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Heat stings his eyes as hot rolling air threatens instantaneous, dreadful flame, the distraction of black plumes of thick smoke smearing both their faces. All is painted red, all screams with the hunger of lava, except for one distinction, something that cannot be disguised no matter what goes on around them or where they are. Anakin’s blazing golden eyes and their hatred and fury overpowers that which surrounds them, distinct by what they represent and what has been lost.
Through the smog of Mustafar’s rage, the eclipsed sun attempts light upon the red smolder of a planet, darkened mostly as their own light now is.
“I will do what I must.”
Had it been a declaration for Democracy, upheld by their Fallen Order, one Obi-Wan owed his full allegiance to as a Jedi Knight? Or a dreaded necessity to a promise made to a long-lost Master now that failure threatens to tear everything from them, their gains from the Chosen One as large as their losses?
Maybe it was only a hollow assertion against his true feelings, ones he had spoken to in earnest with Master Yoda before his departure.
“Send me to kill the emperor. I will not kill Anakin. He is like my brother. I cannot do it.”
Before he had seen what the dark side of the Force could do to even his most invaluable ally’s minds, before when his heart ached with hope, Yoda’s testaments to the finality of the corruption of darkness seemed merciless. But now as he faces the raw violence of the Sith, his words deflected just like his saber strikes, Obi-Wan’s soul weeps in misery and mounting hopelessness.
They are changed, warped by war and inner turmoil, transformed alongside the political climate Jedi had become infused with and were paying the price of influence. The era of peace, the mastery of lightsaber as an art rather than a method of battle, Anakin had not experienced the life of a Jedi as a culture rather than a soldier, learning in order not to train his mind but protect his allies and disarm enemies. Honed into a Jedi Warrior, defenses battered with the anguish of galactic conflict, his heart was a poorly protected victim to the lure of darkness.
Elaborate footwork, never misplacing a step keeps all of Obi-Wan’s instincts on fullest alert. Anakin drives forward on offensive pursuit and heavy, relentless strikes honed by his perfected understanding of his own physical form. He does not need to think to know where his reach ends and his opponent’s blind spots are, only merely trust in his trained body and connection to the Force.
He has advantage as well, having fought beside his Master for many years, learning his methods and his patterns. Diverting, rotating Obi-Wan’s saber to rupture his guard, he lacks the hesitation to harm that Obi-Wan finds is growing stronger in his own movements.
They spin through the Separatist’s graveyard of Anakin’s making, shooting sparks of electrical demise as their lightsabers miss and break apart control panels or are forced away, tearing great lines of heat through the base. Blue clashes blue, Anakin’s anticipation of Obi-Wan’s counters no longer the blind pride of a fond apprentice figuring out his Master during harmless sparring. Before, this reckless abandonment was something to reflect upon and refine, but it persists and now it is Obi-Wan’s only saving grace, allowing him the foresight of prediction, disarming Anakin by a harmless jolt to his wrist.
Even without his weapon, his former Padawan fearlessly keeps close, using what is in range. His grip like a vice, the mechanics of his robot arm choke the breath from Obi-Wan’s lungs, his other hand forcing his Master’s arm to bend and bring his own lightsaber toward himself. Anakin watches in deadly and gruesome concentration, unconcerned at the emotion breaking Obi-Wan’s usual mask of control. He feels nothing in the face of death by his own hand. Or at least Obi-Wan cannot sense anything of their bond through the barriers of the dark side, Darth Sidious’ claim on Anakin preventing everything but more anger and mistrust near his newly claimed apprentice’s heart.
When all appears lost, Obi-Wan unable to bend any further away from the deadly glow of his own saber, Anakin’s fingers shift. His pinched brow no longer seems simply determined but afflicted and he mouths words no ear could hear and would not have been seen if his Master had not been staring into his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
It is all the unlikely hesitation he needs. Rejuvenated, Obi-Wan kicks Anakin away, giving himself a moment to collect himself and hopefully some breath. Anakin rights himself with equal fervor, vexation evident in his snarl. There competes great forces inside Obi-Wan’s former apprentice, clashing for control and sway over his mind. Now, at the forefront is merely the irked pride and annoyance for being kicked away at the apex of his victory and he returns the favor with a punt of his own, knocking Obi-Wan’s lightsaber out of his hand and toppling him.
But a soul, even malformed by darkness, recognizes and cherishes its relationships, the restraint that stopped Anakin just short of killing Padme and could apologize grimly for almost defeating his Master. For such a discovery, Obi-Wan swells with power, ready for another clash of lightsabers. His weapon meets his palm firmly.
