Chapter Text
Anakin is nine, and he’s free, and he’s never been more afraid.
“Clouded, this girl’s future is.” Master Yoda had said. “Young Skywalker’s fate will be decided later.”
But now, Master Jinn is— he’s—
The smoke of his pyre curls to the night sky, and Anakin’s impossible dream... it burns.
Next to him, the Padawan— Obi-Wan— is a well of sorrow in that thing that Master Jinn had called the Force. His cheeks are dry, but Anakin can feel that inside, he’s weeping. They mourn different things, but they mourn together.
Suddenly, it’s all too much. Anakin speaks up with a wavering voice.
“What will happen to me now?”
“The Council have granted me permission to train you. You will be a Jedi, I promise.”
He won’t let himself believe it until Obi-Wan kneels behind him and puts a braid in his hair.
“This symbolizes your commitment to your training in the Jedi Arts, and the bond between Master and Padawan— between you and I.”
Anakin looks at the reflection of both of their faces in the mirror. There’s a small tuft of hair behind Obi-Wan’s ear where his braid isn’t anymore. Anakin says nothing as his new Master fumbles to tie off the ends with a small band.
“That will have to do for now. Your hair is rather short.”
It is short— for a girl’s. He chews his lip and looks down.
“My mom said it was easier to get the sand out this way.”
Obi-Wan huffs a small chuckle. “Well, there’s very little sand on Coruscant, so you can wear it as long as you like. Perhaps you’ll grow some pretty curls.”
Anakin wrinkles his nose, picturing himself with a head of blonde ringlets like some Core World princess. The person he’s conjured up doesn’t look much like a strong and capable warrior.
“I like it fine how it is.”
Actually, the only way he can really imagine a Jedi apprentice looking is—
“Obi-Wan?”
“Yes?”
“Can you do my hair like yours?”
Obi-Wan laughs, shocked. Anakin has never seen him truly smile before— it makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. It makes them dance.
“Like mine? Are you sure?”
Anakin nods, setting his jaw stubbornly and waiting for Obi-Wan to argue with him. But the Jedi only chuckles again, shakes his head, and goes looking for a pair of shears.
At the victory parade the next day, the breeze tickles the skin behind his ears. His new Master’s hand is a warm, comforting weight on his shoulder. In a desert far away, the rising of twin suns marks the passage of another year.
Anakin is ten, and he’s free.
Anakin is eleven, and he’s about to cry, and he hates himself for it.
Almost as much as he hates Ferus’ smirking face.
“Give it up, Anakin. You’ll never be a real Jedi.”
Anakin will be a Knight. Obi-Wan promised him. Ferus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“You don’t know w–what you’re talking about!”
He despises the high and wavering tenor of his voice, the way his face feels tight and hot— the scalding leak of tears at the corners of his eyes. He burns with humiliated rage that they’re in the middle of the refectory, where everyone can see what a poor excuse for a Padawan he is.
He knows he’s making a scene. He wants more than anything to be taken seriously.
But Ferus only leans in closer with an even wider grin.
“Aww, you need a tissue, crybaby?”
“E chu ta, sleemo!”
Anakin shoots a poisonous glare and Ferus laughs.
“Even the way you talk shows what you really are. Nothing more than an Outer Rim slave girl.”
The words seem to echo.
Slave girl.
Something sharp and sick twists in Anakin’s gut.
“I am NOT!”
Nearby Jedi look up in shock as Anakin’s control snaps. He can’t hold back the mess of his emotions any more than he could hold back the tears. On the table between them, Ferus’ cup shatters.
“Anakin!”
He whirls around to see Master Obi-Wan holding a lunch tray, wide-eyed with shock.
“Master, I didn’t—”
“Master Kenobi, Anakin went crazy on me—!”
Obi-Wan’s glance tracks between the two Padawans. For a moment, he looks almost like the boy who gave Anakin his braid on Naboo. His hair is longer, curling almost to his chin, but his face is the same. Open and uncertain.
Then he blinks, his features smooth into composure, and he’s Master again.
“Ferus, I know Master Tachi has spoken to you about this behavior, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to repeat the conversation.”
Ferus gulps and pales. Obi-Wan turns to Anakin.
“Padawan— with me.”
Anakin’s breaths tear harsh and ragged from his throat as Obi-Wan backs him into a corner outside the refectory. A year ago, his Master would have crouched to put them at a level for this conversation. But since Anakin hit a growth spurt, he only needs to look down and fold his arms.
“Why did you break that cup, Anakin?”
