Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi wobbles back to consciousness with a groan, feeling as though a bridge has been dropped on him. In fact... judging by the overwhelming pressure on his spine and the twisted length of railing dangling across his immediate field of vision –

”Dooku…” he calls to the blurry scene taking form before him, the oval shape of the General's quarters on the Invisible Hand, three figures looming against the backdrop of transparisteel and a ceaseless rain of fire. He hears a hollow thud as one figure drops to the floor, leaving a lone form standing as their passive companion flinches in his seat. Sabers of red and blue flash across the air as the assailant raises them at either side of him, like mismatched wings.

The contrasting colors extinguish at that very moment, as the last figure comes sprinting at Obi-Wan and holds out his hands.

”Hold on, Master,” his dark-clad former Padawan instructs, scrunching his eyes shut in concentration. ”I'll get you free in no time.”

”T-thank you,” Obi-Wan groans, straightening his aching back as the pressure is lifted off his body in one sweep of a motion and a loud crash. But as his unexpected savior extends a hand to help him up, he can't help but croak a protest, ”I thought you were supposed to take care of Grievous.”

Grasping his old Master's hand, Anakin offers a one-shouldered shrug. ”Well, you're welcome,” he snorts, gesturing to the scattered remnants of Obi-Wan's predicament. ”Twice over.”

This time the nod is toward the seated figure – or rather, at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet, heavy dark cloak draped haphazardly over his unmoving form. Anakin tries to offer his shoulder, but Obi-Wan hobbles to the scene with a sudden, incredulous urgency.

”Ahh…” he sighs. A single glance is more than sufficient to assess the damage.

”Y-you did the right thing, my boy,” the Chancellor stutters over Obi-Wan's shoulder as he moves to set the Republic leader free of his bonds. ”He was too dangerous to be left alive, surely.”

”It was kill or be killed, Master,” Anakin explains to his mentor, almost apologetically. His tone quickly changes when he assures him, ”Believe me, I would have loved nothing more than to beat the identity of the Sith apprentice out of his pitiful lungs.”

”Anakin,” Obi-Wan reproaches, sounding more exasperated with a child's mischievous antics than worried about the mental state of his nonconformist apprentice.

-

Padmé Amidala is starting to feel a degree of jealousy toward the swarm of politicians, HoloNews reporters and admirers fawning over her hero husband, when sure enough, Anakin excuses himself from the group and falls into a sprint toward the pillars behind which she is hiding. Amid her complete and utter elation over seeing her beloved after eight long months of absence, she wonders if he meant to disguise his vanishing act as a refresher break, or if that's just the first thing she can think of that doesn't look blatantly suspicious to the onlookers. She takes a few steps back, taking further shelter behind the bulky pillars, before allowing herself to return his grin, then melt into the strong pair of arms lifting her high into the air. He twirls her about like as though she were but a kite soaring above the sunny meadows of her childhood.

Willowy and fond of colors though she may be, she hardly resembles a kite any longer, and it's a small wonder he doesn't seem to notice the added weight to her frame – the added company to their privacy. The time has come to break the news, just as soon as he stops devouring her with kisses.

”Ani, Ani – not here, not now –” she tries to protest.

”Yes, here,” he argues into her mouth, cupping her face between his hands. When he does break away, his palms linger on her cheeks, lifting up her chin. ”Yes, now. It feels like we've been apart for a lifetime. I am not waiting another eternity just to be able to touch my beautiful wife.”

She indulges in a giggle, before a shadow passes over her face and she sighs. ”Anakin… something wonderful has happened. I'm…” Her eyes travel down, to her ample belly swathed in layers of heavy blue velvet. ”I'm pregnant.”

She looks up, meets his wonderstruck gaze. He can barely summon speech, drawing clipped breaths of air. ”You're…” He reaches out a hand, finding the arch of her swollen tummy. ”You're with my child?”

”Our child,” she corrects, and he all but shrieks with delight. ”Shh!” she hisses, even through the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He looks so… happy. Almost deliriously so, she can't quite find the words to describe it, that gleam in his eyes…

He throws his arms around her. ”You're carrying a little Skywalker inside you,” he whispers, then hurries to rectify, ”Or Naberrie. Or Amidala. Whatever you want.”

This time Padmé is the one to pull away. ”We can discuss the names later,” she says matter-of-factly, wiping dust off the front of his tunics. ”But first, don't you think we should… well, you know. Talk about the future.”

”Padmé,” he grabs her shoulders, eyes alight with that playful glint as he declares with utter conviction, ”I foresee a great future for us, and for our little son or daughter.”

Padmé Amidala is rarely speechless, but now might just be one of those special occasions. How is one supposed to argue that, and does one really want to?

-

The Jedi High Council has long harbored a concern over the unorthodox friendship between Anakin Skywalker and Sheev Palpatine, but it has taken them until now to see that it might just be a blessing in disguise. The bigger concern, by far, is the near-sovereign power that the Chancellor has accumulated during the war.

”Do you accept the assignment, young Skywalker?” Mace Windu asks, only doing so out of formality. The Council's wishes are a young Knight's command, after all.

In the center of the circular room, Skywalker nods deferentially. ”Yes, Master Windu.”

”Your friend, we know, the Chancellor is,” the Grand Master acknowledges, gentle yet stern. ”But above all else, a Jedi, you are. Sworn to –”

”Sworn to uphold peace and protect the Galaxy from any potential threats,” Anakin blurts, earning a grudging nod of approval from Yoda. Mace shakes his head. One does not interrupt the Grand Master, not even to finish his sentences. Especially not to finish his sentences. ”I understand,” an oblivious Skywalker assures the Council. ”I am perfectly prepared to carry out my duty.”

”Wonderful,” Mace intones, while some Councilors trade glances.

Skywalker turns to leave, but a sharp intake of breath from across the room stops him in his tracks. ”Yes, Master Mundi?”

Ki-Adi Mundi strokes his chin pensively. ”You did not have a chance to question Count Dooku before you struck the killing blow?” His tone is laced with skepticism. From the corner of his eye, Mace sees Obi-Wan Kenobi shift uncomfortably in his seat.

”No, I'm afraid not, Master Mundi,” Skywalker responds plainly. ”At the time, I was… fighting for my own survival as well as the Republic's.”

After a beat, Mundi nods, though he holds up a hand, indicating that he is not done with their young friend just yet. ”Then you understand that learning the identity of Dooku's Sith apprentice is paramount to the survival of the Republic. Sorry to harp on this subject, son… but at the start of the war, you spent three whole months in his very close proximity. If you have any sudden remembrances at all… any flashes or clues that might lead us closer to the apprentice…”

Mundi is pushing hard today, and Mace almost feels a tinge of sympathy for the object of his third-degree. Geonosis was a turning point in Galactic history and a deeply tragic affair for the Jedi Order, but the Korun Master doesn't know of anyone but Skywalker who, within the span of a day, was sentenced to death, lost his arm to a Sith Lord's saber, only to then be abducted by said Sith Lord before the sun had set on those red wastelands. That was the start of a three-month-long captivity, at the half-point of which the Order gave up all searches and pronounced the poor boy dead. When Skywalker then materialized a month and a half later, there was little left of the boy and only the jaded beginnings of the man that now stands before them.

Skywalker licks his lips, a hint of amusement twitching behind his neutral front. ”I've told you many times, Masters. There was no apprentice back then. As I've explained, Dooku wanted Master Obi-Wan as his student,” he indicates his old Master, ”so he sought to use me as a means to that end.”

”At the beginning,” Adi Gallia argues. ”But when the blackmail didn't work, he kept you anyway.”

”I believe he was on the cusp of launching another plan when I escaped,” Skywalker notes calmly, though for a split second, his mask of composure cracks again, and a flash of a long-stifled something seems to surface. ”Or perhaps, acquiring another apprentice.”

”The apprentice that continues to elude us,” Mace muses, brows knitting together.

”I'm sorry I can't be of more help,” Skywalker laments.

”Hm,” Master Yoda mutters, claws kneading at his wrinkled chin. ”Dismissed.” 

-

For as long as he's known the boy, Anakin Skywalker has been like a grandson to Sheev Palpatine. Ever since losing his family in a tragic accident that he cares not to reminisce in detail, for decades Sheev threw himself into his work to dull the pain, serving the public with an oft-admired dedication – in reality, little more than a selfish coping mechanism. It was not until that fated day on Naboo when he looked upon that bright little face for the first time – so full of hope, and so eerily reminiscent of his own late son at that age – that the world suddenly seemed to shift into place. Here was this wonder child plucked from obscurity to become the savior of Naboo, the hero of his beloved people, a brave young soul more deserving than most of his new Jedi title. And to the Jedi though he might belong, to the Galaxy itself as its prophesied salvation, Sheev could not help his wounded little heart.

”And you, young Skywalker,” he had smiled with a grandfatherfly fondness, ”we will observe your career with great interest.” And even under the dubious eye of Obi-Wan Kenobi, he had knelt down to the boy's level, looked him in the eye, and made an earnest promise, ”If you ever need anything, please, do not hesitate to ask me.”

”Okay,” the boy had replied, blinking.

What had seemed like an old man's demented ramblings back then had later blossomed into a beautiful intergenerational friendship. There are many of those who would frown upon it, of course, even shudder at the image of some shady old geezer chumming around with a teenage boy, or barely more than, but neither of them pay them any mind. They are too busy having tea together, going to those dreadful, noisy pod-races together, and even talking politics together.

The boy is a self-proclaimed hater of politicians, but he has admitted to liking 'two or three', of which Palpatine is one. His mistrust stems from his past as a slave on the obscure desert planet of Tatooine, abandoned by the elite to a childhood spent in servitude. Truthfully, the boy was the one to open Palpatine's eyes to the inhumane lives faced by billions on the Outer Rim planets, to the blatant disregard of the Republic's anti-slavery laws by the local crime lords. But the elderly man also hopes that through their conversations, Anakin has come to understand at least some of the knotty intricacies of interplanetary legislation and the many, many factors at work behind every decision made at the Senate. During the last few years it seems, the boy has taken a growing interest in the inner workings of politics itself, rather than just his own, idealistic passions. His might just be a voice sorely needed in the public conversation, Sheev considers.

