Chapter Text
The child is so small. Wispy blonde hair, wide blue eyes. Frightened eyes. They’d lit up when he entered the room. Before they knew.
The blood is everywhere, all over the floor, all over his hands. The stench of it, the smell of gore, of lightsaber burns, plasma-ozone and cooking meat.
And all the rest of them, the children, bodies fanning out around that first boy, just as small, just as frightened, little tunics smoldering, strikes clean, through the chest (hearts so small they are destroyed, rather than cleaved), through the neck (severed brainstems, instant, painless).
He thinks to himself, They didn’t suffer. They didn’t suffer.
But they were frightened, something thinks back.
Not frightened anymore. Now they’re empty. Empty little bodies, empty eyes, watching him. Look what you’ve done, the eyes say.
I had to, he says. I had to. I had to. I had no choice, I had to.
You did not, they say. You had a choice.
You will not suffer, he prays. , you will not suffer.
Someone is behind him. He turns. There is a woman, clear porcelain skin, a waterfall of dark hair, beautiful, angelic, kneeling. The blood does not touch her white dress. She cradles a little body in her lap, empty eyes watching him.
Padmé looks at him. He sees her horror, her disgust. Her fear. For him, at him. What have you done? she says.
I had to, he tries to say, but the words do not come.
She looks back to the body. You’ve killed our child.
No, he wants to deny. He did this to protect them, to save them. It was all for them. No, please.
But it’s true. He’s killed his child.
Look what you’ve done, the eyes say. Look at me. Look what you’ve done to me.
He cannot. He cannot. He takes his bleeding saber in his bloodied hands and runs himself through.
But he does not die. is a privilege he has lost.
He can’t move at all. The straps tying him to the table are too tight, painful. No one cares. The droids around him work away, stabbing him and cutting him open, rooting around under his skin. Yanking out wet, squelching organs and shoving in cold, sharp objects.
It hurts so much. But he does not have the breath to scream.
People step into his line of sight, looming over him. Healer Mysok says, Perhaps if we dig deep enough, we can cut the darkness out of him. He feels the skin over his chest slicing open, folding back, and something prods between his ribs. Master Windu scoffs. Do not be foolish. There is no saving him.
The rhythmic, mechanical noise of his respirator roars in his ears, louder and louder, blocking out any other sounds. The people and the droids and the tools all fall away, fading into distant shadows. Or perhaps he is the one that falls, surrounded by nothing. Nothing but the noise.
He is on the ground. His body is covered in heavy, twisted metal, and there are hands on him, dry, grasping hands. They burn like ice where they touch him, nails digging into the little flesh he has left. The hands tug harshly, pulling him to the empty void that’s behind him. He can’t see it, but he knows it’s there. Knows there will be no escape.
There are whispers from behind, of how good a boy he is, how obedient, how powerful. Well done, my apprentice. How useful you are. You have pleased your master. They crowd his mind, bearing down on him, whittling away his thoughts like skin in a sandstorm, flaying him alive like whips.
Suddenly, another figure is here, with him in the dark. The sight of her is foggy, her face indistinct, but he still knows who she is.
Mom! Desperation bubbles in his lungs like blood. Mom! Help!
, she intones softly, and makes no move to aid.
But ! he gasps, terrified, feet digging furrows in the ground as he’s dragged along.
Her eyes are cool and dry and sad as the desert night.
His heart feels like it’s cracking in two. …
Now Obi-Wan stands there, looking down at him, a crystal-clear vision, not a hair out of place. His face is a hardened scowl, nothing but disappointment and contempt in his diamond eyes.
Obi-Wan, he whimpers. Master, I’m scared. Please.
You’ve brought this upon yourself, Padawan, he says, unmoved. Perhaps if you had been better, you would be worth saving.
The fingers hooked into his skin tighten, yanking him further into the darkness. No! he cries. No, please! Please help me! He begs, sobs, ! Obi-Wan! Don’t let him take me, please!
But his parents only watch as his drags him away.
*
Anakin wakes up still struggling, kicking at his sheets, gasping in terror as his body thrashes. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, he shoves to a sitting position, gulping down air and trembling. He’s completely sweat through his clothes, the damp fabric clinging to him, leaving him chilled.
It’s still dark, the middle of the night. His gaze catches on the painting of a lake on the far wall. He can barely make out the picture in the nighttime gloom, everything rendered in shades of grey. The Force buzzes with ever-present Coruscanti life. He feels Obi-Wan faintly a few yards away, on the other side of the wall, still shielded, still asleep.
Burned behind Anakin’s eyes is the image of his and his looking at him, watching impassively as the icy, knife-like hands of his tormentor (his owner) drag him back to hell.
They wouldn’t help me… Anakin shivers, his own screams echoing in his ears. His breath hitches again. He smells brimstone and bloodied sand and burning hair.
He sees, superimposed over his dark, empty bedroom, the form of his Master, blurry with heat-haze and smog and tears. He sees him turn away. Leave him. Leave him to the indifference of the fire, the cruelty of his newest master. Two flavors of mercilessness.
He didn’t. He didn’t help me. His throat closes up, a pathetic little whimper squeezing out of his chest. He didn’t help me! Obi-Wan! Shudders are wracking his body, vision blurring over. He left me! He left me…
Anakin curls around his pillow, shoving his face in it to muffle his violent sobbing. He wishes again that his father had killed him instead of abandoning him.
—
Obi-Wan wakes slowly to the dawn. He rolls out of bed with a groan, scrubs at his eyes until he can see the chronometer at his bedside, and then swears. He has overslept.
Adrenaline seizes him and he leaps up, beginning to fly through his morning routine. By the time he’s dressed and groomed, there’s not enough time for him to eat. He sends a forlorn look at the conservator, but he cannot afford to be late.
Pausing outside his padawan’s bedroom, Obi-Wan reaches gingerly into the Force and finds Anakin’s radiant presence, thin with exhaustion and emotional strain, but also lax in sleep. He thinks briefly about waking him up to check on him. Anakin had been acting really out of it after their conversation the previous evening, and Obi-Wan is worried. He dithers for a moment, but ultimately decides to let him be. His poor padawan needs the rest.
Grabbing a scrap piece of flimsi, Obi-Wan scrawls a quick note to Anakin and pastes it to the conservator, where he’ll hopefully see it. Then he rolls his shoulders and begins the well worn path to the Council’s chambers.
*
Entering the room is a bit surreal. Last time he was primarily focused on worrying over Anakin, trying to sooth the other’s anxiety. Now, on his own, there is nothing to distract him from the nostalgia. It takes conscious effort not to turn towards the seat he remembers being his own.
He’s right on time as the first appointment of the day, the rest of the Council just settling into their seats as he takes his proper place in the center of the room. Plo Koon smiles at him from his chair, extending a warm greeting through the Force, which Obi-Wan returns.
Mace Windu starts calling the meeting to order, and Obi-Wan refocuses his attention. It’s time.
“Now,” the Master of the Order says, getting right to the point. “Knight Kenobi, Master Koon says you have had a vision pertinent to the war effort, yes?”
