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Chapter Text

Young witches receive their familiars once they reach the age of thirteen. It is tradition. One as old as time and just as honoured.

They were hoarded outside the old building like a buzzing hive, chatter and excitement filling the still cool air of the initiation night.

All children that reached the age are trying to get a peak behind the closed doors, imagining what it would look like. It is both a blessing and a privilege to receive one's familiar, as they will guide the young enchanter's journey onward.

A little girl with thick red braids tells everyone who is willing to listen, that her whole family line has been claimed by bird-spirits before. Owls. Her line was strong with two of her cousins sitting as part of the twelve Elders of the Coven.

Anakin thinks of his mother, who never knew magic before her only son started making toads float outside their little hut.
Shmi Skywalker was an outcast with a child out of wedlock and the only knowledge she could pass onto him from his very birth up to his thirteenth year was how to make a good bread and what berries could be eaten in the wild. She taught him how to carve out of wood, but she could never teach him how to extract vitality from living things and bottle it on a dusty shelf.

That doesn't make him less powerful, he knows. If Master Qui-Gon says so, it must be the truth.
But now, listening as the loud-voiced boy with a mop of raven hair brags about getting a wolf or a bear, because his lineage is favoured by spirits of great force, Anakin thinks about how he was only favoured by frogs who would surround him as a child. They liked it, when he made them float. They would never get to fly otherwise.

The night is creeping upon them, with the sharp new crescent slowly making its way to the star-filled sky. It was a time for new beginnings, the start of a new era.

A man with his skin as dark as the bottom of the well comes out and stands just outside heavy wooden doors.
The buzzing dies down instantly, all the talk ending abruptly, as the young recognise the elder of their Coven.
Master Mace Windu looks at them from the height of his stature, his sharp eyes catching each and every one of their little faces, the new generation of witches.

He opens his mouth and starts speaking. His voice is low and booming, it urges attention, it demands respect.
Anakin, however, is not listening to him.

Instead he looks at an ugly green toad sitting on his shoulder. The toad looks back at him with big wise eyes. It doesn't look like any other that Anakin had ever seen. And it doesn't feel like one either.
The toad feels like an endless bog, mossy and damp, so deep, you won't ever get out once you step in it. It is ancient and it is strong. Even when the world would crumble and die, that bog will still remain, undisturbed by the buzzing of flies and quacks of birds. Silent and sage.
And when Anakin turns his head, the toad blinks at him, slowly, like he is winking with one eye at a time.

Mace Windu takes a door handle in his wide dark palm and says:

"And remember, it is very important to have an acknowledgement of the claim, otherwise it would not be binding. It has to be accepted," he slowly creaks the door open, letting those closest to it peak inside, "May the Force be with you. And may the spirits guide you to your path."

The man goes inside and the young trail right behind him, like the newborn ducklings.
None of them has been inside the Great Hall, yet. This is the place where their Elders decide the fate of the Coven, where they accept new members and acknowledge those who will one day replace them.

It is grand and vast, the legacy of all the witches that came before them. And there, against the far wall, stands a platform with dozens of species that will take young mages as their wards.
Insects of different sizes and shapes, birds crooking their necks to look at the children before them, animals standing on their paws and feet gazing, searching for those they would deem worthy.
The richness of the woodland right before them, each and every one as wise as a teacher they had before.

But Anakin doesn't see them. He doesn't notice the red-coated fox eyeing him from the left, he doesn't look at a perked up rabbit following his track.
He only sees one.

A cat.

Ginger fur gleaming in the soft candlelight, while he is sitting lazily on the faraway side, almost hidden behind a great moose standing right next to him.
The cat turns his head and looks back at him.
Out of all the animals in the room, all the flashes of colour and scents, power and warmth, this cat is singular.
This cat is the greenery of a lush forest, the kind that is untouched by human hands. It is the fresh scent of pines; it is dew earth and sweetness of wild berries. The sharpness of fern and the softness of moss. Nothing feels like him, like the untamed soul of nature itself.

Anakin starts walking.
He doesn't hear his name being called, he doesn't stop when hands try to catch him.
He is the son of the incessant, of the deep-rooted. Master Qui-Gon says he is the son of the Force itself, the one that runs inside them all, the one that grants them power. And Master Qui-Gon is never wrong.

He outstretches his hand, his fingertips brushing the satiny strands of a stripy coat, as he reaches deeper. Into that lush greenery, inside the trunk of ancient trees, inside the flesh of berries and mushrooms, through chiming streams and finally into the very soul of it. He buries his fingers there, feeling the golden threads twisting around like vines. He plants it there in the essence of another being, while everyone watches.

Anakin opens his eyes, golden like the twine he had just braided into the other's very soul and opens his mouth:

"I claim you as mine, in life and beyond, with Force as my witness."

He hears Mace Windu's roar like a thunderstorm breaking across the room as he yells his name. Anakin doesn't take his gaze away from the blue eyes of the creature that makes a half of his being.

He just broke rules that were older than the entire Coven itself, but he didn't care.
Not when he heard a voice, velvety smooth and honey-sweet, inside his own head.

"I accept."

***

That sweet, smooth voice sounds like nails scraping against glass, when a soft paw touches his nose in the early hours of the morning.

