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Obi-wan stared out over the city streets. Buildings lay in heaps of rubble. Some still stood upright, but soot stained the walls and acrid smoke stung his nostrils. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the layer of the powdery sickly yellowish-orange dust that coated his skin. He gripped the edges of his robes in trembling hands and wrapped them tightly around his torso, shivering with a bone-deep chill, in spite of the searing heat of the sun overhead.
'You okay?' Anakin approached him, eating stars-only-knew-what that wasn't one of their ration bars. Some sort of braised meat wrapped in a sticky-looking flatbread. Then again, Anakin rarely met something he wouldn't eat, aside from most vegetables.
'Fine.' Obi-wan's voice sounded distant to his own ears. 'Do you think you can handle the mopping up on your own with Rex and Cody?'
Anakin stopped chewing. He studied Obi-wan with a frown creasing his brow. 'Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should go, I dunno, meditate or something?' He sounded doubtful about the success of such a measure. Anakin had never been one for meditation to begin with. He'd rather tinker with something mechanical. He seemed unaffected by the cumulative effects of fighting.
'What makes you say that?'
'Obi-wan, you never leave me to handle mopping up after a battle on my own,' Anakin said pointedly.
'There's a first time for everything,' Obi-wan quipped, his voice brittle.
That made Anakin's face crease with concern. He studied his former master's face with an intensity he usually reserved for mechanical devices in disrepair. He took another bite of whatever it was that he held in his hand, the rich, spicy aroma of it making Obi-wan's stomach churn. 'Yeah… Cody, Rex, Ahsoka, and I can handle it,' he said slowly. 'We'll even set up a rendezvous point so we can go back to Coruscant together.'
Never in their years together had Obi-wan been so grateful for the devious bent that Anakin's mind could take. Less than an hour later, his little starfighter shot out of the cruiser floating in orbit above the planet and winked into hyperspace.
He didn't go directly to Mandalore. Arriving in a Jedi craft of any kind was sure to set off alarms all over the system. The message he needed still sat in his archive. Nothing in the metadata could connect it back to the person who'd sent it. Angular green Aurebesh against a black background spat out the details in a few terse phrases. Nothing more than the number of a hangar in one of the more deserted areas of Dantooine and the code to a T-6 shuttle, along with a tongue-firmly-in-cheek warning that the transponder was defective.
Perfect.
Gaining access to the palace wasn't difficult. It took little effort to persuade the guard to let him enter. He still remembered the passageways of the palace. The little-used servants' corridors that he'd mapped into his memory when he and Qui-gon brought Satine back to Mandalore. He prowled through them on silent feet until he came to her quarters.
They were deserted.
Obi-wan closed his eyes, searching for her, the steady bright light that illuminated the inner reaches of his heart. She stood in a knot of other people, chatting amiably, hiding her fervent wish to return to her quarters behind a polite smile. He had no desire to startle her, and so left his lightsaber on a low table near the entrance, square in the center of a pool of light from the single candledroid she'd left on, where she would be sure to see it.
He was too exhausted to do more than give the apartment a cursory glance as he trudged down the corridor to her bedroom. The apartment was large and airy. Meant for a family and a platoon of servants and droids to care for them. He noted the many closed-off rooms. The formal dining rooms where the heavy furniture huddled under heavy canvas cloths. Even a smaller dining room lay unused and forlorn. He spared a glance for the kitchen, humming with cookers and refrigeration units. Completely wasted on Satine, who couldn't cook if her life depended on it. Her bedroom was just as expansive as he remembered, with that oversized bed and the wall of windows that overlooked Sundari.
He contemplated the life that might have been his, had he chosen it.
Would he still leave the Order if she asked?
Or had he become much too much the consummate Jedi to leave?
Obi-wan shook his head. The only thing that lay at the end of that path was madness and heartache. He couldn't leave. His sense of duty refused to allow him to even consider it. He could, however, set all of it aside for a few hours. To gain some distance and perspective. To let himself feel the churning guilt and shame without repercussions. To pretend that the war didn't exist. To give in to the mental and physical weariness without feeling regret for not maintaining ideal Jedi detachment. To sleep for one night without seeing the failures labelled as victories flicker behind his eyelids.