Obi-Wan draws himself to attention, standing straight and clasping his hands behind his back. He feels himself folding flawlessly back into the role of a High General. “That is correct.” He projects his voice easily, slipping into the well-worn habit.
“The information I have to share must not under any circumstances leave this room. What I have learned is critical not only to the future existence of our Order, but to that of the Republic in it’s entirety.” Surprised looks and dubious mutterings arise, but Obi-Wan waits them out, staring with grim certainty at Master Windu. The older man frowns fixedly back.
“You’ve learned all that from a vision?” Adi Gallia says, sounding skeptical.
Eeth Koth heaves an exasperated sigh, while Master Ti and Master Billaba exchange glances. Ki-Adi-Mundi exclaims, “That is preposterous!”
“Always in motion, the future is,” Master Yoda chimes in.
Obi-Wan continues to wait. “An extraordinary claim,” Mace finally responds, not breaking eye contact. “You are aware that current policy does not put much stock in the warnings of visions.”
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, preparing to argue his case—when a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.
Plo has stood from his seat. He takes a few steps towards the center of the room, where Obi-Wan stands, to the astonishment of much of the room.
This is highly irregular. During the war, much of the traditional etiquette for Council meetings was shed in favor of practicality. But at this time, a Council member standing to join an attending Jedi is still a shocking breach of conduct.
Plo nods cordially to Obi-Wan, and then addresses his colleagues. “Knight Kenobi confided in me about this subject the day before last.” The other Masters listen in silence. “The level of detail his visions have provided him is far beyond anything I have ever heard of. I believe it is imperative that we heed his warnings. What he has to say is shocking, but I am absolutely convinced it is true.”
The chamber is quiet, those in attendance absorbing what they’ve heard. Obi-Wan nods his thanks for the older man’s support and looks back at Master Windu. After a long moment of thought, the man says, “Very well. Knight Kenobi, please tell us what you’ve Seen.”
And Obi-Wan faces the rest of the Council and begins his tale.
—
Anakin doesn’t realize he’s cried himself to sleep until he wakes up again, mid-morning sunlight shining through his window. His mouth feels really dry, and his eyes and head ache. He lays there for a moment, hazy, and then the memories of the dream surge forward. Anakin shudders, his eyes burning. He swallows the reaction down.
With a grunt, he forces himself to sit up. His clothes and hair feel gross from dried sweat. Only half paying attention, he casts his senses out, and then physically recoils when he can’t find Obi-Wan where he expects him to be. Anakin frantically tosses his net wider, searching for his Master, the beginnings of panic clawing at his chest. Where, where…there.
Several things happen at once.
Anakin locates Obi-Wan, close enough that he’s still likely in the Temple. The man is above him, high enough that Anakin recognizes he is probably in the Council chamber. He belatedly remembers his Master’s scheduled meeting.
At the same time, before he’s fully grasped this realization, he throws himself to his feet, out of bed. But in his mad panic, having just woken up, and still struggling to adjust to the changes in his body, Anakin fails to keep his balance, tripping over himself and crashing to the ground. He lands hard on his right shoulder, and is unable to stifle a cry as agony explodes in his stump arm.
Anakin trembles on the floor, trying to bite back moans as both real and phantom pains lance all along the limb. He clutches at his shoulder, pressing his forehead into the carpet, and breathes through his teeth as the pain slowly begins to recede.
Clumsy karking idiot, he chides himself, once he manages to push himself to sit up. He probes gingerly at his right arm and shoulder, and determines that nothing is broken or sprained or bleeding, just bruised to hell. It’s probably going to keep hurting for the rest of the day.
Just. Great. Why would he expect anything else?
After finally dragging himself to his feet, Anakin fumbles his way out of his room and heads to the kitchen, trailing a hand on the wall for balance. It’s empty and tidy, entirely as expected, but he’s still disappointed for some reason. He gets himself some water, and feels a little bit better.
Looking around, Anakin spies a note stuck to the conservator, and steps closer to read it.
Good morning, Anakin,
You were still asleep when I had to leave for the Council meeting at 0800. I didn’t want to wake you. Please remember to eat firstmeal, and midmeal if I am not back by then.
Checking the chronometer reveals that it’s 0812. His Master must have just left, then. He feels hollow at the thought that Obi-Wan may not be back until after noon, that he’ll be alone for that long.
Desperate to distract himself, Anakin decides to take a shower. Maybe it’ll help. At least he’ll be clean. He drags himself to the ‘fresher and peels off his night clothes. The warm water is nice, especially for his still-aching shoulder, but it still feels like there’s a hollow pit in the center of his chest. Before long, he sits down on the tiled floor, trying not to think about anything.
There’s a dark bruise on his wrist. Two half circles, on the top and bottom, clearly from a bite, angled in such a way it’s obvious he did it to himself. He’ll have to make sure he keeps his sleeves down, so Obi-Wan doesn’t see.
He stays in the shower for a long time. Eventually the water gets cold. Even then, it takes Anakin a minute to work up the motivation for him to stand up and get out. By that point he’s shivering from the temperature. The ache in his stump flares anew, muscles going tense from the cold. It’s his own damn fault for sitting there so long, and he berates himself as he staggers to his feet and shuts the water off, stupid, useless.
Anakin finally gets a towel around himself, struggling with only one arm, and shambles back to his bedroom to sit on the floor there. He dresses himself, eventually. Shuffles back to the main room. Looks around. Goes to the kitchen.
The chrono says it’s 0948.
He reads Obi-Wan’s note again. His Master wants him to eat. He should probably do that. The first thing he sees in the conservator is the last of Bant’s casserole from yesterday, so he pulls that out. Preparing it seems like such a monumental task that he can’t bring himself to bother, just grabbing a fork and eating it right out of the container without heating it up.
There’s only a little of the casserole left, so he manages to finish it. He puts the dish in the sink with vague thoughts of trying to clean it later. Maybe he can use the Force to hold it still while he scrubs?
Anakin wanders around the main area, from the kitchen to the living room and back. The apartment feels at once too large and too small, an echoing, empty cage he’s trapped in. He desperately wants to go somewhere else, but the thought of going out now, alone and exposed, fills him with terrible dread.
He doesn’t want to watch a holoshow, the idea utterly unappealing, and he doesn’t want to go back to sleep, either. What else…?
Oh. He could meditate. He hasn’t tried meditating since before they were sent back; maybe it will help. Obi-Wan might be pleased with him, too.
He grabs a meditation mat and lays it out on the floor by the window, where he can be in the sun. He kneels, getting comfortable, and closes his eyes.
Meditation as a source of peace has always been a struggle for Anakin, with the Force always so loud in his head. He opens himself to It, ready for the expected wave of noise, able to ride it out after more than a decade and a half of practice. He feels the tranquil Light of the Temple, of thousands of Jedi.
But between him and It is an interloper.