These musings bring the weary head-of-state back to the present, to his quiet office, where he is once again expecting his favorite grandchild for tea (thankfully just for tea, though he has also gotten racing tickets as a small thank-you for Anakin's recent rescue of him, hoping that the boy will take his Master or his wife instead). Well, truthfully – he did not invite him just for tea. The unlikely friends are also unlikely confidantes, and have always found mutual consolation with each other in sharing the deepest of their woes and joys and worries. Sheev knows about Anakin's secret marriage to Padmé Amidala, and is intimately familiar with his certain distrust of the Jedi, which goes back to their abandonment of the boy to the mercy of Count Dooku at the start of the war. To this day, Anakin remains the only person to whom Sheev has ever opened up about the unbearable loss of his family. He has also talked about his work fatigue on more than one occasion; the slander and the rumors surrounding his war-time Chancellorship, which, quite against the modest man's wishes, has left him with an obscene amount of power. Power he hardly knows what to do with, power he can hardly wait to be rid of.

Now, seemingly on the eve of the war's end and his wishes coming true, Sheev finds himself seeking out his young confidante once again.

”Chancellor,” the boy greets him with a respectful bow as he arrives. Sheev smiles – stifling a flashback that threatens to surface. His youngest son never lived to be his age, but there is something about that impish grin that reminds him so painfully of –

”Anakin, my boy,” he spreads his arms and envelops his guest in a big old hug. He thinks he feels the boy stiffen under his touch ever so slightly, but then, he never took Anakin for much of a hugger. He rests a hand between his shoulder blades, inviting him to an already prepared tea table in the center of the room. They sit down, Anakin offering to serve the fragrant beverages while Sheev interlaces his fingers and takes a deep, world-weary breath.

”Long day?” Anakin inquires, setting a steaming cup in front of his friend.

”Is it not always, my young friend,” he sighs.

”Something the matter? That is… something in particular?”

Palpatine looks him in the eye as Anakin takes a first sip from his cup. He holds the young man's gaze until he puts the tea down, tilting his head in a concerned gesture. Sheev gives a wave of his hand. ”No, no, nothing is the matter… I think I might be losing my mind…”

”That's not nothing,” Anakin argues with a sympathetic chuckle.

Sheev shoots him a serious look. No point in sugarcoating this mess of a cake, he supposes, however delicious it might make the sweet-sand cookies piled on that silver tray. ”It's about the Jedi.”

”Oh?” the young man leans closer, brow furrowing.

”You see, Anakin…” he begins uncertainly. ”Ever since you rescued me from Count Dooku's clutches – for which I am still infinitely grateful – I cannot seem to shake a terrible, terrible feeling. I might be absurd, it might be the trauma speaking… but having witnessed first-hand the frightful powers that the Sith possess, I am now just as determined as the Jedi to uncover this elusive apprentice of Dooku's. If… if not more so.”

”If not more so?”

His face hardens, lips tighten into a thin line. He thanks the universe for Anakin Skywalker, for who else could he possibly turn to in this situation? ”What if there were a traitor among you?”

Surprise flashes over the young Jedi's face, his mouth falling slightly ajar, but he quickly recovers. ”A Sith masquerading as a Jedi. A wolf in shaak's clothing.”

”Please, take your time,” he urges. ”I know it's rather… a disturbing notion.”

”No, I…” he hesitates, taking a long gulp from the delicate porcelain. When he sets the cup down, there is a new sharpness on his face, a cautious brush at a suspicion. ”It is one possibility that we have not yet considered,” he admits warily.

Sheev is ready to throw all caution to the wind. He trusts the young man implicitly. ”I need your help, son. I need you to be the eyes, ears and voice of the Republic. I'm appointing you to be my personal representative on the Jedi Council. I strongly suspect that the traitor…” He stops himself, out of a politician's discretion. ”You understand. At this point, it is better to leave some things unsaid.”

A nervous laughter sputters out of the Jedi, and he holds up his palms. ”Sir, I agree that we cannot leave any stone unturned. But the Council elects its own members. They will never accept this.”

”I think they will when I pull some strings,” the Republic leader assures him. ”So, my boy… do we have an agreement?”

The young man nods, lifting his teacup as though to make a toast. Porcelain and porcelain clink together, followed by long, pensive sips. Then Sheev switches gears, and holds up a finger as he delves into his elaborate red robes. ”Before I forget.”

He plants the racing tickets on the table – 'Podmonsters', or something to that effect, on Mandalore in two weeks' time – and the hugest of grins spreads on Anakin's face. ”Chancellor, you shouldn't have.” He accepts the gift anyway, giving a quick read to the information printed on the flimsi. Then he looks up, sighing. ”You don't even like racing. Come on, admit it.”

Sheev hurries to deny the accusation, ”I got two tickets, didn't I?”

Anakin shakes his head. ”Say no more. I'll just bring Ahsoka.” A smirk tugs up his lips. ”Wouldn't you much rather go to the opera?”

Chapter Text

'The Charity of Sidious' is a masterpiece if there ever was one.

The final scene between Emperor Sidious and his repentant adviser never fails to bring Palpatine to tears. As the first act concludes and the curtains come down, he shoots up from his seat and claps his hands fervidly, like he is afraid his bones will grow too strong if he treats them gently.

”Bravo! Bravo!” he praises, eyes shining with delight.

Sitting next to him in their private box, Anakin Skywalker smiles. ”Are you a fan of Kirosi high culture, sir?”

Among the last five spectators still applauding, Sheev can only barely summon the self-restraint to sit back down, even as his joints are starting to ache. The enchantment of it all still lingers on his face as he turns to the young man, sighing happily. ”I am thoroughly enamored with this piece, in particular. I must say I have always felt a strong kinship with Emperor Sidious.”

”Indeed, sir?”

”Indeed. The character is often misconstrued by critics, I've found. They will take him for a spineless doormat, a malleable fool whose misplaced loyalty will yet send him to an early grave. Whereas I believe that it is through his forgiveness of the treacherous Luke that the Emperor gains his life-long fealty.”

”Food for thought,” Anakin muses, rubbing the curve of his jaw. ”You don't think he's just… soft-hearted?”

”Perhaps he is,” Sheev admits, his attention pulled back to the dimmed stage, where a young Togruta woman announces an intermission. ”But a merciful heart is not a weakness, son. The ending is not a banal happily-ever-after, but one where clemency triumphs over bitterness and vengeance.” This is the kind of leader he wants to be, the Chancellor reflects. This is the example he wants to set in these troubled, violent times.

”Perhaps you should be writing those critiques, sir,” Anakin laughs.

”Yes, perhaps I should,” Sheev agrees gleefully.

Anakin opens his mouth, then closes it again. He leans forward, then leans back.

”Did you have something to say, my dear boy?” Sheev inquires, only to be waved off by a headshake.

”No, it's nothing,” the young Jedi assures him. After a beat, he elaborates, ”I don't want to bring real-world politics into this. Not on your night off, Excellency.”

It is Sheev's turn to lean closer. ”This isn't about the Jedi, is it? Have you – ”

He knows that his fellow Councilors did not exactly greet Anakin's appointment to their exclusive ranks with open arms. By virtue of Palpatine's status as the Supreme Commander of the Republic Army, of which the Jedi are now a part, they had no choice but to accept, of course. But from what he gathered from the boy's coolly neutral recount of the scene, the veteran Jedi made their aversion to this uncalled-for development abundantly clear, even denying Anakin his due promotion to Master. Wild speculations flit about in Palpatine's head. He wonders if someone on the Council might already be questioning his motives behind this aggressive display of power – someone who doesn't want to be found.

Hesitation holds Anakin back still. Sandy curls bounce as he whips his head harder. ”I shouldn't have said anything. I'm still in the middle of my investigation.” There is a hint of something more deep-seated seeping into those insistent tones… hurt? Sheev hopes he is not the offender.

”It is I who shouldn't have asked you to spy on your comrades,” he sighs guiltily.

Anakin's tone turns urgent, eyes blazing through the dim lighting. ”No! Chancellor, no. You did the right thing.” He swallows, draws back into himself. A small voice confesses, ”Only, I fear that my Luke might be someone I cannot forgive so easily.”

The look Sheev casts is one of sympathy, even though the more serious implications behind Anakin's words do not escape him. So there already is a suspect. He knew the boy wouldn't let him down, he never has. But now is not the time for back-patting, not when he, a Force-blind mortal, can so acutely feel the upset and disillusion emanating from his adoptive grandson. This isn't the first time the Jedi have been knocked off the pedestal that those once-innocent eyes used to look up to.

He reaches out and sets a reassuring hand on his companion's shoulder. ”I know these are trying times, my dear lad. But more often than not, when we set about to expose our enemies… we can hardly avoid stumbling upon our true friends.”

Anakin favors him with a small smile, before a frown crawls down his brow again. ”You still have friends in the Senate, I hope, sir?”

Sheev sighs. Underneath his forehead wrinkles, the first throbs of migraine bubble to the surface. It's official: the mere mention of the Republic's governing body is enough to trigger it. ”Supporters, yes,” he offers. ”Friends… fewer and fewer. Fewer and fewer every day.” His head thrums with the dull pain. The words tumble out of his mouth, unbidden. ”As anxious as I am to step down from my position… I worry a great deal about the big foul mess I'm leaving behind. The power-lust… the corruption… the ignorance, the lack of interest in the world beyond one's wallet…” One hand clasping his temple, he touches the boy's arm and squeezes gently. ”Of course, there are exceptions, most notably your excellent wife.”

Anakin makes a darkly amused hmph sound. ”The Jedi Council… the Senate… how the mighty have fallen.” He intertwines his fingers behind his head, leans back and stretches. ”Isn't it so strange that the Council actually used to have seats in the Senate? Can you imagine?”

Palpatine's jaw falls slack, bulging eyes freeze to stare at the boy. Hands falling to the armrests, he grips them tightly as a bold idea takes hold of him, powerful and unstoppable like a tsunami. Suddenly all the pieces fall into place. Chosen One, indeed.

The boy is the key, the key to unlocking his true legacy, a legacy he shall be proud to leave behind. If his emergency powers can grant him a seat on the Council, what's to stop him from –

”My boy – I think I can.”

