafeningly loud, the dignitaries’ dignity cast aside. Jedi were scattered among them, crammed into empty spaces where only ghosts would have sat. The senate had been purged, hundreds, if not thousands, killed in the name of the Empire. The deaths had left craters that the Jedi could hardly hope to fill. 

A flock of camera droids zoomed around the atrium. One drew close enough to ruffle Anakin’s hair and he fought the urge to punch it out of the air. It would take only the slightest bit of Force to crush it to dust. A little more and he could bring down the whole armada of cameras. 

The temptation was powerful, so powerful that Yoda seemed to pick up on it. Yoda stood braced against his cane, chin tilted up to face the world head on, stubbornly serene. He didn’t move, but Anakin flinched as he used the Force to flick him in the ear. Anakin straightened his shoulders and fell into stance at his side. 

The Emperor was waiting on the senate floor. He wore a similar set of robes to Anakin, but these were red with black lace. His hair shone like polished copper beneath the atrium lights. His eyes were as gold as the sun setting over Coruscant. They found Anakin as the lift swiftly lowered and remained there, unwavering and all consuming. Anakin met his gaze head on and refused to look away first. 

At the Emperor’s side was the officiant, an old Cerean man that was visibly fighting a case of the nerves. Anakin wondered what the man had done to be picked for this wedding. Was this meant to be an honor or a punishment? The man did not appear happy. He appeared to be on the urge of fainting. Would he be able to get through the ceremony? Anakin wasn’t sure. 

The lift reached the floor. A hush fell over the atrium as Anakin and Yoda stepped forward. Their footsteps were amplified for all to hear. The whole galaxy was watching, listening, waiting with bated breath. Anakin felt cold sweat break out across his skin as adrenaline flooded his system. It was not dissimilar from the feeling of jumping facing an army of droids. The difference was that Anakin knew he was not going to win this time. The battle was lost before it even began.  

The distance shrank rapidly. In only a handful of breaths it had disappeared entirely and he was standing within arm’s reach of the Emperor. The most powerful man in the galaxy smiled at him softly. 

“Hello, Anakin,” Obi-Wan Kenobi greeted. His voice reverberated through the atrium and carried across the stars. The whole galaxy heard as he said, “You look ravishing in white.” 

“Thank you,” Anakin said politely. His fists clenched, hidden inside his robes, but his face remained smooth and unbothered. The Force shuddered around him and Obi-Wan’s smile turned knowing. Anakin could hide from the world, but he could not hide from him. 

“Grandmaster Yoda,” Obi-Wan acknowledged, tearing his eyes away from Anakin. His eyes were expectant as he prompted, “You have something to say, do you not?” 

Yoda closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, centering himself, before he looked back at Obi-Wan. “Return Anakin Skywalker to your care, I do. Relinquished by the Order, he has been. Our blessings upon this union, you both have.” 

Obi-Wan’s grin was all teeth. His eyes shone with victory and Anakin could feel it through the Force. It buzzed in the Force and grated against Anakin’s skin, his nerves. He dug his nails into his palm and weathered it. 

“Thank you, Grandmaster.” Obi-Wan said, holding Yoda’s gaze for a long moment. When they returned to Anakin, it was clear that Yoda had been dismissed. “Darling, shall we?” He asked, holding out his hands, palms up. 

Let’s get this over with, Anakin thought. He had never backed down from a fight and he was not going to start now, on this wedding day.  

His hands did not shake as he reached out and took Obi-Wan’s. 

Chapter Text

There was little about the ceremony that Anakin would later be able to recall. It was mostly impressions, fleeting snatches of sense memory, whispers of unmoored words. There was the scent of imported flowers, the dazzling lights of video drones swooping low, the taste of bile in the back of his throat. The feeling of hands wrapped around his own, as tight as manacles on his wrists, as inescapable as a slave chip embedded in his body. There was the steady glow of Yoda’s force signature, a gentle inferno at his back to ward away the tidal wave of Darkness that rose from the Emperor and threatened to sweep him down in its undertow. All around him, the Jedi stood out like flickering candles, like stars peaking through the vastness of space, and he took solace that he was not alone in the Dark.

There was Obi-Wan Kenobi, looking at him with those Force damned Sith eyes, unwavering in his attention. There was a yawning, insatiable hunger to his gaze, one that could not be ignored or brushed aside. Anakin knew bone-deep desire from his youth, when he had coveted his freedom more than water in the desert heat, more than food on an achingly empty stomach, more than safety from his Master’s harsh hands. He knew it and he knew the thrill of finally having it in your grasp. Obi-Wan’s feelings were incandescent in the Force, the weight of his satisfaction and possession threatening to buckle Anakin’s knees and drive him to the ground. 

