Chapter Text
Mace is not running through the halls of the Temple, mostly because he thinks he might trip if he tries. Instead he power-walks, striding as quickly as he can. His thoughts swirl violently around, occasionally colliding with and bouncing off of each other, near unintelligible. Devastatingly, reaching for the Force is no help; It is just as tumultuous as he is.
One thought keeps resurfacing, repeating again and again.
He had died.
Mace died, he remembers dying. He’s going to die, in a little over two years.
He can remember the shock of it, the realization while falling to his death that he’d failed. The Sith had won. He hadn’t been able to gather the Force to him to slow his fall, too discombobulated from the pain, from the shock, the betrayal.
(He hadn’t thought Skywalker would do it. Mace remembers being able to sense the other’s turmoil, his fear and confusion. He remembers becoming more irritated (more desperate) when the younger man continued to hesitate. He had not sensed when Skywalker made the decision, was entirely blindsided when sudden scalding pain erupted in his arm.
Mace had had his doubts about the boy over the years, but he’d never truly thought—)
He isn’t angry—
No. That’s not true, Mace is angry. He is blisteringly, blindingly furious. But the great majority of his anger is directed at himself.
(How could he have let that happen? How could he have failed so badly?)
Advancing through the Temple, he keeps seeing flashes of other imagery in his mind, not like the memories he had been granted, but faint reflections of the further future. Overlaid on top of the hallways he moves through, paths he’s known all his life, he Sees those same halls in ruins, burning, blood-spattered, with unmoving, unidentifiable bodies strewn about. Echoes of terrible, terrible violence. The Force wailing.
Mace is only half aware of where he’s going, moving with his ‘saber drawn entirely on autopilot. Around him, other Jedi are stumbling out of their rooms, whispering with friends and acquaintances, confused, fearful. Some look haunted, but even the ones that clearly haven’t Seen that awful Vision are being disturbed by the sensations in the Force.
All he can think is that he needs to find Skywalker, needs to get to him before—before—
(Varied sensory perceptions flicker in the back of his head, too disconnected to make any sense of. A blurry landscape smeared with ash and hellfire. A yawning emotional pit, filled with enough guilt to smother. The crackle of lightsaber ignition. Horrifying, blistering agony. The distinct copper-ozone stench of Sith lightning. Loss. Fury. Grief. Betrayal. Screaming.
Force, the screaming.)
Mace blinks out of his thoughts to find himself outside the door in a residential wing of the Temple, one usually reserved for Master-Padawan pairs. He recognizes the apartment number as Obi-Wan’s, though he has never been here in person. Apparently the Force has been guiding him, at least subconsciously.
(Mace had not had much personal interaction with the man prior to his promotion to the Council, despite Mace’s old friendship with Qui-Gon. (Or, possibly, because of it.) He had simply had too much on his plate as Master of the Order; he was lucky to be able to spend a few hours a week with the friends he already had. And certainly the young Knight would have been incredibly busy with his own missions, his continuing education, and a young, unconventional padawan.
So Mace had been pleasantly surprised by how quickly the two of them were able to develop a close working relationship after the younger man was promoted to the Council. Kenobi is intelligent in his plans, methodical in his analyses, and incredibly precise with his reports: so, essentially, a Force-sent blessing. It only took a few weeks for them to get on a first-name basis.)
The Force wants him here, that much is clear—though, as had happened so often in these Dark times, It is utterly opaque on what it is he is supposed to do. Reaching out, Mace can barely feel two presences inside through the turbulence. Their emotions are lost in the white noise of the Force’s agitation, but he can just make out their identities. Obi-Wan—
—and Skywalker.
Mace punches in the Council override code, the one that can open any door in the Temple. Striding in, a visual sweep of the kitchen and open common area reveals no people. He moves to the hall where the bedrooms and refresher are. The first door is open, so he steps over and looks inside.
The lights in the room are off, but between the hallway lights and the soft glow from the window, Mace can see just the two people he is expecting.