The siren song of the Dark side crowds his mind, the Light now distant and blurry. It calls to him, croons for him, tracing tendrils along his shields. I know you, It says without words. You are of me. All he has to do is give in, allow himself to be immersed, engulfed, and It will take his pain, his suffering. You already have the Darkness within you, what’s a little more? There’s no need to feel this way. It will make him strong; more importantly, It will make him feel strong. Strong enough to protect what’s yours, strong enough to protect yourself, just surrender…
Anakin wrenches himself out of the meditation, eyes flying open with a gasp. No. No, he can’t give in to the Dark. Obi-Wan wants him to be Light. He wants to be Light. He does. He won’t succumb. He won’t let It take him, not again.
It’s one thing to use the Dark side of the Force, to reach for it for some simple task. It is another entirely to give oneself to It, submerge your soul and let the waves of power carry you where they will. He doesn’t remember when exactly he submitted to It on E-Day, whether it was on the way to the Temple, or in the middle of—of the Purge, or…
He can’t do it again. He can’t.
Anakin takes a few minutes to breathe and calm down before he tries again. Sinking back into the Force, he searches for the Light, for peace, but every way he turns is blocked by Its cloying, clinging antithesis. He tries again and again, getting more and more upset at every failure. Eventually he just gives up, too frustrated to keep going.
He feels even worse than when he started, agitated and unbalanced. Karking idiot. The thoughts bubble up like tar. Did you really think you could do something right for once in your worthless life?
Anakin gets up and shoves the meditation mat back where it belongs. He checks the time. It’s 1032. It’ll be hours yet until Obi-Wan is back. And there’s no way to know exactly how long the meeting will last. The uncertainty eats at him.
Pacing aimlessly again, his eyes suddenly catch on on a datapad. It’s the one that has his report on Sidious’ plans. It’s mostly finished, all the major objectives he can remember written down, but he could still go through it more, see if there are any other details he could add.
He grabs it and settles at the table. Several uneventful minutes pass, him able to focus on the work despite his emotional turmoil. But then he comes across…
S ordered creation of lithium mines in Bronto (Rep), Curag (Rep), and Janous (CIS) systems in first year of Clone Wars (977 ARR). Funded by Trade Federation, credits for Republic locales laundered through several shell corps S had ties to. Lithium desired for Project Stardust [see pg 5].
Bronto & Janous lithium harvest successful. Curag mines detonated by insurgents in 06/981, prior to imperial seizure of materials.
In fact, he had been the one Sidious ordered to root out insurgent activity on Curag III. Upon returning empty-handed, his master had been…most displeased. Anakin tries to shake off the sudden squirming anxiety.
He jumps to another entry, trying to refocus, but the specter of remembered pain follows him. It builds and builds, his mind continuing to catch on his own experiences surrounding each recorded event, until he can practically feel the phantom sensations of muscles spasming from electrical discharge, an invisible weight on his shoulders, heavy, claustrophobic armor boxing him in.
The next sentence reads, Families of Genosis scientists involved in Project Stardust executed by S after whistleblowing intentions discovered, 02/983.
He had been there for that, standing next to the Sith’s throne as the sentence was carried out. He had not interfered, did not speak out against it, but he had wanted to, and the Emperor had been able to sense it. Those thoughts of disobedience on their own were enough to anger his master.
Sidious had spent hours that evening playing with the controls to his respirator.
A pitiful little sob bursts from Anakin’s throat, startling him out of the memories. It feels like the walls are closing in, the whooshing of air from the space’s environmental controls taking on a sinister quality. His hand shakes hard enough he can no longer read what’s on his datapad. For a split second, part of him expects Obi-Wan to come running at the sound to help him. But then he remembers he’s alone.
(So pathetic.)
Sudden, blinding anger sweeps in, burning away the fear and misery. Anger at himself, for being so stupid and useless and weak. With a scream, he hurls the datapad across the room. It hits the wall and then the floor with a loud clatter. Anakin stands there and shakes with frustrated rage.
A second later the horror hits him, stopping him cold, kriff, shit. What if he broke it? They need that information, rewriting it would take days, time they don't have. He stumbles across the room, towards the thrown ‘pad. Fuck, he ruins everything, why does he even bother trying, it would be better if he wasn’t here at all—
Collapsing to his knees, he gingerly scoops up the device, pressing the power button—and it’s fine. It turns on without even a flicker, no harm done. He slumps in relief.
But it doesn’t hold back the self-loathing for long. Force, he’s so—so bad. Crazy, out of control. Violent and dangerous. Throwing temper tantrums like a child. He’s such a fucking idiot, no good for anything, he should just—just go away forever. He should—should…
(You should just kill yourself.)
And he’s. He’s tempted.
Kneeling on the floor next to the couch, Anakin whimpers. He looks down at the datapad in his hand. He doesn’t want…doesn’t want to feel this way.
…But the thought is so appealing. He could just, just go to sleep forever. He would never have to feel like this again, never have to feel so afraid and worthless, always expecting pain around every corner, just waiting to be abandoned again.
He knows it’s wrong. He shouldn’t feel like this, and it’s bad that he does. Selfish. He’s so selfish. How could even think of doing that to Obi-Wan? Doing it would hurt his father unimaginably. But part of him is tempted anyway. Because he’s bad.
Anakin sits back, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging his legs. Forlorn tears burn in his eyes, welling up and then falling down his face, ragged breaths quiet. Everything is awful. He’s just so tired of feeling like this.
—
The story Kenobi tells them is ridiculous. Farcical. An insane concoction that should be an utter waste of everyone’s time, Mace’s especially.
And yet it isn’t.
Because it’s karking true.
Mace doesn’t want to believe it, but he has to. The evidence is all there. Kenobi knows far, far to much for there not to be at least some truth to his claims. Not only can he recount classified codes regarding the Order’s functional processes, historical data and sensitive secrets about the Force that only Masters are permitted to access—as well as those restricted only to councilmembers—but he also knows the details to personal information about many of them; secrets they apparently confided in him during his future tenure as a peer.
(Of course it’s Kenobi. Who else would it be?)
The younger Jedi informs them of the general progression of the war, major battles, what sorts of tactics did and didn’t work. How long it took for the Jedi to become used to war. He tells Adi Gallia the date of her death. He says by the end of those three years, the Order’s population had been reduced by more than two-thirds.
And that’s not even the bad news.
The Chancellor is the Sith. He started the war, is playing both sides. The Sith has control of the clones, can take over their minds at any moment. He plans to destroy the Jedi and the Republic, to take over the galaxy as an Emperor. In Kenobi’s vision, he succeeded.
They’ve been at this for hours. Mace pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the building migraine.
How could they have been so blind?
For ten years, their mortal enemy has held the highest office in the galaxy. Has had a seat in power, in their Senate, for decades longer. An incarnation of evil itself, everything antithetical to peace and life and prosperity, has been guiding their hands, poisoning them. A festering rot infecting the heart of all they are sworn to defend.
No longer.
Mace feels a new resolve flood through him. He will not allow the Dark side to jeopardize his people, to take the galaxy. No matter what he has to do to stop it.
He will do whatever it takes to put an end to the Sith.