He shrugged the sweeping brown robe from his shoulders, catching it before his slid from his arms. Long habit ingrained the necessary motions in his muscles, and he folded the robe neatly before draping it over the seat of a stool carved from a pale green wood. He tugged off his boots, then peeled off his socks, wriggling his bare toes against the cool porcelain tiles. He unclasped his belt, the supple leather unspooling from his waist. He coiled it into a tidy roll, then laid it next to the mound of brown wool. He lifted the tabard over his head, then sought the fastenings of his overtunic. He winced at the singe marks in the heavy linen. Had he not dodged the blaster bolts, he would not be standing here, feeling his skin prickle along his spine as a clammy sweat broke out on his face. He folded the garments with jerky, fumbling movements, then all but threw them down on the stool. His breathing grew labored, and he scrabbled at the neck of his undertunic. He fancied the high neck tightened despite his best efforts, and he yanked at the folds until the tunic hung half open, drawing in great gulps of air. He pressed his forehead against the window, letting the chill seep through his skin. His breathing gradually slowed, and the urge to vomit passed. His reflection gazed back at him, his face thinner than it had been, a few more strands of silver amongst the auburn at his temples, the lines carved more deeply around his eyes. The toll of the war writ on his face. As Obi-wan stared out over the city, the lights blurred and swam, but he no longer saw them. He only saw the fine and sifting sands of Geonosis. The bodies of his brothers and sisters lying in the arena, still and unmoving. A war that he felt owed no small part to his own actions. It was followed in quick succession by the various planets and moons where he'd fought.
And for what?
What was it all for?
Could he even argue that the Republic was still functional as a republic? Did democracy still exist?
And what of the harm to the Jedi Order?
A corner of his awareness registered the swoosh of a door opening, and the bright spark that announced Satine's presence.
'Ben?' Her voice was soft and pitched low. It breached the swirling thoughts twisting and knotting in his brain.
Obi-wan exhaled and turned away from the window. His hand fell to his side. He must have been rubbing his chin, as per his habit when deep in his own thoughts. 'Satine…' he rasped, his throat tight.
She stood framed in the dim light, reaching down to remove her shoes, a puzzled expression barely visible on her face. Perhaps he ought to have sent word, but he hadn't wanted to risk her refusal. 'How did you get in here?' She gestured vaguely around them. Clearly she not only meant her bedroom, but the palace itself and Mandalore.
Obi-wan massaged the rigid muscles at the back of his neck. 'I, uh, borrowed a T-6 shuttle from Bail Organa,' he muttered unable to prevent the sheepish grin from his lips. 'With a helpfully malfunctioning transponder and anonymous registration.'
'Ah.' Satine unfastened her cloak and walked toward him, draping it over the back of a large, overstuffed chair. 'Did the good Senator happen to know your destination?'
Obi-wan coughed lightly. Of course Bail knew. That calculating look he'd given him when Obi-wan requested use of a shuttle in the wake of the failed attempt on her life spoke volumes. 'I did tell him I was going to check in with an old friend, and it would be best to arrive in something inconspicuous.' Something that didn't announce a Jedi Knight crept through Sundari without so much as an invitation. 'He was good enough not to press for further details.' He didn't have to. Bail knew about his feelings for Satine. He had to. He'd consistently slipped in a tidbit about her in their conversations over the years.
'And my apartment?' She stood in front of him now, close enough so that he could smell the faint floral scent of her perfume.
'I used the servants' corridors.' He deliberately did not admit to using the mind trick on the few people he did encounter. She never really approved of it when they were on the run, although given the skeptical glance she gave him, Obi-wan was sure she correctly guessed he used it to traverse the distance from the landing platform to the palace, then gain entrance.
Her cool, soft hand reached up to cradle his face and he flinched, unwilling to let the dust that surely still streaked his skin to sully hers. Undeterred, she turned his face toward the ambient light of the city below them. Her fingertips ghosted over the lines fanning out from his eyes, then smoothed over the line between his brows. 'How long will you stay?'
As long as you'll have me, jumped to his lips, but he replied, 'Just until morning. I'll be on my way to Coruscant before anyone realizes I've been here at all.' He attempted to keep his tone light and jocular, but it sounded stilted to his own ears.
Her brows drew together in a frown that vanished as quickly as it appeared. 'I see.' It didn't fool Obi-wan. He heard the bewilderment behind her words. He could not have confessed the reason for his presence here if he tried. Was it a respite — however fleeting — from the war? Did he seek her absolution for embodying the worst that she believed of the Jedi?