Anakin would not crumple. He would not kneel at the feet of any man, be it Emperor, Master, or long lost friend. Anakin Skywalker steeled his legs and refused to flinch as the end came hurtling at him. 

The officiant’s long and rambling speech was coming to a close. His words had been a celebration of unity, of the end of a long drawn out war, a welcoming of peace for a weary galaxy. It had been a pretty lie, a promise yet to be realized, but one that each member of the audience clung to. Their desperate wish painted the Force in vibrant technicolor and Anakin felt small and insignificant in comparison.  

This is what you’re here for, Anakin reminded himself. To bring peace, safety, a chance to heal the wounds left across a hundred systems, scarred into every sentient that had been touched by the war. To give the people hope . 

This was the path of a Jedi. This was the path Anakin Skywalker had chosen, over and over again. At nine and nineteen and now at twenty-four. This was his last act as a Jedi before his title was stripped from him by a homicidal Sith Lord and he was made into little more than a trophy to be flaunted and pranced before the eyes of the galaxy. 

This reminder was a cold comfort and did not stop him from wanting to rip Obi-Wan’s throat out with his teeth. 

Obi-Wan squeezed his hands and Anakin snapped back to the present moment. The officiant was watching him nervously, hands pale and bloodless where he clutched his holopad full of vows. Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkled in amusement, that knowing spark making Anakin’s teeth grind. He wanted to claw the look from his face, to draw the violence out of Obi-Wan like venom from a bite, to spit it back in his face as they bloodied their knuckles on each other’s bodies. 

“Could you repeat that?” He asked, raspy voice booming in the silence. 

“Uh,” the officiant said, the holopad trembling in his hands. He swallowed and darted a glance at Obi-Wan. 

“Go on,” Obi-Wan encouraged, smile sharp and predatory. “Anakin was never one for long speeches.” 

Don’t act like you know me, Anakin wanted to snarl. I am nothing like the child you left behind. 

The fact that Obi-Wan was right only made it sting worse. 

“Of course, my Lord,” the officiant demurred. He cleared his throat and read aloud from the pad. “Do you, Anakin Skywalker, swear yourself, body and soul, to his Majesty, First Emperor of the Republic, Lord of the Sith, Obi-Wan Kenobi?” 

No. It clamored loudly in his head, a scream from the deepest parts of his soul. No. 

He had to force out the words, everything in him rebelling. He felt like a wild beast, harnessed and leashed. A creature forced to submit to its own taming, lest it be broken entirely. He would rather hang by the reins, but he had to hand them over. 

“I swear myself to him,” he spat out, the veil of calm aloofness slipping for a moment. That it had lasted this long was a miracle. 

The officiant fumbled his holopad and cleared his throat awkwardly. “You have to say it all.” He whispered. 

Anakin was going to deck the man. The man took a quick step back, holding the holopad like a shield in front of himself. The hands in Anakin’s tightened and Anakin turned his glower to the source of all his problems, to everything wrong in his life, in the galaxy. 

“Come now, dear heart. Let me hear you say those pretty words.” Obi-Wan coaxed. He devoured the expression on Anakin’s face, the feelings he couldn’t help but project into the Force. He was delighting in this, that was plain to see. 

Like pulling shrapnel from an open wound, Anakin spoke the words. “I, Anakin Skywalker, swear myself, body and soul, to his Majesty, First Emperor of the Republic, Lord of the Sith, Obi-Wan Keonbi.” 

“Beautifully done,” Obi-Wan praised breathlessly. He glanced at the officiant. “Continue.” 

The officiant jerked a nod and returned to the pre-written vows. “Do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, swear yourself, body and soul, to this Jedi Knight, renown General of the Republic, Child of the Force, Anakin Skywalker?” 

Obi-Wan did not hesitate. “I, Obi-Wan Kneobi, swear myself, body and soul, to this Jedi Knight, renown General of the Republic, Child of the Force, Anakin Skywalker.” 

The crowd fluttered, a ripple of noise and movement. The swarm of droids circled close, wanting to capture every soundbite, every expression, in perfect clarity. Anakin wondered, briefly, what expression his face was wearing. 