-

Ahsoka Tano never really did figure out her Master. He is unconventional, that much is for certain. He is fierce and hot-blooded and tempestuous, in many ways the antithesis of the traditional, dispassionate Jedi ideal. Even his calmness is of a cool, quiet, deadly sort. He has grown a lot calmer over the last year. And deadlier.

Sometimes she wonders if the tough exterior hides a brittle core.

She knows the Councilors don't like Anakin (his fellow Councilors now, how crazy is that?), with the notable if obvious exception of his former teacher. Master Kenobi acts like it's normal for him to be this way – like it's his default way of existence, like he's a force of nature just barely contained in human form. He is the Chosen One, after all. The Force wouldn't choose a run-of-the-mill, by-the-book Jedi number seven-hundred-and-seven.

Ahsoka herself has a bit of a rebellious streak, which Anakin readily encourages – when it's convenient to do so, anyway. When it's not, he doesn't tell her to do what a good Jedi would do. He tells her to do as he says.

Once or twice, his orders – or her compliances – have brought her to the rim of the light, teetering over the abyss of the dark side. She even confessed these transgressions to her Master – and her Master only – and she remembers his response being so utterly strange that she has apparently repressed it away. Sometimes she wonders if the line between light and dark really is just illusion and artifice.

Wait… was that what he told her then?

There he comes now, stalking across the courtyard, all self-assured strides and easy smiles today, interrupting her half-hearted attempt at meditation, the one time she bothers.

”Heeeyyy, Snips,” he intones jovially. In addition to deadly calm and feverish intensity, he can also do chipper banter, every once in a while.

”Master Skywalker,” she retorts, with a mock-bow. ”Chosen One. Senator.” She puts a special, mischievous emphasis upon his newest title. Say what you will about the man-child, his career is on a hotter streak than an exploding sun shooting through hyperspace. Anakin makes an exaggerated grimace and waves his hands in distaste.

”That's not really –” he protests. ”I'm more of a – like an Honorary Senator.”

”Honored Senator,” Ahsoka intones. 

”Honored Snips,” he warps his voice into a slurred imitation of hers, one sandbox and bucket away from sticking his tongue out.

”To what do I owe the pleasure, O Hero with No Fear?” she asks, leaning forward, hands on her hips.

”Are you done?” Anakin grumbles. ”And since when do you have to owe it to something? Can't a Master just come and inquire after the well-being of his favorite Padawan anymore?”

Ahsoka snorts in playful disbelief, but humors him anyway, ”I'm faring quite well, thank you, Master. Glad the war's finally coming to an end, fingers crossed.”

”One monster down, one to go,” Anakin nods, in apparent reference to Dooku and Grievous. ”Speaking of monsters…” His hand dives into his pocket, and exits with two pieces of flimsi between his fingers. 'Podmonsters', she reads quickly. A sudden excitement pools in her gut. It has been a while since the Master and apprentice have just hung out together. Having spent so much time with General Skywalker, the war hero, she finds she really misses Anakin Skywalker, the person, the pod-race maniac.

Then he crushes her hopes. ”I think what you need right now is a change of scenery, from all the battlefields and practice dojos. I took the liberty of reserving you a week-long vacation on Keldabe, the motor capital of Mandalo –” She tries to interrupt at this point, but he holds up a finger and babbles on, ”with plenty of other points of interest. I know the Council recommends stuff like hot springs and remote pine forests for these recreational trips, but as part of said Council let me tempt you with this adventurous, more urban sort of alternative. Go with Barriss. I hear she's actually a big fan of Greta Forris, aka the Flying Fork –”

”Master, Master –” Ahsoka cuts in, motioning desperately. ”That sounds great and all, but I thought – I thought you were inviting me to go with you.”

He doesn't seem all that surprised that she should have gotten that impression, and has a ready-prepared response that now automatically activates. ”Aw, Ahsoka. You know I would kill to go with you. But I have all these boring adult responsibilities here on Coruscant right now. You should go and enjoy yourself for the both of us.” He reaches for her hand and smacks the tickets on her palm. ”Please. For me.”

She sighs, closing her hand around the flimsi. ”Knowing you, the spaceship leaves tonight. And you've already gotten the okay from Master Unduli.”

He pats her montraled head. ”Obviously.”

-

Getting a private consultation with the Grand Master is entirely too easy. With a practiced ease, Anakin Skywalker adopts the persona of a troubled, restless youth, thrown to the terrors of war at a young age. Coming down from the high of his victories, sinking in the swamp of surfacing traumas, caught in the grip of all-new anxieties.

The light streaming in from between the blinds paints eerie patterns on Master Yoda's wrinkled face. Arranging his face into a perturbed scowl, Anakin erects one final barrier between his fidgety exterior and the silent, unwavering composure hidden within. Finally, with shields built stronger than the very walls of his temple, he meets the Grand Master's ever-piercing gaze. This time, the diminutive dimwit does not pierce further than the front door.

”Much fear in you, I sense, young Skywalker,” he diagnoses, leaning his green, shrivelly chin against his gimer stick.

”Yes, Master Yoda,” admits an anguished, hoarse voice that does not belong to Anakin Skywalker. ”I have foreseen… a great peril befalling you, Master. In this… in this very room. I've – I've come to warn you, of the coming danger.”

”Hm,” the Grand Master muses, a hint of amusement seeping into his voice. ”Very thoughtful, this is of you. If leave this room, I do, never come back, I do, out of danger, will I be?”

Anakin does not like the turn this conversation is taking, even if he detects no genuine alarm from the elderly Jedi. He shoots up from his cushion, feigned offense flushing his face. ”Y-you're – you're not taking this seriously, Master Yoda!” he stutters.

He only gets an enigmatic smile in response.

Better. Now for a touch of desperation – ”Please, Master Yoda. Search your feelings. You will know I'm telling the truth.”

The perpetually entertained troll-creature deigns to humor him, and closes his bulgy eyes. This will be the last mistake he makes, and indeed the last time he is entertained. The last sound he hears is the familiar snap-hiss of kyber-plasma surging into life, and then he is freed of all fleshly sensation.

A violent Force-wave washes over Anakin, sending him staggering back across the space. He only barely keeps his balance, hearing through the walls the muffled thuds and distant screams of those not so lucky. The dark side swells around him, flooding the room with its tarred waters, and he drinks it in with the unquenchable thirst of a drying river.

As his feet find purchase, he lets his eyes rest for an indulgent moment on the lifeless form of the Jedi patriarch. The man who trained Count Dooku. The man who created the monster; the monster who took him and tortured him and beat him into submission like the slave he used to be, who snatched away his boyhood dream of being a Jedi and tried to wield him as a tool. For this intoxicating feeling, the unparalleled power pervading every fiber of his being, Anakin is grateful to the dark side alone. His late pseudo-master deserves no credit.

And neither does the still-living one, though it is to him that Anakin intends to give it. For now, at least; for Chancellor Palpatine needs a culprit, and he needs a distraction. The Jedi will come flocking to this room in a matter of minutes, so he must make haste. In one flippant motion he leaps over the body, jogs to the window and opens it. There, hovering above the vastness of Coruscant, he finds his speeder just as he left it, cloaked in stealth mode and just within his arms' reach. He reaches over the windowsill into the vehicle and lifts up the unconscious form of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Whisking his old Master into the room in one simple sweep, Anakin calls upon his cosmic ally once again, drenching the comatose Jedi in the dark's cold embrace. A pained frown crosses his bearded face as his natural luminosity tries to resist, but Anakin wraps the blinding ball of light in a blanket of impenetrable blackness, like a solar eclipse.

He deposits the Jedi on the floor across from his victim, carefully arranging his limp body to simulate the result of toppling over from a great impact. As he restores Kenobi's capricious lightsaber to its rightful owner, he can already hear heavy footfalls from the hallway. Satisfied with the scene he's painted, Anakin puts down the brush for today and disappears.

Chapter Text

”On my honor as a Jedi, I am just as thoroughly baffled and shocked as you are. The idea that one of our own, let alone the Grand Master himself…” Obi-Wan struggles to form a coherent sentence. One minute he was rummaging through his drawers for a book he'd borrowed, the next he's cuffed to a table and declared prime suspect in a murder investigation. ”…could be viciously stabbed to death within the safety of our temple… distresses and disgusts me to the core.”

Opposite his younger colleague, Mace Windu shifts in his chair. ”I want to believe you, Obi-Wan.” He looks over the other occupants of the room. All Councilors, all wearing thin masks over their shell-shocked faces. ”We all do. You know this.”

”And yet, you cannot ignore what you saw,” Obi-Wan grants, ever an advocate of common sense. ”Myself, sprawled on the floor within two paces of the victim, hand clasped around the alleged murder weapon – my very own lightsaber.” 

”We found him within a minute from his death. We all felt it in the Force. There was –” If Obi-Wan didn't know better, he'd swear he heard Mace's voice breaking. ”There was no one else in the room.”

Obi-Wan leans forward, interlacing his bound hands. He looks the Korun Master square in the eye. ”You'll have to excuse my presumption, Master Windu,” his unfaltering gaze glides around the cramped room, ”esteemed fellow Councilors. You know as well as I do that I'm being set up. I have not dedicated my life to the Jedi Order, to the service of all that is good and right, only to wake up one day and throw it all away in this… despicable fashion.”

Most of the addressees stick to silence, but Kit Fisto lets out a sympathetic sound. Windu scowls at the Nautolan Master, and he shrugs.

”Let's for a moment assume I had,” Obi-Wan presses on, unbothered. His chains clink together as he holds up a hand in a speculative gesture. ”Leave my presumed character out of this discussion. Let us consider my reputation, my… style, my preferred tactics. Tell me, friends – what part of this sloppy, straightforward, easily solved mockery of a murder screams 'Obi-Wan Kenobi'?”

A chorus of gasps follow these bold words, which Master Gallia wastes no time in denouncing as disrespectful to Master Yoda's memory. She misses Obi-Wan's point, which is that there is no sloppy mockery of a murder here. On the contrary, whoever framed him has covered their tracks quite expertly.

”Are you suggesting that if you were responsible for this atrocity,” Windu's booming voice drowns out the uproar, ”you would have never been caught? Is that meant to reassure us?”