He lifted his hands, tentative and unsure, and rested them on the swell of her hips, then slid them to her waist, inching closer and closer until he could wind his arms around her, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. One of her hands stroked his back in long, soothing movements. Obi-wan shuddered and sank to his knees, arms tightening until he pressed his face against her stomach. Something inside that he'd pushed down and shoved to the side welled to the surface. His body shook with sobs he could no longer had the will to suppress. Satine murmured in soft Mando'a, that flowed over him like a gentle stream. His tears spent, Obi-wan sat back, using the heels of his palms to wipe the tearstains away. He blinked and peered at Satine through his clotted lashes, cringing at the damp splotch formed by his tears and snot on the gossamer silk of her dress. The back of his neck flared with a dull burn. An apology formed on his tongue, but she silenced it before he could give it voice, covering his mouth with gentle fingers.
'You should have a bath and something to eat,' Satine said.
Obi-wan blinked. He could hardly smell anything through his clogged sinuses. Did he reek that badly? Even so, it was a rather appealing idea. Once his basic needs were met, he might be able to deal with his emotions, to control them, and not the other way around. 'That would… That sounds…' He inhaled, then exhaled slowly. 'I'd like that,' he said, deciding to go with a simple acceptance. He managed to get to his feet without wobbling and headed for the gleaming 'fresher. It was ridiculously luxurious. At least by the austere standards of Jedi living quarters. It was one of Satine's few indulgences.
'Use water,' she admonished, in a manner that suggested he ought to do as she said and not argue for once in his life.
Obi-wan raised a hand to convey he’d heard her, the very idea of a scalding hot water shower adding urgency to his pace. He stripped his crumpled undertunic and trousers off, and then set the temperature of the water as hot as he could stand. It rushed over him like rain and rinsed away the dust in his hair and body, clouding the water swirling around the drain. The frenetic humming of his mind quieted. He tilted his head back, grasping for the threads of Light that tickled his conscience, standing under the spray until his fingertips began to shrivel. It was only then that he shook himself grabbed the soap and a cloth, scrubbing every last centimeter of his skin. He exited the 'fresher in a billowing cloud of steam, calmer than when he'd walked into it, feeling a little more like Obi-wan Kenobi, and not a hollow shell.
A set of pajamas lay draped across what was always his side of the bed, and he pulled them on. They belonged to Korkie, no doubt. They were a bit too big, but Obi-wan didn't mind. They were clean and carried only the faint whiff of laundry detergent.
Satine already occupied a cushion next to a low table tucked into a corner of the room. He selected one next to her and sat down, gazing at the soup in the bowl she pushed toward him with more than little dubiousness. It wasn't the heat of the spice that stung his nose that made him wary of tasting the food. He'd developed a taste for spicy food during the year with Satine, although perhaps not at the same level as most Mandalorians. Satine was one of the only people he knew that could try to toast bread and end up with something that was burnt to a cinder on one side and completely untouched on the other.
She glared at him with mock outrage and picked up her own spoon with a huff. ‘I didn’t cook it.’
He dipped his spoon into the soup. It was the most delicious thing he'd eaten in days. Granted, he'd been living on ration bars, so even his own meagre efforts would have tasted like ambrosia. He all but inhaled his first bowl, and accepted a second helping with alacrity. He managed to carry on a conversation between bites. They didn't speak of anything terribly deep. Anakin and Ahsoka. Korkie's progress with his studies. Obi-wan groused that Jocasa Nu's opinion of him remained quite low, just above idiot status. Satine told him though snorts of laughter about showing off her knowledge of Mandalorian folk dances when she visited schools by dancing with the students. The children were alternately delighted and shocked by seeing the Duchess kick off her shoes, hike up her skirts, and join them.
She handed him a cup of tea with movements they had practiced and perfected years ago, but had not forgotten. He stammered his thanks as he sniffed the fragrant steam with appreciation. Tarine tea was an acquired taste, and not Satine's favorite. It was his. He buried his nose in the cup, and its warmth spread from his middle to his fingers and toes. The war receded a little further, and he poured himself a second cup. 'This isn't the kind of Jedi I wanted to be,' he found himself musing. 'This isn't the kind of Jedi Qui-gon taught me to be.' He drags a hand down his face as he blew out a breath. 'I never wanted this, to be at the head of an army.'