"Anakin," it says, "Anakin, wake up."

Anakin groans, unintelligible and annoyed. He bats his hand, almost as he is trying to chase away a fly.

"Anakin, it is well past nine. You need to get up."

He snores, loudly, and extends both his arms to catch his little hassle. Anakin clutches the warm body to his chest like a toy and smacks his lips in satisfaction. All without even opening his eyes.
Obi-Wan mewls at the sudden change in position, but makes absolutely no attempt to get out. He is radiating warmth like an extra blanket and Anakin is slowly drifting back to sleep, before his treacherous stomach gives a very prominent grumble.
Skywalker instantly knows that Obi-Wan is radiating pure smugness, his most cat-like expression.

"Alright," Anakin mutters, still clutching his familiar to his chest, "You win. I'm getting up."

Thirteen minutes later the cat in his arms smacks him with a fluffy tail.

"You haven't moved an inch."

Anakin groans again, his chest rumbling with the strength of his frustration. Out of every creature in the universe, he had to choose this one. He could have been chosen by anyone and yet, he is stuck with the most annoying spirit in all the realms.

"It is entirely your fault and you know it," Obi-Wan says in his head, before wiggling out of Skywalker's grasp and jumping off the bed.

Anakin slowly rises, rubbing his eyes, as he watches a ginger furry bottom slowly make his way across the wooden floor and into the little kitchen.

"You're lucky you're easy on the eye, otherwise, I would have requested somebody else a decade ago!" he shouts, but there is no real fire behind his words.

"No, you wouldn't," is the response he gets and, despite himself, Anakin smiles.

It is the truth, after all. There isn't a power capable enough to compel Skywalker to part with his familiar. The other half of his Force-forged soul.
He stretches, arms going above his head, twisting around each other, as the muscles bulge and contract, before relaxing. The black ink lining his skin glows faintly, before fading back into the tanned colour of his flesh. Anakin bends his back, until it gives in with a soft crack and does the same with his neck. Only after that he gets out of the bed, draping himself in a worn out gown his mother sent him four summers ago, and follows his cat into the kitchen.

There's a cup of coffee already on the table with the remnants of their last dinner on a plate. It looks lukewarm at best, and Anakin gives Obi-Wan a long look.

"If you got up, when I told you to, it would've been still hot," his familiar says unperturbed, absolutely unfazed in the face of Anakin's criticism.

The witch huffs, walking toward the cupboard to fish out breakfast for the fluffy mouser.
He puts it into the little plate and places it right next to his own, where Obi-Wan already sits with his tail raised up.

"Good morning to you too, by the way," Anakin grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee. It would've been excellent, just as he likes it, if not for the temperature.

Obi-Wan does not dignify that with a response, too preoccupied with munching on the fresh tuna Anakin had got for him specifically from a fisher in the village.
Rex had a particular soft spot for Obi-Wan and he usually gave some of his catch for Anakin half-priced in exchange for some head scratches and a short purr. Obi-Wan knew exactly what sort of influence he had over the people.
Many thought he was Anakin's only redeemable quality. Obi-Wan thought so too.

They ate in silence, as Skywalker mauled over the things he needed to complete. His spell work should not take him too long, only a couple of hours right before dusk. But before that he should try and collect all the specimens he needed before the harvest was truly over. And of course he couldn't forget the offerings.
After all, it was rude to refuse the wandering spirits just because he was careless enough to not prepare anything for their passing visit. His mother raised him better.

He takes Obi-Wan's plate along with his own, when they finish and puts it in the bucket outside. He will wash it later. Obi-Wan blinks at him, before turning around and strolling back into the room.
He returns with the list, Anakin scribbled days before, in his little mouth.

"Don't forget to add valerian to it," Obi-Wan says, dropping the list on the table, "And we are out of mugwort."

Skywalker hums, before taking the pencil and adding two points to the short list. They would need to go to the village again, to deliver some goods, but it also meant that they could treat themselves to some fresh baked apple pie and maybe those delicious spiced cookies the baker's daughter makes only for the time of Samhain.

"Do you think Soka will save us some of her treats?"

Obi-Wan stretches, his claws digging into the meat of the soft wood. His ears twitch, as his spine dips, making that shape Anakin tries to mimic in the mornings, but always fails.

"I'm sure she will think of something, if you will bring her long-promised charmed beads," he purrs, before straightening up and jumping off the table, "But only if you hurry up."

Skywalker looks at him as he sauntered away, the fluency of his little graceful body. There is something about it, something too fluid, too effortless that is made possible to observe only by spending over the half of one's life with the creature, but Obi-Wan is different from any other cat. Or any other familiar for that matter.

Anakin remembers. The wild hare named Quinlan that Aayla, his childhood friend, got is exactly like all the other rabbits. He feels like tall grass and rocky hills, like the fast wind and the cleverness that outsmarted the fox. But he is still a hare. Jumping around from one place to the other.
Obi-Wan is different.
He remembers the crow Master Qui-Gon had. A scary creature, looking right at you like somehow you've wronged his entire family just by being in his proximity. He felt like the cold stone of an abandoned castle and the fresh blood on white snow. A circle of life, when one must end to feed the other. The cruellest part of nature.
But he was still a bird. Slightly old and extremely prideful, but Anakin would not pick him out from the murder of others.