His offense curbs all unnecessary reaction, Anakin’s brow damp with sweat, mouth a stern line. What Anakin knows of him, Obi-Wan is also aware, the breadth of his strokes and where he is weakest in reaction. They bounce off one another, the whirl of deadly light rushing past in a lethal dance. Experience and talent, style and perseverance, they match one another, and sensing the stalemate, Obi-Wan changes tactics, aware of Anakin’s plethora of stamina. Reaching deep within, he wills the Force to meet him and through his hand expends the flow of power.
In immediate response, Anakin’s hand opens and they almost touch fingers, battling with the invisible strength that upholds their universe, thickening the air, straining the physical limits of each of their bodies. It ripples, but without distance, the building power rebounds, throwing each of them in opposite directions, against the harsh metal of the control panels. The Force chills but not the air of Mustafar.
In the chaos of battle, there are no words to be offered, nothing to be reasoned with. Anakin is upon him at every turn. He leaps, bringing his lightsaber down with bone-crushing force, breaking apart the control panel that Obi-Wan once leaned against. A far and distressing alarm comes alive, representative of the collapse of not only the mirage of the Separatist’s strength but their current galaxy and their relationship.
With a smoldering intense gaze, Anakin flourishes his saber and pursues Obi-Wan through the doorway, back out into the exposed and roaring air above the thick flow of lava rivers. To stall, to give room for more than just the struggle of battle, Obi-Wan takes a gamble, stepping out onto the thin and unstable pipes of the crumbling establishment. But a Sith once trained as a Jedi does not pause at such a challenge and Anakin jumps nimbly onto the pipe, bouncing them dangerously as smoke and steam breaks apart their darkened vision. Endlessly flowing lava blazes and rumbles below, churning through the falling base, imminent collapse obvious with the unsteadiness all around.
They observe each other, bobbing with the pipe and read for the next move.
In uninterrupted sparring, Anakin has facility and genius, all flourishing with his intent to learn and overcome. Only by distraction, whether internal or external could such raw focus be broken.
Waiting for the steam to blow, Obi-Wan steadies his footing and strikes but it is not enough to throw Anakin’s balance fully and quickly he seizes enough stability to counter strike, wagering to knock them both from the thin duct before admit battle on such a precarious perch is too much for him.
The further they delve into the planet, the closer the lava explodes and jeopardizes their safety, menacingly mindless and all-consuming. It is the descent into Anakin’s madness, a journey Obi-Wan leaps into, finding them more stable ground, although the eruptions surrounding are as treacherous as his continued gambling with a vengeful Sith.
They grapple with each other, trying to shove the other off so they can pull their saber-wielding hand free, shadowed by the explosions of molten fire and volcanic ruination. Further, they pivot and sidestep into the abandoned labyrinth, sabers clashing in dying electrical vibrations, drowned out by the spewing blasts of destruction. As it rises viciously to eat away their return, Obi-Wan takes the distraction and shoves Anakin in order to give himself a head start, the horrific creaking signaling major structural failure.
The lava smolders red hot, and although they are in far greater danger simply from their environment, Anakin would rather continue their duel, singly focused and determined. He scowls when Obi-Wan nudges him to the opposite side of a protrusion of wall where he takes cover, avoiding the pelting volcanic fire rocks splattering everywhere. Compromised, they watch as where they stand begins to tilt and splinter, lava rushing over it like a blood wound. It will fall. It will fall like all else has.
Obi-Wan risks the attempt, knowing with a sting in his heart that Anakin will follow, if even just to try to cut him down from behind. But they will not make it back across, not as they sense the rush of descent for this part of the structure, and clinging to the rings of what once was a walkway, they explode down into the river below, rocking dangerously in the inferno of Mustafar’s veins. It bobs with such velocity, for a moment, all either man can do is cling to his position and breath the hellfire air.
Obi-Wan does not know if Anakin’s sanity will make it off this planet, but he must. He turns his face upward, to the far, far sky darkened by black clouds and begins to climb.
As they ascend, Anakin swings his blade, unafraid of losing his balance or grip and tries to cut at Obi-Wan’s stance. He demands with such potent, fuming frustration that it splits the Jedi Master’s focus, partially on reaching the top of their moving structure and partially on blocking vicious swings of light. But eventually, he manages to step out of reach, cresting the top to feel the hot wind of motion on his face.
It is only by this position that Obi-Wan can see what they travel toward, the maze of stewing lava descending into a steep and lethal fall. All second thoughts discarded, he jumps and grabs what once was a securing cable, swinging out over the hell river. There is no time nor the need to worry for Anakin, who vaults similarly into the air to propel himself by a long sturdy cable swiftly after observing his Master.