It seemed he wanted and needed absolution, then.
Obi-wan took a cookie from the plate Satine pushed a little closer and dunked it into his tea. 'What kind of Jedi did you want to be?' she asked.
He shifts uncomfortably on his cushion, reverting back to his anxiety-ridden adolescent self. 'I don't know. I thought I would have time to discover that for myself before I took on an apprentice.' He studied the surface of the amber-tinted tea. He added as a reminder, 'I tried to strictly abide by the rules of the Jedi Code when Qui-gon took me as an apprentice. Mostly because he stretched the boundaries of the Code.' It wasn't brand-new information. She knew well the conflict between the two of them, and had often been exasperated by it. 'So I rebelled against his ways by trying to be the perfect Jedi…'
She flashed a sardonic grin and held up a hand, thumb and forefinger held apart just wide enough to allow daylight to shine through the gap. 'With one tiny, inconsequential lapse.'
Obi-wan glared at her, taking her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the back of it. 'You were neither inconsequential, nor a lapse, my dear.' It rankled him that she would even think that. He turned her hand over and trailed his mouth over the echo of her heartbeat at the inside of her wrist. He didn't let go of her hand, and brought his other one up, following the lines of her palm with a delicate fingertip. He could always admit hid deepest fears and insecurities to her, even after they chose to go their separate ways, he poured those words in silence to the Satine that lived in his heart. She wouldn't judge him too harshly, he hoped. 'And then Qui-gon…' Over a decade later, the loss was still palpable, and he was much too stubborn to admit it had left him adrift, even as Anakin's needs took precedence. 'I wasn't ready to take on an apprentice,' he mused. 'I thought the Council was going to give me to another Master who would see me through my trials, and someone with more experience would train Anakin at first. But hours before Qui-gon's funeral, the Council decreed my duel with a Sith could take the place of my trials and granted me the rank of Jedi Knight. One minute I was a Padawan mourning the loss of my Master, and the next, Master Yoda severed my braid, then plopped Anakin into my lap as my Padawan. I didn't know the first thing about taking care of a child, let alone a child who knew nothing about the ways of the Jedi or the Force.' It sounded peevish to his ears. He glanced at Satine, with a discomfiture in every line of his body. 'I shouldn't complain. You had a baby when you were little more than a child yourself. And you were alone…' He clamped his mouth shut. Yet another sin to add to his tally.
She tugged her hand from his grasp. 'It's not the same situation at all,' Satine said coldly. 'You had to care for a nine year old child who had only ever known hardship and want with no notice or time to reconcile yourself to it. If he's as powerful as you claim, I'm sure he could sense what everyone around him was thinking. That he was too old. That he didn't quite belong there.’ Obi-wan grimaced. He'd lost count of the number of days he'd had to search for Anakin, only to find him in a secluded corner, scrubbing angry tears from his round cheeks, wounded by a thousand pinprick thoughts that silently questioned his place among the Jedi. Satine continued, 'I had months to prepare for Korkie. And he was an infant. He had no past or conscious memories. And no one has ever questioned Korkie's right to be with me. Even if I did have to lie about his true origins.’
Obi-wan couldn't help himself. All the concerns and doubts he'd ever had about Anakin crowded and spilled over his lips. He'd had no one to confide in for so long. 'Anakin was terrified of being abandoned. The first year, I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, and find him sleeping on the floor next to my bed…' More than once another Jedi would see Obi-wan chivvying Anakin back to the Padawans' dormitories in the morning, sleepy and grumpy, only to catch up with him later to admonish Obi-wan for not forcing Anakin to sleep in his own bed. Their relationship was much more complex than the usual master and apprentice dynamic. Even after Anakin attained a full knighthood, he and Obi-wan were inexorably linked. 'And I didn’t know how to teach him to...’ He pressed his lips together and ran a fingertip around the edge of his teacup, forcing himself to keep his touch light, else he break the delicate porcelain.
'To what…?' Satine prodded.
Obi-wan sighed. Hundreds of tiny failures with Anakin lay in heaps around them. By the time he'd managed to recognize the precarious balance of Anakin's psyche, it would have taken the time and resources the Jedi couldn't spare to devote to one Knight. Sometimes, Obi-wan wondered at Anakin's ability to simply function. Although even that was debatable. He rubbed his chin with the side of his finger, gathering his thoughts. ‘To be alone. To understand that life and death are part of the Force. To let go.' He tore his gaze away from the liquid in his cup and met Satine's eyes. 'Do you remember when we first met and you told me the Jedi way of claiming children when they were mere infants was barbaric?'