”There is little reassurance to be found on this wretched day, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan says darkly. ”Believe me, I would much rather be mourning Master Yoda along with the rest of you than having to parade my virtues in order to escape murder charges, and those are some poor options to choose from.”

”That's enough repartee, Kenobi,” Windu rumbles, leaning forward. ”As I said, I would very much like to believe you. Assuming you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. I am on your side, and I want us to work together in order to identify the true culprit. That sound good?”

”Nothing should please me more, Master,” Obi-Wan drawls coolly.

”Out of the way! Out of th – Out. Of. The way, I said, or I'll make my own way!”

Emerging from a sea of lightsaber pikes whose wielders cannot quite bring themselves to thwart a Councilor and a Senator, unbidden as he may be, Anakin Skywalker stomps into the room, shaking with unbridled anger.

”This is all a mistake!” he barks, not particularly at any one Master, but somehow at all of them, individually. The Councilors are slow to react, making vague pacifying gestures at the storm that breaks out in the room. The thundercloud skirts around the table to Obi-Wan, grabbing at his binders. "Take these off at once! Obi-Wan is innocent! My Master would never –”

Windu has stood to his impressive height and roars over the table, ”Calm yourself, young Skywalker! Senator or not, there's a reason you were not summoned to this interrogation. You are too close to the suspect and prone to emotional outbursts. Exhibit A. Guards, remove him from my sight.”

Obi-Wan tries to do what he himself dismissed as unrealistic and reassure his old apprentice, but already the masked guards are closing in on Anakin, who tries to take cover behind the suspect's chair. ”Obi-Wan didn't kill Master Yoda!” he bellows. ”I know he didn't! You're making a mistake, and if you so much as,” the guards seize his elbows and start frog-marching him out of the room, ”if you so much as raise your voice at him –”

What Anakin will do then, they never find out, as his threats dissolve into aggrieved lemme go!'s and distant struggling noises.

-

”And then they just threw me out.”

Padmé stares at the hunched form almost drowning in the depths of her sofa. Head buried in his hands, he heaves rasped breaths. Up until now she has refrained from interrupting her deeply shaken husband, but now that he has finished his recount, she refuses to believe this is where the story ends.

”Anakin, that's…” She is at a loss for words. ”That's horrible. Who would… who could even do such a thing? And frame Obi-Wan of all people?”

Anakin tilts up his gaze as his wife moves to sit beside him, reaching out a hand and rubbing gentle circles on his back. The Jedi shakes his curly head. ”I don't… I don't know. I don't understand…”

Her hand is drawn to her protruding stomach. Of her and Anakin, she is supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one, yet she scarcely knows where to begin with the cold lump that forms in her throat, coalescing from a thousand conflicting feelings. All at once, she is shocked by Master Yoda's death, worried for Obi-Wan, worried for Anakin, anxious about the future, hopeful about the future, guilty about that very hope.

Next to her, Anakin sighs, resting his head on a calloused palm. ”And that's not… all, actually,” he confesses, pained. ”Master Fisto took pity on me and gave me a… summation of the interrogation. They – they looked into his head, and –”

”And? What did they find?” 

Anakin meets her perturbed gaze. ”They couldn't really say for sure. It seems… either Obi-Wan doesn't remember any of the events that took place at the time of the murder, or…”

”Or?” she breathes into the terrible silence that falls over them, squeezing her husband's hand.

At last, a tiny voice answers, ”Or he is using some advanced dark side technique to conceal –”

”No!” Padmé exclaims in disbelief. ”Ani, is that what they said?”

Spurred on by her righteous anger, some fire seems to surge back into Anakin as well. He clenches his mechanical fist, brandishing it skyward. ”I'l… I'll show them. I will… make them see the truth. I have to.”

”Anakin…” She gingerly unclenches his metallic fingers and takes both his hands in hers. Anakin's countenance softens. ”The best thing you can do is believe in Obi-Wan. Believe in your friend. The truth will come to light, it will. We must take heart, and have faith. I'm no Jedi, but my allegiance is to the light, just as yours is. And I believe the light will prevail.”

Her words earn a doleful smile from the Jedi Knight. ”You really think so?”

”I do,” she assures him, caressing his flesh hand.

For a long while, they sit in fraught yet hopeful silence. Then Padmé remembers what she wanted to discuss before her husband came through the door with the upsetting news.

”Anakin…” she whispers. ”This might not be the time, but… I've been meaning to ask. That new Senate position of yours… what is that about? I'm hearing conflicting reports, some say you're sort of a… representative of the Jedi, others insist your actual title is Senator, and still others that you're Palpatine's… adviser, or something?”

Anakin offers a shrug. ”You would have to ask the man himself,” he dismisses. ”It was his idea, after all. I'm but a simple man, eager to serve.”

”Okay…” Padmé says slowly. ”Fair enough, I suppose. But… then you're also Palpatine's representative on the Jedi Council?”

Shadows settle anew on the young man's face. His voice darkens. ”Fine, you wanna know? You wanna know why he asked me to sit on the Council? Because he had a hunch, alright? A hunch that there was…” He averts his eyes. ”…a traitor in our midst.”

Her palm lands on his shoulders again. The breath she'd already drawn for a lecture about getting too chummy with his friends in high places dissolves into a sympathetic sigh, ”Ani, I'm sorry. I didn't know.” She massages his lean, muscular back. ”But your assignment isn't over, you know. You'll find the monster who did this, and then everything will be set right.”

Anakin can never stay mad at her for long. Another hard-earned smile crawls up on his face. ”I know. I know it will.”

”And once the dust settles, who knows? We might finally – oh!” A wild spurt of activity in her abdomen stops her short. Hurriedly, she snatches Anakin's hand and holds it over her rounded stomach. ”You feel it? The baby is kicking!”

His eyes widen with awe and… something akin to reverence, almost. She feels his hand tremble under her touch. ”Uh-huh,” he breathes, palm flush against the curve of her belly. ”So… so powerful.”

Padmé giggles at this assessment. ”Our baby? Or the emotions you're experiencing right now?”

He grins. That kittenish twinkle dances in his eyes. ”Both.”

-

It was only a matter of time before the Jedi changed their tune and threw themselves at Anakin's feet for help. Everything before now has been leading up to this. Why else should he have spent three tiresome years pretending? Fostered a friendship with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man he despises to all the Sith hells and back? Scooted close to that self-righteous old fool, tricked him into believing he'd formed an eee~vil attachment – the only meaningful thing in the empty echo chamber he calls life?

All that irksome effort pays off today, the day when the Jedi once again show their true hypocritical colors: attachment is fine if they can find a way to exploit it.

”Let me guess,” a weary form calls to him from the center of the room as Anakin gives a sweep of his hand and shuts them inside the soundproof space. ”They've planted that first seed of doubt in you. And they think if anyone can get a confession out of me, it's you.” Still chained to the table, Kenobi bears the look of a man who's been brought low, yet holds his head high, clinging to some sappy Jedi notion of hope, of light at the end of the tunnel.

”I think it's more…” Anakin takes a seat across from him. Oh, how he savors every moment. ”If anyone can get at the truth, it's me.”

”Oh,” Kenobi intones, mock-encouraged. ”Then you should have an easy time, as it just so happens I've already told the truth,” metal clatters on his wrists as he counts with his fingers, ”that's right, any number of times. Any number and one as of this morning, if my calculations are correct.”

The Jedi Order was granted a three-day time limit before they'd have to hand Kenobi over to the Judicial Department. Two hours remain on the chrono. The authorities have already decided he's guilty. The Negotiator might be a beloved war hero, but there is only so much benefit of the doubt they can give to a man caught red-handed.

The Jedi are all convinced of their golden boy's innocence… or they hopelessly want to be. Much like Palpatine, the linen-wearing clowns have been getting more and more paranoid about the identity of the Sith apprentice and his continued absence from action. If he has evaded them all these years, who's to say it couldn't be the very last person they'd suspect?

Or the very first. One they have suspected so long, it's routine at this point. One they've grown so used to distrusting, they hardly notice it anymore. The misfit they've been wary of since he was a malnourished little boy who wanted his mom. The sore thumb that sticks out so blatantly, it's invisible.

”Much as I enjoy your sparkling wit, I think we'd better get to work.”

”Thank you, I've been practicing.”

Anakin rolls his eyes. Insufferable man. ”Nice. In any case…” He leans toward the suspect. ”Can you think of anyone with a grudge against you? Anyone who'd want to…” His shoulders shiver with relish. ”…hurt you?”

It is with uncharacteristic difficulty that Obi-Wan manages to stifle his frustration. The way he inhales is Breathing Exercises 101. Today alone, Anakin imagines, he's been asked this very question… that's right. Any number of times. Any number and one, now.

”I'm a Jedi and an army general,” he recites. ”Making enemies comes with the territory. However, I believe the majority of those you might call my… nemeses… have already passed on, Force have mercy on their souls.”

'Passed on.' 'Force have mercy.' Ever the Jedi. So respectful and polite. 

”With the possible exception of General Grievous,” Kenobi muses on, ”but let's face it, if this were Grievous, he would be prancing atop the Council Tower brandishing Master Yoda's head in one cybernetic appendage and mine in the other, juggling them along with our lightsabers while his fleet sacks the city.”

One has to appreciate the man's dedication to joking his way through the questioning, his last desperate chance (supposedly) before certain execution. Anakin chews on his lower lip, trying to keep down the smirk that threatens to twitch into existence. ”Anyone else?” 

Kenobi sighs. ”There is our friend the Mystery Sith Apprentice.”

”Yes, go on.”

”I suppose it's not inconceivable that he should harbor an especial antipathy towards me… if he is to connected to Maul, or…”

”Getting colder…” Anakin mumbles under his breath.

The Jedi doesn't seem to hear him. ”Or if I… if I know him from somewhere –”

”Warmer…”

Kenobi's eyes snap up. ”What?”

”Oh, I'm just trying to help you,” Anakin explains innocently. ”You know, like those games the younglings play, when you hide a treat in a room, and you go, 'colder' when –”

”Yes…” Kenobi says slowly. ”I am familiar with the concept and the accompanying jargon…”

The long-stifled smirk slips past Anakin's defenses. ”Then you catch my… draught?”