Ruthless, willing to tumble into the yawning swell of scorching red and heat for one blow to his Master, Anakin swings and meets lightsaber, passing by and giving the Jedi chance to propel himself away from the immediate plummet to death and onto a small but surviving levitating lift.
The sight of the tower of walkway straining over the plunge is hair-raising, moaning and snapping and carrying the small form of Anakin Skywalker with it to its destruction. Obi-Wan watches in silence, heart thudding madly, searching in the chaos for what he knows to be true, Anakin will survive, although it is agony to acknowledge how they would be free of this dilemma were it not. Still, he cannot deny the rejoice, a sensation etched into his bones, to see Anakin flip out of the fire at the last moment, aim precise and steadfast to land on a worker droid, his resiliency a certainty in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s world.
Smoke billows from the melting tower, forgotten now from the newly Sith’s perspective, slowly spinning his saber as if to reacquaint his arm with the violent extension. His stance is predatory, hair curling against his forehead from the heat and he lacks any self-preservation, solely bent on releasing his rage through combat. Platform and droid move around one another, giving leeway to angled attacks, and thrusts of blades to force the other’s footing but eventually, they drift apart.
Obi-Wan steadies himself with a breath, a moment recaptured for a rare opportunity for negotiating.
“I have failed you, Anakin. I have failed you.” It is not an easy admission, one that would have taken his former Padawan into deep consideration. An apology to lessen the anguish of personal responsibility, to allow the emotions to dissipate enough for clearer perspective, in their times of togetherness, Anakin would have come to his senses and given Obi-Wan’s words a chance to sink in, even if he could not reign all his feelings in fully.
But the self-declared Emperor’s words spill from Anakin’s angry mouth, “I should have known the Jedi were plotting to take over.” He cannot hear, cannot reason for himself and Obi-Wan cries out for his rationality to return.
“Anakin, Chancellor Palpatine is evil!”
“From my point of view, the Jedi are evil.” His eyes seethe, an assertion as detrimental as the lightsaber he raised against defenseless younglings to erase the Order from the galaxy for the new Empire’s foundation. While it is not physical, it pierces through Obi-Wan as if a blade, agony rushing through him enough to alter his control. The family they lost, their belonging, years spent on careful diplomatic peacekeeping and also in war, fighting for the future, their bond kept even after he cut Anakin’s braid and freed him to be his own Knight, everything shredded mercilessly by the infection of fear, fear bred into misguided hatred.
“Well then you are lost!” He shouts over the lava, emotions tearing into his voice.
No sense of remorse, no internal conflict reflecting through those usually honest eyes, all Obi-Wan stares into is the cruelty of Sith gold and fuming anger. Anakin glares at him with unyielding wrath and over top the scorch of flaming red, he declares, “This is the end for you, my Master.”
Yoda warned him the boy he trained was gone and he appears to be right, although this man speaks to him as if he is still an apprentice.
Riding the grief still fire hot and a building affliction he cannot explain in his breast, Obi-Wan steadies his grip on his weapon and braces himself for the inevitable attack.
Anakin leaps, too high for a cautionary swipe to catch him and although the proximity is dangerous, Obi-Wan can only warn him back with a low swing not meant to do anything but stall Anakin and possibly buy him time. The droid flies off, leaving the two Force wielders to the narrow confinement of the floating lift.
As warned, written in the Archives and spoken lowly from other Masters, the strength of a Sith was limitless as long as their hatred persisted, channeling and fueling the dark side, compounding on itself in an unstable but wickedly potent power. Obi-Wan’s exhausted and mourning heart will not last, not as every beat surges fresh hurt and distress. Over his shoulder, he sees the approach of a shore, sizzling and black, and frees himself from the tangle of lightsabers.
His high jump and tight flip avoid the final murderous slash of Anakin’s saber, leaving them standing apart once more, his former Padawan on the wavering, overheated floating platform and he grounded on the incline, elevated above the Sith buffeted by hot lava wind.
No bound no matter the height will give Anakin the necessary advantage now. He tells him as much, “It’s over, Anakin. I have the high ground.” His motion to his chosen surroundings does not deter the Sith though.
“You underestimate my power.” He thunders, breathing with intent to leap anyway.
As long as he is with the Living Force and carries the name Kenobi, within his heart, Anakin will live on. It is a guarded place, deep within, where Satine’s youthful and smart eyes look upon him with distinction and Qui-Gon tells him he is a man worthy of the Order. Obi-Wan shakes his head, sincere and warns, “Don’t try it.” It is the final appeal before they cross their thresholds, where Anakin joins memory and Obi-Wan concedes relinquishing life for the pale comparison of remembrance.