'Yes. You were quite offended.'
For moment, Obi-wan could only see the memory of a nine year old Anakin, in that suite on Naboo, shaking and crying in the grip of a nightmare. One he steadfastly refused to outwardly share, but brief images of a careworn and sad-eyed woman bled through, laced with a sense of dread about her and terror that the Jedi Council would abandon him, strictly because they would find out he still thought about his mother. And Obi-wan wholly unprepared and nearly unable to comfort him. 'What we did to Anakin was…' He studied the weave of the fabric stretched over his knee. It felt disloyal to say so, but he kept speaking. 'It was barbaric. We took him from everything he knew. Ripped him away from the one constant in his life, and took him to a world where nothing made sense, and no one was familiar. Except me. And he barely knew me. I had to figure out how to teach him to do things I'd known how to do my entire life because I learned them at such an early age, it came as naturally as breathing. So I doubled down on living the tenets of the Code so I could be an example. Perhaps I should have done what Qui-gon always wanted and observed the spirit of the Code instead. Then Anakin wouldn't have felt like he always disappointed me yet again.' He screwed his eyes shut. 'I made so many mistakes that first year.'
'I don't know a parent or parental figure that hasn't made a mistake or two,' Satine said gently, trying to assuage the self-reproach he felt.
Obi-wan started to correct her, to point out that the master and apprentice relationship is not akin to that of parent and child. No one would have ever described it as such. It smacked of forbidden attachments. He’d been telling himself Anakin was his brother for over a decade, just to hold that particular thought at bay.
'I didn't want to train Anakin,' he confessed in a bare murmur. He'd never told anyone how he felt. Not Yoda, or Ki-Ai-Mundi, or even Kit. And never would he have even formed the thought around Mace, who didn't need another barrage in his arsenal about why Anakin was unsuitable to become a Jedi. 'The only reason I was allowed to train him at all was because it was Qui-gon's wish that Anakin become a Jedi, and the Council ultimately agreed that it was better to train someone with that much raw ability than leave him to fate, because talent without training does nobody in the galaxy any good.' Once he started talking, Obi-wan let the words fall from his lips in an uncontrolled tumble. Never had he been more grateful to divulge a secret to anyone than he was at this moment. He snagged the last cookie from the plate and nibbled the edge, letting the rich sweetness dissolve on his tongue. He felt as though he were stalling for time to gather his courage to say the next bit aloud. 'Qui-gon thought — no, he believed — that Anakin is the Chosen One. And Anakin's initial evaluations convinced the rest of the Council. All save Yoda.'
'The Chosen One?' Satine scoffed. Her cynicism was natural, Obi-wan supposed. Mandalore's history was riddled with leaders — the Mand'alor — who got there by scraping and fighting for every bit of power until for a few brief, shining moments, they stood atop the scrapheap created in the carnage of war.
'The one who will bring balance to the Force.'
'Do you believe it?'
Obi-wan toyed with the remains of the cookie, reducing it to a pile of crumbs. A muscle in in jaw jumped as the silence spooled between them 'I am proud of the Jedi he's become, but truly, there are times when…' Obi-wan chose his words with an infinite amount of care. Most of the other Jedi commanded the clone troops with a sense of resignation and duty. It was for the good of the Republic, they told themselves. All save Anakin, who enjoyed it with a most un-Jedi like enthusiasm. Who reveled in war and fighting, and excelled at it, even as it ran counter to everything the Jedi had been taught. And oh, how he struggled. There was nothing inherently wrong with struggle. Everyone wrestled with something from time to time. There were times where Obi-wan could see Anakin visibly throttle back his anger and his fear, walking the line between Light and Dark. 'I sense a darkness that threatens to overwhelm him.' He began to stack their dishes on the tray, more for something to do with his hands and leave this topic behind than anything else. And if he could tidy the physical clutter in front of them, it might help gather the clutter of his own thoughts. 'I doubted him in the beginning. And may the Force forgive me, I still do.'
Had he said that last bit loud enough for Satine to hear? Feeling as though he’d said far too much, Obi-wan abruptly stood and picked up the tray with an unintelligible murmur about doing the dishes, and strode to the kitchen.
