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It was easier to drag himself from nightmares with the lights turned on.
The Halls of Healing were never truly quiet—even in the middle of the night, Obi-Wan awoke to some buzz of activity, some distant coughing or passing conversation trickling in. He would jolt up in bed, drenched in sweat, every part of his body ignited in pain as he remembered himself—forced himself to see the white sheets and linen gown and bag of fluids above his bed, instead of the black sky of Zigoola. Some nights Bant or Master Che would come running, alerted by the heart monitor that his pulse was far too fast. But some nights there was no one. Just a faint light from the crevice beneath the door. Just the hum of machines hooked up to his bed.
So when the nightmares came in the middle of the day, he was grateful for the respite from darkness.
“Master Kenobi—good to see you awake. Master Che said you were sleeping last time she checked.”
Obi-Wan jumped at the voice, then felt his face grow a bit warm—embarrassing, for a Jedi Master to be so easily startled. Obi-Wan sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, as Bail Organa strode into the room. If Bail noticed the tremor in his hands, he pretended not to.
“Master Che would have me sleep through the rest of the war if she had her way,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling tersely as he tried to shake the fading nightmare from his mind. “Can’t say it isn’t a tempting thought.”
Bail chuckled, but Obi-Wan noticed that the smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes. He crossed the room in a few wide steps, settling in the chair at his bedside.
“So, how are they treating you?” Bail said, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “I hope the food is good, at least.”
“Please, in the Halls?” Obi-Wan smiled wryly. “I’m lucky to be getting solid food at all. For days, they fed me through a tube.”
Bail made a face, something between distaste and sympathy. “My condolences. But I’m sure it’s better than mealpacks.”
“Oh, my dear senator, anything is better than mealpacks.”
They shared a knowing smile, though something tired lay beneath it. Something weary with the memory of rationing expired food and bottled rainwater and wondering which would run out first.
Obi-Wan pushed the memory aside and cleared his throat.
“So, what brings you to the Temple?” he said. “Not another clandestine operation, I hope?”
Bail ignored the jest. “You,” he said. “I wanted to see how you were doing. With…you know…everything.”
“Master Che says I’m healing nicely. I can put a little weight on my knee now, and I’m cleared to leave the Halls for a Council meeting in half an hour—”
“What about…” Bail cut him off, but didn’t seem able to finish the phrase. He swallowed. “I mean…how are you doing?”
Obi-Wan shifted in the bed, considering how to answer. Because…truthfully?
The images from his nightmares flashed briefly across his eyelids, the anxiety rising in his chest like a tidal wave before he choked it down.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly, but he didn’t meet Bail’s eyes. “And you?”
Bail’s chair creaked as he leaned backward. “Likewise.”
And in the silence that followed, they both tried hard to believe it.
“I thought you’d be on Alderaan,” Obi-Wan said at last. “You can’t be fully recovered yourself.”
“I had a few matters to attend to here. I was cleared to travel a few days ago,” Bail replied. “But once I’m finished, Breha and I are taking a vacation, somewhere warm and peaceful. And far as hell from wild space as we can get.”
Obi-Wan gave a humorless laugh. Hell and wild space, he thought. What’s the difference?
“I won’t keep you from your duties, then. I’m sure you’re eager to return,” he said, and pulled himself fully to a sitting position. Even managed not to groan as he did so. “I have my own matters to attend to, anyway. The Council still hasn’t heard about our, ah, escapades.”
“They’re making you report?”
Obi-Wan nodded. “It’s long overdue. We’ve been back for over a week.”
“But you’re still—”
“I already told you,” Obi-Wan insisted, shuffling his legs until they hung off the side of the bed, bracing himself to stand. “I can put a little weight on my right leg, now, after that business with the lightsaber.”
“That business with the—” Bail sputtered. “Obi-Wan, tell me you’re kidding. It’s a wonder you still have a leg, you shouldn’t be gallivanting around Coruscant on—”
“I gallivant, now, do I?”
“Oh, shut up.” Bail stood up and tried to block Obi-Wan from standing. “And lie back down.”
“Do me a favor, Bail, and pass me my crutches.”
“Your wellbeing is more important than—”
“When it comes to the Sith, nothing is more important,” Obi-Wan said, his voice suddenly low and sharp, “than preventing them from hurting anyone else.” He closed his eyes briefly, trying to stem the pain that surged whenever he moved too quickly. Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi— “Right now, quite a lot is out of my control. But the one thing I can do is report to the Council. Tell the others what I know. And if perhaps that information may prevent some unfortunate soul from having to endure what we endured, isn’t that worth the agony?”
