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Obi-Wan is a man made of well-worn lies, of soothing half-truths, woven together in the shape of a Jedi. The foundations are real enough: he's strong, powerful in the Light. Yet all he built atop them is nothing but simulacrum, a life performed like a ceremonial dance, careful and precise, showing the world what they must see.
Obi-Wan is a man made of insecurities, of biting childhood memories grown into bruised self-worth and a brittle facade. He has to be a perfect Jedi, because once the Order doubted him. He has to be flawless, because his Master turned his back on him too, once, twice, three times... He has to abide by the rules, they are the steps to his dance, the cadence of his performance.
Obi-Wan is a man un-made. His greatest secret, his hidden love—discovered, turned against him. His wildest nightmare manifested in Darth Maul, dragging his Duchess behind him in an unrelenting Force grip. It's a ploy to break him, and Obi-Wan would fall gladly if it could save Satine, but Maul won’t negotiate. He's here to tear things down, to bite out the pound of flesh Sith philosophy says is his to take.
'Spare her,' Obi-Wan pleads anyway, when his intentions are made clear. 'You can kill me—'
'I never planned on killing you,' Maul counters, 'but I'll make you share my pain, Kenobi.'
Each pain is unique, Obi-Wan wants to argue, and this isn’t sharing, but multiplying. No murder can account for a childhood lost to the unspeakable treatment of a Sith master—whatever horrors bent a man like Maul so far out of shape.
'I loved you always,' she says with bloodless lips. 'I always will.' And death seals her promise.
When Satine passes into the Force, the part of Obi-Wan that dreams dies with her. He lets the facade crack for Maul and the Mandalorians who take him away. He shows his tears and allows his anguish to seep out and taint his aura. Let Maul have what wretched satisfaction he can from this undoing. Let it be his parting gift.
In the solitude of his cell Obi-Wan looks to the future, shorn so close to the bone, without any of the maybes and what-ifs he used to comfort himself with, in the cold of hyperspace, between battles. He would wash his hands of his men's blood and weave fantasies of peace, of diplomatic missions chosen himself, rebuilding instead of tearing down. When the blood caked too deep beneath his nails, he even dreamt of staying by her side without saber or robes. Of shedding his Jedi skin and becoming a man.
Now all he sees is the off-white duracrete wall in front of him, and beyond the bleak landscape of a scared world put to the blade again. All he senses is suffering, his own and that of warring Mandalorians, compounded through the Force, screaming, screaming, the song Satine never wanted to hear again.
No more fantasies now, no more dreams. But there is one escape: as he closes his eyes and turns inward to the Force, there is a peace he can reach out for. A place without future or past, without burdens and without joys. A place without rights or wrongs, and without broken men hurting others.
Where Satine went, and where Obi-Wan follows.