He only saw that once before. With the ugly fat toad on Mace Windu's shoulder. The one that blinks as if you two share a secret.

***

Dry leaves crunch under the soles of his weathered boots. Anakin inhales the scent of the forest, the decaying saviour of it, laced with the damp smell of the earth. The living things preparing for their sleep, their last breaths before winter. Anakin loves it.
Obi-Wan jogs just a little ahead of him, his coat matching the colours carpeting the track made by the feets of mushroom pickers.
They usually ignore the things Anakin is after. They deem them poisonous, useless, but pay a hefty sum, when it's bottled up with a fancy label scribbled across.

Skywalker picks a dozen of tanned reishi and two dozens of chubby lion's manes. His basket full of wiggly orange cordyceps to make a new batch of powder to give around in the longest nights of winter. He carves out six black barky chaga mushrooms from their safe spots fusing with the tree trunks and even manages to find two clusters of pinecones-like dancing mushrooms, with Obi-Wan's helpful guidance.
Anakin picks a few amanitas for himself, white and red, deadly and spotty like the face of a raging teenager. There are potions he would like to experiment on this year.

His hunt for pine needles is just as efficient, but not as his quest for wild nettle. It is always good to have extra bundles. It's matured enough to be used extensively. He collects fallen rowan branches and breaks them into smaller ones before separating them from those of aspen.
But the most important of his finds is of course viburnum.
Anakin carefully stores its berries and fallen twigs, even plucking some leaves for extra ingredients.

Obi-Wan sits beneath its branches, peering at his work through the heavy bundles of its fruitage.
Not many spirits can get this close to it, but his familiar has always been special. Coming from the same soil the deep roots are. Born of the same seed.

When Anakin finally finishes, the sun is creeping towards the horizon, tinting its creations in the crimson shade of its parting. Skywalker shivers.
The forest starts singing. Its soft whispers usher him further, to look inside the hollows and follow the evening gust. He knows better now, after all these years, but the call is strong.

"Anakin."

He looks down, where his familiar stands, blurry in the dancing strands of the overgrown grass. Obi-Wan bites the edge of his trousers and tugs, his summon in Skywalker's head ringing louder than the luring chant of the old and untold. For all that, their voices sound similar. Same.

Anakin shakes his head and blinks his eyes trying to brush off the spell. It is stronger than anything a being of flesh can make, but there is a reason he was the only witch capable of withstanding the call of it when the veil between the worlds thinned.

Slowly, reluctantly Skywalker follows the gentle tug and allows Obi-Wan to lead him out and back to their hut.
His paws remain clean, while Anakin's boots are now muddy with leaves clinging to the dirt of the soles. It starts to rain.
Obi-Wan quickly darts inside the house, to the warmth of his secluded corner, leaving the enchanter to collect missing herbs alone in his little garden.
His wet hair clings to his forehead and the clothes feel sticky against his skin, but despite it all Anakin dutifully picks out leaves of spearmint and strands mugwort. Rosemary, chamomile and verbena. And finally some valerian. He digs them out with bare hands, the roots loving the touch. They scream, when faced with a tool.

When Anakin finally returns, wet to the bone, and shivering, Obi-Wan looks at him from his spot atop the dresser. His tail is curled around the body to preserve warmth.

"You look awful," he says and yawns, his pink mouth full of little sharp teeth.

"I hate you," Anakin answers.

Obi-Wan blinks down at him, still utterly unimpressed.

***

Anakin stands next to the window, a steaming cup of his latest brew in his hand. The soft tang of sweet berries he dried on strings feels like a last warm hug from the parting summer. The mist outside is thick and cloudy, a perfect disguise for darkness brewing under its cover.

He takes a sip, washing away the aftertaste of spicy treats that were left on his porch. It made him smile, the little blue bow carefully woven into a note, scribbled by clever fingers. Anakin makes a note to get those beads to the magnanimous girl, lest she would do as she threatened and curse a witch with bad breath and hair for all eternity.

Obi-Wan is nowhere in sight. He was never particularly keen on socializing, were it the living or the dead. After all, he was a guardian, not a gossiper, Anakin, thank you very much.

Skywalker hummed quietly, putting his cup aside to arrange the array of objects he carefully placed on his windowsill. As much as he wished to make the passing journey a little easier for the travellers of Samhain, he wouldn't want any of them to actually stay. Neither he nor Obi-Wan liked overstayed guests.
His mother once called the pair of them a small hermit hoarding.

He had food outside after the rain finally ended and his hair dried. Nothing too exquisite, just bread and apples, sprinkled with cinnamon and spice. A handful of nuts and of course a generous portion of sweet cider and bitter rum. He knew his visitors well after all.
Anakin dabs a small amount of salt across the creaks in his windows and doors. He checks to see if his pumpkins are still intact, the sigils he carved in them glowing faintly with the light of handmade candles he exchanged for three bottles of herbs.

A different candle adorned with dried petals and rosemary was burning on the empty table. This is where his little place of worship was supposed to stand, but he never felt the need for it.
Not when he was the living vessel of the power they honoured. An altar made of flesh and bones.
Skywalker returned to his cup and took another sip.