The officiant's tense shoulders relaxed a fraction. The hard part was over. “By the authority vested in me by the…Empire, I declare you one. May your union outlast the stars and bring peace to the galaxy.” 

Obi-Wan’s smile was luminous. Anakin had a split second to think if he fucking kisses me I’ll- before Obi-Wan was tugging him close. Anakin refused to shut his eyes, to turn his face, as Obi-Wan leaned in close, his breath warm and tickling as it drifted over his lips. Do it, Anakin dared him silently. He’d show the galaxy that even a Sith Lord could bleed. 

Obi-Wan did not close the scant space between them. He lifted Anakin’s hands and gently, reverently, bestowed a kiss to his knuckles. First his left hand, then his right. His lips were soft, the heat of his mouth searing. The touch lingered on the cool metal, long enough for the sensors to pick up the pressure of his kiss, and zing it up Anakin’s arm. Anakin’s fingers curled into his grasp without his consent. 

The applause that broke out was thunderous. It roared in Anakin’s ears, reverberated in the Force. It came from every corner of the galaxy, from every far flung planet to half forgotten colony. It came and yet it was not enough to drown out Obi-Wan’s words. 

“My dear Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmured. “My one, my only, my husband.” 

The mood at the reception was a complicated one. There was jubilation- how could there not be, when this moment marked the end of the war, when the alcohol was free flowing and the food the highest quality Coruscant had to offer? -  and there was sorrow. It weaved through the crowd like stitches on a wound. Undeniable, unavoidable, necessary. 

Anakin and Obi-Wan sat at a high table overlooking the reception hall. Anakin could not recall ever having been inside it before, hadn’t even known the Senate had one, but it made sense in retrospect. The only thing politicians liked more than the power they held was self aggrandizing about it afterwards. 

“Eat up, dear. I made sure to pick your favorites.” Obi-Wan said, sipping from his glass of wine. It was the color of blood, made from berries long extinct, and aged for over three centuries. It tasted of bitter vinegar. 

Anakin had no appetite. He could not remember the last time he had eaten out of anything more than habit, robotically shoveling food in his mouth in between missions. He had lived off ration bars for the majority of the past few years, had grown numb to the taste, the texture, until it was nothing more than a chore to be finished. 

The meal was his favorite though. The banatha steak had been cooked to perfection and cut into dainty, bite size pieces. It was drizzled with sauce and accompanied by roasted Outer Rim vegetables. The first- and last time- he’d eaten it had been his tenth lifeday. His Master had- 

Anakin crammed the thought into the Force with all the delicacy of a speeder to the face. He speared the meat on his fork and popped it into his mouth, focusing on the savory taste. A slave learns early never to say no to food. There’s no telling when the next meal will come, if it will come. Anakin had never outgrown that lesson and likely never would. 

Maybe, if he was lucky, the whole spread was poisoned and he’d live long enough to see the Emperor choke on it. 

“Do you like it?” Obi-Wan asked, watching him with a fond smile on his face. He swirled his glass, the wine clinging to the sides. It had a unique aroma, all smoke and berries, and it wafted gently around them.   

“It’s terrible,” Anakin bit out between bites. It was, unfortunately, the best thing he’d tasted in years. Possibly ever. It was a shame that it set like a chunk of durasteel in his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Obi-Wan took a sip of his wine and cast his gaze down upon the numerous tables, crowded with chattering dignitaries and silent Jedi. His expression faltered and the smile he put on was fake. 

Anakin darted a look and felt his heart thud painfully in his chest. If anyone would be so bold as to approach the Emperor’s dinner table, it would be her. 

“Hello, Senator Amidala. It’s so good to see you again.” Obi-Wan said pleasantly enough. 

“Your Majesty,” she spoke the words respectfully, but it felt like a curse. She bowed her head, the gesture slight and barely there. Her expression softened as she turned to Anakin. “Hello, Ani. How are you?” 

“Pamdé,” Anakin breathed. He wanted to run to her, to sweep her in his arms, and hug her tight. It had been so long since he’d last seen her. His childhood infatuation had faded long ago, but his love for her never had. You don’t forget a stranger’s kindness, not when you’ve never known it before.

You also don’t forget the woman you gave an arm for. 

Before he could do more than push his chair back, Obi-Wan’s hand settled on his thigh. It was a light, chaste touch, but it felt like a chain wrapping around his thigh. 

Stay put, the touch ordered. His fingers squeezed gently, a punctuation to the silent command. 