His voice is hard but his eyes are gentle. Anakin blinks and another tear trickles out.
“It was an accident.”
Obi-Wan looks unimpressed. “If you still believe losing control is an excuse, you have more to learn than I thought.”
“Ferus provoked me.”
“And you could have hurt him, quite badly. Do you think he deserved that?”
“I don’t know.” Anakin’s jaw juts forward stubbornly as he avoids Obi-Wan’s eyes. “I’m not sorry.”
“Padawan—”
“You can’t make me be sorry.”
Obi-Wan sighs. Then he reaches out and squeezes Anakin’s arm.
“What did Ferus do to upset you so?”
“He— he told me I’d never be a Jedi.” Anakin’s voice breaks. He sniffs. “He said I was nothing more than a—”
Slave girl.
He shapes the words with barely any noise behind them, hating the way they feel in his mouth.
A sharp inhale makes him look up. Obi-Wan’s lips are pressed into a white line.
“He said that to you?”
Anakin nods jerkily. “I’m not. I’m not! I’m a person! I’m—”
“I know, Anakin,” Obi-Wan is holding both of his arms now, squeezing tight. “I know.”
“You don’t!” Anakin sniffs. “I’m not as good as the ones who grew up in the Temple. You don’t want me, you want someone better.”
“Anakin, I don’t want any different apprentice. Not from the Temple or the moons of Iego or any other place.”
“How can you say that?”
What he means is how can Obi-Wan feel that way, when even Anakin himself can tell that there’s something wrong with him?
Obi-Wan gently tugs his braid, and smiles even more gently.
“Because it’s true.”
He says it like it’s as certain as the suns rising. The corners of Anakin’s mouth tug upwards despite themselves.
“But what Ferus said—”
“Is wrong. You will be a great Jedi. I’m sure of it.”
“And I’m not just— the other thing?”
“You know that you aren’t,” Obi-Wan reminds him.
Anakin swallows. “Sometimes.”
“Look at me.”
Anakin looks. His Master’s eyes are dancing again.
“You’re just Anakin Skywalker, my reckless, willful, disobedient, pain in the arse—” Obi-Wan shakes his shoulder playfully, and a tear-soaked giggle bubbles unasked from his throat “—kind, talented, determined, brilliant Padawan. The best I could ask for.”
Anakin’s face burns, but this time he doesn’t mind. “You really think I’m all that?”
“And much more.” Obi-Wan grins. “You’re not ‘just’ anything, Anakin. And I have the strangest feeling you never will be.”
Anakin is thirteen, and something is wrong.
Since hitting another growth spurt, towers over most of the other Padawans in his age group, the boys and the girls. It put him nearly at eye level with Obi-Wan, which is— strange.
Strange, but not bad.
Obi-Wan has changed too— he’s bulkier, stronger, becoming an even more powerful warrior than when he slayed the Sith on Naboo. The last vestige of boyish roundness on his face has disappeared, and he’s grown himself a well-groomed beard.
But there’s more to it than just that. The way his Master carries himself, the way he walks, talks, moves, breathes— Anakin takes notice of all of it.
And he’s not the only one.
These days, when his Master enters a room, people look up. When he speaks, they listen. The whole galaxy seems to hang on his every word. Throw itself at his feet, even.
Anakin wishes he could command that kind of respect. He makes faces at himself in the mirror, trying to copy the quirk of Obi-Wan’s brow or the flash of his smile. He matches their paces when they walk side by side. He tries.
But for all that his Master has changed, Anakin is changing even more. And his changes are... different.
Wrong.
Where Obi-Wan’s gotten stronger, he’s gotten softer. Where Obi-Wan is dry and charming, he’s tearful. Moody. Ever more a mess.
Obi-Wan says he’s going through puberty.
“It’s a natural part of growing up, Anakin,” he reassures.
“But it’s mortifying.”
“Trust me, I understand. I went through the same thing, not so long ago.”
Anakin folds his arms and looks away. “I guess.”
But how could Obi-Wan possibly understand? All he “went through” at Anakin’s age was getting taller and stronger, as far as Anakin could tell. Smellier, maybe, if the human boys he knew were any indication.
Obi-Wan hadn’t had to stutter and blush through an order for a whole new type of undergarment at the quartermaster’s. Obi-Wan hadn’t woken up one day to find himself walking down the Temple halls with what felt to Anakin like the swaying strut of a Twi’lek dancer. Obi-Wan didn’t have to deal with the cycle—
The less Anakin thinks about that, the better.