Kenobi's eyes widen with horror. He pulls back as far as he can in the grip of the binders. ”A-Anakin…” he stutters, before falling well and truly speechless. The mighty Master is replaced with a transfixed statue.

Anakin bends over the table and almost casually grabs his collar. Kenobi's breath hitches as he yanks up hard, until their faces hover inches apart. ”Go on,” Anakin croons. ”Call for help. We did it. We solved the case. Now call the cavalry.”

Chapter Text

”You're the… you're the Sith apprentice,” Obi-Wan chokes out the obvious (the obvious!), as though saying the words aloud could make them untrue, jolt him awake of this… whatever nightmares are frightened of.

Anakin – his student, his brother, his dearest… – tightens his grip on Obi-Wan's collar, until the sturdy fabric squeezes against his windpipe. He coughs and wheezes, staring into the horrid yellow eyes of his own failure. ”I was,” the creature whispers. ”I believe the proper title is Master now.”

Obi-Wan is almost glad of the reduced amount of oxygen flowing into his brain, for the last thing he wants is to think right now. It's too horrible, too absurd, too much. And yet, his lips sputter of their own accord, ”Anakin… why?”

His assailant's clasp loosens while his face contorts into a terrible, twisted mockery of his own features. ”Why?” he sniffs, dropping his Master hard against the table, leaving him gasping and groaning and clutching at his throat with his chained hands. ”I think the more appropriate question is… how?”

Obi-Wan's pained coughs echo off the walls. He desperately wants to escape his head, to thwart thought itself, but there is no running from cognition, no sweet bliss of ignorance in which to take refuge. ”Dooku… had you… for… for three months,” he croaks.

”Oh, very good,” the hostile, foreign inhabitant of his Padawan's body congratulates him, mock-delighted.

Gruesome images pour into the Jedi Master's head. And now he sees that to think was paradise, pure ecstasy compared to this. This is beyond torture – and yet, it is but a shadow of the horrors, the unspeakable torment that his poor Padawan has suffered. His poor, darling boy…

Obi-Wan confesses as much, ”I… I can't even begin to imagine… what he did to –”

”No, you can't,” the stranger spits, only to then repeat the action in a literal sense. The warm, sticky saliva lands on Obi-Wan's forehead. This stirs up a new emotion in him – anger. Disappointment, perhaps, had that sentiment not lost value over time. By Force, he used to be disappointed by Anakin's sanitary habits. He glowers at the creature as though he were still that petulant youngling, getting oily handprints all over Obi-Wan's pristine tunics.

”Three months!” he hears himself shouting, banging his fist against the table. One does not get brainwashed into the dark side. One chooses the dark side. ”Three. Meager. Months! That's how long it took you to turn! To abandon everything you believed in!” 

The shrill cry of a malevolent spirit accuses him back, ”And half of that for you to abandon me!”

Obi-Wan recoils. No… no. How can something be true, yet so, so false at the same time? 

He remembers the sleepless nights. He remembers how even back then, he could escape neither thought nor imagination. He recalls the tears shed in secret. The specters that would appear at night and console him… or accuse him, it didn't matter.

He can still feel the glimmer of hope burning deep within, his greatest comfort and cruelest pain. He remembers his heart nearly bursting out of his chest at the sight of his still-alive Padawan, standing at the base of the temple steps, scowling up at him. 

Of all the possible responses at his disposal, the Jedi naturally picks the worst option. ”Anakin… there was a war going on. We – I had a duty to –”

The alien presence barks a laughter, a complete dismissal. Less than an acknowledgment, just as Obi-Wan's words are less than air, less than nothing. ”A war,” he echoes, savoring the word on his tongue. He bends across the table again, reaching to whisper in his old Master's ear. Obi-Wan flinches at the scent of the dark side, the searing, acidic venom pervading the air, ”I am the war.” 

He pulls back, sinks into his seat again, golden eyes surveying what must be naked fear on Obi-Wan's face. Forcibly gathering himself, gathering the Jedi in him, Obi-Wan demands, ”Why did you kill Master Yoda? Anakin, what is the meaning of this?”

”Whatever you want it to be,” the fallen Jedi replies casually. ”Did you not always tell me, Master, to seek meaning in my suffering?”

”And so,” Obi-Wan gasps, suppressing what starts out as sob in his throat. ”And so you did.”

”And so I did,” Anakin mocks. ”Are you not proud of me, Master?”

Once again, so against his nature, Obi-Wan cannot afford to think. Cannot afford to get drawn into that endless, meaningless black hole. Instead, he presses on, ”So what happens now?”

For the first time, the creature is quiet. A hint of a smirk on his lips, he knows that his very existence is enough to send Obi-Wan spiraling into despair, if he lets it. Nothing he can say will ever hurt Obi-Wan worse, break his heart into more pieces than the damage already dealt. He can let the monster torture him with his silence – or he can rise above it like the Jedi he is. 

”Perhaps…” Obi-Wan begins anew, sounding more like himself. ”You are operating under the illusion that they will believe your word over mine. I cannot imagine how that would be the case, once I explain your connection to Dooku – a glaring oversight on our part, I admit – and evidence just starts,” he snaps his fingers, ”piling up, evidence that we both know exists, and that the Council will be exceedingly motivated to unearth.”

”Hm,” Anakin regards him coolly, ”at least you admit they always hated me.”

”They were always biased against you,” Obi-Wan amends. ”A bias I never shared… but that you apparently deserved, you ungrateful little -”

”Yeah, baffling, isn't it, how I would ever turn on people who've done nothing but shun and bad-mouth me from day one,” Anakin sneers. ”Positively… mystifying.”

Obi-Wan keeps his cool. He is already patting the ground beneath which he has buried the shattered remains of his heart. ”So, you've murdered a Jedi Master who 'bad-mouthed' you and framed another who failed to spoil you rotten. It's a tad excessive, but alright. I ask again: what happens now? What do you possibly hope to accomplish with these revolting actions? In revealing them to me?”

”You didn't… wonder about it, then?”

”I am wondering about it right now.”

”No, no,” Anakin hurries to clarify, the gold in his eyes gleaming. ”About the memory loss. Why you couldn't recall a thing when you woke up. Like… just a flash of your attacker, something for the Council to go on. Anything, really.” 

Obi-Wan draws back, the movement catching on the steely bracelets adorning his wrists. ”What are you saying?”

Anakin tilts his head, studying the older man with narrowed eyes. ”What was it you were saying earlier? No, wait, thinking it, just thinking it. About blissful ignorance?” The Jedi Master's face drains of color. Anakin smirks, as though he were making a witty remark about the state of Obi-Wan's hair, like his Anakin used to do. ”How about it, Obi-Wan? Would you like your student back? Your darling boy? Your fiercest defender? Wouldn't you want to die believing in the Chosen One? In the ultimate defeat of your enemies? Tell you what. Beg me to do it, and I will not tell you the truth again. I will not whisper it into your ear as they drag you off before the firing squad. You would become one with the Force and never know. Hm?” He vaguely motions at Obi-Wan's shackles, ”You'll have a hard time getting on your knees, with those on, but just… bow your head and beg. I'm feeling merciful.” 

Obi-Wan is reduced to staring… to gaping in disbelief and horror. This cannot be happening.

”What?” Anakin shrugs, feigning innocence, or whatever constitutes his notion of the concept. ”You think Dooku just… turned me evil, and that was that? What sort of garden-variety Force user do you take me for? You think I didn't learn a new trick or two? You think I didn't surpass his abilities within a week? Grow a little bored, really?”

Obi-Wan just stares. It must be the stress. Surely this is another specter. Just his mind playing tricks on him. The Force may be fickle, but he's never known it to be cruel. The Force would never… Anakin would never…

”In a way, I should thank you, I suppose,” the specter muses. ”But… nah.”

For one critical moment, Obi-Wan entirely loses his grip on reality. This is not his Padawan. This is not the man he fought beside time and time again. This is not the boy he fought for, that his Master fought for. This is… an imposter. A clone. Yes… that's it.

Anakin never came back.

Anakin is still a prisoner. Anakin needs him. Anakin is alone, rotting away in some dungeon…

”You're not Anakin. Anakin could never… he could never be as vile as you.”

Anakin is dead.

”Anakin is dead.”

An inhuman cry is ripped out of Obi-Wan's throat. Before he realizes what's happening – around him, within him – he's already gripped the table by the edges and flipped it around. The square piece of furniture lands sideways on the imposter's throat as he is shoved against the floor. The chains keeping the prisoner fastened to his improvised weapon yank him up into an awkward position, standing on his tiptoes, dragging along the chair to which he forgot his ankles were secured.

”What did you do?!” he screams at the creature choking below him. ”What did you do to him?! Where is he?! Where is Anakin?!”

”Mas… ter…” the monster wheezes as he struggles to break free, yellow eyes wide and bulging. 

”I am no Master of yours!”

”Mast… er, please…”

Obi-Wan can only imagine what sort of deranged expression is spread over his face by the time the doors slam open and Mace Windu storms in, tailed by an escort of temple guards. For it is only then that he remembers himself, snaps out of the delusional haze that this devil – the devil still thrashing and tossing beneath him – has tricked him into. Whatever the Korun Master sees, it is not the terrible realization that shoots through Obi-Wan's consciousness at that moment. If it were, he would not be shouting, ”Let him go, Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan has half a mind to ram the table through Anakin's – for this is Anakin, his Anakin – throat and take the bastard with him. But by the time the notion registers, he has already been dragged to his feet and the demon is smirking between violent fits of coughing.

-

”He was always… oddly unemotional. Sometimes I wondered whether he really cared about me. But then, I thought… 'Hey, that's just the Jedi way. Get used to it, kid.' I guess… I guess I just never did.”

His voice cracks at the last word. It is the minute details that really make a masterpiece. He can still summon tears to his eyes at will, a parting gift from the little crybaby that Anakin Skywalker used to be. He doesn't mind the appearance of weakness. He wears weakness like armor, wields vulnerability as a tool. He could take over the Galaxy, and the Galaxy would be too busy feeling sorry for him to notice.

Maybe he will. He hasn't decided yet.

”My dear boy…” Palpatine runs a hand over his back in soothing motions. ”I hardly know what to say. I'm so sorry.”