Anakin clenched his hand. He breathed deeply through his nose and slowly relaxed his grip. He noted for the first time that there were no steak knives, no knives at all in fact. Was that a choice by the security team or had the wedding planner had the foresight to ban them? Had there been a wedding planner? Or had Obi-Wan arranged every aspect with the same ruthless efficiency he was showing towards the senate? 

“We’re doing well, Senator.” Obi-Wan answered for them both. “How are you enjoying the festivities?” 

Anakin reached down to pry the offending hand off his person, but Obi-Wan easily tangled their fingers together. Anakin pulled away, but Obi-Wan didn’t let him go. Anakin tried to shake him off, but all that resulted in was a tighter hold. 

Diplomacy had always been Padmé’s specialty. Right next to talking circles around her opponents and shooting a blaster. “The ceremony was… lovely. The speech was very moving.” 

“Thank you. I was very pleased with how it all turned out. What did you think, Ani?” 

Don’t call me that, he wanted to hiss, but what came out was worse. “It sounded like a bunch of banatha shit to me.” That, perhaps, was not the smartest thing to say. That knowledge didn't stop his mouth from running on. “We’ve had plenty of platitudes and empty promises from the Senate. What makes you any different? I won’t believe any of it until I see some actual change.” 

“Anakin!” Padmé exclaimed, shock flashing across her face. 

Anakin had never been good at holding his tongue. It had gotten him into a fair few fights and far more rough spots over the years. He tipped his chin up and glared, refusing to cower beneath the Emperor's attention. 

“That’s understandable.” Obi-Wan said, surprising him. He reached out, smoothing a stray hair behind his ear. “You’ve been let down so often, it’d be difficult to believe anyone at their word. Don’t worry, dear one. I’ll prove it to you.” 

Anakin jerked his head away. “We’ll see about that,” 

“You will.” Obi-Wan promised. His hands fell away and he turned, giving Padmé a tight smile. “It really was nice to see you again, Senator. We’ll have to catch over tea sometime.” 

“I’d be delighted.” She lied through her teeth. “Safe travels to you both. Please do not hesitate to reach out to me if you have any need, Anakin. Your Majesty.” She dipped her head in a bow. She didn’t retreat so much as return to her table, her back straight and her head high. 

“She’s going to be trouble, I fear.” A voice spoke from the edge of the table, making Anakin jump. He hadn’t seen the old man, nor his companion, approach. 

“Count! Ventress!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, his face lighting up in genuine delight. He leapt to his feet and went to him, clasping his outstretched hand in both of his. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it.” 

“We wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Count Dooku replied, patting Obi-Wan’s hand with his own. At his side, Ventress gave a nod in greeting. The Count was not a man who wore fondness well, his stature and face too severe for such softness, but Anakin could spot it all the same. “This has been a long time in the making. Congratulations, my boy.” 

“Thank you, Count. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”  

“None of that nonsense now.” The Count waved away. “This day is one of celebration, for you and your new husband.” 

All three of them looked up at him. Anakin pointedly stabbed a bite of steak off Obi-Wan’s plate and ate it. Maybe Obi-Wan would starve to death in the meanwhile. 

“Anakin, dear, come down here. I want you to meet my friends.”  

Anakin did not move. “We’ve met.” He still had the scars to prove it.  

“Have you?” Obi-Wan asked them, eyebrow lifted in surprise. “You never mentioned it, Count.” 

“We’ve crossed paths a time or two,” Count Dooku answered, elusive and unforthcoming. “These are much friendlier circumstances.” 

“Speak for yourself, old man.” Anakin snarled. His mechanized ached. 

“As aggressive as always,” the Count sighed. “I had hoped we could put all that nasty business behind us.” 

Ventress snorted. “Unlikely. This is Skywalker you’re talking about.” Her head cocked to the side and her smile was nasty. “Or should I call you Kenobi now?” 

Anakin stopped breathing. Kenobi. Kenobi. He had not even considered this as a possibility, that he might be expected to take his- his husband’s name. That he might be stripped of the only thing that had ever truly belonged to him. His body, his skills, his future- those had been claimed by others. But his name was something no one could take from him, not slavers, not the Jedi, not Separatists. No one. 

Except Obi-Wan Kenobi had done just that and Anakin had let him. 

The Force, always coiled close, always ready to leap to his aid, reared up around him. It bared its teeth and hissed, a snake ready to strike, a mother ready to rein down hellfire. 