It was unforgivable, really. It felt rather like a betrayal of his relationship with Anakin. He hadn't loved Anakin at first. He cared for the boy, of course. Who wouldn't feel something for a child who'd been thrust into a situation where everyone and everything was unfamiliar? He'd come to love him, though. More deeply than he ought, as far as the Code was concerned. Perhaps he and Anakin were closer than most masters and their Padawan. No surprise there, really. They had their disagreements, and Anakin often pushed every single button Obi-wan had with gleeful abandon, but a desire to prove the rest of the Order wrong about them created that first, tenuous bond. It unlocked a ferocity within him that Obi-wan didn't know he had. Every triumph, every successful mission only solidified their relationship even more. So many other Jedi had been so certain they would fail, and that had tarnished Anakin's view of the rest of the Order. He eventually came to trust them, but the only one he felt he could truly rely on was Obi-wan. The few Jedi who might have helped mitigate those feelings had either died under murky, yet not wholly inexplicable, circumstances, or been sent away on long missions.
Obi-wan rinsed a bowl and laid it on a clean towel he'd spread on the counter. There were small fissures in the foundation of his relationship with Anakin now. Hairline cracks the war exploited and widened into deeper fissures. Not for the first time, he wondered if more sinister forces were to blame for Anakin's isolation from the larger Jedi Order. He'd brought it up as a new Knight, out of concern for his Padawan, but had been dismissed due to his age and inexperience. Too many Jedi were loath to consider that their judgment was sullied and clouded.
'You don't have to do that.'
He started and glanced up through his lashes. Satine leaned against the doorframe, hair loose on her shoulders, clad only in that linen nightdress gone threadbare at the seams. He shrugged with one shoulder and arranged the spoons along the edge of the towel. 'It's only fair,' he said mildly. 'You provided the meal.' A subtle reminder of their routine from that year with Qui-gon. The current tableau was a remarkably domestic scene, he noted, as he cleared away the remains of Satine's meal preparation, with the two of them in comfortable nightclothes, baring their souls while the city slept around them. It was that life he'd had glimpses of so long ago.
'I wanted to ask you to stay,' Satine blurted.
He froze in the act of drying his hands, and folded the towel into precise lines, keeping his focus trained on making sure the edges were perfectly aligned. 'Why didn't you?' he asked quietly. She'd shared passages from the journal she kept when carrying Korkie. She'd been terribly lonely then. Every so often during their rekindled relationship she allowed herself to admit just how lonely she still was. It was a price she'd been willing to pay for the hard-fought peace and stability of Mandalore.
'You know why,' she replied in the over-patient tones of one of his instructors when he was a youngling. She waved her hand in an imitation of the Jedi mind trick with an arched, knowing brow. 'It would never have worked. Mandalore would have revolted, and everything my father worked for would have been lost. I couldn't allow my feelings to become part of the equation.'
Obi-wan nodded slowly. 'That's why I never asked.' He hung the towel over the edge of the sink. They were so alike, it was almost frightening. Duty always came first. Duty came first, even to the detriment of their own happiness. He yawned, muffling it in the crook of his elbow. It was late, and he would have to be on his way at dawn. 'I suppose I should try to get some sleep. If you could tell me where to find a blanket… Or direct me to Korkie's room, if you think he wouldn't mind if I slept in his bed tonight.'
Satine looked at him with a strange look on her face. Was it chagrin? Bemusement? 'Why? Is there something wrong with my bed?'
He knotted his fingers together in the manner he would have done if the sleeves of his robes covered them. Part of him yearned for this. Positively ached for the life he might have had with her. And yet he didn't want to impose his company on her more than he already had. 'I didn't wish to presume,' he coughed.
Satine merely held out a hand. Come with me, it said, even in its stillness.
There were hours yet until dawn. A few precious hours in which he could pretend the war didn't exist and he'd chosen this life with her. His fingers slid over her palm. She grasped his hand and led him back to her bedroom.
A memory surfaced of the first time he'd seen this bed in all its fluffy, expansive glory. They'd gawked at it, more accustomed to the somewhat narrow bunks on the freighter or the beds just large enough for the two of them in various hostels or inns. They'd wallowed in its luxury, making love when they should have been sleeping, but such was the folly of youth. They'd believed they were indestructible.