Indeed, it is the little things that sell a performance. But the best lies are always rooted in truth. Anakin raises his teary gaze, but the movement is a tad too sharp, and he winces audibly. His hand flies to his neck brace, scoring him maximum sympathy points.

”Oh, my poor lad,” the gullible old buffoon laments. ”I am begging you, Anakin… you need to rest. I fear this miserable business has taken quite a toll on you.”

Anakin sniffles. ”I appreciate you saying that, Chancellor. But I… I have to be strong. Now… more than ever. Not just for my own sake… but for Padmé… and our child. And for the…” He feigns a doleful smile. ”And for the greater good, too.”

”Ever the Jedi,” the moron chuckles ruefully.

Anakin's brave smile falters. In other words, he arranges his facial muscles into a slightly different formation. ”I don't know about that, sir. I just don't feel like I… really belong anymore.”

”What are you talking about?” Palpatine wonders.

”I…” Anakin hesitates. In other words, he deliberately pauses here. ”My Master –”

”Your Master is not the Jedi Order.”

”No, but… he was my home. My home… in the Order.” He wipes a salty droplet from the corner of his eye. ”And you know what he's claiming now? He's claiming… that I'm the Sith, that I provoked him into attacking me.”

Obi-Wan jumping him was not part of the plan - not plan A, anyway. For all his gifts of foresight, which the dark side has only enhanced, never in a million years could he have predicted such a thing of Obi-Wan Kenobi, calm and dispassion itself. One almost wonders if he truly did love him. Almost.

Anakin watches with private mirth as Palpatine shudders. There is still a way to turn this unforeseen development to his advantage. That scandalized look roughly translates to 'I will get you the best legal team available' and that reassuring touch on his shoulder says 'Kenobi is going down'. Was there an easier way to dispose of his old Master? Sure. Will seeing him die in disgrace have been worth all this trouble? Yes.

It will be ever so gratifying… because Obi-Wan never loved Anakin. He never wanted him… he never wanted him to come back…

No one really loves him, as he really loves no one.

Both their heads are turned (ow!) at the sound of sudden commotion from the corridor. Anakin has taken a combat-ready stance by the time Palpatine's red guards simultaneously announce and attempt to stop the advance of two separate parties that storm into the office. One of them consists of Jedi Masters Windu and Fisto, wearing apprehensive scowls on their faces and tension over their shoulders. 

The other one is his wife, Padmé Amidala, wearing half this year's import of velvet, and his future heir.

Windu's mouth is open, but Padmé rushes across the room to Anakin, inasmuch as a heavily pregnant woman is capable of rushing, ”I thought I might find you here,” she says breathily, before twisting around to frown at the other visitors. ”Anakin… what's going on?”

”We have urgent matters to discuss with Jedi Skywalker,” Windu announces, eyes locked with Anakin's. ”Senator, Chancellor… will you excuse us?”

He's not really asking, an observation that puts both politicians immediately on the defensive.

”Just hold on a moment, gentlemen –” Palpatine starts feebly.

”I have to speak with him first,” Padmé insists, but even her voice is wavering. ”You see, I – ohhhh!” She clutches at her curved belly, staring blankly ahead. ”Oh, Anakin…”

”What's the matter?” he asks, though he did not miss the jolt in the Force.

”My water just broke,” she confirms, sucking in deep breaths.

Windu trades stupefied glances with Fisto, but recovers in record time, ”Chancellor, see to her… needs. Skywalker is coming with us.”

”Anakin…” Padmé whimpers, leaning her swaying weight against her husband's shoulder.

Anakin glowers at Windu. ”You would not deny a new father the birth of his child?”

Chapter Text

She's the only one he really likes.

There's Padmé, but there's no place for 'liking' in a wilted garden of pain and passion and pity.

But he and Ahsoka… they're the same. Ahsoka understands him. She's a misfit just as he is. The Jedi may have imposed her on Anakin – to test him, annoy him, who knows? – but the joke proved to be on them. For almost three years, as far as they know, he has been training her as one of their own. For almost three years, he has been subtly swaying her into questioning the Jedi dogma and adopting a more eclectic view of the Force. Into embracing her passionate nature, drawing power from her emotions. 

She is still finding her way, but Anakin is patient. He doesn't see any reason why he should drop her as an apprentice once she learns the truth, someday. And he certainly can't imagine why she would ever want to abandon him. She is fierce and faithful and has a brain of her own.

Ahsoka would never, ever have left him behind.

An unfortunate side effect of this is her misplaced loyalty to her Grandmaster – to whom Anakin probably should have put an end long ago, to spare both of them. He'd tried to spare her now – he'd gone to great lengths, in fact. He'd hacked into Mandalore's primary news outlets to keep the headlines of Master Yoda's murder and Obi-Wan's arrest from spreading across the Outer Rim world. He'd had a bounty hunter tail and ultimately intercept her, with orders to keep her contained on any half-believable excuse until this unpleasant business was over and done with.

Well… perhaps to say he was only sparing his protégé does not give her enough credit. She's the only one to whom Anakin has bared even sliver of his soul. She would see right through him. And she would not be ready. 

She's still a creature of light, a new spring's sprout, naive and simple. One day he would tell her the truth and she would understand. One cold, dark, winter's day.

Or that's what he'd hoped. But perhaps the callow spring bud has already blossomed into a proud summer flower. Once again, he's underestimated his student, and now he has to take his chances. He's not prepared to sacrifice her, not even for his revenge. That was never part of the plan.

He nods thanks to the guard who lets him into the dimly lit corridor and stalks all the way to the northernmost cell. There, behind a ray shield, he finds the young Togruta, hugging her knees. Restless blue eyes snap up from the floor as she senses his approach. He squints against the darkness. What are those bruises on her shoulders? A certain bounty hunter is about to get taught a lesson on how to carry out specific orders.

”Master!” Ahsoka exclaims as she surges to her feet, impatient, agitated. ”Please, we have to hurry! We have to help Master Kenobi!” Her feverish, wide eyes narrow down momentarily. ”What happened to your neck?”

Anakin crosses his arms over his chest, assuming his teacher persona. He scowls hard at her. ”What were you thinking? Trying to bust Obi-Wan out – what the hell, Ahsoka? Do you have any idea how that made you look? How much proof I had to produce to convince them you weren't in league with him?”

”Weren't in –” She gapes at him in disbelief. ”Oh, I'm in league with him alright! Why else would I – Master Obi-Wan is innocent! You know he is!”

”Ahsoka –” Anakin tries to cut in. Something inside him twists into a knot. Whatever he is feeling right now, he didn't ask for it.

”This is wrong, they've got it all wrong!” she yells out, stamping her foot. ”They'll execute him, Anakin!” 

”Maybe they –”

”Maybe they will?”

”Maybe they do,” Anakin sighs. ”Got it wrong, I mean. The point is –” Ahsoka draws a charged breath, but he holds up a hand for silence. ”The point is, I had to pull some strings, but they let me bail you out.” She opens her mouth anew, but he wags a finger at her. ”Whatever you do – don't you dare try this again. Or I won't be able to help you.”

”Anakin –” a desperate voice calls out to him. Even as he releases the ray shield, she stays rooted to the spot, small and helpless.

”I have to go,” he informs her coldly. ”I'm missing the birth of my children to be here.”

-

”Aren't they beautiful, Ani?”

Lifting his eyes from his newborn son, Anakin looks up to consider his sibling, wrapped in a soft bundle of cloth in her mother's arms.

Beautiful.

Something about that suggestion evokes a distant feeling in him. It was the first word he used to describe his future wife, Padmé Amidala, a vision of radiance rivaling the twin suns, shining like a stray diamond amid filthy heaps of refuse, blinding a slave boy's muddied eyes.

Her outward beauty, while remarkable, is but a pale broken mirror of the goodness and generosity that lies underneath. She is everything he isn't: kind, caring, gracious… charitable.

Too charitable. For that is what their marriage is: charity.

Imagine reuniting after ten long years with the love of your life, your heart's sole desire. Imagine laughing with her, arguing with her, falling in love with her all over again. Imagine being rejected by her, her choosing 'the real world' over your pitiable little heart. Imagine her reaching out to you only as you grieve for your dead mother and lost innocence. Imagine her offering her heart in return only as you both are about to be carted to your untimely deaths, indulging in a fleeting passion without ever having to commit, ever having to know the person beyond a pair of hot lips, a moment's cold comfort.

Imagine… the unimaginable.

Imagine coming back from the unimaginable, having become the unimaginable.

Imagine… her. That's easy, for not a day has passed, not a night has gone by without you imagining her and slowly losing your mind and breaking whatever has taken residence in your chest where the shattered pieces of your heart used to be.

She has waited for you. You feel nothing. She feels everything.

Or so she claims.

”Ani,” she finally confesses, ”I made a promise to myself, you see. A promise… that if you ever came back, that I would… propose to you. That I would marry you. Anakin, I… Oh, you poor thing.”

And so she marries you out of pity and you go along with it because it's easy. Because you fixate on a distant memory of loving her. Because lie and deceit are all you know anymore. Because you can use her.

You hope she's proud. Proud of how far her little pet project has come. She did it. She fixed the broken little thing. Isn't that just… beautiful?

”Mm,” he mumbles vaguely, reaching to touch a dark tuft of hair atop his daughter's tiny head. ”They take after you that way.”

Chapter Text

I

As his final wish, Obi-Wan has requested for Anakin to be present at his execution.

Anakin has accepted the invitation. Doubtless Obi-Wan will try and make the most of his last opportunity to expose the true culprit, but really – he must know he doesn't stand a chance. For Anakin to show his face, a face maintained upright by a neck brace no less, will send a message that he has nothing to hide, that the old man is hostile and delusional.

The police have insisted as much from the very beginning. Kenobi's lawyers imploded on themselves. Even Mace Windu cannot unsee what he saw in the interrogation room.

The execution is to take place at the Jedi temple. It's an unconventional arrangement, for sure – having their sacred sanctuary barbarically besmirched with the blood of one of their own? It's not a very Jedi-like statement. But, the Councilors ultimately argued, there is a poetic justice in this design that cannot be denied. The Jedi do not believe in vengeance, they're quick to remind you, but the Force must be set to balance. Red shall cleanse red. And in allowing Kenobi to die among his former comrades, they will honor his past allegiance to the light and the Jedi way.