After a while the mist changes, taking shape and growing restless. Figures emerge from it, hunched and hurried, mournful, playful, sated and impatient. They move along, passing his hut, the trees, the fog hiding their feet from the damp grass.

Some of the passing silhouettes take his offerings, smiling and waving at him through the window. Some are crying. Some are happy.
Some try to crawl inside. Scratching at his walls and knocking on glass, their touch making an ear-splitting, ungodly noise.

There are those who scream. Screech. Howl.
Those who laugh and their laughter is voice.

The air is thick with sulfur and wet fur. Even with his doors closed Anakin knows it to be true.
Every ghost, demon and ghoul is out this night. It is theirs, their celebration and feast. Witches are not to interfere with the night, for all things must have a balance, lest some poor naked witch will get caught by a rogue fiend on the Walpurgis night.

Witches do not meddle with the affairs of Samhain and in exchange they are free to roam the darkness of their sabbath. That is what Qui-Gon taught him, braiding his hair for his first ever outing at fourteen. It was Obi-Wan's task to prepare him, but they made an exception.
He was still learning to use his fine motor skills then.

Anakin stays a little past midnight, watching, as is his task, over the safe passage on his territory, when his visitor appears between the tall black trunks.
The world pauses, the mist freezes over, undisturbed by moving feets and hooves.
Skywalker looks directly between the shadows, the sickly scent of rot and sweetness squeezing through every little opening. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

There are horns and ears and muzzle and beak. Teeth, fangs, eyes - dozens and dozens of them and none at all. A skull. A face. Claws and fingers, arms, scales, tail, paws, legs, wings. A man and a woman. Everything and nothing in between.
Everything.
And nothing.

They smile at him, eyes gleaming. Hungry. Friendly. Knowing. Vacant.
Their arm clenched on the offering he left, the one nobody dared to touch before. They gulp it down and laugh.
It's good. Anakin knows. It is their favourite.

He raises his own cup, the tea cold and slightly sour at the bottom. They drink together. Like friends. Like equals.
Anakin flowers his cup and they laugh, the sound booming and deafening even through walls. Skywalker smiles.
They are not the same but they are as similar as anything in the world can come close to.
On some nights they play games. Anakin got rather good at checkers over the years, but he lost in chess every time. They played cards too. And sometimes crosses and nulls. For some reason it was their favourite.
But not on this night.
This night was busy. Two villages away from here in a small town, there was an outbreak of consumption. It was a busy night this year.

They turn and leave, waving back to him like the children had, when they passed by, clutching the sweets he had left to them. They had no age.
Anakin wondered if he would ever be like that one day.

He stays just a bit longer, eyes growing heavier as the night stretches further.
It's when the sleep is crawling even closer, weighing down his limbs, that he hears a soft voice behind his back calling his name.
Anakin smiles, recognising it instantly, as he turns around.

There, in the middle of his room, stands a man. His thick ginger hair falling down his shoulders, his lines transforming into specks of freckles across his face. He is wearing Anakin's old worn out gown and even his chest hair peeking out looks soft. All red and graceful, something distinctively cat-like about him, but not quite. Not exactly.

Skywalker reaches out his hand and warm fingers meet him halfway, like a mirror. Anakin tugs him closer and the man rumbles, forgetting that he can't quite purr in this form of his. Anakin still nuzzles into the crown of his head, like he does every morning when he comes to wake him.

"At all Hallow's Tide, may the Force keep you safe," Skywalker recites, remembering the words taught to him by his Master, "From goblin and pooka and black-hearted stranger, from harm of the water and hurt of the fire. From thorns of the bramble, from all other danger, fom Will O' The Wisp haunting the mire. From stumbles and tumbles and tricksters to vex you, may the Force in Her mercy, this week protect you."

Obi-Wan hums in his arms, waiting for Anakin to finish, before continuing the old blessing with his side of the passed knowledge.

"Dear cousins of the spring and night, of death and torches shining bright," he murmurs, voice gentle and melodious like the rambling of leaves, "All lives must end and be forgot, but grant that Life shall still go on."

Anakin presses his lips to his forehead, as Obi-Wan noses up to his chin. Their breaths mingling together, until they finally sync, as it ought to be.

"Blessed Samhain, anaman," Obi-Wan thrums, rubbing his face against Skywalker's neck.

Anakin holds him closer, kissing his forehead and cheeks, before hooking his fingers below prickly chin and lifting it up.

"Blessed be," he says and seals his words with a reverent kiss.

Chapter Text

In the coldest season of the year, Obi-Wan rarely leaves the furry form of a cat.
He freezes easily, shivering, as he curls beneath the fat duvet Anakin gets out during winter. His body can't regulate heat as well as his fur can, so when the earth gets cold and life holds it's breath under the soft snow, Obi-Wan stays a cat untill the early days of spring.

Anakin still brings him close at nights, burrowing his face into the gentle coat, fingers travelling across stripy back instead of pale freckled skin. It gets lonely, in those long nights.
That is why, over the past few years, he got a habit of spending Yuletide in the village, surrounded by people who would like to call him a friend, even if the mere idea of lingering around so many beings gave him the icks.

It was Obi-Wan's idea, after all. And he promised to always be there, right with him. There was a reason Anakin disliked being social, he didn't have many friends. It was difficult to make them, when half would be jealous of his gifts and the other would drown him for being a witch.