Master and Knight sit on the floor by the window, curled against the wall. The two are more or less wrapped around each other, huddled close in a knot of limbs and rumpled nightclothes.
Both of them return his gaze, all three men stock still, but Mace is looking specifically at the youngest, watching intently for…evidence. Any hint or tell that might indicate how Mace should proceed.
He has a long moment to stare into Skywalker’s shocked, gleaming, blue eyes before the Knight (is he still a Knight?) turns away to press his face into his former Master’s collar, making no attempt to run or fight.
(A tiny part of Mace unclenches, relieved that there will at the very least not be an immediate escalation to violence. But his heart still sinks at the recognition that things have suddenly become much, much more complicated.)
Mace turns his attention to his friend. With the Force still whipping around them all in a gale, he cannot sense either of the others’ emotions directly.
But Obi-Wan’s, at least, are plainly visible.
“Mace,” he says. There is a tension in him, his voice and his face, that Mace has never seen before. Something cold. “What are you doing.”
He realizes Obi-Wan knows exactly what is happening, what has happened, and is still hugging Skywalker like a child with a stuffed tooka.
With a suddenness that shouldn’t be surprising, indignation ignites. “What am I doing?” A tirade builds in the back of Mace’s throat, the tumble of words clogging up his mouth as he struggles with what to say.
And then his training kicks in.
(Mace has always been angry. Has struggled before in reigning his anger in.
But not now, not anymore. He has worked every decade of his life to master himself, to control his anger, not be controlled by it.
The work has paid off.)
Mace realizes for the first time just how unbalanced he is. He cannot make a decision like this, not for such a charged, precarious situation with such potentially disastrous consequences.
He—stops. Makes himself stop, makes himself breathe. Once, twice, three times.
Okay. Now, think.
What is he doing? For what reason did he come charging in here before implementing any sort of investigation, before even consulting with others about what they’ve seen?
Is Obi-Wan right to be protecting Skywalker from him?
(Despite his struggles as a youngling, Obi-Wan as an adult has never been anything other than levelheaded, a trusted comrade in both his loyalty and his competence.
Something in Mace—something he is only now realizing exists—sits up and pays attention.
He hadn’t known before right this moment just how much he’s come to trust Obi-Wan. Enough to question his own instincts on such a critical situation, apparently.)
Mace is Master of the Order. It is his responsibility, his mandate, to protect the Order, to protect his people. He is duty-bound to do so at any cost.
…But. Skywalker is a Jedi, too, still. He is still one of Mace’s charges, and will remain so unless and until these Visions come to pass. And the future is always in motion.
Alright. Okay.
He can do this. First step: establish a common understanding.
“I had a Vision,” he begins, much calmer now. Obi-Wan barks out a startled laugh, cutting him off.
“Did you now?” There is just the slightest hint of mania in his tone, like the distant howl of a predator at night.
Mace pivots carefully, “I assume, then, that you did, as well?”
“Yes.” Wariness.
Trying to project calm, Mace moves to step closer. But he freezes again when Obi-Wan tenses up, presence going thorny and defensive, the sensation ripe enough to be felt past the turmoil in the air. He follows the other man’s gaze down to his side—and realizes he’s still holding his lit ‘saber.
Quickly, Mace extinguishes the weapon and clips it to his belt. Obi-Wan relaxes minutely, but still seems too similar to a cornered animal for Mace’s comfort. He decides to stay where he is for the moment.
“Obi-Wan,” he says.
The other man repeats, a note of warning ringing in his voice, “What are you doing here, Mace?”
Slow breath. “We need to figure out how to proceed with the situation.” Force, he’s barely even started thinking on how to deal with the Chancellor, all his focus on the potential threat that’s already in the building with them. There’s so much to do. “In the meantime, he needs to be contained.”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” Not yet, Mace can’t help but think. Skywalker does not react to the building argument, his head still stubbornly turned away. An uncharitable part of him is irritated that the younger man is refusing to even participate in the conversation.