Mace sits forward to see that Kenobi is still watching him. At his attention, the younger man steps forward and offers up a datastick. “This has everything I can remember about the first few months of the war. My hope is that we can use our foreknowledge to reduce casualties as much as possible while we investigate Sidious.”
He continues, “The war is a diversion. Our focus needs to be on buying time while preventing as much destruction as we can.”
“You think it likely that the conflict will end soon after the Chancellor’s treachery is exposed,” Depa says. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Kenobi confirms. “He was the driving force behind the war. With him gone, I believe both the Separatists and our own senators will be much more open to beginning peace talks.
“Then gathering that evidence should be our first priority,” Mace concludes.
Kenobi nods with a grim smile. “My thoughts exactly.”
(Something that had been tickling the back of Mace’s mind suddenly comes into focus. The way Kenobi has been talking with them during this meeting had seemed off, and now he realizes it’s because he is speaking as if he is a councilmember, actively taking part in their deliberations rather than waiting to be called upon, as would be customary for a Knight giving a report. The behavior doesn’t even seem to be conscious on his part.)
“Later today or tomorrow, I can deliver a writeup of what details we know of Sidious’ plans, for the war and for his empire,” Kenobi goes on to say. “It may give us some places to begin our investigation.”
Mace would prefer Kenobi inform them of what he knows now. “Go ahead and give us an overview,” he requests, gesturing. “It’s best if we learn as much as we can as soon as possible.”
The next thing that happens has Mace’s heart sinking. (Later he will think, not for the last time, Why is it always these two?)
Kenobi pauses. Clasps his hands. “…I’m afraid I cannot.”
The room stares at him.
“What?” Depa blurts.
Mace’s head throbs. “Explain.”
The utterly aggravating man says, “I cannot provide that information at this time.”
Shaak asks after a beat, “Why can you not brief us on this now?”
“Ah,” Kenobi says, and Mace’s suspicion immediately skyrockets. Qui-Gon would often make that exact sound when someone hit upon a subject he was reluctant to talk about, usually because it involved him breaking some rule.
After a long staring contest, Kenobi finally says, slowly, “I am afraid that I was not the one to learn about Sidious’ specific plans.” Another pause. “…Anakin was given that information. He is writing up the report.”
Mace blinks. Wait.
“Wait, Skywalker had this vision, as well?” he says incredulously, irritation beginning to rise. Why was this not mentioned before now? “Why is he not here with you?” They should both be giving this report.
Kenobi remains implacable. “I’m afraid he could not make it to this meeting.”
“He’s on medical leave,” Mace counters, scowling. “And even if he wasn’t, I very much doubt that there is anything he could be doing that is more imperative than informing us of the future destruction of the galaxy.”
Kenobi is immovable in the face of Mace’s frustration, the only sign of his own a slight tension around his eyes. “Anakin did not want to be the one to present this information.”
Mace is going to have an aneurysm. “He is a Jedi, nearly a Knight. This is his duty, regardless of what he wants.”
“If you will remember, we decided he is not ready for Knighthood,” Kenobi says stiffly.
“You decided he is not ready.”
“Anakin is—”
Master Rancisis cuts him off, “Knight Kenobi, you are being petulant and impertinent.” He sends the young Jedi a harsh, reproving glare. “It seems your attachment to the boy clouds your judgment, preventing you from doing what is best for him and for the galaxy. You would do well to cultivate some distance.”
Mace hides a wince. He would not have gone so far as that. (He does not necessarily disagree with the old Master’s assessment of Kenobi’s attachment, but such a severe dressing down is rather unwarranted.)
Instead of being cowed, though, or even sullenly accepting the reprimand, Kenobi seems to stand straighter before them. Something in him goes sharp and cold, a latticework of durasteel reinforcing his presence. Calculation gleams in his eyes as they flit between the councilmembers he faces, as if gauging a potential threat.
Mace suppresses a sigh. Why couldn’t his Master have just raised him to be normal? Somehow, he knows this is all Qui-Gon’s fault.
—
Obi-Wan is aware that he needs to calm down, center himself, that he is, at least in these people’s eyes, overemotional and overreacting.
But.
“You would do well to cultivate some distance.”
It’s not a threat. He knows it’s not.
But it feels like one. It feels like they’re threatening to take Anakin away from him, to separate them, and that cannot happen. He will not allow that to happen.
“If I may interject.” Plo suddenly speaks up for the first time in a while. His words cut through the rising tension. The room turns its attention to him, and after a second Windu nods his permission. “When Knight Kenobi and his padawan came to me, Skywalker spoke to me about some of the experiences he had in his vision.”
Obi-Wan just barely prevents himself from visibly stiffening, focus narrowing in on the older Jedi as his heartrate spikes. Plo had agreed before not to tell the Council that Anakin Fell. What is he…
“Of those seven years, young Skywalker spent the latter three in the hands of the Sith.” Shock and dismay ripple about the room. Obi-Wan remains utterly still. “I was not given extensive details, but I do believe that period of time was traumatic enough that forcing him to recount it would be…unnecessarily cruel.”
Plo makes eye contact with him as alarmed and empathetic mutters break out among the other councilmembers. He does not specify the manner in which Anakin ended up in Sidious’ clutches. Obi-Wan feels his hackles beginning to lower. It’s okay. He is among allies.
“Is this true, Knight Kenobi?” Master Koth asks.
He steadies himself. “Yes, Masters.”
“Can you tell us any more about this?” Windu asks, apparently at least reconsidering his previous stance, if not quite letting it go yet. He takes a too-long moment to gather himself, determine how—and what—to explain.
Obi-Wan opens his mouth and says, “He—” It takes a beat for him to unstick the words, finally rasping, “He was tortured.” A note of haunted anguish stains the song of his Force presence.
“It has been difficult for him to speak of much of what he went through.” Obi-Wan’s turmoil is not feigned. His son was tortured for years. He could work harder to hide his distress, maybe, but. He wants them to see. To know. “He has been struggling greatly since we—since our visions.”
Adi Gallia speaks into his pause. “I find that I still do not understand.” She watches him with narrowed eyes, not argumentative, or even disbelieving, exactly, but confused. Thoughtful. “Why would visions, even such Dark, violent ones, cause such disturbance?”
Obi-Wan finds his mind blanking, unsure how to respond without tipping them off that the vision description is technically a lie, but thankfully, Plo steps in to rescue him. “Young Skywalker and Kenobi’s visions were incredibly detailed. It was explained to me that they had felt their experiences as if they had actually lived that time, that the knowledge feels more like memories.” Muttering again sweeps the room, various Jedi reacting to the proclamation.
“How odd,” hums Master Ti, her head tilted in contemplation.
“I have never heard of such a thing,” Oppo Rancisis harrumphs.
“Precedence, there is,” Master Yoda says, to some surprise. “Although rare, similar cases, there have been.” Obi-Wan wonders at that. Perhaps he and Anakin are not the first Force-users to experience this sort of ‘time-travel’.