He lived here, claiming the woods and the nearby village under his protection, since he turned nineteen. It was necessary to separate from his mother, to serve the Coven he was part of. It has been six years since then, and somehow, from a strange beldam who lived in the forest alone, he became Anakin, your local unfriendly witch.
People knew him. Not all of them loved him, but most grew to respect him. To know he was good at what he did.

And of course, there was Obi-Wan too. Everybody loved Obi-Wan, so, by extension, some liked Anakin too.

He hums softly, weaving holly together, as his familiar napped, curled on his lap. It's warm there, for both of them.
Anakin thinks about that warmth, filling the little red berries with more protection. Against the evil spirit, the evil eye. For luck and love. And dreams that are good and calm.

He already made several strings, the ones he will offer to those who might need them and those who he wished to give them to.
His mother would have one by next fortnight, if all goes well and Anakin's messenger will not dally.

Obi-Wan snores quietly, like all cats do when their sleep is deep and untroubled. Winter is harsh on him, as all things living and green. Anakin lets him sleep and makes sure his hut is protected and warm.
His mother knitted little warm socks for his tiny pink paws three winters ago, but Obi-Wan always gets awkward in his movements when Anakin puts it on.
Spirits of wild were not made for clothes. Or maybe just socks.

Anakin will have to wake him soon, when his work is done. He promised to come by supper to help with some of the solstice decorations. They say he has a light hand.
But the truth is, he has been blessing each piece for peace and safety to each house for the past several years.
It makes the pine smell richer.

Their own hut is sparsely adorned. Just the necessity, Anakin came to love while spending Yuletide with his mother and Master.
His log is penetrated by candles he will ignite and charm before his leave. The scent of evergreens is soft and comforting in the air, just as the citrusy hint of carefully dried oranges. They match Obi-Wan's fur, so he likes them more now, than he did when he was twelve and nursing a hurt from when he burned his fingers touching the still searing peel fresh out furnace.

Anakin remembers spending hours on meticulous decorations, fixed on making it perfect just to feel that ever-slipping spirit of the holiday. It felt important then, special.
Nowadays, he just does it out of habit more than necessity. There's no one to impress with how beautifully he arranged ornaments on the walls. His family is far away and no one visits his hut these days, but him.

He finishes his work and ties the little knots seven times exactly. Each knot for additional blessing.
Obi-Wan stirs in his lap, his warmed body moving in small stretches, as he re-acquaints himself with his limbs.
Anakin absent-mindedly scratches his arched spine and receives a soft purr in turn. It makes him smile.

It gets lonely sometimes, but he knows he is not alone. That he will never be alone again for as long as he breathes. Obi-Wan digs his tiny sharp claws into Skywalker's knees, as he stretches, but Anakin doesn't even hiss. Perhaps he misses the sting of Obi-Wan's nails against the skin of his bare back too much.

"I'm all done here," he says then, petting the soft fur of his coat, as his familiar blinks the sleep from his too-big eyes, "Did you have a good nap?"

Obi-Wan purrs again, bumping his head into Anakin's palm. The witch just smiles at that.
When he spends a long time in one form, his familiar goes non-verbal sometimes. It is hard for him to focus. He still did it when Anakin was younger and constantly required his guidance. Now, Anakin doesn't mind him going quiet. It speaks of trust and comfort, both of which make Skywalker preen if ever so slightly.

He leaves Obi-Wan curled on the stool, as Anakin collects his things and puts extra layers of clothing. The scarf his Master knitted for him is prickly but warm, woven with nettle and care. Good for protecting against harsh winds and bad intentions.

Anakin lights the candles with a flick of his fingers, a gross misuse of his powers, but the only being capable of reprimanding him is currently trying to hide it's face beneath it's own fluffy tail.
The charm he leaves is simple and safe. He wouldn't want to come back to a burned pile of ash in place of his home. They grew quite fond of it.

When all is done, Anakin picks his satchel and collects Obi-Wan into his arms. The cat quickly finds in way to his shoulders, where he makes himself comfortable around his neck, like an additional layer of Qui-Gon's scarf. Anakin chuckles. It is his favourite spot.
Obi-Wan hates getting his paws wet, even if Anakin finds the imprints of his toe-beans on the snow the most precious thing in the entire universe.

Together they make their way down. Out of the forest and into the trail buried under the thick layer of snow. It crunches beneath his soles, the rich grating sound filling the quiet air. Like he is the only living thing left in existence.
It is both terrifying and soothing. Obi-Wan's soft breaths against his nape are warm, his little nose dry and scratchy. It makes his way easier somehow.

Soon he can see the lights illuminating the village. Dozens of candles lit up in honour of the celebration. Like a stretched out lighthouse amidst the frozen white tundra.
It calls to him.

But it is not the only thing that beckons him closer.
Although he cannot hear her yet, Anakin already sees the little girl waving furiously at him. He smiles, the lower part of his face hidden behind the soft cloth.

Ahsoka Tano, the village's baker daughter, welcomes him with her gangly teenage arms wrapped around him in a tight hug.