As far as he’s concerned, it’s all horribly unfair. That’s what he says to Darra, anyway. He’s taken to asking her for advice, because the idea of talking about any of this with Obi-Wan is beyond embarrassing and wrong.
Darra just shrugs and laughs, twirling a lock of auburn hair around her finger. “Master Soara says there’s other benefits to being a girl.”
“I’m not sure I see it that way.”
When he drops by the quartermaster’s to fetch his—ugh— brassieres, he spots an older Jedi picking up some synthleather tabards. The look of them immediately catches his eye, the sharp lines and dull shine of the material, and on impulse, he requisitions a set for himself.
They arrive a week later, and Anakin is well pleased. He likes how the stiff material broadens his shoulders, the way they hide both his awkward lankiness and the dips and swells of his changing body.
“Black, really?” his Master asks the first time Anakin wears them out of his room.
“I wanted a change.”
Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow and looks back down at his datapad, eyes scanning a few lines before he finally murmurs, “I suppose it suits you.”
That same day, the Council Obi-Wan hands Obi-Wan an assignment, and that same night, he brings takeout from Dex’s back to their apartment.
“Did you read the briefing as I requested, Padawan?”
“I looked it over.” The opening paragraph had informed him that the Senate had ordered a Jedi liaison because some Mid-Rim planet wanted to join the Republic.
Obi-Wan gives him an all-too-knowing look. “So that’s a no, then.”
Anakin loudly sucks up the dregs of his milkshake, making Obi-Wan wince.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
“I’m not upset. It’s just— the mission to Chryya will ask a lot of you, so I thought I’d let you decide whether you wanted to join me or stay here at the Temple.”
Anakin stares at Obi-Wan like he’s grown a second head.
“Of course I want to come, are you kidding?
Obi-Wan winces again.
Anakin’s face falls. “Or.. is it that you don’t want me there?”
“Of course I do. You’d understand if you’d read the briefing.”
“Well, do I have to read it now, or are you going to tell me?”
“I’ll try, but it’s a bit difficult to explain.” Obi-Wan stares at his hands. He looks almost... guilty? “Personally, I find Chryya’s culture to be— well— objectionable, on more than a few points. The most pertinent to our situation being that they hold rather archaic views concerning gender.”
“What does that mean?” Anakin is getting impatient.
Obi-Wan looks up at him, ocean-blue eyes achingly sympathetic. “Chryyans believe the role of women is to be subservient to men. They are expected to be silent in many situations and they are excluded from private counsels— they are considered second-class citizens. So if you came with me, you’d be treated—”
“—differently,” Anakin finishes. Suddenly, he feels small. His chest aches. “Oh.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t come, or even that I don’t want you to. Your place is by my side, but I know how much unfairness bothers you, Padawan.”
Anakin shrugs, despondent. It’s not the unfairness, not really. What he minds is the revelation of yet another way in which he and Obi-Wan are different, yet another part of Obi-Wan’s life he’s to be barred from.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Anakin—”
He ignores Obi-Wan and gets up. He wants to bury himself under his blankets and never come out.
“I need your decision by tomorrow at the very least.”
Anakin shoves his chair in far too hard, somehow suddenly livid at Obi-Wan. “You pick, alright? I don’t give a kriff.”
“I’ll excuse the language this time, because I can tell you’re upset—”
“Well, thanks so much—”
“But consider what I’ve asked, please. You’re always wishing for more freedom, aren’t you? More say? I’m trying to give you that— to give you a choice.”
Kark, Obi-Wan pisses him off sometimes.
“If it’s a choice between being left behind and treated like— like some sort of servant, I would rather not choose at all.”
“Is there something else you want, then?”
Anakin stares at the floor and says, flatly, “What I want isn’t possible.”
Obi-Wan looks at him then, with that long, evaluating stare he gets sometimes. Not the one that makes him feel picked apart and judged. No, this one is worse— infuriatingly soft and understanding.
“I see,” he murmurs. “You’d rather come and stay by my side, with the men.”
Anakin gapes at him, quick to defend. “That’s not—”
Obi-Wan puts a hand up. Now his eyes are calculating, taking Anakin in from his new leather tabards to the spiky top of the haircut he’s kept all these years.
He smiles.
“I think we can make that happen.”
Anakin is fourteen, and he’s never been happier.
His birthday comes around while they’re on Chryya. He would have let it pass without the slightest notice, but Obi-Wan remembers, of course.
What’s more, he presents Anakin with a gift.