Those yellow eyes narrow in intimidation, and as Anakin leaps, a sudden instinct takes hold of the Jedi Master; this is not his apprentice, no more than this murderous intent is Anakin’s. He sweeps his lightsaber and cuts down the Sith, disarming the Dark Lord’s strongest and most lethal mercenary, throwing him harshly into the volcanic gravel and dust with a tumble that leaves his body terrifyingly close to the scorching hell river.
Hearing his agony, so great it sucked his breath for a scream, Obi-Wan’s brow folds deeply. Any form of torture is not the Jedi way, even if unintentional. But for now, he can turn off his lightsaber, the threat of Anakin’s fury gone with his weapon fallen in the dirt and out of reach.
Trying to pull his mutilated body further up, Anakin glares with an expression that divulges the violence he would have committed had Obi-Wan’s instincts not taken over. It ravages any form of pity his former Master has, to have made him do what his heart wanted naught for and still not consider how he still drives the blade deeper and deeper with his betrayals. He knows now what is building in his chest.
It is the enormous burden of failed expectations and their mighty fury.
“You were the Chosen One!” Obi-Wan yells, Mustafar thrumming beneath them in and in the hot air, “It was said that you would destroy the Sith, not join them!” He watches Anakin try and fail to use the depleting strength of his last arm to maneuver himself some leverage, grimacing deeply. “Bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness!” Just looking into those still blazing Sith eyes wounds him and Obi-Wan turns to retrieve the lightsaber he had sat beside Anakin for when he had built it. It is warm in his hand, sickly warm.
Furious for having turned his back on him, the Sith bellows, “I hate you!” Demanding back Obi-Wan’s attention, even if he can do nothing else but harm with his words. The ash and torment have stung his eyes with red, his chest heaving with the energy it took to propel the hostility. Mad with power and no outlet, the Sith pulls thick handfuls of gravel closer to himself fighting against the gravity of the slope.
Gripping and ungripping the saber in his hand, Obi-Wan agonizes if there is any mind left in his former Padawan to hear his words. He breathes and his chest aches, the black soot of his planet infesting his lungs. “You were my brother, Anakin.” He confesses anyway, because his soft spot has always been his twin starfighter, his other half, “I loved you.”
Something flashes, a glimmer in gold and the scowl becomes terrible with despair, “Obi-Wan..” Anakin grounds out and for a moment the Jedi Master cannot tell if it is to curse him or invoke some other reaction. He heaves harshly, weak and drops his head in the dirt, trying to gather himself and his breath, groaning pitching with the dissipating adrenaline and rising physical torment. He almost sobs, back muscles unclenching to release the tension across his shoulders and says quieter, more in a tone that his former Master can recognize, “Obi-Wan..”
The voice is almost lost beneath the rush of hot wind and although his instincts argue against it, Obi-Wan comes closer, wary of a Sith even if seemingly harmless. The dusting of pebbles scattering about him brings Anakin’s attentions back up, and seeing he has not yet been abandoned for the hell of Mustafar, plunges into miserable wretchedness, hand snapping out to seize Obi-Wan by an ankle although he is just out of reach.
Instead, he grabs another fistful of useless dirt and drags it to his face and clenches it with intolerable defeat, sobbing openly and freely, one of very few times before his Jedi Master, always choosing to tend to wounds privately, especially after the start of the war. He turns his eyes up, golden and guilty, mouth upset and releases the dirt to test a second careful reach toward Jedi mercy, cheeks lined with tears through the dark soot, “I’m sorry.”
Obi-Wan can taste fire, and he hesitates, a wicked indecision faltering what he knows to be Jedi sworn truth. A defenseless Sith will say anything, plead any case, be above nothing, not groveling, nor lying in order to survive.
Anakin arches his neck and pleads, “Forgive me, Master. It is I who has failed you.”
And Obi-Wan makes another mistake. He knows of many faults counted through his years of being a Padawan to his choices as a Jedi General. Some haunt him, some have their physical scar and this one will leave a man his life due to his undying loyalty.
He does. He forgives the Sith who has taken the place of his beloved apprentice.
Obi-Wan lifts Anakin from his torturous end, away from the devastation of lava and into his arms. The grip of Anakin’s robot hand is so strong on his clothing Obi-Wan wonders if the fingers will ever uncurl and finally a scream of agony tears free from his former apprentice’s mouth. Without his limbs, his weight echoes a time when Obi-Wan could easily carry him, a time when they were each other’s balm to heart-wrenching loss and explored one another for the comfort of growing side by side. Once a beaming smile and a small braid, that same Padawan, covered in tears and sweat and trauma, snarls wickedly and for a brief flash, he shows a cruel expression as if he may try to bite the Jedi carrying him, and tear his throat out for a hollow victory. It is a face unrecognizable except to his second half.