Fight, his mind howled. Damn the Republic, damn the Jedi, damn them all, but don’t let him take it.

Kill him.  

“Anakin, calm yourself,” The words were breathed into his ear, a command, a comfort, an impossible request.  

Calm yourself. Like he hadn’t heard that a thousand times before, from a hundred different people. He couldn’t just turn it off, he couldn’t just let it go. Feelings boiled up inside him, a brewing storm that could destroy him just as easily as everything around him. They wailed and struck out, wanting to hurt, wanting to be seen. 

The wine glasses shattered, crystal flying in every direction. Wine spread across the white table cloth like a blood stain. Alarm flared all around him, chairs screeching against the floor as people jumped to their feet. Concern pressed against his mind, but the flickering lights could no longer reach him. Something dark- endless, eternal, all consuming- curled close. It cupped him in its hand and shut the rest of the world out. 

It felt as familiar as his own shadow. 

“ Anakin.” It whispered. 

Anakin shoved it away, shoved Obi-Wan away. He blinked rapidly but all he could see was Obi-Wan. He had crowded close, too close, and he was all Anakin could see. His hand was on Anakin’s shoulder, his breath was in Anakin’s lungs, his face so close that Anakin could feel the prickle of his beard.. Anakin knocked his hand away and pushed him back a step. 

“Don’t touch me,” Anakin hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch me.” 

Obi-Wan straightened slowly. He studied Anakin, uncaring of the wine that dripped on his shoes, or the spectacle they were making. He searched Anakin’s face, something like concern maring his own. 

“Count, Ventress, you’ll have to forgive me. I believe it’s time for Anakin and I to head out.” 

“Of course, my boy.” The Count said magnanimously. “We’ll catch up once you’ve returned from your honeymoon.” 

Honeymoon? 

“That sounds perfect. I’ll message you,” Obi-Wan cast him a smile over his shoulder, before returning to Anakin. “Come along, dear. You’ll feel better once we’re alone.” 

Anakin highly doubted that, but what choice did he have? He rose to his feet, allowed Obi-Wan to slip his arm through his, and let him guide him away from prying eyes. 

Tucked into his waistband, Mace’s gift burned.

Chapter Text

Impotent rage boiled in Anakin’s belly and crawled beneath his skin. He felt like a collared tooka, straining at its leash, ready to bite and tear at anything that got too close. He was well acquainted with the feeling, often having channeled it on the battlefield when his back was against the wall and an army of droids was bearing down on him. Rend, destroy, survive. There, he could let loose all the violence he kept in a white knuckle grip, that he tried so hard to keep quiet and contained inside him.

His back was once again against the wall but his hands were empty. There were no troops rushing to his position, no backup firing from the high ground, no relief on the horizon. There was only him, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and the newlywed suite.

The hotel was the largest and most expensive on all of Coruscant, one that catered to the royal and famous alone. The fact that its rooms were mostly empty, its halls devoid of life, unsettled Anakin. It had been cleared out for the Emperor and his husband, a gift likely demanded and taken by force. There was an army of droids in the hanger and security buzzed around the gleaming, decadent tower in an ever present rotation of speeders. No one would disturb them here, not on their wedding night.

“Well, this is nice.” Obi-Wan said as they stepped inside the room. Faux candles littered every surface, turned down low to set the mood. Real flower petals crushed underfoot, their fragrant scent stronger with every step. A chilled bottle of Corellian champagne sat in a bucket on a small table at the end of the bed, two diamond carved glasses sparkling in the light. “They’re going all out it seems.” 

They’re worried you’ll leave a one star review on Spelp. Anakin silently mocked. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when acid coated his tongue and heat burned behind his eyes. His words could not strip flesh from bone, could not still a master’s hand, but they would reveal the heart of him. They would show that under the rage, under the resignation, a thread of fear had wormed in and made itself a home. 

He would do many things for peace, but could he do this? Could he simply lay back and think of the Republic? Could he consummate this farce of a marriage with a man that had stolen his name? Who had collared him with vows and now kept him chained to his side with an arm around his waist? Could he bare this task and come out unscathed on the other side?

He didn’t know and that terrified him. Give him a battle, give him blood and blade, give him death- and he would weather it all. Give him anything but the touch of hands that had once held his own and sworn to protect him from the world.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” Obi-Wan breathed against his ear and Anakin fought down a shudder. Obi-Wan’s hand squeezed his waist, every fingertip searing through the synthsilk of Anakin’s wedding robes. The proprietary hold pretended that it belonged there, that it had a right to feel so warm and gentle against his side.