Age was nothing if not a a disillusionment. He was certainly destructible. The scars he bore certainly reinforced that.
Obi-wan pulled off the pajama top and carelessly tossed it over the foot of the bed. He was more used to sleeping in his undershorts when the opportunity allowed. Otherwise, he was far too warm to sleep soundly, but his undershorts seemed to have disappeared, along with the rest of his clothes. It was sleep in the pajama pants or nothing at all. He slid between the crisp sheets, and settled against the pillows, a grateful sigh escaping from his lips.
Satine stared down at him, or rather at a point in the center of his chest, and tapped the small object nestled there. 'You're still wearing it.'
He reached up in a reflexive movement as he often did, touching the locket as if to assure himself it was still there. He'd only taken it off once since the day she placed it around his neck after that assassination attempt when he'd learned about Korkie. 'I've considered removing it.'
'Why?' She lifted the locket, and released the clasp with a fingernail. It sprang open to reveal the image of Korkie on one side, and the portrait he'd add of her a few weeks after she'd returned to Mandalore on the other. Her mouth lifted in a small smile at the sight of it. He waited for a cutting remark that he'd made her too pretty, but it never came.
'It feels like I've defiled it by wearing it into a battle,' he muttered, and shut the locket with a discomfited twitch. ‘It...’ He groped for the most appropriate words to describe why he continued to wear it. ‘It reminds me why I’m fighting, but to carry two committed pacifists into an inherently violent situation...’ One shoulder rose and fell in mute apology. For all his reputation as a consummate negotiator, words failed him just now. Satine had become the unseen voice of his conscience, posing the questions he didn't want to examine too closely in the heat of battle. How many morally grey choices had he made, convinced it was the right thing to do at the time, only to revisit it when all was still and silent around him?
Satine swallowed hard, then remarked with more than a little forced lightness, 'It's beskar, you know.'
He was awestruck by that. Beskar was such a highly prized touchstone of Mandalorian culture, that the mere act of giving it to an outsider, all but shouted from the rooftops that he belonged to her family. It was a fairly common practice to gift one's betrothed with a fragment of familial beskar. Especially if it was a riduurok — a true love match. 'Is it?'
She gestured to where it lay directly over his heart. 'Maybe it will protect you.'
A bubble of nervous laughter erupted from him. It had, in fact, done that very thing in the latest battle. A blaster bolt slipped through his lightsaber's defenses and skidded off the bit of beskar hidden under his tunics. 'It would have to be a very lucky shot,' he told her, tracing the contours of the locket with a fingertip, then wrapping his hand around it.
The mirth faded from her eyes. 'Could the Council expel you for having it?' Her fingertips skated over the back of his hand in a fleeting touch.
He thought of every other Jedi's quarters, strewn with personal items, in contrast to his own, which were bare of any and all personal effects, save the wooden box that held his severed Padawan braid. In the grand scheme of things, the locket is only a bauble. 'For owning what most would consider a trinket?' No.'
She shot him a look and proceeded to speak as though he was a particularly idiotic child. 'For what's inside it.'
He clutched at the locket a little harder. As an object, it was a trifle and nothing that would attract notice from anyone. What lay inside was the real issue. 'They might. Jedi aren't supposed to have families.' Jedi history was littered with the ashes of conflict when Jedi created dynasties. 'It usually doesn't end well.'
'We're not your family,' Satine said sharply. 'Not in any way that counts.' Obi-wan blinked, but had to concede she was right. They had never been the sort to tiptoe around the truth. 'We are merely two people you care about from afar.' She rested a hand against his cheek, and he turned his face into the touch that he craved. 'We chose this life, Ben.'
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Though they'd never actually discussed it, beyond the half-voiced maybes and what-ifs they'd mused about in the gloaming of dawn that he'd tried to dismiss as the formless yearnings of adolescence. And yet, they had both arrived at the same conclusion, and went their separate ways. He tucked her against his side. 'We might be worrying over nothing,' he told her with far more confidence than he felt. 'We're spread so thin the Order can't afford to lose anyone.' A wry, crooked grin twisted his mouth. 'Not even Jedi Masters with a child that isn't technically theirs.' He gestured at the lamp in the corner, switching it off. Darkness enveloped them and pushed the outside world aside for a little longer. 'No point in worrying about something that might never come about. But I shall proceed with caution.'