“It would make sense,” Windu muses, frowning at the far wall. “Kenobi was able to provide explicit details of a variety of sensitive information. That indicates a much higher level of depth than what visions usually provide.” There are a few nods and noises of agreement.
Ki-Adi-Mundi cuts in, “I still think Skywalker should deliver his own version of events.” He looks at Obi-Wan. “He is a senior padawan, is he not? They are trained to deal with encountering such things.”
Anger flares. How dare he just presume— No. Obi-Wan forces himself to stop, to take a breath. He has to explain, and he has to do it calmly. Has to make them listen. It takes him a noticeable beat until he can corral his emotions, but he manages.
“He was tortured,” Obi-Wan repeats, expression steely. “For years.” His voice shivers just the slightest bit. “Maimed and prevented from healing, his injuries treated just enough to keep him alive. Kept isolated, after…” After the rest of the Jedi were killed, he doesn’t say. His anger flees from the overwhelming horror as he makes himself go into more detail.
“He could no longer eat, due to extensive organ damage. Was forced to have nutrition…pumped directly into his body.” The chamber is quiet, his audience rapt. “He struggles with eating now, due to that experience.” Obi-Wan swallows and folds his shaking hands in his sleeves, not at all playing up his reaction.
“He. Experienced burns.” His voice has gone gravelly. “Severe, and extensive.” (“I couldn’t breathe without—without my r-respirator…”) “To his skin and lungs.” Each word is a struggle to keep his tone even. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Plo shoot him a worried glance. He wonders what his face looks like to warrant the concern. “He lost his—remaining limbs.” Sizzle, thump, thump, thump.
Steady, steady. “His w—wounds were treated—improperly. He is—is now terrified of receiving medical care—” He has to clamp his mouth shut when his voice breaks and he almost, almost sobs, grief and sorrow surging. He closes his eyes, scrabbles for composure. That—that is too much. He is not comfortable being this vulnerable around these people.
The room is dead silent. He gathers himself for some seconds, clears his throat. “I believed him dead.” The sentence is strangled, but dry. “No—no one would have come for him. No one knew he was still there.” His voice is as dull as desiccated bones.
Plo takes a step towards him, now standing close enough to Obi-Wan for their presences to brush lightly against each other, without either of them needing to reach. He tries to ground himself in the present, blinking away the memories of long, cold desert nights spent suffocating on grief.
That has to be enough. Enough for the Council to leave Anakin be, to not push further. None of it is even a lie. They’re just…leaving out a few bits.
Quietly, Plo addresses the room, “We will have Padawan Skywalker’s written report on his knowledge. I believe that should be sufficient,” he says to Mace. The man chews over that, still looking unhappy, but, finally, he nods.
“Fine.”
A little knot of tension in Obi-Wan loosens as the session begins wrapping up. At least, his own part of the meeting is done. The councilmembers start breaking into smaller groups to continue discussing this new problem, and he allows himself a silent sigh.
Amidst the background noise, Plo steps up to him and rests a hand lightly on his elbow. “Are you alright, Knight Obi-Wan?”
“Yes.” His voice rasps, and he clears his throat. “Fine, thank you.” The Kel Dor gives him a doubtful look, but lets it drop.
He folds his hands in his sleeves and says, “I was thinking I would like to check in with you and Padawan Anakin this afternoon, if you are amenable.”
“I…” Anakin likely is not feeling well enough for another intense conversation today. To be frank, Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he is up for that right now. “I’m unsure if that would be wise. Yesterday was…challenging.” Putting it mildly. “Perhaps tomorrow…?”
“Of course,” Plo acquiesces easily, not pushing for the details Obi-Wan doesn’t provide. Then again, his little speech earlier likely told the older Jedi all he needs to know. “We’ll be having meetings all afternoon. Will before midmeal work? Around 1100?”
“Yes,” says Obi-Wan, who has no plans to do anything tomorrow. “Perfect.”
“Excellent. Would you like to visit my rooms again, or would you prefer I came to you?”
“The latter, I think, would be best, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Plo smiles behind his mask. The two exchange a few more pleasantries, and the older Master begins heading back to his seat while Obi-Wan turns to leave.
In his path is Grandmaster Yoda.
Despite the man standing perfectly still, Obi-Wan feels as if he has been caught in an ambush. Countless indecipherable emotions rush through him. He says, “Grandmaster Yoda,” in a way that could pass as a greeting.
“Knight Obi-Wan,” the small Jedi responds, a faint, knowing amusement curling around his eyes. “Leaving so soon, are you?”
Obi-Wan feels his face draw into a polite mask as something in him settles on a decision. “Yes.”
“Any desire, do you have, to discuss with me now the further details of these visions?”
Obi-Wan neatly sidesteps the question. “Thank you, Grandmaster, but my padawan is expecting me.” He distantly recognizes his tone is just a touch too cold to be completely respectful, but he can’t muster the self-control to correct it. “I do not wish to keep him waiting.”
Yoda hums quietly, a thoughtful sound. “Another time, perhaps, then.”
(“The boy you trained, gone he is.”)
Obi-Wan says coolly, “Perhaps.”
Something in Yoda’s posture slackens with sadness, as if he knows the Human’s thoughts. He nods, his voice creaking with age as he proposes his final offer. “Speak to me, always, you may, about your burdens, young Obi-Wan. Lineage, we are, hmm?”
Obi-Wan looks down at his great-grandmaster. The man watches him back with a placid, somber warmth.
And he thinks, That isn’t true. He has rarely been able to speak to Master Yoda about what troubles him.
Obi-Wan was given all the same attention and instruction from the Order’s Grandmaster, meditation practice and philosophy classes and occasional sage advice, as every other Jedi youngling—and not an iota more.
It’s not as though Obi-Wan thinks he deserves special treatment. As Grandmaster, Yoda would have had so many other things on his plate, far, far more important things than a single, underperforming Jedi. Not to mention that Obi-Wan is hardly the man’s only lineage descendant. Probably about a fifth of the Order is related to him in some way, albeit most much more distantly than Obi-Wan is.
But.
But he still remembers being twenty-five, newly-Knighted and newly-orphaned, an unexperienced Master to a troubled child plagued by experiences Obi-Wan could barely comprehend. Remembers being alone, Qui-Gon dead and Dooku gone, desperately wishing for more support and guidance from those more experienced than him—and not receiving it.
And then, he remembers later on, sacrifice after sacrifice being made over the course of the war, whittling away at the core of who the Jedi were, until it felt like there was nothing of them left. Remembers time after time ceding to the judgment of his elders, only to witness more carnage and suffering.
He remembers turning to this man once again after losing everything, and being ordered to kill his own son.
“Thank you, Grandmaster,” he says tranquilly, hands gripping each other tightly in his sleeves. “I will keep that in mind.” Before Yoda can say anything further, Obi-Wan excuses himself and leaves.
—
Quinlan is in a thoughtful frame of mind as he hustles through the spaces between the walls away from the Council chambers. Those who know him fairly well may struggle to believe he’s even capable of pondering to such a degree, but those who know him very well wouldn’t be surprised.