The blatant hypocrisy doesn't end there. The Council has yet to make a decision regarding Anakin's Jedi status, the validity of which was called into question after the discovery of his secret family. He has been suspended from the Council for breaking the code, but it turns out the ever-controversial black shaak has given them hours of material to mull over. Sure, he may have formed an attachment, but he killed a Sith Lord and helped them trap another. But did he? Kenobi's counter-accusations must not be taken lightly. Fellow Councilor Ki-Adi Mundi has a family and he's not emotionally compromised. But that's a special case. Skywalker is a hero to the Republic and friends with the Supreme Chancellor. Irrelevant. Skywalker's children are strong with the Force. (They'll have to pry them from his cold, lifeless fingers, flesh and metal.)

Leave it to the Jedi to prattle on about inane codes and rules and exceptions to the rules when they could be rescuing somebody or keeping that ever-elusive peace he's heard so much about. The Galaxy will be better off without the likes of Yoda and Kenobi warming their backsides in those ugly red chairs.

Streaks of artificial sunlight pierce into the blueness of the bedroom. Next to him, Padmé snuffles quietly into her pillow. It's almost midday, and after eleven miserable hours the twins have finally overcome their aversion to peace, quiet, cleanliness, and their half-deafened parents.

Anakin doesn't have the heart to wake his wife. He doesn't have a heart to begin with - so why the hesitation, he wonders. He's a lost cause, he can do whatever he wants.

Maybe, just this once, he doesn't have the heart to pretend. Pretend to be affected by Obi-Wan's impending death… or not to be affected, he's not sure which. It turns out the two are easy to confuse.

On his way out of the room, he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the crib. Wordlessly, he leans in and kisses the foreheads of his puny, powerful children. Leia stirs ever so slightly, extending a tiny fist in the general direction of her father's nose. Luke favors him with what can only be described as a sad smile – or it could be, if babies were capable of such nuance.

”I love you,” he hears himself whispering. He doubts he knows what love is.

The journey to the temple flashes by without him noticing, as he contemplates the finality of death and the emptiness in his chest.

It is not until he has crossed the courtyard to the temple steps that Anakin gets a funny feeling. By the wall next to the steps, the firing squad salute the General's arrival as they make preparations for their unhappy duty. A huddle of Councilors raise their gazes, collectively glassy and detached. No sight of the condemned yet, but otherwise everything appears to be in order. But appearances can be deceiving.

The newly minted Sith Master glances about, ill at ease. This is a future he has not foreseen, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. Only, it has ceased to be a future, one of innumerable abstract possibilities. This is the present, solid and tangible – and the one place he desperately wants to escape.

No sooner has this desire taken hold of him than the present has already shifted, and a dozen stun blasts hit him in the back of the head. But whether by miracle or sheer stubbornness, he evades oblivion even his knees hit the hard stone beneath. Even through the momentary daze that follows, he can hear the astonished gasps and hurried, frantic motions around him. He can feel his wrists being pulled behind his back and clapped into binders, his lightsaber being snatched from his belt.

”You almost had us fooled, Skywalker.”

Mace Windu's towering figure has presently more in common with a whirlwind of sand, but his deep voice rings loud and clear – and smug. Anakin averts his blurry gaze, causing the ARC troopers behind him to tighten their grip of his shoulders.

”Almost…” he repeats hazily.

Windu treats this as a question, ”We had quite an enlightening talk with your Padawan the other day. I understand you suggested to her that you did not necessarily believe Kenobi to be guilty of the crime of which he was being accused. This struck me as rather odd, in light of how your faith in your old Master seemingly took a severe blow after he attacked you. At least, we learned as much from the Supreme Chancellor himself.”

Shit.

For three years Anakin has been weaving his web of lies and never has his hand slipped so much as to rip a single tear. And now a lone blunder has cost him everything, a moment's falter torn the very fabric of his design apart.

And all for… what? Some meaningless words of comfort? Truthful lies of the very worst kind? Fleeing his tongue in a passing moment that wouldn't matter the next day? He should have left Ahsoka to be condemned and die. 

He was weak. He… had an attachment. After all this time, after Dooku wrenched his heart from his chest and stomped on it until it bled venom, he still –

”And?” Anakin attempts feebly. His vision is beginning to clear. He can make out some seven Jedi Masters standing in a neat circle around him, all identical masks of calm. And they accuse him of putting on an act. ”I've been known to say all sorts of things. That still doesn't prove anything.”

”Said everyone who's ever been guilty,” Windu mocks. ”Worry not, Skywalker, for there is plenty of proof. I suppose we should inform Mr. War Hero of a major victory we scored during a covert operation two days ago. You'll be pleased to know that we were able to track and apprehend none other than the feared General Grievous. You might be less pleased to know that based on the intel we were able to extract from his ship, we discovered –”

”Alright, I get the picture!” Anakin shouts. That clumsy oaf. If there was one thing that Dooku was ever good for, at least, it was covering his tracks.

Windu's eyebrows shoot up. ”Is this a confession?”

”I'll tell you exactly what it is.” Anakin may have been outsmarted this time, but it will be a cold day in Sith hell when he is outmatched. And if these clowns think one measly pair of binders can hold him, they're not so smart, after all.

With one strong pull on the Force, he yanks his hands free of the binders and sends a dozen ARC troopers flying in all directions. Several of the Jedi Masters are thrown back as well.

Not Windu. Windu is upon him within the smallest imaginable time unit. Anakin has no time to grope through the Force for his lightsaber. And for a split second – critical second – he cannot decide between fight and flight. His instinct says fight but his head insists flight –

The momentary confusion costs him either course of action, as Windu shoves him back, then literally on to his back –

When Anakin opens his eyes, he sees purple. He also feels a searing heat gathering over a very specific spot on his chest. He's dazed from the impact, but he suspects the two things might be related.

Above him, a heated discussion breaks out,

”Mace, no!”

”He needs to stand trial! It's not the Jedi way!”

”And this is no Jedi!”

”He has a family!”

”They'll be better off without him!”

”He's an unarmed prisoner!”

”Wasn't unarmed the last time I checked!”

Metal fingers twitching in a clandestine search for his saber, Anakin sneers at the notion of being saved by that infamous Jedi waffling. But he has scarcely time enough to appreciate the private jeer, when it's already over. The purple blade has pierced his heart, and the Sith hears himself gasping. If nothing else, for his unwavering resolution Mace Windu has Anakin's respect.

”The oppression of the Sith will never return,” is the last thing he hears.

But Anakin's last thought is of everyone who isn't here.

Obi-Wan. Ahsoka.

Hell, even that old chump Palpatine.

His mother.

Luke, Leia. Padmé.

Anakin Skywalker.

II

As his final wish, Obi-Wan has requested for Anakin to be present at his execution.

Anakin is going to decline the honor. Doubtless Obi-Wan will try and make the most of his last opportunity to expose the true culprit, but Anakin doesn't have anything to prove to anyone. Let the Jedi figure out the truth in due time. Due time as in, too late.

The execution is to be aired live. It's a morbid notion, and certainly an unconventional arrangement for the Jedi to allow at all, but Anakin has a faint inkling of the true reason. This is Obi-Wan's doing – he not only means to attempt to expose Anakin, but he has something to say to him as well. And he wants to make sure he is heard.

Unfortunately for the condemned Jedi, there is no might in the whole wide Galaxy that could possess Anakin to watch that broadcast. Just this once, he doesn't have the heart to pretend. Pretend to be affected by Obi-Wan's impending death… or not to be affected, he's not sure which. It turns out the two are easy to confuse.

Ahsoka did not bother to hide her sentiments on the matter. Plea after plea falling on deaf ears, she ultimately packed her meager belongings and left the Jedi Order. Anakin is pleased – pleased that she has now witnessed with her own eyes the blatant blindness and hypocrisy of those posers. If they really wanted to help Obi-Wan, if they really cared about protecting their own, what's to stand in the way of thousands of the most powerful beings in the Galaxy?

Someday, the Force will lead her back to her old Master. And when his children are grown, they will all join forces to end the Jedi once and for all.  

Streaks of artificial sunlight pierce into the blueness of the bedroom. Next to him, Padmé snuffles quietly into her pillow. Conveniently for Anakin, his wife has no overwhelming desire to witness Obi-Wan's final moments, either. She has barely said a word about the 'sickening affair' since Anakin first recounted the incident behind his neck brace… bits and pieces, anyway.

Whatever she is feeling, she is filtering it through some inner purifying system and channeling it into near-maniacally competent care of her children. It's almost midday, and after eleven miserable hours the twins have finally overcome their aversion to peace, quiet, cleanliness, and their half-deafened parents.

Listening to the distant hum of breathing from the crib, Anakin feels his eyelids drooping down.

When he wakes up, noon is long passed. Obi-Wan is dead. The Force is screaming blood and fire, but Anakin draws in on himself and shuts it all out. What's done is done.

Beside him, Padmé stirs. Several moments pass in silence before the covers rustle and she turns him around to face her. The look on her porcelain face eludes interpretation, yet says it all.

”Anakin…” she whispers at length, stroking his bare shoulder with the back of her hand. ”I'm… I'm sorry.”

”I don't want to talk about it,” he snaps.

Padmé purses her lips. Her large brown eyes are brimmed with tears. ”You know that I –” Her voice catches. Anakin frowns, losing his read on her. Between suppressed sniffles, she pulls herself together. ”You know that I love you, don't you?”

Anakin's frown hardens, until he remembers himself, and forces a mournful smile. ”You should go back to sleep,” he offers.

”No matter what…” she insists, caressing his cheek. ”I'll always love you. You know this, don't you?”

He shakes his head, curls rubbing against the pillow. ”You don't have to say anything.”

She sighs. ”One of us has to.”

III

As his final wish, Obi-Wan has requested for Anakin to be present at his execution.

Anakin is going to decline the honor. Doubtless Obi-Wan will try and make the most of his last opportunity to expose the true culprit, but Anakin doesn't have anything to prove to anyone. Let the Jedi figure out the truth in due time. Due time as in, too late.