It is a ploy of course, a clever distraction to check his pockets for any trinkets the witch might keep in the depth of his clothes. Anakin lets her, all his possessions securely hidden in the satchel behind his back.
She pulls a face as she withdraws.

"Cheater," the girl pouts, empty-handed and red-cheeked.

He laughs.

"Blessed celebrations to you too, Snappy," Anakin responds to her, making his way past her growing form and further into the snowy streets.

"Yeah, well, that too," Ahsoka tells him, slightly shamed.

He doesn't hold it against her. It's fun and games, her interest in his craft. She has the spark too, but not enough to do much about it. They trade. She bakes goods for him and he creates small spells for her, useful in everyday life. Simple things, like beads for good luck or little wooden figurines to attract fortune. Rose and pepper oil for getting the courage to talk to the handsome boy from across the village.
It is no hardship and her baking skills are more than worth it.

They travel together, as she chats about all the latest gossip he might have missed. Fett's younger brother fell down the tree trying to retrieve a squirrel and his brothers laughed so long he had managed to dig his own body out of the snow all by himself.
The local blacksmith promised that the next person who would try to steal his anvil for a tournament of strength will be used instead of it. He doesn't know yet that the one who intended to steal it was his own daughter.

Anakin listens, not because it is of great interest to him, but because it is important to know things about people. It is a great part of his craft, to use gossip and then pretend to know the deep secrets of those who come into his hut, because the Force told him so.

Ahsoka takes him to their home, already gently adorned with evergreen branches and red ribbons.
As soon as he steps inside, the warm scent of fresh bread fills his nostrils. It's astoundingly good, instantly making him hungry.

"Soka!" The baker's low voice booms, "Is it you?"

He comes out from the depth of the house, his grey apron covered in flour and his big hands carrying the traces of sticky icing.
But as soon as he sees Anakin his face brightens, his eyes filled with the same warmth his bread is.

"Ah, Master Skywalker," he says, giving him a welcoming smile, "It is nice of you to join us."

Anakin bows, jostling Obi-Wan behind him enough for the cat to let out a short mewl. Plo laughs, short and hearty.

"And of course little Obi-Wan with you."

"It is no hardship, Don Koon," Anakin replies, taking his familiar out and setting him on the wooden floor.

Obi-Wan mewls again, unhappy to be removed from his source of warmth, but Skywalker could not carry him around the house like that.
Ahsoka immediately gets down to brush her fingers against his fur and Obi-Wan doesn't skit away immediately, as a clear sign of how desperate he is for heat.
During the days of old, years ago, he would sleep throughout the entirety of winters, awoken rarely by any dangers arising in the realm of his domain. But with Anakin as his ward he could not afford such luxury anymore, something he reminds Skywalker of quite frequently with all the bitterness a cat his size can muster.

"He is friendly today," Ahsoka notes, as she scratches lightly between his familiar's soft ears.

Obi-Wan doesn't purr, but Anakin still feels a stab of quick-passing jealousy, as always when hands other than his touch the other part of his soul.

"He is cold," Skywalker answers plainly and puts his outer clothes away, before diverting her attention to himself, "Where do you need me?"

"Oh, you poor little thing," she coos, "There's a fire lit in the big room, maybe it would be better to get him..."

Ahsoka doesn't get to finish her sentence, before Obi-Wan hurries away, his tail bouncing furiously as he runs.

"Huh," she gets up, brushing her knees from the white residue of flour they haven't cleaned just yet, "Better to follow him then."

Anakin grabs his satchel and follows his furry little partner, as Ahsoka explains what it is exactly she will need his help with.
It is not an overly complicated job. Her father would still be busy in the kitchen for a some time, preparing for the market hosted yearly, while she needs his height to decorate the top of their booth. And, because he is already present, he might as well assist her in adorning already existing sweets with swirls of icing and paints.

The room smells sweet, having spicy scent of cinnamon and gingerbread, with just a hint of sweet almonds. Plo must have made some marzipan this year as well. If he was lucky enough, he might as well get to taste it.
Ahsoka guided him to a simple wooden booth, plain and old, like dozens of others that would serve as carcases for all the vendors at the market. The trick was to decorate it in a way that would catch the most eyes.
Or... to ask a witch to do just that with his enchanting hands.

Anakin chuckled. The girl was smart. And cheeky.

He picks up dried orange slices, noting the strong scent of them and smiles. Perfect tools for him to work with. The ripe little suns oranged on a string. Anakin follows the hard peel with the tip of his finger, urging it to retain it's warmth. To sustain this household through the harsh winter, until the sun will return to them once more, bringing blessings and fertility to the frozen earth.
Anakin feels the Force as it sings back to him, gentle and familiar. The round dried slice smells just a little stronger now.

The baker enters the room shortly after, carrying a tray with two steaming fat mugs. He smiles at Anakin, his face warm and his dark eyes shining with something that makes Skywalker feel like snow melting from knitted mittens held too close to fire.

"Here you go," Plo booms, his voice deep and pleasant, "Two cups of spicy cider. It is my own recipe. I do hope you enjoy."

Anakin takes the offering with a nod, his answering smile might not be as warm, but it is as genuine. He takes a careful sip.