Obi-Wan warily regards him, taking slow steps up the slope, “Please try to endure a little longer.”
Gritting his teeth, Anakin ducks his head, returning to mindlessly weeping, each jostle and repositioning excruciating punishment.
A long and strenuous journey up from in the depths of Mustafar leads them back to the landing dock, thankfully untouched by the damage the Separatist base endured, Padme still laying prone on the smooth cold of the ground. The droids greet them, an accustomed standard now grand in its coveted normalcy.
With a breath of great relief, Obi-Wan takes the final step onto the platform and watches a shadow pass over before the ship itself comes into view, a swift smear promising nothing good. The dark side has answered the fall of one of its own, inviting war for Skywalker’s soul. Obi-Wan closes his eyes in momentary grief, an unexpected and likely unsurmountable trial for all their lives.
The shuttle curves, gliding downward and in the minimal time they have, Obi-Wan lays Anakin carefully in the vicinity of Padme and says, “Think of yourself, Anakin. Think of what you want to protect.” Finally, Anakin’s fingers unclench, releasing the sleeve but his harsh breathing remains, and Obi-Wan glances across the landing surface to the disembarking shuttle, “Promise me you will rely on our bond, your connection to the light side and not your fear and anger.” Those molten Sith eyes cannot be trusted, glaring at him with the intensity only known to enemies. The color beneath them has purpled, terrible, proof of his suffering. Obi-Wan stands, and the door to the shuttle unleashes a wave of heady dark energy.
Yoda’s words ring in the back of the Jedi Master’s mind, an assessment of power and the lack thereof, a duel that cannot be won but must be had. Obi-Wan’s veins are cold in contrast with the climate, his energy depleted. He activates his lightsaber in anticipation, the only gleam of color not red, Anakin’s moans of agony clear in his ears even with the booming destruction all around them.
If the Emperor descends the ramp, it will signify the Jedi Grandmaster’s loss. There is only the flicker of hope, a slimmer of possibility this is not the confrontation Obi-Wan’s senses tell him it is. He sees the eyes before all else, bolder, more luminescent than Anakin’s, malicious and shrewd through the cover of darkness. They stare at Obi-Wan with frightening perception, golden and unblinking, narrowing in palpable assessment. They are the eyes of a Dark Lord, shared with a newly appointed apprentice and at their menacing judgment, a final Jedi defensive protectiveness crashes against Obi-Wan’s bruised chest, signaling his battle stance, Form III, a refined and polished Soresu adopted at the death of a Master and the birth of a roll as a caretaker.
Blanketed in heavy robes, covered by the hood, the Emperor walks from the darkness as darkness himself, lasting and strong regardless the curl of his shoulders and his sunken, malformed face. “Kenobi.” He acknowledges, voice layered with his many identities, the rational and ever-calm chancellor, the calculating and cunning engineer of a galaxy-wide deception and the cruel, ruthless Master of the modern Sith, all molding the drawl of his tone and the gravel of his potential danger.
“Master..” Anakin cautions, unclear for whether he speaks to Obi-Wan or Darth Sidious, drawing for the first time the Dark Lord’s gaze away from his Jedi opposer in sharp, fluid evaluation.
His mouth curves but the amusement is not harmless, “It seems you have much left to learn, apprentice, allowing expired Jedi tactics to best you. Worry not, I will rid you of such distractions soon enough.” Darth Sidious does not yet draw his weapon, the ugly line of his sneer warped permanently, once a genial paternal smile, if a politician’s expressions could ever be considered innocuous, “The Order itself is a parasite feeding on the Empire’s strength, parading talk of peace while equipped with weapons of destruction. Your incapacitation is proof of that, the acclaimed Negotiator resorted to violence with his own Padawan after all.”
Anakin lets out a ragged sob, out of antagonized frustration, steeling Obi-Wan’s convictions. He side-steps, blade of light still held high and challenges his adversary, inciting the savage beast of a Sith’s heart to the conquest of violent combat. Darth Sidious, well aware, folds his eyes in mean thrill.
“Noble Jedi, you flaunt that predictable arrogance inherited from your Grandmaster.” Slowly his hand reaches into his robes, and without any flare, unnecessary with the level of his skill, Darth Sidious lights the blade of pure blood red in a fiery whoosh, “The very Grandmaster I defeated for such conflated ego. How does it feel to be the last remaining Jedi of the all-mighty Council?”