“And what moment is that?” Anakin asked, not daring to move his own hands, least he try to break every one of Kenobi’s fingers.

“This one,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Having you here, right next to me. Right where you were always meant to be.”

Anakin sneered. “I’m sure destiny always takes this much manipulation.”

“Only when others try to interfere with its course,” Obi-Wan said, fingers kneading into his side. “Sometimes you have to set the universe to right with your own two hands.”

“And how is that going for you?” Anakin asked. The galaxy had never been in such fierce disarray. A quake has rippled its way across the stars and very few remained unaffected in its wake.

“Quite well, I must say,” Obi-Wan smiled and then surprised Anakin by letting him go. “Would you like some champagne?”

“No,” Anakin answered, short and terse. He stifled a flinch when Obi-Wan popped the cork and glared as he poured two glasses of bubbling, lime green alcohol.

Obi-Wan held it out, the thin flute dangling between two fingers. “Are you sure? It might help you relax.” Anakin shook his head and Obi-Wan shrugged, leaving the glass next to the bottle. “It’s there if you change your mind.”

Anakin wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to hide behind the fuzzy veil of alcohol. He wasn’t going to be chased from his own mind, wasn’t going to take leave of his body and his senses. He would endure whatever pain came.

Obi-Wan sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned back, balancing on one hand, spreading his knees wide. Was it supposed to be an invitation, a silent demand? Anakin didn’t move, watching as Obi-Wan tipped his head and sipped his drink. His eyes were half lidded when he lowered the glass, watching Anakin watch him.

“You’re so tense, my dear. Come, sit with me.” He patted the white bed sheets by his side.

Anakin didn’t budge. A step back would be admitting defeat; a step forward, the same. All he could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, locked in stalemate.

Obi-Wan studied his face, the clench of his fists. He drank the last of his champagne and sat the glass aside. He leaned forward, settling his elbows on his knees, and clasping his hands. He made himself seem small, harmless, as he looked up at Anakin with soft eyes.

“There’s no need to fear, Anakin. I’m not going to hurt you.” Obi-Wan said, voice gentle like a shepherd with his herd. Earnest in a way that didn’t match the yellow of his eyes.

“I’m not scared of you,” Anakin denied, lips curling around the vulgar word. It was a well worn lie. The Hero with No Fear was a fiction purported by the press, one that had little baring on reality. Anakin had been scared all his life but he had learned to live with it. You either learned to walk with it or died frozen by it. There was no other option.

“Prove it. Come here.” He beckoned with two curling fingers.

Anakin forced himself to step forward. One, two, and then he had closed the distance. Obi-Wan sat up and reached for him, cupping his hands around his waist as he pulled him the last step and slotted him between his knees. His forehead bumped Anakin’s stomach and he sighed, long and deep, shoulders falling as he relaxed against him. Anakin kept his hands behind his back, fingers locked together, least he try to strangle his husband in their wedding bed.

Obi-Wan tipped his head back, chin pressing against Anakin’s chest as he looked up at him. His smile was mocking as he said, “Still can’t resist a dare, I see.”

Anakin’s hands lashed out before he could stop them. They struck Obi-Wan’s shoulders and shoved, sending him sprawling across the bed. The man laughed, the sound startling close to true, unbridled amusement. He propped himself up on his elbows, still chuckling, like this was all some great game that he was winning.

“You mustn’t let people goad you, dear. It gives them far too much of an advantage over you.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Anakin snarled. “You haven’t the right.”

“Perhaps when you quit giving me a reason to.” He tilted his head, amusement still curling his lips. He looked over Anakin’s clothes, seeming to memorize the sight of them. As if he pictures wouldn’t be plastered across the holonet for the next decade to come. “Why don’t you go change? It’d be a shame to dirty your wedding robes.”

“And what will I change into?” Anakin demanded. What other lavish horror awaited him? Nothing at all, most likely.

“Something more fitting for our wedding night. They should be on the counter, in the fresher.” Obi-Wan waved his hand when Anakin didn’t jump at the implicit order. “Go on. It’s getting quite late and we have a very early morning to attend to.”

Of course Obi-Wan Kenobi had a schedule to keep. He must have penciled in, “fuck new husband,” right in between, “reception with enemy in-laws” and “evil bedtime.”