Obi-Wan’s voice broke off, and he swallowed. Agony. He hadn’t meant to phrase it exactly like that. Even if it had been some of the worst pain, the worst psychological torture he could imagine, well—
“Fine,” Bail said at last. Yet instead of stepping back, conceding like his words implied, he stepped forward. “But I’m coming with you.”
Obi-Wan nearly laughed. “Ah, no,” he said, “I cannot allow that, Senator.”
“Oh, and how exactly do you plan to stop me?” Bail said, bemused. “I don’t see a lightsaber in here, Master Kenobi.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take you in hand-to-hand.”
“Right. More like hand-to-cast,” Bail said, eyeing Obi-Wan’s bandaged arms with a mixture of sarcasm and sympathy. “Now, really. Doesn’t it make sense for me to come along? You said you want to give the Council information that could help people. I don’t mean to be tactless, but your powers of observation weren’t exactly at their sharpest on Zigoola. I might be more helpful than you realize.”
Obi-Wan leaned backward on the bed, exhaling. On that account, Bail wasn’t wrong. While Obi-Wan still maintained the visions from Zigoola in excruciating detail, the memory of the planet itself was, albeit…fuzzy at best. He huffed.
“I’ll admit your perspective may be…enlightening, for the Council to hear,” he said. “But are you certain you’re prepared to speak about the things you endured?”
“Are you?”
Obi-Wan kept his face carefully blank as he felt Bail’s eyes skim it.
“When I told Breha—when I tried to tell Breha…” Bail said softly. He paused to inhale, and Obi-Wan heard the breath catch just slightly. “All I’m saying is, some things are hard to speak about. And if you haven’t told anyone, yet…if this is the first time you’re processing it all out loud—”
“Bail,” Obi-Wan started to say, but found himself unable to finish the phrase.
They stared off at different tiles on the floor, drowning in silence and memories.
“We’d best be going,” Obi-Wan finally heard himself say. “Can you pass me my—”
Bail had already reached for the crutches, and helped tuck them under Obi-Wan’s arms. As he shimmied off the bed and put weight on his legs, Obi-Wan narrowly bit back a groan. He took a moment to steady himself, to wait for the room to stop spinning, before he set his jaw.
“Well then,” he said. “I suppose we have a Council meeting to attend.”
He crutched forward. Bail followed close behind.
It was odd to be in the hallway—in the past few days, the farthest from bed Obi-Wan had traveled was to the ‘fresher. And so he found himself a little out of breath by the time they’d walked a few paces from his room, his steps starting to slow.
“Alright?”
Bail was looking down at him, brows furrowed. Obi-Wan nodded.
“Just a bit winded,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll be fine.”
“I saw the wheelchair in your room,” Bail replied. “I can go back and grab it—”
“No need.” Obi-Wan straightened his posture, shifted the crutches beneath his armpits. “Let’s go, shall we?”
They did.
But a few paces later, Obi-Wan’s vision was starting to swim again. He could feel his pulse through every vein, through his head, through his tightly-bandaged knee. As if controlled by marionette strings, his limbs felt weak and graceless. His ears started to ring, a sound mingled with a voice whispering die, Jedi and his own voice inside, insisting, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re—
“Obi-Wan. Hey.”
He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed. Obi-Wan opened them and looked down, to where his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He swallowed. Looked up at Bail.
“Sorry,” he said softly, hating how his face grew hot. “I think I just…need a little break.”
Bail looked back. They’d barely made it halfway down the hall.
So when he stepped back into Obi-Wan’s room and emerged with the wheelchair, this time, Obi-Wan didn’t say anything.
He let Bail wheel him through the waiting room of the Halls of Healing, out into the broader Temple. To his relief, the corridors were fairly empty—since the war, gone were the days of bustling chambers and friends catching up in the halls. Now, only a few stray younglings hurried by, barely pausing to stare. But even in its emptiness, Obi-Wan thought, how good it is to be home.
As they arrived outside the Council Chambers, Bail slowed them to a stop. Obi-Wan looked up and over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, “but I’ll walk from here.”
Bail eyed him with an arched brow. “Obi-Wan—”
“Kindly spare me the argument, would you?” If he didn’t know it’d worsen his headache, Obi-Wan would’ve rolled his eyes. “Instead, you can help me stand.”