Obi-Wan breathes, slow and clear and refuses to answer the provocation or take his eyes off his enemy who masquerades his mastery of Force Speed with his subtle and slow movements, coyly enjoying his pretense of age while vitalized with the rich wealth of the dark side flowing through him. His saber hangs and buzzes at his side like the awaiting blade of a guillotine, thirsty for cauterized blood.
“Your walls are faltering, Kenobi.” Sidious hisses, far more skilled in instigation than his power-drunk apprentice, having effectively manipulated his colleagues while concealing his bloodlust for years before the Jedi Temple and the ever-watchful eyes of the Galactic Republic, the hidden fangs meticulously poisoning its prey without feeding too early, “You wish to kill me. Your meager methods that managed to immobilize my apprentice will not be enough. Why not harness your hatred? You will only be worthy as an opponent if you cut away those Jedi restrictions and meet your real potential.”
“I have touched the dark side before,” Obi-Wan confesses and doesn’t see from behind him the searching, pitiful golden eyes look at him in awe, “And I admit it endowed great power. It allowed me to defeat your first apprentice.” His words hold with no outward pride for Sidious to gouge his Sith corruption into, and at the mention of Darth Maul, his Master’s brow lowers resentfully, mouth becoming a crooked, pressed line of hostility.
Obi-Wan never breaks his defensive stance, knowing in his choice to reject the seductive and aggressive offensive power of Form IV for Form III, Master Qui-Gon stands at his back in spirit, his death transforming from his former apprentice’s wound to let in the darkness to his healed and bolstered resistance to such temptations. “But I choose the Light, even if it is the more difficult path to victory.”
Darth Sidious glowers under the shadow of his hood, “You choose Light to premature death.” The air almost vibrates around him, responding to the Sith’s influence, although to any Force blind observer it is too subtle to catch. “As homage to the new age of Sith, I admit I take pleasure in personally delivering you to the Force, Kenobi. You have been a Jedi worthy of your status, dispatching my former apprentice and droid General.” He breathes a sick mangled laugh, “You even raised my new apprentice for me, what a mighty fine warrior you allowed him to become. He will rule beside me with an iron fist.”
It is only one more second of delay until the Sith is upon him, piercing forward with the attack of a serpent. The jabs are vicious, relentless, exact in their crafted chaos, aiming to maim through the unpredictable angles and wear down the guard preventing a want for blood. Red counters off blue, ricocheting electrical sound explosions with bursts of splintering light.
Obi-Wan recognizes Form VII, a violent and variable pummel of saber skill augmented especially for overwhelming enemies one-on-one. He has it seared in his instincts, the final scar from Maul, a battle he did not leave untouched even as the victor. To level their power differences, Obi-Wan tries to fall into the depth of concentration the Sith’s Form VII demands but he knows it is exactly what the Dark Lord wants, the necessary loss of self into the Force that allows unimaginable strength on the battlefield, disarming inhibitions and morals for performance, bringing Sith and Jedi to a place more alike one another than any other.
“To fight this Lord Sidious, strong enough you are not.”
Obi-Wan grimaces with a scorching error tearing his robe and his flesh for a maneuver seconds too slow. Darth Sidious is compounded dark energy, harnessing not only his Force signature of evil but of the Sith who he felled for their powers. To overtake him would take the will of a strong Order and Obi-Wan is alone, weakened by grief and consumed simply by fending off the Dark Lord’s overwhelming presence, the very one who manipulated his closest brethren and fed him enough poison he could lift a hand to Padme and swear to end his own Master. Another opening has the Empire cackling in wicked glee.
“The impenetrable defense of Kenobi shall fall just as your impregnable Temple did!”
His knees bend, and suddenly the weight of the Sith’s lightsaber is unbearably heavy, forcing Obi-Wan to waver beneath the pressure. Red gleams in Sidious’ wild eyes, his darkened teeth flashing in a predatory snarl of a grin.
“Master!” Anakin calls out, breaking the coiling tension literally threatening to crack the very landing dock beneath their feet, pressurized and building. It comes to Obi-Wan, a sudden understanding and the distraction is enough to pull those wicked and demonic eyes away from him to over his shoulder with inhuman speed, “Vader, you test me with your interruptions.” Sidious threatens, the moment given to the Jedi who draws Anakin’s lightsaber from his belt and lights it with ease, knowing the mechanics by heart.
He repels the Sith who snarls angrily, molding the lines of his face villainously.
“You only elongate your suffering. I will break you.”
If terror was an option, his nerves might have taken it but the galaxy stands behind them both, alternate versions, and Obi-Wan is determined to bring his forward into the Force. He finds his stance once more, twin lightsabers washing back red, vibrating in his palm steadily.