It’s a necklace, or a pendant, really. A torus of deep navy lapis etched with complex carvings and strung on a length of slim leather cording. Obi-Wan must have picked it up at one of the markets they’d passed through planetside— Anakin has seen plenty of the warriors here wearing similar pieces. It’s beautiful, simple. Not at all fussy or girly.
He loves it, and tells Obi-Wan so the moment he slips it on, getting a pleased smile in return.
“I thought the stone would set off your coloring well.”
Anakin frowns, confused. “Does it?”
He has no idea what that even means but he figures it must be good. Obi-Wan seems to know a bit about fashion, or art, anyway, even though all of his clothes are beige.
“Indeed it does. Very handsome.”
“Stop it.” He feels his face heat up and ducks his head.
His Master shakes his head with a slight chuckle. “I mean it. You’re starting to grow into quite the good looking young—”
Anakin tenses minutely, the way he does when they’re sparring and he sees a hit coming too late to block it.
“—person,” Obi-Wan finishes.
Exhale. The knot in his gut begins the slow process of untangling itself.
“Thank you, Master.”
Things with Obi-Wan have been different these past weeks. Better. They’ve bunked together for the entire mission, and they haven’t been tempted to strangle each other even once. During the day, they’re an ideal team— Master and Padawan, moving in perfect harmony.
Maybe it’s Anakin who’s changed.
On Chryya, this planet of sweeping plains and endless skies, he stands taller than he ever has among the towering spires of Coruscant. His breath comes easier. He’s... lighter.
Not that his feelings for the place are entirely positive. Anakin rankles at how unjustly the women are treated— to watch them pour ceremonial wine with their eyes downcast only to file from the room when negotiations commence. He sees his mother in every one of their faces, and his banked anger burns for them.
But not for Anakin. Not for himself.
Because Anakin isn’t banished. When Obi-Wan joins the Council of Warlords, Anakin sits at his right hand, forbidden to speak by his age but encouraged to observe and learn. During these meetings, his Master will quietly ask his opinion on the proceedings or request that he watch a specific counselor and report his findings.
Obi-Wan relies on him. He feels so useful that he’s rarely bored.
What’s more, the Chryyans keep their deliberations short, and follow them up with hunting, racing, feasting, and sparring. Anakin is even allowed to join the revels when his Master doesn’t send them both to bed early.
The combat is his favorite— fought with simple weapons in a packed dirt ring, a joyous contest of prowess so different from the serene ritual of Jedi training. He takes it all in with shining, jealous eyes, wanting more than anything to be included but knowing his Master would disapprove.
The night of Anakin’s birthday, the Warchief himself calls Obi-Wan up to the high table.
“Master Jedi,” he booms. “I begin to wonder if the tales of your legendary skill in battle are naught more than rumors. My son Banur is one of our finest warriors— surely you will consent to a match with him.”
Banur, a well-muscled youth perhaps five years Anakin’s senior, grins and bows.
“You honor me, my lord, but I must decline. I’m not as young as I once was, and I fear all this sitting has me out of fighting form.” Obi-Wan props a hand on his lower back with a wide grimace.
Anakin scoffs. His Master may act old, but he’s not even thirty. He could take down every man here with one hand behind his back.
“However,” Obi-Wan continues. “I’m sure my Padawan would happily meet your son in a friendly bout.”
Banur snorts. “The stripling? I’ll crush him. He cannot fight me.”
“Anakin is more than capable, I assure you.”
Obi-Wan winks at him. Anakin’s mouth drops open.
“You can handle this, can’t you?” Obi-Wan smirks a few minutes later, handing him a wooden stave. “I’d hate to be proven wrong in front of our new allies.”
Anakin spins the weapon in his hand. “I won’t let you down, Master.”
He steps into the ring and faces his opponent. The prince is taller, stronger, and older, but Anakin feels no fear. The eyes of the warriors watching feel as electric as the currents of the Force in his blood, whispering to him of a path to victory.
He follows it. Five minutes later, he’s put the heir to a planet on his back in the dirt, and Obi-Wan is clasping his hand.
“Remarkably done, Anakin.”
He grins, dopily. “They had to know the Jedi are the best.”
“If the Jedi Masters are half as strong as their apprentices, I’m grateful we’re making allies of you all.”
Anakin looks up to see a sweaty Banur, who seems to be taking his defeat in good spirits.
“It was a fine match. We should celebrate it. Ale!” The prince claps his hands at a serving girl waiting silently nearby.