He’s well aware that many Jedi write him off as an incorrigible airhead. It’s a reputation he takes great joy in using to his advantage.
The passages are dark and cramped, twisting irregularly with sudden dead ends and drops. Navigating the interior walls would be difficult for many, but Quinlan has been traversing the Temple this way his entire life. He would say he knows the ancient building’s shortcuts and secret passages better than anyone else, save, possibly, for Master Yoda.
Arriving at the closest point of egress between the Council room and the elevator nearest the quarters of a certain crèchemate of his, Quinlan quickly sweeps the area with the Force to ensure no one is in the corridor to spot him. He squeezes out of the wall, hops to his feet, and rushes off to intercept Obi-Wan before the man can sequester himself in his apartment again.
Everyone had heard about Obi-Wan denying the Council’s offer to Knight the ‘Chosen One’ the other day; there are about as many opinions on his decision as there are Jedi in the Temple. (Quinlan had taken careful note of those who had spoken especially unkindly about his crèche-brother. Just for…observational purposes. (For now.))
Quinlan’s opinion is that Obi-Wan knows his padawan better than anyone else and would do what’s best for the kid; if he thinks the squirt isn’t ready for Knighthood yet, then he’s more than likely right. So, no, he’s not worried.
Not about that.
The morning before last, Luminara had swanned into his room while her padawan was in classes, coerced him into wakefulness by cooking firstmeal (in his kitchen, with his ingredients), and proceeded to dump on him the weird interaction she’d had with Obi-Wan and little Ani the night before.
(Quinlan does not and will not accept the possibility of Anakin being taller than him. It just does not compute. The kid will always be Obi-Wan’s shrimpy little shadow, as far as he’s concerned.)
While he’d been worried hearing that Obes was acting off and his little womp-rat was sick, Quinlan was still pretty busy with his own duties, what with preparing for a Force-damned war. So he’d put those thoughts on the back burner.
Then, yesterday afternoon, he’d run into Bant in the east refectory looking particularly morose. After bothering her for a bit (his sacred duty as a crèche-brother) he discovered that Bant was also worried about Obes and Ani, that something else had happened. At first she refused to tell him, but he’d managed to bait her into hinting at the problem.
(“Quin, you know I can’t break medical confidentiality.”
“So there is some sort of medical issue with the shrimp.”
“Quin!”)
So when he’d heard that Obi-Wan had scheduled another meeting with the Council, Quinlan made the executive decision to do a little brotherly eavesdropping. For a good cause. (And he’s sure he can convince Master Tholme to cover for him if he gets caught.)
He’s glad he did. He’d arrived partway through the meeting, but even the small amount he had heard was particularly disturbing.
They’d had visions. Especially ‘Dark, violent ones’. Visions that were so detailed they feel like memories. Visions where little Ani was tortured for years. (Visions so bad that Obi-Wan—prim, proper, stoic Obi-Wan—was nearly driven to tears recounting it. In front of the entire Council, no less.)
Whatever they Saw must happen during this war they’re all being thrown into. Anakin could have been captured by the Separatists and presumed dead. And it would make sense for him to be targeted specifically. As a former Jedi, Dooku would know about the Chosen One prophesy, may have learned about Anakin’s arrival at the Temple in the ten years before he resurfaced. That might even have been why Obi-Wan refused to have his padawan Knighted, if he was captured while fighting without any other Jedi as backup.
With this new information, Quinlan’s mission parameters have expanded. Now that he knows what’s going on (more or less), it’s time for him to convince Obi-Wan to admit it, so that he and the rest of their crèchemates can start helping him and his padawan. Obes is going to accept their love and support, no matter how hard Quinlan has to bully it into his thick, self-sacrificing skull.
Power walking down the corridors so he can reach the central junction before his friend, Quinlan brushes dust from his clothes and sweeps a hand through his braids, making sure there’s no cobwebs caught in his hair. Obi-Wan is sharp; the best way to prevent him from figuring out what Quinlan was doing is to prevent him for realizing there’s anything to look for.
Finally arriving at the proper hallway, he has only seconds to spare. Quinlan arranges himself in an artful sprawl against the closest wall, throwing in a cocky grin for zest, and times it so that as soon as Obi-Wan rounds the corner, he says, “Fancy meeting you here.”
His former crèchemate’s reaction to the play-flirting only further cements his concern. Instead of narrowed, suspicious eyes, wondering what prank he’s up to now, the younger man jolts to a stop and blinks at him like he’s seen a ghost, sucking in the faintest gasp.
“Quinlan,” he says a beat too late, stilted, almost hesitant. If Quinlan didn’t know any better, he’d say that was grief in Obi-Wan’s Force signature. He notes all this without allowing any fluctuation in his roguish expression and relaxed presence.
“Obes!” he calls, languidly pushing off the wall and spreading his arms genially. “Good to see you, man, good to see you!”
“It’s—good to see you, as well, my friend.” The stutter does not go unnoticed.
“You look awful,” he teases, still smiling. “Have you eaten at all today?”
Obi-Wan winces, pale skin flushing brightly, and Quinlan allows his very real concern to creep into his expression. “Oh, Force, you haven’t, have you?”
The other stammers, “Well—I—” and Quinlan speaks over him.
“Well, we can’t have that.” He puts his hands on his hips the way Bant does when she’s lecturing them about proper healthcare. “Since you’re here,” he says like their meeting wasn’t an ambush, “hows about you come grab something from the refectory with me. We can chat.”
Obi-Wan grimaces. “I really should be returning to my apartment. Anakin is expecting me,” he deflects, but Quinlan was expecting this and has planned accordingly.
“C’mooooon,” he cajoles. “It won't take too long. We can pick something up for the squirt, too.” Quinlan almost has him, he can see it. He deploys his ultimate weapon. “How’s the kiddo doing, by the way?” The concern is genuine. “Haven’t heard from either of you in a hot minute.” Obi-Wan sighs.
Gotcha.
“It’s been…difficult.”
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, stepping closer and turning so he and Obi-Wan are facing the same direction. “Or would you rather hear about the trouble Aayla got up to on Eiridos last week?”
“Well,” his crèchemate huffs with a tiny, involuntary smile. “I suppose I can’t say no to that.”
Quinlan grins and slings an arm around the other man’s shoulders, steering them both towards the nearest refectory. He begins to regale his friend with his former padawan’s exploits as they move down the hall.
He won’t bring up the visions today, Quinlan decides. He’ll have to go slow here, so Obes doesn’t spook.
With his free hand, he pulls out his comm and writes a text without looking (an invaluable skill for any Jedi Shadow).
Lumi stand by. operation worrywart intervention is a go
Quinlan gets a response a few seconds later. He checks it when Obi-Wan is preoccupied with staring at a large mosaic inlaid in the wall they’re passing. (Quinlan notes the peculiar hint of mourning in his expression, adds it to the pile of clues.) Luminara has said, We’re not calling it that.
He grins to himself. They’re totally calling it that.