He should have wanted nothing more than sleep. He'd been so tired when he landed on Mandalore. But being with Satine was a form of meditation in of itself. He tilted her head back and kissed her, shifting their bodies until she straddled him, all but enveloping him with her body. Obi-wan chased her mouth with his, their lips brushing together with near soundless murmurs. He wasn't ashamed to admit he burned and ached for her. He gathered the hem of her nightdress in one hand, the other stroking in teasing patterns between her thighs. He pulled back just enough to inquire if she wanted more with a canted brow. Satine replied with a saucy grin and lifted the nightdress over her head and flung it to the floor. She tried to remove his pajama bottoms, but couldn't work them past his hips fast enough to suit him. She giggled as he made a peevish gesture to remove the offending garment with the Force. So much for all the lectures he'd given Anakin about using the Force for inconsequential actions.
He took his time, savoring each touch. He poured everything he couldn't bring himself put into words into the meandering pathways of their lips, tongues and hands. It was one of the exceedingly rare times in his life that Obi-wan gave in to his deepest, most hidden desires and bared himself completely to another being.
They didn't sleep. Neither one of them wanted to waste a single moment when they didn't know when they should meet again. Obi-wan doubted there would be more opportunities while the war still raged with no end in sight.
The windows gradually lightened from the black of night to the washed-out grey of the gloaming of dawn. Obi-wan made to rise from the bed, but Satine's arms tightened around him. She made a face at the window over his shoulder. 'Don't go,' she breathed, lips grazing over the skin just under his jaw. 'Not yet.'
Obi-wan nuzzled her tousled hair and let himself picture sinking back into the bed with Satine, even for just one more day. One more day where he could let the war recede into the back of his mind. One more day to plaster over the psychic distress. But duty blotted out the thought faster than he could paint it. 'I must.' He trailed his fingers down the plane of her cheek, then slid from the bed and padded to the 'fresher. He went through the motions of relieving himself and using the sonic option in the shower cubicle.
His clothes lay spread over the foot of the bed, more than a little crumpled from being left in the laundering unit overnight, but blessedly clean. He pulled on his undershorts, and then his trousers and socks, and turned to find Satine holding up his undertunic. Obi-wan reached for it, but she spread it apart. He slid his arms into the sleeves started to do up the row of laces that fastened it closed, but Satine nudged his hands aside, tying each one into a neat bow. She did the same with his over tunic. 'You don't have to do this,' he informed her wryly. She had performed this particular ritual every time he left her to return to his life among the Jedi.
'Yes. I do.'
'I've been able to dress myself for well over thirty years, my dear,' he chuckled, lifting his arms so she could belt the tabard into place.
'It reminds me of what — and who — you are.'
The simple statement silenced him. This was her way of reestablishing boundaries. Ben only existed in the fleeting moments between nightfall and dawn. The second he stepped out of this room, Ben would once again fade behind Obi-wan. As it was in the past and as it always would be. More flustered than he wanted to admit, Obi-wan turned to put on his boots. Satine whisked the brown robes from under his fingers and helped him don it. She adjusted the fall of it from his shoulders. It was an act every bit as intimate as their lovemaking.
She drew the hood over his head with an air of finality. 'It reminds me that you are Obi-wan Kenobi, Jedi Master, and Ben is a whimsical dream.'
He hung the lightsaber from his belt. It was the final piece of the armor that made up Obi-wan Kenobi. He stepped back and slid his hands inside his sleeves, the picture of the consummate Jedi everyone assumed him to be. He bowed from the waist. 'My lady…'
Satine returned his bow with a nod. 'Master Kenobi.'
With the blink of an eye, the walls they had created out of their combined sense of duty were between them, once again Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze. He took in a deep breath as he straightened. The sadness in her summer-sky blue eyes was surely reflected in his own. He felt the moment slipping through his fingers. Even on the edge of death, he'd been too cowardly to come out and say how he felt in no uncertain terms. Not that Satine didn't know what it would mean for him to leave the Order, but he wanted to tell her just once. His hand rose and cupped her cheek. She turned her face and pressed a lingering kiss to his palm. 'Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,' he said softly, with a smile full of what might have been. He left, the hem of his robe billowing behind him. If he stayed a moment longer, Obi-wan was no longer certain he could make himself leave.
He stole through the palace and city, just beginning to stir and made his way to rendezvous point where the 501st and 212th waited. It was time to go home and return to reality.