Behind him, he heard a huff. But no argument came as Bail stepped around front and helped Obi-Wan position the crutches just right, and guided him slowly to his feet. Sharp pain flared nearly everywhere—but, though he sucked in a tight breath, Obi-Wan said nothing.
“There,” he said when he was finally steady. He tapped a crutch on the ground and forced a smile. “Nothing to it. Shall we?”
Though he didn’t wait for Bail to respond before starting forward, he thought he heard a grumble over his shoulder that sounded suspiciously like “kriffing Jedi.”
The Council was solemn as they entered; there was no sound or movement save for the click of Obi-Wan’s crutches against the ground, and the quiet huff of his breath with each step. By the time he and Bail made it to the center of the room, Obi-Wan’s breathing came heavily. He tried hard to slow it, even knowing the Councilors could sense his discomfort.
“Master Kenobi,” said Master Windu. “We’re pleased to see you on your feet again.”
“Thank you, Master Windu.” He nodded to the murmur of agreement around the room.
“And Senator Organa,” he continued. “A pleasant surprise. I wasn’t aware you’d be participating in this debriefing.”
A step behind and beside him, Obi-Wan felt Bail bristle. “Given my involvement in the mission, I thought my perspective may be useful.”
Master Yoda sat forward. “Grateful, we are, for that involvement. Yes,” he said. “But a treacherous thing, knowledge can be. A treacherous thing indeed.”
“Senator, you must understand that there are things only the Jedi are equipped to deal with,” Master Windu said. “There are things only the Jedi are equipped to know.”
“Master Windu, I don’t pretend to—”
“Bail will not betray our confidence, Masters,” Obi-Wan cut in. “What is discussed in his presence will not be otherwise disclosed.”
A beat of silence, before Master Yoda hummed.
“Regretful we are, to ask this of you. Fully recovered, you are not.” said Yoda. A flash of red colored Obi-Wan’s vision for a moment—remembering how he’d called for Yoda’s aid through that Force-forsaken Sith artifact, how Yoda’s voice had spoken back so colored in darkness. He blinked it away.
“Yet your story,” Yoda continued, “we await.”
With that, the silence became charged with energy—the Force thrumming as the Councilors all but leaned forward in their seats.
And so Obi-Wan began to recount it all from the beginning—Bail’s mysterious “friends of the Republic,” the encrypted messages, the insistence he and Obi-Wan travel alone. The transmitted coordinates, the growing sensation that something was off. And then—
“As we neared Zigoola, I was asleep,” Obi-Wan heard himself saying. “And then, I…I started having dreams.”
“Dreams, you say?” Yoda echoed. “Perhaps visions from the Sith, they could have been.”
“They were visions from…my own past,” Obi-Wan said slowly, choosing his words with the kind of intention he usually reserved for political negotiations—don’t make implications, don’t give too much away.
“Frightened you, these dreams?”
Alright, Yoda, Obi-Wan thought tartly. No need to make me out to be a youngling, frightened by dreams. It didn’t help that many on the Council were twice his age, and knew him when he was a boy—some likely had comforted him from nightmares in the creche…
He cleared his throat and banished the thought, aware that pain and lack of sleep were likely making him irritable.
“They were merely a premonition,” he said, “of what was to come. Because then we entered Zigoola’s atmosphere.”
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to continue, but suddenly his throat felt tight and dry. He coughed instead, and pain itched inside his lungs. His underarms starting to ache, he shifted the crutches beneath him. The movement made the room briefly tilt.
“I was…overcome,” Obi-Wan said carefully, “by a power I could not explain. Telling me to…that I should…” Yoda’s eyes narrowed, and Obi-Wan swallowed. “My will was not my own. I tried to crash the ship. I injured Bail in the process. The ship was destroyed, and we were stranded. Nearly killed.”
“But we weren’t.” Bail’s voice was firm beside Obi-Wan, and the sound nearly startled him. “Master Kenobi fought whatever evil was hijacking him. Even as his eyes went red and blood came from—”
Obi-Wan cut him off.
“We survived the crash,” he said. “The visions came soon after.”
Bail fell silent. So did the Council Chamber.
It occurred to Obi-Wan that he should probably continue. But perhaps it was the way Master Windu was looking at him, his eyes stern but deeply empathetic. Perhaps it was Adi Gallia’s raised eyebrow, as if she could see the internal struggle he was trying to hide. Perhaps it was the headache or the resurgence of the Sith’s voice, or the way the room had started to spin just a little. But Obi-Wan, the great negotiator and orator and voice of reason, suddenly felt tongue-tied.