—
Anakin is in his bedroom, listlessly picking up and putting back down random droid parts, when Obi-Wan returns. His Master has kept his shielding up all day, so Anakin has done the same, despite how a part of him longs to reach out.
After his meltdown earlier, he’d spent a while sitting on the floor, trying to think about nothing. Eventually, he got up and washed his face, drank some water.
He’s spent the last several hours wasting time in his bedroom, sorting through his belongings, looking at mechanical projects in various states of completion and trying to remember what they were supposed to be. There were a couple times where he had started to doze off, but he would quickly jerk awake within a few minutes, the nightmares lying in wait to catch him.
Now he hears the front door open and takes a glance at the chrono. It’s nearly 1700. “Anakin?” his Master yells for him. Speaking loud enough to be heard from the other room feels impossible, so he doesn’t try to respond. He hears some rustling noises through the door, someone moving around.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan calls again. There’s a soft poke through their bond, and this finally spurs Anakin to action. He stands up, swaying a little, and shuffles out to main room.
Obi-Wan sees him and smiles, looking relieved. “There you are.” Anakin feels the urge to smile back at him, not an emotional expression but an ingrained social instinct. He does it, even though it feels stilted and wrong.
“I’m sorry I was out so late,” Obi-Wan moves around the kitchen, grabbing things. Anakin is relieved he doesn’t have to try to meet the other’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to be away long, but the meeting ran until after 1400.”
“It’s okay.” He’s already burdened Obi-Wan enough, his Master doesn’t need more reasons to feel guilty. The lie still tastes ashen.
“And then I ran into Quinlan. We went to get latemeal together, and I lost track of time while we were talking.”
“That’s nice.” He’s not jealous—is too tired for it—he just feels dull and leaden. It’s good that Obi-Wan got to see his friend. (Of course he’d rather spend time with him than you. What have you ever done to deserve his attention?)
“Here, I picked up some food for you from the refectory.” Anakin blinks and sees his Master holding out a container to him. He steps close enough to take it. The container is warm in his hands.
“Thanks.” He looks down at the container. It’s full of a thick stew, meat and vegetables and noodles.
Obi-Wan sets a napkin and a spoon on the table and asks, “Did you eat midmeal?”
“Uh. Yeah.” He had tried to, but when he went back to the kitchen, his eyes kept catching on the knife block on the counter. He’d shut himself in his room after that.
Anakin feels his Master’s heavy gaze on him, but he doesn’t meet it. There’s a pause. Obi-Wan steps closer to him. “Are you alright, Anakin?” he asks softly.
He drags his eyes up. “Yeah,” he lies quietly. “Just tired.” Obi-Wan’s gaze is still searching, still concerned. Anakin turns away from it, throat suddenly tight. He goes to the table to eat his meal. After a moment, Obi-Wan moves away. He feels simultaneously relieved and disheartened.
Anakin eats slowly for a few minutes, the quiet only broken by the soft sounds of Obi-Wan moving around the kitchen, organizing or cleaning things.
He tries to focus on the stew. He had thought he would feel better once Obi-Wan returned, but his chest still feels tight and bereft. At least the food is nice. He struggles to note the flavor, but it’s warm.
Suddenly, Obi-Wan says, “Quinlan was asking after you.”
Anakin’s spoon pauses. “Oh.” He can’t think of anything else to say.
“He’s glad your arm is healing well.” He hears the faucet turn on, the hiss of running water. “He asked to come by and see you, but I said you’d be too tired.”
“Yeah,” Anakin says, still looking down at his food.
They don’t talk any more as he finishes his meal. Standing, he takes the empty container to the sink (they’ll clean it and return it to the refectory later), only to see Obi-Wan washing the casserole dish he had meant to clean earlier. Guilt rends his insides. He’s such a burden.
Anakin leaves the room before Obi-Wan can say anything else or smile at him again. He goes to sit on the couch and look out the window at Coruscant's skyline.
Time passes.
It’s after the sun has set that Obi-Wan sits next to him, far enough away that they aren’t touching. Anakin wants to crawl into his lap and cling to him, but he can’t bring himself to initiate the touch, or to ask for it. He can feel the man’s eyes on him again.
His Master asks, “Do you want to hear how the meeting with the Council went?”
There’s a swooping sensation in Anakin’s stomach, even though if it had gone badly he would already know. (They would have already come for him.) “Yeah,” he says. Somehow, his voice is level.
So Obi-Wan tells him, and it’s, it’s about the best possible outcome, better than he was hoping, even, right up until…
“Unfortunately, I…” Obi-Wan hesitates, something sheepish fluttering through him. Anakin feels a twitch of anxiety and turns so he can see his Master. “I…had to tell them a little about…what you went through.”
Anakin, terror stabbing through his bones, whirls around to face Obi-Wan directly and gasps, “What?”
Obi-Wan winces at whatever’s on his face. He holds his hands out placatingly. “Not about what you did, or your connection to Sidious. They have no reason to suspect you of Falling, I promise, dear one.”
He’s shaking a little. “What—? Then, what—?” He feels…betrayed? Yes, betrayed. How could Obi-Wan do this?
“I had to tell them that you were hurt, that you remembered being tortured by the Sith.” Anakin flinches. He’s aware, distantly, that what Sidious was doing to him could be considered torture. But he hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. (It’s wrong for people to be tortured, no matter what they’ve done, but he does deserve the pain he was in, so—so what—how…)
Anakin hugs himself, looking down at the floor. “Why would…” He can’t figure out how to continue. “Why…”
“They were insisting on meeting with you, so you could give them an in-person report.” A chill streaks through him. “I know you don’t want that, so I needed to give them a reason to accept a written report without bothering you further.”
He takes a shuddering breath, the emotion beginning to drain away. “…oh.” Of course. That’s a good reason. Obi-Wan was doing what was best for him. He should—should have trusted him. (Besides, Anakin doesn’t have any right to feel betrayed, not after what he did.)
“I’m sorry, Padawan.” Obi-Wan murmurs.
“It’s—okay,” he stutters out.
“I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had another way.” The regret is clear in his voice, his presence.
“It’s okay,” he repeats, exhausted. It’s better than the Council forcing Anakin to be the one to talk about it. There’s no point in being upset now, anyway, since there isn’t anything he can do about it.
A hand gently touches his elbow. “…Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asks again, softly.
He can’t bring himself to lie again—but he can’t figure out how to explain, either. “…I’m tired,” he finally says, not looking up. It’s true.
The hand remains, solid. “How about we go to bed early tonight, then. I’m rather tired, as well.” Anakin remembers how he felt in bed last night, and doesn't want to. But he doesn't want to be awake, either.
“Okay,” he whispers. Obi-Wan stands, then helps pull him up. He keeps a hand in Anakin’s shoulder he walks with him to his bedroom.
Anakin stands in the doorway, looking into the darkness of the room, facing another night of remembered fear and pain, trapped alone in his head. He hears, as if from very far in the distance, “Good night.” It sounds like a death knell.
Obi-Wan drops his hand from Anakin’s shoulder, about to walk away, and he breaks.