The Jedi spins, robes splaying about his form, crashing lightsabers against the line of maniacal red. Before in his Form, Darth Sidious merely projected his attacks by deftly moving his wrist but a ravenous need to destroy consumes him, and the assault becomes full body, his entirety devoted to Juyo and the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi. They take over the free space of the landing platform, never straying too far lest break the hypnotic thrum of a life-or-death duel.
“The millennium of Jedi is done, Kenobi!” The attack is so swift blood splatters hot and sharp against stone, pain a slow pursuer, catching Obi-Wan by surprise. He can feel it fracture, his sole focus, “You will perish with the rest of your Order and I will inherit all your apprentice once offered to you.”
His knee slams the surface of stone, two lightsabers crossed to hold back the Mustafar red hot blade from reaching him. Obi-Wan’s heart beats loudly, his paid blood an intricate memorial to his dance with the Sith painted around them and he trembles, unable to force back the Dark Lord a second time even with the bolstered defense of another saber. Red burns at his eyes, sizzling to taste more of his life force, descending with horrifying slowness as Darth Sidious overwhelms his strength.
“I will dine off your lingering torment once I deliver the final blow. All with a connection to the Force reside longer than the Force blind after death-” Sidious lets out a guttural cry of disbelief, lightsaber soaring out of his hand as he himself lifts away off the ground, legs kicking. He garbles, hands clawing at the invisible Force squeezing the life from his body, mouth wide in silent, suffocated protest.
Obi-Wan stares in shock, heart still racing and lowers his defense only after he pinpoints the location of the now deactivated lightsaber. He turns over his shoulder to see that smolder of anger contorting Anakin’s features, monstrous in its level of fury, as he uses his mechanical hand to slowly crush the windpipe of his Master, hand outstretched and fingers closing in a telling manner.
“Anakin-”
The air reverberates, rushing over Obi-Wan in dark energy that asks him to cover his face, the residual sensation of Darth Sidious clinging and devilishly strong even after death. His body is a collapse of robes, small without its soul, withering within moments and yet the air feels tainted, hard to breathe and Obi-Wan coughs into his arm, deactivating his lightsabers to quickly reattach them to his belt.
Anakin has returned to laying his cheek to the stone, his pale face one of muted defeat. He reaches out to Padme but even though she is within range he dares not touch her. His expression trembles, golden eyes glowing with a great, coveted power only possible by murder of one of his own kind but he is uninterested in figurative thrones and Empires now.
“She is alive, I can feel it.” He says, voice wobbling, deeply unsettled, wishing his hand could comfort but knowing with all his newly granted power, he can only harm. “Tell me she will be okay.” He demands, his Sith edge still present, entitled and bold, forced out through clenched teeth, as if he needs to intimidate for answers, “Master, tell me.”
Obi-Wan stills momentarily, washed in ragged relief. It had been himself Anakin had been talking to all this time. He kneels beside him, and carefully puts a hand to the back of his mutilated but salvaged friend, “Only time will tell, young one.”
Anakin sighs, his breath trembling, and a great and sudden exhaustion fills his features. They have survived but all that has been burned cannot be restored, dust to their stars, possible only in memory. Anakin stares at Padme’s slightly burdened brow and her warm cheeks for a long and quiet moment then asks, “Will you kill me, Obi-Wan?” It is not spoken out of cowardice but from a beseeching dismal hope to be free from his own self-made sickness.
“No,” Obi-Wan says slowly, and cups a tear-stained cheek in his palm, a soothing for both of them, a gentle act of acceptance, “It is as the prophecy states. You will end the Sith. And you will end it by living.”
-
They go into surgery side by side, Anakin anxious and inconsolable, his connection to the dark side too great and his heart too ravaged for any semblance of control. He fights off the droids with the strength of a healthy man, worried for Padme until Obi-Wan reassures him of her fortitude and her inner relief at Anakin’s return. His feverish former apprentice grips Obi-Wan as if angry but with another reminder of his responsibility, he manages to wrestle his emotions and release the Jedi in order for them to begin the painstaking task of providing him with new prosthetics.
They are apart from the surviving Jedi, monitored from afar as those who evaded Order 66 return to the Temple for a period of mourning and collective reunion. It is a bittersweet mercy, to see all who persevered walk without fear of persecution or execution back up the hundred steps to their home and know Anakin will never be allowed to step foot in the Temple again, banished from the Order and renounced as a Jedi.