Anakin went, back ramrod straight, every step harsh against the plush, carpeted floor. The bathroom door slid shut behind him and he jabbed the keypad to lock it. The second it was sealed, a tangible wall between them, his hands started to shake.

Anakin couldn’t do this. Sex had always been an act borne of love for Anakin. He did not seek pleasure in the flesh of strangers, had never been one for flings or one night stands. It had always been with someone he cared deeply about. It had always meant something to him. There had never been any interest otherwise.

At that moment, Anakin did not care for Obi-Wan. There was not a shadow of affection, of lingering admiration, a missed placed sense of longing. There was only a visceral hate that threatened to snuff out the light and smother him in the dark.

Mace’s gift felt heavy in his hand as he pulled it from his waist band. He sat it on the counter, right next to the pile of flimsy, white clothes. It was small, no bigger than a nail filer and was so rudimentary as to be archaic. That was most likely why the security droids hadn’t detected it, hadn’t seized it. Who would expect a Jedi of hiding a metal blade?

Take care of yourself. Was there an order hidden in Mace’s words, or a simple reminder? A Jedi did not kill out of anger, did not spill blood for the sole purpose of ending another life. Protection, of others and one’s self, was the only acceptable reason for causing the death of another.

If Anakin took up that uncivilized blade, would it be self defense or would it be murder?

Did it matter? Obi-Wan Kenobi had caused the death of billions. The Separatists had split the galaxy apart in a civil war. How many of Anakin’s fellow Jedi had fallen, how many clones had he called friend, only to see them cut down on the battle field? Civilian causalities grew exponentially with every fight, so many people caught in the crossfire with no hope of escape.

This would be justice, wouldn’t it?

What about after? With the Emperor dead, would the Senate reclaim control? Or would another step forward to take his place? Would the war rage on, the cease fire forgotten by the time his blood cooled on the sheets? Could Anakin risk it, all to save himself?

The time for decisions was ticking down. Anakin looked at himself in the mirror, seeing the hunted look in his eyes. His hair was starting to unravel and Anakin yanked it free of the braid, casting the tie into the sink. His hair shone against the white and disgust curled his lips. He tore off the robes and cast them to the ground, letting them pool like snakes on the tiles. He grabbed the clothes that had been left for them and shook them out, prepared for the worst.

Confusion pulled his brows together. He had expected lingerie or maybe a set of boxers so small they hid nothing. The pants were long, as was the shirt long sleeve. They were soft linen, meant for warmth, and were the farthest thing from sexy wedding night attire. They were something that Anakin would have worn to bed while in space, chilled to the bone and longing for the warmth of home.

Did Obi-Wan’s games never cease? Would he take pleasure in lulling Anakin into a false sense of security, only to peel him out of it piece by piece? Would he mistake the way his hair stood on end from the chill for pleasure racing across his skin?

Anakin gritted his teeth. He pulled the clothes on in short tugs, clothing himself in the soft fabric. He grabbed the knife, tucking it into his sleeve. It rested against his metal arm, still warm from his body heat. Anakin hit the keypad with his fist and stepped back out into the bedroom.

Obi-Wan was stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head. He had changed into similar sleepwear and his robes had been delicately folded and placed on the dresser. Most the faux candles had been extinguished and the second glass of champagne was empty, the bottle recorked. Obi-Wan’s eyes were close, expression peaceful. Anakin almost thought he was asleep, his breathing deep and steady.

Anakin padded across the room on bare feet. There had been no socks with the clothes and already his feet grew cold. The velvet petals tickled and clung to his skin, but he paid them no mind. He had nearly reached the bed when Obi-Wan broke the silence and spoke.

“Anakin. Can we save the murder attempts for after the honeymoon?”

Anakin stilled for a split second. A chill so potent that it would have left him shivering raced through him, trying to freeze him where he stood. It wasn’t just shadows that draped themselves across the room and gathered under the bed, but the Dark. It had gathered in the corners while Anakin had been in the bathroom, debating with himself, with the morals of the choice. All the while, Obi-Wan had been preparing for this.

Anakin lunged, as quick as a lothcat, sped along by the aid of the Force. His knees struck the mattress on either side of Obi-Wan’s hips, the knife slipped into his hand, and he brought it down in an arc, aiming for the pale, vulnerable expanse of his throat. His mind had at long last gone silent, driven by instinct alone.