“These visions,” Yoda said. “Describe them for us, you should.”
Obi-Wan nodded once. “There were several,” he said. “All of past occurrences.”
Was it his imagination, or was the room getting a bit warm?
“Occurrences you witnessed personally, or otherwise?” said Master Windu.
“Ones I’d witnessed. Moments I recall as…less than pleasant to experience.”
Beside him, Obi-Wan felt Bail stiffen. It was an understatement, and they both knew it—but inwardly, Obi-Wan begged him to remain silent. Of course, he would share the details relevant to the mission—relevant to their knowledge of the Sith. But what difference did it make exactly what Obi-Wan had been forced to relive, so long as he provided an overview?
Apparently, it made a difference to Yoda.
“Feel comfortable sharing these visions, do you?”
Suddenly, Obi-Wan was hyperaware of his heartbeat—a bit fast, anxious, uneven. He took a deep breath from his diaphragm, even though his ribs hurt to move.
“I was fighting them off while we traveled, as best I was able,” he said steadily. “Bail had seen some sort of structure during our crash landing, one we figured may be a Sith Temple, and we headed toward it. But frequently, we had to stop, as I…”
Hot pain spiked through his temples. Obi-Wan tried not to wince, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“The first one was from childhood,” he said, when he was certain he could speak without groaning. “I’d fallen into a pit of firebeetles on Tanaab.”
Some of the Council members hummed with recognition of that particular incident. Obi-Wan eased out a breath—that vision wasn’t so difficult to recount. While unpleasant, and frankly terrible to relive, speaking about it was more embarrassing than anything else. Beside him, he felt Bail step a little closer—almost protectively he might say, if he didn’t know better.
“And the others?” Master Windu prompted.
“Another mission with Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said, softer this time. “A man’s body burned to ashes while he still lived. Cut tongueless, so he couldn’t—couldn’t even scream.”
Stumbling. So much stumbling. He regretted the stammer in his voice, but even now the memory made him shudder.
“More to say, have you?”
Obi-Wan opened his mouth.
But before he could continue his mind went blank, empty except for the rhythmic call of the voice—
Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi, Die—
He tried to breathe through it. Tried to let it pass. Tried to focus on Yoda, on the floor, on the light of the Force around him rather than the darkness within.
But the voice persisted—Die, Jedi—endlessly, endlessly, endlessly. And though it was not the hurricane of Zigoola, the storm was still there. Beating his light down to a flicker, a candle, a match. Geonosis. Qui-Gon. Ventress. Over, and over, and over—
He couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t.
But then a hand landed softly on his back—a gentle reassurance. Bail’s voice filled the chamber, and he took over long enough for Obi-Wan to catch his breath. Discreetly, Obi-Wan tried to shoot him a grateful nod.
“The visions were debilitating, temporarily,” Bail said. “They would overcome him, and I’d wait them out until they passed. In the meantime, I observed the landscape of the planet, and if that information would be useful to you, I’d be happy to…”
Bail continued, but Obi-Wan hardly heard. The voice was receding—though his head still ached, and his dizziness only grew. But at least the attention was off of him, partially. His eyes found his own empty Council chair—oh, how he wished he could sit down…
Bail’s hand dropped away from Obi-Wan’s back, and he caught himself missing the steadiness.
“…but even when we were moving, and Master Kenobi was…nearly himself, the voice still plagued him. But it got louder as we neared the Sith temple, solidifying the theory that—”
“Voice?” Ki Adi Mundi leaned forward in his chair.
He looked to Obi-Wan.
The voice…the visions…
Obi-Wan was so dizzy—
“There was a voice,” he said weakly, “in my head. Telling me to die.”
And for some reason, hearing himself say it out loud—
He felt sick. Woozy and nauseous and vulnerable and ah, he’d definitely been on his feet for too long, wouldn’t Vokara Che be cross—
“Can you elaborate, Master Kenobi?”
Who had spoken, Obi-Wan didn’t know.
He inhaled, and the shudder that came seemed to echo through the chamber.
He shook his head no.
Silence.
Bail’s hand on his back again.
Die, Jedi.
Obi-Wan imagined any moment he’d be sick on the marble floor.