Senators rise from the ashes of the Republic to defend galactic peace, led by Bail Organa, promoting an end to the military era for all. A vote to retire the clones sets a date in the close future. Noisy Separatist leaders lost to a lava grave, the damage incurred by the Dark Lord’s greed and manipulation is laid before those remaining, a galaxy ready to face itself for the sake of tomorrow. A time of recovery is necessary, a time of great reflection, for the common people and for Force wielders as well.
With the twins born and Padme recovered enough, she too delivers her final words to the rebuilding Senate, announcing her retirement and her belief in the transformation of their government, one built on transparency to keep the hearts of all clear and unclouded. She is altered by the affliction of the Sith, a sadness forever engraved in her brown eyes but it does not overwhelm her hope, even as she carries Anakin’s heavy sin alongside him, the ghosts of forever younglings following their retreat to Naboo from the tall halls of the Temple.
To collect the scattered remains of their Order, Obi-Wan becomes the bridge back to the healing cover of their Temple, finding the lost and showing them the way. In his journeys through the many systems, he hears whispers of a lightning-scarred Force user who carries a uniquely colored lightsaber roaming the planets and wonders if they will too one day cross paths again, him and his long-traveling friend.
Yoda does not return immediately, reflecting on the Force and its ways, deep in the swamps of Dagobah. But when he does, he has a message about a young Force user who will become a great and unparalleled Jedi and will meet his destiny like his father, if for the guidance from a certain Kenobi.
He does not depart at first. He considers their parting and their residual traumas. Places haunted for the weight of their memories both good and terrible and his claims on interpretable duty which inevitably caused great debate and division for his choices slow him for any quick decision. Years of defending his manner of devotion to the Chosen One had prepared him for the onslaught, many Jedi, even Yoda, disapproving of his pardon of the Sith that almost massacred their entire Order. Obi-Wan was atoning for saving Anakin, but he would never regret doing so.
Eventually, the turquoise blue planet of Naboo, skies clean and people prospering under a gracious Queen, calls out to him and Obi-Wan orbits her to land for a house peacefully nestled by the water.
It is cascaded with green, warm in the sunlight and delightfully cool in the shade with tended steps, swept clean of leaves and dressed with potted flowers cared for by their obvious health. Folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe, Obi-Wan dares not enter without permission, committed when they cast his former Padawan from their world for his wrongdoings permanently, he would not brazenly demand whatever construct of a life Anakin made for himself would be available to his intrusion without permission as well.
As long as the Fallen Jedi keeps true to his promise, peace could prosper.
A glance of gold catches his eye, gripping his heart and Anakin steps into view, shadowed beneath the cool archway above, silent in his approach and as graceful as ever, despite the agony that was his first few months of physical therapy to regain his ability to walk. His lips move, and Obi-Wan squeezes his hands tighter in the privacy of his sleeves, seeing an aged but familiar smirk.
Being the bearer of the power of the Sith had left a permanent golden shimmer to his irises, but Obi-Wan, although such color remains a stark contender in his worst of nightmares, chooses to trust himself and his other half, if he is a Jedi and Anakin is a Sith, then his destiny will call him to action should he ever be needed for such. Mustafar’s cruelty and its trials linger between them, a lasting scorch mark marring a cherished bond. Still, Obi-Wan can return to the gravel of the volcanic river and hear loathing as seemingly real as the lightsaber he keeps, a testament from each of them that even with their scars, they hope for a Skywalker revival, and the opportunity for new harmony between one another.
It may be a dangerous aspiration they share, the most powerful Sith in the galaxy relinquishing his Force-sensitive children to the vulnerable and diluted Jedi culture, a precarious gamble of balance, for Light cannot exist without Dark but can easily be swallowed by it too.
Anakin, whether he can see the inner workings of Obi-Wan’s ruminations or not, merely fondly turns his head and invites him in with the polite and amiable tone he used as a Padawan, “Welcome, Master. Please come in.” His prosthetic arms are revealed in the exposed clothing of Naboo, unhidden for meaning and appearance.
Obi-Wan regards him and the high chance of such placating as a performance. But all the same, it is within their promise, forever more, that Anakin will be not only their galaxy’s Chosen One but Obi-Wan’s and is the end of the Sith, he the final beholder of a coveted abundance of dark Force and a reminder of the strength of faith against the corruption of pure power. For the precious gift of everything he tried to trade the Jedi for, his family, his belonging and his Master, who carries the duty of his other half’s keeper, he agrees to tame his heart and live. He bares his treasures to Obi-Wan’s scrutiny, a precious world that had once been so overly protected it threatened all that lived in its proximity, and heals in the acceptance he thought he would never receive in their previous lives.
Obi-Wan crosses the threshold to the sound of children’s laughter with a small and growing smile of his own.