The execution is to be aired live. It's a morbid notion, and certainly an unconventional arrangement for the Jedi to allow at all, but Anakin has a faint inkling of the true reason. This is Obi-Wan's doing – he not only means to attempt to expose Anakin, but he has something to say to him as well. And he wants to make sure he is heard.

Well, by all means, let the man speak his mind. Anakin does not have the luxury of not caring – there is a small chance that the old trickster is holding some trump card close to the vest, and has waited until his literal last moments to play it. By opting to watch the broadcast from afar, Anakin will have a head-start in the unlikely event that he needs it. He will be prepared.

Streaks of artificial sunlight pierce into the blueness of the bedroom. Next to him, Padmé snuffles quietly into her pillow. His wife may not really love him, but she is completely under his spell. If anything should transpire at the execution that will put Anakin's credibility at serious risk, half a word from her husband, and she will drop everything and follow him to the ends of the universe. She is aware of Obi-Wan's counter-accusations, and however deeply they may distress and unsettle her, never in a million years will she let her loyalties falter. Her unwavering faith in Anakin is just another extension of pity, of the kind of self-sacrificial compassion she so loves to flaunt.

Ahsoka just barely escaped having to pick a side. Plea after plea falling on deaf ears, she ultimately packed her meager belongings and left the Jedi Order. Anakin is pleased – pleased that she has now witnessed with her own eyes the blatant blindness and hypocrisy of those posers.

On his way out of the room, Anakin comes to an abrupt stop in front of the crib. He peeks in – just for half a glimpse of his angels – but does not linger. Something about what he is about to do – what he has done – contrasts too starkly with their oblivious, yet unblemished innocence. 

Legend has it, most dark lords go their whole life without ever having to lock themselves into a cleaning closet, but it is the only place Anakin can think of at the moment. He does not wish to wake Padmé (that's the twins' job), and the housekeeping will not arrive for another two hours. He is not hiding from anyone. He is above such pesky feelings as… shame. 

The broadcast starts. The bluish light from the holo illuminates the narrow, dark space. Obi-Wan stands tall, even against the wall that is to become his final resting place. A dozen ARC troopers make preparations for their unhappy duty.

The Jedi Master's crimes are recited. Then he is allowed to speak his last words.

He does. It takes some time. Such a long time, in fact, that as he speaks time itself begins to feel unreal. Anakin clutches his head as a strange daze settles upon him.

But the words are not spoken into a vacuum, and time is as real as the blaster shot that ultimately pierces Obi-Wan's heart.

Anakin tumbles out of the closet, groping for something to lean on. Too late – he lands on all fours, and does not get up for some time. The rasped breaths hissing in his ears seem to be coming from someone else.

After a while, he holds out a hand. With a thwack, the heavy metal cylinder of his unactivated lightsaber lands on his palm. When he does stand to his feet, it is with the unignited business end pressed flush to his bare chest.

Holding the deadly weapon in this position, Anakin wobbles back into the bedroom.

IV

As his final wish, Obi-Wan has requested for Anakin to be present at his execution.

Anakin has accepted the invitation. Doubtless Obi-Wan will try and make the most of his last opportunity to expose the true culprit, but really – he must know he doesn't stand a chance. For Anakin to show his face, a face maintained upright by a neck brace no less, will send a message that he has nothing to hide, that the old man is hostile and delusional.

The police have insisted as much from the very beginning. Kenobi's lawyers imploded on themselves. Even Mace Windu cannot unsee what he saw in the interrogation room.

Ahsoka just barely escaped having to pick a side. Plea after plea falling on deaf ears, she ultimately packed her meager belongings and left the Jedi Order. Anakin is pleased – pleased that she has now witnessed with her own eyes the blatant blindness and hypocrisy of those posers. If they really wanted to help Obi-Wan, if they really cared about protecting their own, what's to stand in the way of thousands of the most powerful beings in the Galaxy?

But in the end, they're just letting it happen. In the end, the true culprit doesn't even matter. If they loved him, they would fight for him.

A heavy silence reigns over the repurposed training facility. A dozen ARC troopers make preparations for their unhappy duty. Some grim-looking military officers are milling about. A huddle of Councilors are staring at the floor, collectively glassy and detached. Obi-Wan stands tall, even against the wall that is to become his final resting place. Even as an alleged Sith, he is allowed to die in his signature white robes, honoring his past allegiance to the light and the Jedi way.

That pompous bastard Captain Tarkin appears out of thin air, demanding for some distance to be put between the condemned and the spectators.

The Jedi Master's crimes are recited. Then he is allowed to speak his last words.

Time seems to freeze as Obi-Wan turns his head, locking eyes with Anakin over the troopers' shoulders. His voice rings loud and clear and steady.

”I would like to address my last words to my Padawan… Anakin Skywalker.” The very air in the hall seems to thicken. Of all the things to do, Obi-Wan… chuckles. ”It's funny, how… here I am, literally speaking my last words in this mortal lifetime, and yet, I still can't quite find the… well, find those words. And I find that… while I have no regrets in choosing to dedicate my life to the service of the greater good… I find that a lot of the Jedi tenets I used to take heart from… sound like empty platitudes to my ears now. No passion, no attachment… really, who gives a baby womp rat's arse?”

In his mind's ear, Anakin can hear the appalled gasps that go ungasped. What is the man even trying to say? 

Obi-Wan shakes his head, averting his eyes from Anakin's bemused glare. ”I wasted decades chasing some unattainable ideal that… in the end… only brought pain and misery to my life. And in the process… I feel like I missed out on something. Myself, perhaps. Or rather, knowing myself. I was too busy learning how to be a good Jedi… and mostly failing… to really get a sense of… who is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and what would he want to say on this… well, this rather special occasion? Once-in-a-lifetime, I daresay. Well, I suppose that's not exactly accurate. I think this is my… sixth, maybe seventh execution? I forget.”

He waves a dismissive hand, cuffs clinking on his wrists. In the corner of Anakin's eye, Captain Tarkin shuffles in discomfort.

When Obi-Wan's gaze returns to Anakin, it is as though his eyes have been replaced by small hammers, their precise strikes nailing his own in place. His neck has long healed, yet he cannot look away. ”But I certainly missed out on knowing you, dear one. I thought I did… but I was wrong. I failed you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the times I looked the other way… or, sighed, or chose silence over reaching out to you. I'm sorry I couldn't see –” He heaves a deep breath. ”I'm sorry I never talked about my own feelings. I don't know if that would have changed anything, but… at least, I still had time then. Right now I just have a dozen ARC troopers staring at me uncomfortably, like they're not sure if they should cut today's show short or let the doomed man speak.”

The troopers' grips relax on their weapons. Anakin's fists clench of their own accord, flesh and metal cutting into his gloves. The air flowing into his lungs has turned from thick to hardly breathable. 

”My final wish…. well.” Obi-Wan pauses for such a long moment, Anakin can hear several weapons snap up and click into readiness. The head trooper looks to Tarkin for a signal, a signal he seems beyond eager to give, when the condemned speaks. His earnest gaze bores into Anakin. ”I suppose it's something of a paradox. My final wish is for you to find your way, and become… you. Anakin Skywalker. Not the Jedi you were meant to be, not the Chosen One you were meant to be… but the you you were meant to be. But I fear that if – when – you do, some of the things I've said today might cause you pain… do more ill than good. It was never my intention to hurt you, and therefore… I hope you will heed my last words. My very last words.”

Tarkin and the head trooper exchange nods.

”What's done is done. Now all we can do is look to the future. So know this, my dear Anakin. I… I forgive you. Goodbye, old friend. And may the Force be with you.”

”No!”

The room is a blur. Voices and sounds grow muffled. Time stops and motion lags. Only a stray gust of wind whips across the space, quicker than thought. And the wind knows not its own identity until it has come to a stop between Obi-Wan Kenobi and a dozen blaster bolts suspended mid-air.

”No!” Anakin yells out. ”No.” Even as his outstretched hands tremble, the arrested blasts never so much as waver. Panting, the fallen Jedi stares into a dozen blaster barrels, a dozen impersonal helmets and a dozen dumbstruck faces. An astonished voice whispers his name behind him. ”No,” Anakin still echoes. ”He doesn't deserve to die.”

Tarkin gapes at the scene as though a monstrous flesh-eating plant had sprouted through the duracrete floor and developed sentience. ”And why is that, General Skywalker?” he manages.

The Councilors' jaws seem magnetically drawn to the floor. The troopers keep their stance even as their confused faces practically scream through their helmets.

”Because I do.” Anakin swallows. He is aware of his audience, and yet he does not see them. Detached from reality, all that exists in this moment are the words, ”It was me. I killed Master Yoda and framed Obi-Wan. Shoot me.”

Reality is quick to respond, this time. ”Arrest this man, then proceed with the execution,” Tarkin barks at the clones.

”No!” Anakin screams in protest, though the troopers seem unsure exactly how to carry out either order. The red rays flicker ever so slightly where they hover frozen in the air.

”Enough!” Anakin's eyes just barely follow as Mace Windu gives a sudden sweep of his hand, and the fire of a dozen blaster bolts explodes against the far right wall. Pieces of duracrete crumble to the floor. ”Arrest them both,” the Jedi Master proposes, with a pointed look at the terrified Tarkin. ”Show's over, folks.”

Anakin makes no resistance as his wrists are fitted with binders in the uncertain hands of an ARC trooper, though he steps instinctively in front of Obi-Wan as the Jedi Master is about to face the same treatment.

”It's alright,” Obi-Wan whispers, settling into the dictated pace beside Anakin as they are marched out of the facility.

”I'm sorry,” Anakin says, and he does not mean it as a justification when he adds, ”I don't really know myself anymore.”

”Anakin…” Obi-Wan utters slowly. ”I cannot give you Master Yoda's forgiveness. Or Padmé's, or anyone else's. But I can give you mine. And I can help you, if you let me.”

Anakin averts his eyes. He doesn't want Obi-Wan's help, but he thought he didn't want his forgiveness, either. This was never a test.

”You did it,” Obi-Wan counters his silence. His tone is one degree down from… cheery. 

”Did what?” 

”You fulfilled the prophecy.”

Obi-Wan gives a small smile, but does not elaborate further.