And perhaps the Councilors were still asking him questions, but their voices were far away, and gone was any hope of answering anyhow. Obi-Wan was certain they could all see the way he was shaking, and the way his chest rose and fell in tiny, choked bursts of air. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Die, Jedi. In—
Bail filled in the rest of the details. Swiftly, to Obi-Wan’s relief. His hand stayed there between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades, grounding him. In the Chamber. In the light.
In. Out.
Obi-Wan barely heard Yoda say they were dismissed.
He crutched out into the hall, Bail following.
And the second the door closed behind them, Obi-Wan felt the last of his composure slip.
“Hey. Hey.”
Bail’s voice again. Obi-Wan barely heard it over the sound of the voice, the blood rushing in his ears, his own shuddered breaths. Panic. Pain.
“Obi-Wan.”
Hands on his shoulders. Eyes. His name being spoken again. Shaking his head. Shaking.
“I don’t feel well,” Obi-Wan heard himself say, but his voice broke.
And then impossibly, ridiculously, tears blurred his vision.
He tried to blink them back. To swipe a hand quickly across his face before Bail could see. But that was probably unavoidable now, and anyway, it was Bail. Bail, who had already seen him at his worst, his lowest. And Bail, who had pulled him out of it.
Just as he was doing now.
“Obi-Wan,” he said softly. His hands were on Obi-Wan’s shoulders—perhaps the only thing keeping him upright. “Come sit down.”
Obi-Wan tried to nod. But instead he felt himself pitching forward, Bail’s hands coming around his back and then gently pulling him in the rest of the way. His forehead on Bail’s shoulder. Being held.
This time, he didn’t bother trying to wipe his eyes.
“I didn’t even properly explain,” he said, hating the pitch of his voice. “I didn’t even tell them—how I couldn’t use the Force, how I couldn’t—” Hiccup. “Didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I just felt…” he tried to continue. “I thought I was ready, but—"
Words rarely failed Obi-Wan Kenobi, but they did now.
But perhaps he didn’t need words. Perhaps with some people—those who knew, who understand— words were flimsy and purposeless. Bail heard what he couldn’t say.
“I suppose you were right about one thing,” he said softly. “Some things…”
He pulled back and looked Bail in the eye. Found the warmth there, though the image swam.
Some things you just can’t speak about.
Bail helped him to the wheelchair. Guided him to sit, waited until the dizziness subsided a bit before trying to move.
But Bail didn’t start pushing right away. He came around side, to where Obi-Wan was sniffling lightly.
“You know,” he said, “even if you’d told them every detail, even if you described it all down to the minute…” Obi-Wan’s hair had fallen into his face, though he didn’t have the strength to brush it away. Seeming to notice this, Bail pushed it back for him. “It wouldn’t have mattered. They weren’t there. Nothing you could’ve said would be enough to explain it.”
Not quite trusting himself to speak, Obi-Wan shook his head slowly.
“That burden isn’t theirs to bear. It can’t be, even if they wanted it to. It’s mine and yours,” Bail went on. “And as for me, I’m just glad we can bear it together.”
Obi-Wan looked up, met his eyes. So many words came to mind—so much gratitude, so much remorse. But nothing he could say would fully capture the magnitude of it all, and would only embarrass them both. So instead, Obi-Wan just nodded. Forced the smallest of smiles onto his face and squeezed the wrist Bail was resting on the wheelchair’s arm.
Bail smiled gently back.
He wheeled him back to the Halls of Healing in silence. Obi-Wan needed help to stand again, and more so to pull himself back into the bed. Everything ached—his knee, his ribs, his head, and places beyond just the physical—and the movement sent shock waves through his every fiber. But then he was lying down again, and was vaguely aware of Bail arranging his blankets and pillows. His eyes were trying to flutter closed—goodness, he hadn’t realized how tired he was, and so quickly. He tried to hide his yawn behind an unsteady hand, but Bail saw it anyway.
“Sorry,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Long day, I suppose.”
Bail shook his head, eyes warm. “You should try to rest,” he said. “Vokara Che’s not wrong, you know—you should sleep through the rest of the war. Go to bed, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan tried not to grimace at the thought—of revisiting Zigoola again every time he closed his eyes.
“I’d really rather not,” was all he managed to say.
But even without the words, without so much as a meaningful glance, Bail knew why.
He sat down on the edge the bed. “I’ll stay.”
Obi-Wan was going to decline. His mind pieced together an argument, preparing to negotiate with this stubborn, frustrating senator, when—
His eyes disobeyed him. They fluttered closed.
This time, as he slept, there came no nightmares.