“The others are going to insist on a holding cell at the very least.” They can’t just let him walk around while they sort this out. If nothing else, then for his own safety. There’s no telling what other Jedi Saw of him in their Visions, how they might react if they come across what they think could be a Sith in their home. Even if Skywalker never actually Falls, him wandering around the Temple right now would be a recipe for disaster.
But Obi-Wan has always been stubborn. “If you put him in a cell, I’ll be going with him.”
Mace can’t suppress a sigh. “We need you, Obi-Wan.” He tries to keep his exasperation out of his tone. “The Council needs to discuss this as soon as possible so we can—”
“I resign.”
That brings Mace up short. “What?”
“If I have to leave Anakin all alone in a cell to stay on the Council, then I resign.” The man is deadly serious, looking him flat in the face. Mace can see he isn’t bluffing.
The shock of it dumbfounds him for a moment. Being on the Council is a huge honor, something no Jedi would take lightly. And Obi-Wan earned his position so young, so soon into his Mastery.
He isn’t just being flippant, either. Mace is very aware of just how seriously Obi-Wan takes his responsibilities, how much sleep he’s lost to ensuring his duties are performed sufficiently.
That he’s truly willing to throw it all away…
“Obi-Wan,” he starts again. “You aren’t thinking clearly—”
“No!” The man shouts, actually shouts, and Mace takes a step backwards in shock. “No, I am thinking more clearly than I ever have!”
The other Jedi’s eyes blaze with fervor. “I have ignored and minimized Anakin’s needs for far too long!” Mace doesn’t respond, still stunned. “He needs help, not a prison cell, and if you cannot see that you are not half the Jedi I always thought you to be!” His arms are tight around Skywalker’s back.
“He’s my padawan,” Obi-Wan’s voice breaks, “and I failed him before and—and I will not let anyone push him into Falling!”
The words seem to echo for a beat, and then Mace’s indignation returns full-force. “You think I—we are why he Fell?!” That’s—ridiculous!
“You certainly never helped!”
“Obi-Wan—!” He cannot believe—
“He was going to kill himself!”
All his thoughts tumble to a halt.
What?
Obi-Wan yells again, “I came straight here after I woke up and I had to stop him from killing himself.” Almost against his will, Mace’s shocked gaze shifts to look at the back of the Knight’s head.
That isn’t…
Not—Not Skywalker, surely…?
Obi-Wan’s breathing has become labored, the wildness in his eyes growing brighter. “What would you do, Mace?” he demands. “What would you do if it had been Depa?”
Mace’s lungs stutter.
“What would you do if you’d been shown, in exacting detail, just how badly you’d failed her, if you’d been shown just how much worse you are going to fail her?” Obi-Wan is shaking, squeezing Skywalker tight in his arms. The younger man still doesn’t visibly react to any of it, for all the world appearing unconscious.
“What would you do if you went to find her after Seeing yourself—” Obi-Wan chokes on the words, apparently overwhelmed by horror. Mace can’t bring himself to imagine what the man might have Seen to react in such a way.
“If you went to her, to try to see if there’s anything you can fix, anything you can make better,” his voice has gone ragged, desperate, “and you found your padawan about to run herself through with her own ‘saber!?” Mace gapes at the other Jedi, at the tears streaming down his face.
Obi-Wan is screaming, now. “What would you do, Mace!?”—furious, beseeching—“What would you have me do!?”
The echoes of this final appeal ring loud in the following silence. Mace stares, watches the man pant and shudder with emotion. He looks at Skywalker, the taut, cowering coil of his body. Then he closes his eyes.
How did it all go so wrong?
He takes a deep, steadying breath, centering himself, perhaps for the first time since this whole ordeal began.
Meeting Obi-Wan’s still heated gaze levelly, Mace asks, as calmly as he can, “May I come closer?” He sees the other man’s jaw tighten. There’s no other response.