On Anakin’s other side, Obi-Wan looks up sharply. His ears never miss anything.
“Only water for you, Anakin.”
“But Master,” he wheedles, trying not to let the words come out in a high whine.
“You’re too young.”
Banur scoffs. “Come now, he’s nearly grown. In a few short years he’ll be a man.”
“Not on Coruscant.” Obi-Wan says, then sighs at the pleading look on Anakin’s face. “One small cup. And only because it’s your birthday.”
Anakin beams, and his Master huffs and neatens his braid for him.
Chryyan ale is bitter, he discovers a second before he spits his mouthful back into the tankard. Obi-Wan snorts into his own drink, and embarrassment blooms across Anakin’s cheeks. He sticks out his tongue.
“It’s an acquired taste, Padawan.”
“Then I guess I’d better get to work,” Anakin says, and determinedly braves another swallow.
He manages the entire cup in half an hour.
“I think I like this stuff after all.” He giggles and sways. “I feel... weird.”
Obi-Wan steadies him with a pat on the back. “That would be the alcohol. I really shouldn’t have allowed it, Force knows what the Council would think.”
“‘s alright, Master.” Anakin mumbles. “You’re a good Master.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “And that means it’s time for bed.”
Anakin isn’t sure what Obi-Wan is talking about, but it’s true that he’s sleepy. Too sleepy to argue when Obi-Wan gently tugs him to his feet.
“Retiring so soon?” Banur asks his Master with a chuckle. “The boy fights like a warrior but a drop of liquor overwhelms him?”
“Anakin is made of contradictions, yes.”
“Come back to Chryya when you’re older, little Jedi, and we can revel as real warriors do.”
Anakin squints at him. “What do you mean?”
“Hunting, wine, women—”
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan interrupts waspishly, “for your kind offer, but he’ll no doubt be very busy with his studies. And now we really must retire.”
Anakin’s eyelids are well and truly drooping by the time they make it to their small quarters. Obi-Wan shepherds him through a nighttime routine and under the covers.
“Master,” he murmurs, his eyes closed. “Can I really come back here?”
“I suppose once you’re a Knight, I won’t be able to stop you.”
“You could come with me. I wouldn’t mind.”
For a few long moments, his Master falls silent into the kind of pause that means he’s thinking. Then he asks, “What is it you like about this place so much, anyway?”
Anakin tries to think of an answer, but his tongue is too soft and heavy to form words. His head feels stuffed with cotton wool. All he remembers after that is the sound of Obi-Wan’s sigh and the feeling of blankets being tucked higher around his chin.
The next thing he sees is pallid light streaming through the windows. He sits up in bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes.
Obi-Wan is hunched over his comlink, hair mussed and still in his nightshirt. His tight and harried voice was what woke Anakin up.
“...put quite a bit of work into establishing goodwill here, I’m sure there’s some other Jedi who could—”
The tiny blue figure of Master Mundi puts up a hand and Obi-Wan falls silent.
“We can dispatch another Jedi to Chryya. This crisis requires your skills, and your Padawan has been absent from the Temple more than long enough for one her age. She will return to her studies while you proceed to Anthan Prime.”
Anakin’s gut twists and curdles.
“But—” Obi-Wan breaks off and sucks in a long breath. His shoulders drop minutely. “Understood. We’ll depart at once. Kenobi out.”
He disengages the comm and looks up in time to meet Anakin’s shocked eyes, putting on a quick smile.
“Anakin, I’m surprised you’re awake, you were out like a light last night.”
A reedy, horrible whimper escapes Anakin’s throat. Obi-Wan’s brow furrows.
“Goodness, are you alright?” He darts to Anakin’s side and puts the back of a hand on his forehead. “I knew that ale was a mistake. Do you feel sick?”
Anakin shakes his head. All he can think to croak out is, “We’re leaving?”
Obi-Wan nods. “There is a situation— I’ll explain on the transport, if you think you’re well enough to travel.”
“It’s not that, I just— I—”
“You what?”
“I—” Anakin can’t seem to get enough air, the words catching over and over again in his throat. His chest hurts, threatening to spill out into sobs. “I don’t— I don’t want—”
“Anakin, breathe,” Obi-Wan orders, alarmed. He braces his hands on Anakin’s shoulders. “With me, alright? In... and out. In... out.”
Anakin does. In. Out. In. Out. On the next breath in, his whole frame trembles. His eyes squeeze shut. Suddenly, tears are flowing from them at an appalling rate, scalding his cheeks and dripping down his chin. He buries his face in his hands, ashamed— Obi-Wan hasn’t seen him cry like this in months or years.