The tip of the blade touched flesh- and then halted, as if driven into pure stone. Darkness gripped his wrist and looped around his throat, a noose so tight it threatened to choke. Obi-Wan’s eyes slitted open, the gold almost blazing in the dark. He shifted, letting his head drop to the mattress, and rested his hands on Anakin’s straining thighs. His pet them as he looked him in the eye.

“Oh, Anakin,” he sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

Anakin bared his teeth. The Force rose to his call and clawed at the dark around his wrist and throat, trying to strip it away from him. He brought his other other hand to the knife, leaning all his weight and as much Force as he could spare into it. The knife moved a fraction of an inch and the hold around his throat tightened, starting to choke. Anakin ripped at it, feeling relief for a second before the pressure returned.

“Be a good boy and drop the knife.”

Fuck you, Anakin tried to say, but nothing came out. He was gasping for breath, lungs starting to burn and head starting to reel, but he wasn’t going to give up. Obi-Wan would have to choke him out before he let this chance slip out from under his blade.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan growled. “Do what I say.”

“No.” Anakin gasped and cast aside all attempts to free his throat. Every ounce of Force wrapped around his hand and wrist and pushed. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened and the knife plunged downwards.

Obi-Wan twisted at the last moment, the knife’s edge grazing his skin. The blade plunged into the mattress, hitting a metal spring with a reverberating twoing. Blood welled from the cut, no larger than a shaving knick, and spilled onto the bed sheets. Darkness was closing in around Anakin’s, his head swimming, eyes blurring. He tried to wrench the knife free, but the world was spinning around him, spinning away.

His back hit the bed and Anakin gasped for air, sucking in greedy lungfuls. The pressure around his throat had been replaced by a flesh and blood hand and his wrist was pinned to the mattress. He reached up, grasping at the hand around his throat, trying to pull it away before it could clench close.

“That was a very stupid idea, my dear,” Obi-Wan said, glaring down at him. His hair had come loose from it’s perfect coif, a lock falling over his forehead. His pupils were wide enough to almost hide the yellow of his eyes, but there was no denying what he now was. No denying how far the great Obi-Wan Kenobi had fallen. “Really, what were you thinking? I’ve been nothing but kind to you and you decide to stab me.”

Anakin wasn’t going to answer. He wasn’t. And yet- “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Obi-Wan blinked, almost looking taken aback. “Is that what had you so scared? Darling, I don’t expect that of you.”

Anakin scoffed. “You forced me to marry you.”

“I aggressively negotiated,” Obi-Wan rebutted. “But I have no intention of forcing that.”

Anakin would be a fool to believe him. Obi-Wan had given him no reason to. He was a sith. An emperor. A liar and a traitor and a stone cold bastard.

“Would it ease your mind if I let you keep the knife?” Obi-Wan asked. “Though I really must wonder how you got it in the first place. Have you had it all this time?”

Anakin narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. It would take more than torture to drag the truth out of him. Death would come for him well before Obi-Wan knew who had given it to him.

Obi-Wan sighed. His weight shifted and Anakin realized for the first time that Obi-Wan was straddling him. He wanted to kick him off, to twist away, but slam him to the floor using only the Force. He didn’t, even when Obi-Wan let go of his wrist and dragged the knife out of the mattress. Anakin flinched as he brought it close, waggling it in his face.

“You’re very lucky this didn’t actually kill me.” He said, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. He ran the back of his hand over his throat, smearing the wet blood away.

“Why? Worried I’d be a hot widower?”

“You do look marvelous in black,” Obi-Wan agreed. “But no.” He leaned in close, whispering the words. “There’s a dead man’s switch, my dear. If I die, the Jedi die with me.”

All of Anakin’s regained air was punched out of his lungs. “You’re lying,” he accused, eyes wide.

“I’ve never lied to you, Anakin. But if you’re willing to take the chance...” Obi-Wan dangled the knife in front of his face. “You can try again. Will you be able to live with the blood of ten thousand Jedi on your hands?”

Anakin swallowed. His hand spasmed, wanting to snatch the knife back. But what if Obi-Wan was telling the truth? He always had a backup plan, a contingency. If anyone would have a such an impossible fail safe, it’d be him.

“That’s what I thought,” Obi-Wan said, nodding in satisfaction. He leaned over, dropping the knife on the bedside table with a clatter. He sat up, letting go of Anakin’s throat and patting his own thighs. “Now then, we really should get some rest. We’ve a very long day ahead of us.” With that, he rolled off Anakin and back to his side of the bed.

Anakin laid there for a long time, mind buzzing, horror his only companion in the dark.