The taste spreads out across his tongue slowly, igniting his senses like lights on a string. It's surprisingly sweet, no bitter tang of apple cider he expected, but instead the pleasant lusciousness of the overripe fruit. It's instantly followed by caramel and a hint of cinnamon, so nice, Anakin makes several big gulps, heedless of how the scorching liquid burns him. He never tried anything quite so delicious.

The cut-short moan that escapes him colours his cheeks just as fast as the frost outside did. Ahsoka's ringing laugh fills the air.

"It's good, right? Dad's cider is the best. We get a fortune for it every season, although he only charges a dime."

"I can see why," Anakin replies and Plo's answering chuckle buzzes through his fingertips.

He returns to his baking, leaving Skywalker clutching his mug and trying desperately to untangle threads of evergreens, pine needles occasionally prickling his still cold fingers.

Ahsoka hums to herself, as she sets to decorate the rows of gingerbread figurines and Anakin finds himself slowly sinking into the pleasant rhythm of her singing. It grounds him just as the scents and textures does. So when he starts to carefully twist the branches of the fir tree it comes easy to him to weave intent and blessings into each strand.

Obi-Wan mewls softly, as he leaves his favoured spot right next to the fireplace and bumps his head into Skywalker's leg. He must be warm enough to abandon his post and Anakin absent-mindedly pets him across the rounded forehead, as he picks the strand of holly he made before and adjusts it to the already secured evergreens.

"What do you think?" he murmurs, taking a step back to see if the placement works.

Obi-Wan purrs and that is as good an answer as he can get.

They continue their work. From time to time, Obi-Wan will bring him a new piece to put, using his mouth or soft paws to twist an ornament closer.
His familiar's sense of spatial awareness was different from his own, but he was also closer to the forest than Anakin could ever hope to achieve, so Skywalker trusted his judgement on the overall layout.
It was easier to draw from the Force with Obi-Wan so close. His fingers ghosted over each new piece with confidence, reviving some of the withering needles and returning their vibrant colour back. His stomach warm with the drink and mind calm with gentle humming.

"The Fett brothers would join us soon," Ahsoka chirps some time later. It might be minutes or hours or days. Time flew by funny, when he was working, "They will help to carry the booth."

Anakin makes a noise in acknowledgement, too busy holding a branch of fir tree in his mouth, his palms busy adjusting a bright red ribbon. His mouth fills with taste of sap.
Just a little more and he will be done.
The scent of evergreens tugs his mind away. It's fresh and cool and reminds him of crisp mornings when he would accompany his mother on the long walks through the snowy woods, as they collected twigs and branches for the fire. It is laced with memories of his mother's warm slightly calloused palms, her gentle touch and the comfort of her presence, enveloping him just as tightly as the Force did. Those are the memories he keeps closest to his heart on the cold long days of the winter.

When he is done, Anakin steps away, looking critically over the work of his hands. The booth looks good, almost like a little hut grown in the midst of a forest, covered in branches and berries, decorated with orange slices and crimson ribbons. A good tribute to the festive celebration of Yule.

Skywalker glances sideways to grasp Ahsoka's reaction, but instead he finds her finishing the batch of gingerbreads layered atop the vast dinner table.

There's a knock on the door, followed instantly by the burst of loud voices and boyish laughter.
Ahsoka's head jumps up and she grins, scrambling to get away from the table and to greet their guests.
He can hear their joyful greetings, the Force ringing with their delight. It is warm and melodic like the song of the little bells.

Plo Koon calls him from the kitchen, asking for help with his latest batch of sweets. Their scent makes his mouth water.

"We probably will stay quite late today," Plo says, brushing away the flour from his large dark hands, "And it is a long walk back to your house. You can stay with us tonight, we have an extra bed and plenty of covers," And before he can protest, Koon's deep dark eyes crinkle, as his mouth forms a gentle smile, "I insist, Master Anakin."

Anakin looks at the booth, perfectly accessible to a young, rapidly growing girl if she stands on her tiptoes. Then he looks at the sweets, half of which are already artfully decorated by Ahsoka's capable hands, while he was struggling with weaving together strands of evergreens.

They didn't need him, he realises then. They didn't want him to be on his own on during the Yuletide celebrations.

It should make him irked, annoyed by their pity and yet, it doesn't.
Obi-Wan bumps his head into his chest gently, as he places a freshly baked treats back on the table, and Anakin scratches his soft coat.
It is nice, he thinks, that they care about him that much. That they wished he could share the warmth of their home and the joy of their hearts.
He feels grateful.
And, for the first time, since he held Obi-Wan's human form in his arms, he doesn't quite feel so lonely.

The laughter grows closer and Obi-Wan makes himself a place on Anakin's lap, kneading at his trousers, before curling there, purring softly.
No, Skywalker thinks to himself, he doesn't feel lonely at all.

Chapter Text

Anakin slowly stretches. His bones crack, his joints pop from the disuse. He groans, adjusting his own body from the long sleep. Even if he doesn't participate in hibernations, at the age he is now he feels too attuned to the delicate intricacies of the Nature and Force.
He too awakens, preparing for the new beginning, a new year and everything that it brings.

There is dust now in his house, collected over the course of a long harsh winter. Spider webs cover the far corners, his dwellings being shared with many to save them from nipping cold outside. But as the world slowly rejoices back to life, to movement, it is time for them to return to the wild. And it is time for him to clean.