“Force, Anakin, whatever is the matter? It’s alright— take your time.”
A weight settles on the bed next to Anakin. His Master’s large, warm hand begins rubbing circles on his back.
He cries, and cries, gradually slowing, until he has enough breath to mumble,
“I... I don’t want to leave.”
“What was that, Padawan?”
He lifts his tear stained face from his hands. “I don’t want to go back to Coruscant. I don’t want to— to— to—”
And he dissolves into another sob.
“Do you really hate the Temple so?” Obi-Wan asks softly.
Anakin shakes his head with a violent sniff.
“You like it here?”
Nod.
“I’ve noticed that.” His Master’s voice is so sympathetic, so patient. “Do you know why that is?”
“I don’t...”
“Take your time. Think about it.”
Obi-Wan cups the back of Anakin’s neck and tenderly dries his face with the tail of his sleeve. Anakin blinks, eyelashes clumped and heavy with unshed tears, and tries to gather his thoughts.
“I like... being here with you,” he whispers. “Sitting around the fire, sparring with the warriors.” Deep breath. “I like when they call me strong.”
“You are strong, Anakin. You are well on your way to becoming an excellent Jedi.” His Master’s hand squeezes his shoulder in emphasis.
“I know but— it’s different.” He sniffs again, struggling to find the words to explain. They see me. They see Anakin. Not...”
“Not?”
He looks down, forcing his mouth to shape that hated word again. “Not some girl.”
Obi-Wan sucks in a breath. “Listen to me carefully, because I have to know.” His Master’s voice is grave. “Has being on this planet— the attitudes of the people here— made you feel as though there’s something wrong with being a girl?”
Anakin’s brows pull together in confusion, and he shakes his head. That was terrible, he would never think that!
“I like girls fine!” he hastens to explain. “There’s nothing wrong with females like Darra and Aayla and Master Tachi. They’re good at it.”
“At... being a girl?” Obi-Wan sounds slightly perplexed. “And you’re not?”
It seems the most obvious thing in the world, to Anakin. It sits in his stomach like a stone, trips him up like an ill-fitting cloak. He’s never considered that others might not see it, that it might be invisible.
He’s never thought to bring it up with Obi-Wan, never thought to tell him—
“I hate it,” he whispers, the quietest whisper he can manage. It feels like if he says it loud enough, it’ll make it too real for him to bear. “It feels like smiling for the customers in Watto’s shop. I hate it, but it’s something I have to do.”
His revelation leaves behind a silence that stretches longer and longer. He cringes, feeling silly, stupid, ashamed—
“Look at me, Anakin.”
Anakin looks. Obi-Wan’s eyes are as blue as Chryya’s spring sky, and infinitely more gentle.
“You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be anything, unless you want to be.”
“I... I don’t?”
His Master shakes his head and smiles, and Anakin doesn’t understand.
“But it’s how I was born.” he blurts out, something like panic clawing at the back of his throat. “I can’t change it.”
“Padawan,” Obi-Wan’s voice is so fond. “Do you think I came into the world looking like this?”
The image of a tiny, bearded baby with a hairy chest and a serious frown enters Anakin’s head and he giggles despite himself.
“No, but—”
“But nothing. Obviously no one can change the past. But with a little help from a healer, you can grow whichever way you please— did you not know that? It’s very common.”
“It is?” Anakin’s head is spinning. He pictures it— himself, but different, and it feels like the entire planet tilts on its axis. “I could... turn into a boy? Forever?”
“If you like. Or you can stay just how you are. It’s your choice— what matters is what’s in here.”
He taps the side of Anakin’s forehead and presses the warmth of their minds together in the Force. Anakin’s thoughts batter against his Master’s serene signature, swirling with intrigue, confusion, apprehension, hope.
“I don’t... what do you mean?”
Obi-Wan’s eyes twinkle like the stars, a wry twist to his mouth. “Luminous beings, are we, not this crude matter. If a boy is what you wish to be... then you already are.”
“I am?” Anakin asks, hushed. Awed.
Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, understanding perfectly that the question isn’t for him. It’s for the Force.
And the Force sings.
Anakin replies in the softest whisper he can. Not to bury a terrible secret, but to cradle it. To cup his hands around a shoot of green, young and delicate, but finally learning to push free from the dry, suppressing earth. Learning to grow.
The Force is with him, and he breathes the truth to life.
“I am.”