“I want to help, Obi-Wan.” He tries to push the truth of it into the roiling tides of the Force. “I want all of us to come out of this safe.”
He waits patiently for Obi-Wan to come to a decision, holding steady under the burning, evaluating gaze.
“…Okay.”
Letting out a silent breath, Mace slowly steps towards the huddled forms. He drops to his knees beside the pair. Skywalker still has his face buried in his Master’s robes. It’s only now that he’s close enough that Mace can hear his muffled sobbing.
He winces.
(He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting when he flew out of his bed after the Vision to track Skywalker down, but it certainly hadn’t been this.)
“Skywalker,” Mace says, reaching out to touch the Knight’s shoulder. But Skywalker flinches hard as soon as he makes contact, and he quickly withdraws, startled. He glaces at the other man, perplexed.
Obi-Wan just looks back at him.
Mace asks, “Is he…?” trailing off without knowing how to finish the question. The younger Master sighs.
“He’s been inconsolable since the Vision.” Obi-Wan runs a gentle hand over the boy’s shaggy hair. It’s in that awkward, in-between stage of growth, long enough to get everywhere but still too short to style. “When I came in here, he thought I was—was going to hurt him.” Mace notes the stutter, the waver in the other man’s voice. “He probably thinks you’re going to do the same.”
Skywalker is still pressed into his Master, cringing away from Mace, and it slowly sinks in that the normally brash, outspoken young man is genuinely afraid of him.
He rides out the heavy, slithering emotion that creeps up his chest.
“Skywalker?” he prompts again. After a pause, the Knight finally twists around to peek a look at Mace. He looks terrible, eyes swollen and red, breath hitching even as he visibly tries to wrestle himself under control.
“I’m sorry!” Skywalker gasps before Mace can say anything. He’s shaking, looking at Mace, but not at his face, not meeting his eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry, Master Windu, ’m s-s-sorry…”
“Skywalker…”
“I d-don’t wanna be bad! Please, I—I don’t—I don’t want…” His brief moment of composure almost immediately collapses, and he begins sobbing again, struggling to choke out words. “I’m so—so so-o-rry—please…” A wave of self-loathing and suffocating guilt rolls out of him, bowling over the agitation wracking the Force like a storm surge.
Mace breathes through it. “I believe you, Skywalker.” There is no way this is faked. If nothing else, Skywalker is not a Sith yet, and he truly doesn’t want to become one.
Mace can work with that.
“We need to go to the Council chambers. We’ll call a meeting and talk through what to do next.” He looks between the two other Jedi.
Skywalker doesn’t verbally respond, staring brokenly at the floor, not calm so much as exhausted. The heady sense of fear slithering through the Force deepens, like a growing pool of blood.
“Anakin?” his Master prompts after a moment.
Eventually, Skywalker whispers, “…Okay.”
Obi-Wan begins disentangling the two of them. But Skywalker makes a small whining noise in the back of his throat when he pulls away, and he pauses.
“Don’t—” he gasps before biting his lip and going silent again. Obi-Wan seems to understand though, his face softening with sadness.
“It’s okay,” the older man murmurs. He lightly cups his padawan’s cheek in his palm, wiping away a tear with his thumb. Skywalker sniffs and leans into the touch.
Mace suddenly feels a bit uncomfortable, like he’s witnessing something private.
“They aren’t going to hurt you, dear one.” The reassurance is quiet, but solid. After a long moment of Obi-Wan staring at Skywalker, and Skywalker staring at the floor, the Knight finally nods.
He doesn’t resist when Obi-Wan pulls him to his feet. He’s still crying quietly, making little gasping sounds that are grinding against Mace’s heart, but he follows obediently as his former Master begins leading him towards the door.
Mace heads the procession, first out of the room, then out into the Temple proper, showing his back to the two younger Jedi, even though it still makes the instincts he’s gained in the war scream at him. But Mace has made his decision. He’s going to extend some trust.
He hopes he won’t regret it.