Tears flood his eyes, blurring his vision, and he bites down on his bottom lip. (He’s all alone and it’s all his fault.) Arm wrapped around his stomach, curling in on himself, (trapped in a nightmare of a body) a sob tears out of his throat, (enslaved again) and then another, (a man he once looked up to torturing him for fun) and then he’s slumped on his knees on the floor, (It’s all his own fault!) shaking and crying and falling to pieces.
There are hands on him, on his shoulders, a warm presence kneeling in front of him. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s here. “Anakin?” Obi-Wan is with him. He’s—safe? “Padawan, dearest, what’s wrong?” Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan…
…Obi-Wan left me to burn.
“Don’t go!” He cries, high, desperate. He can feel the fire licking down his body, melting his clothes to his skin. “Don’t leave me!” It hurts so much— Please, please, please, please—
“Anakin!?” His hand scrabbles forward blindly, grabbing a fistful of cloth and clutching it tight. The terror stabs in and out of him all over his body, terror that he’s going to be thrown away again. Stripped of his body and his personhood and abandoned to ’s mercy.
“Please—please d-don’t leave me-e!” Everyone always leaves him, always, there’s nothing he can do, he’s going to die alone in agony and he can’t stop it.
“I won’t, Anakin, I’m not—”
“Please!” he wails again, hysterical with distress. He can’t—he can’t— “Pl-lease! M-a-aster…!” The world is spinning around him, spiraling out of control, he can’t—it’s hard to breathe, he can’t—his chest—it hurts—what—
His—his respirator. His must have stopped his respirator, it—no—please, no, it hurts, he needs, he can’t—he needs—he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, please, stop, please—
Arms wrap around him, steady and strong, pulling him against a warm, broad chest, and a little bit of the panic drowning him loosens its hold. His whole body still heaves with the force of his sobbing, entirely outside of his control. Everything’s out of his control.
A hand holds the back of his head, pressing his face into rough cotton, familiar woody scent, as he shudders and keens. There’s a familiar voice, a safe voice. “It’s okay. I’m here, sweetheart, I’m right here.”
“O-O-Ob-bi-i—” he gasps out.
“Shh,” his Master soothes. “Just breathe. You’re alright, Anakin, I just need you to breathe for me, okay?”
He tries. Tries to breathe, but it’s hard, his chest won’t stop spasming, he can’t calm down. There’s so many terrible things in his body, building up all day, and they’ve all decided they want out now.
“It’s alright, just keep trying, okay?” Obi-Wan says, controlled worry leaking into his voice. “You’re doing well, just keep trying.”
The hand on the back of his head scratches lightly at his scalp. “I’m not going to leave you, Padawan,” Obi-Wan promises. “It’s okay.” He rocks him a little, back and forth.
Anakin still can’t stop crying, but his breathing is getting a little easier. His Master starts to hum, a simple little melody he isn’t sure if he’s heard before. The man’s voice rumbles soothingly through Anakin’s body where they’re pressed together.
Slowly, bit by bit, Obi-Wan’s comforting reassurances are able to calm him down, until he’s a puddle of trembling Human in his father’s arms.
Eventually, the man asks, “Are you back with me, Anakin?” It takes a moment, but he manages to make himself nod into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Good, good…” He keeps petting his hair, giving Anakin a bit more time to gather himself before pushing further.
“Can you tell me what brought this on, dearheart?” he says, so gently.
It takes a while for him to find his words. “I—I h-had a nightmare. Yesterday.” It sounds pathetic, but he’s too tired and distraught to care. “And—and you were, g-gone, when I woke up. And—and I d-don’t w-wanna be—alone.” He can’t stop himself from sobbing again. “I d-don’t wanna be alone!”
Obi-Wan runs a hand over his head a few more times as Anakin gets himself back under control. After a bit, he says, “Would…you like to sleep in my room tonight, Padawan? Would that help you feel better?”
Anakin sniffles. “I don’t want to—to be a burden,” he croaks.
Obi-Wan’s response is immediate, firm. “You are not a burden, Anakin.” Another gentle stroke over his hair. “You never have been. I promise.” Anakin whimpers. He wants to believe him, but it’s so hard…
His Master says, “Can you lower your shields for me?”
A few seconds pass as Anakin processes the request and fumbles in his mind. He finally lets the walls over their bond relax—and is hit by so much care and devotion and affection he could drown in it. His brother-father’s love fills him up, every aching corner of his heart, every empty crevice of his mind consoled.
Obi-Wan loves him. Anakin hadn’t forgotten, but he’d lost sight, lost faith. But it’s always been true.
“I will show you as many times as you need, Padawan mine,” his says. “As often as you want.”
Obi-Wan loves me, Anakin thinks, wonders, believes.
A few more tears leak out, but he doesn’t break down again. Obi-Wan’s arms slacken around him, and he slowly sits back on his knees, even though he doesn’t really want to. But before Anakin can even think about getting worked up again, his Master reaches up to carefully swipe the tears from his face. When he’s done, he rests his hands on Anakin’s shoulders, a grounding weight. Obi-Wan’s here. Obi-Wan’s here.
He says, “Why don’t you get changed into your nightclothes and brush your teeth, and then we’ll go to bed, okay?”
“…Okay.” He doesn’t want to go anywhere alone right now, but the promise of being able to sleep beside someone else gives him the energy to get up.
But, it seems his Master has picked up on his desires. Obi-Wan follows him into his room and patiently faces the wall while Anakin changes his clothes. They go to the refresher together and brush their teeth. Then Obi-Wan leads him to his own bedroom.
Before Anakin can offer to take the floor, his brother prods him into his bed, even drawing back the covers for him. Anakin lays down and focuses on the pleasant texture of the sheets under his fingers while Obi-Wan changes.
He looks up when the older man comes to sit on the edge of the mattress. Looking just a little awkward, he gestures broadly to the bed and asks, “Is this alright?”
It takes a beat for Anakin to get his meaning, and then he’s nodding furiously, scooting back towards the wall to give Obi-Wan more room. There’s nothing he wants more in the world right now than to cuddle with his .
Obi-Wan climbs under the covers and lies on his side, facing him, before he uses the Force to flick the lights off. Anakin wastes no time burrowing into his Master, tucking his head under the other’s chin and snuggling close. Obi-Wan accommodates him, tossing his left arm over Anakin’s waist, allowing their legs to tangle together.
Some old sense of decorum, trained into him from fourteen years as a Jedi, tries to tell him that this should be embarrassing, uncomfortable. That he’s too far into puberty to be sleeping in his Master’s bed and he should feel ashamed.
But he’s—not. He’s not ashamed. And it isn’t uncomfortable at all, it’s just…nice.
Anakin feels Obi-Wan’s even breaths brushing over the top of his head. The man’s arm is a reassuring weight over his back. His Master sighs, a soft, pleased sound, melting further into the embrace, and Anakin feels a little smile curling his lips up, hidden and unseen. Their bond thrums softly with mutual contentment.
For the first time in years, Anakin drifts off to sleep feeling safe and warm.