It is always the least favourite part of Anakin's established routine of the Imbolc. Too often he is bored with the big cleansing in the matter of the first hour.
He tells Obi-Wan as much, flopping back onto the bed and starring at the wooden ceiling.

"Why must we do it every year?" he moans, stretching his fingers out to brush the overgrown winter fur of his familiar's coat.

Obi-Wan bats at his hand with the soft paw and makes a noise deep inside his throat. He does this while human sometimes too, but it never sounds the same. Obi-Wan dislikes his form for that, unable to grow accustomed to its limitations even through the decade of use.
He is still a cat now, but it is around Imbolc that he usually returns to Anakin in a way where Skywalker can not only pick him up from high above the wardrobe but also feel the tickling itch of Obi-Wan's whiskers against his skin as Anakin kisses his soft pink lips again for the first time.

"It is important," Obi-Wan mewls, his voice rough and coarse from the lack of use even in their bond.

But at least he started talking again. Anakin missed the sound of his voice like an aching limb. Horribly. Terribly.

"I know," Anakin responds and even to his own ears it sounds like whining, "Doesn't mean I still want to do it, though."

Obi-Wan stretches too. His fur stands on end, his spine bending like no other living thing should bend, before he yawns, making Anakin pull a face at the utterly disgusting stench coming from the cat's pink little mouth.
He then jumps right on top of the mage's chest and kneads at his covered chest as the tiny sharp claws embed themselves into unprotected skin.

"You cannot be so lazy, Anakin," Obi-Wan scolds him, as if he hasn't spent most of the winter season curling beneath the covers or perching atop the chimney, "It is unbecoming."

Anakin pushes him off, offended and indignant at once, and Obi-Wan mewls loudly, battling with the covers the young witch throws on his ginger body.
But he does have a point. The cleaning cannot be postponed. There is much to be done.

So Skywalker gets up and looks around, noting things he needs to take out, things he needs to replentish and to burn. Fire is a way to cleanse just as effective as hands or water.
Maybe even more so.

He sets around the center of his house, just where the light overcrosses from his two windows. It makes a spot on the floor, right where everything connects into one, like strings of dry hay vowen together into one shape with a red thread. Anakin closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He lets the energy pass through him, feeling connected to his body, to every limb, every point of it, just as much as he connects to the awakening earth on which ground he built his own house. If he opens his eyes he would see specks of dust floating around, but even with his eyelids shut, he can sense their presence, their movement. It is the time of change, time of shaken off slumber and new promises of growth. A great time. A new time.
Anakin smiles as he feels the gentle laughter so far away it might as well be the crisp singing of bells. There are hands on his shoulders, on his face, in his hair. They are kind, they are soft like a motherly touch. He keeps his eyes closed, out of respect, out of veneration, love.
He feels a kiss on his head, the one that is given to children, young and small, as a blessing, as a gift.
Anakin thinks of mom's warm eyes and the scent of cinnamon she carries around like a plume.

"Blessed be Mother," he acknowledges, almost shyly, and she pets him on the cheek with all affection only a mama can.

When Anakin finally opens his eyes, the sun is still spilling through his window, dust floating in the air of his empty house. The leftover snow outside is reflected on his walls in the splashes of faint colours. But when he breathes in, he can still taste the traces of that spicy cinnamon like a lingering touch.

Obi-Wan sits atop his small crafting table, lazily washing himself with his coarse pink tongue. If Anakin wished so, he could see her through the eyes of his familiar, as Obi-Wan never averted his gaze when the Mother would come. He had no use of reverence before old gods, the ones that come and change each other as the life continues her slow walk forward. He was a part of that life, of her breath, her movement. He was a child of her, a force of Nature, a creation of the very same Force that made the gods. That made Anakin too.
Although Anakin was still young, still learning. And his own mom taught him how to be polite. Respectful.

So Anakin shakes off the light drowse of his limbs and sets to work now that he did his part and paid his regard.
He sets a small pot on the stove, warming all the leftover wax he collected over the winter. He purifies it with snow and just a drop of lavender oils he traded last spring. The scent immediately fills his humble kitchen and makes Obi-Wan sneeze loudly in the adjacent room. Anakin doesn't feel too bad for it.

He starts rummaging through his herbs and spices cabinet, wiping the dust and occasional spiders, before letting them run off. If they can hide so that he won't see them again, it's a fair deal for staying in.

When the wax finally melts enough to pour, Anakin has finished with the swift cleaning of his kitchenette. Despite the aptitude, he doesn't use it that often, so the mess he makes is compact. Managable.

Anakin finds the empty shells he collected just for this occasion. Walnuts are good for joy. New beginnings.
He makes candles inside of them, cutting wicks as he goes. There aren't many. For each corner of each room. For his porch. For each windowsill, nestled between pots of overgrown plants. It's a quick job, almost meditative. He sets intentions into each and every one, making them flicker lightly in his mental eye even without being lit.

When the job is done he turns around and fetches a bottle of milk he saved for this day. It's cold and as white as one could get. Anakin sets it on the table along with a cup for himself, before reaching out to unclasp his window's hooks and let the crisp February cold inside. Over the years he learned that nothing could cleanse as good as the air itself. Fresh and brittle with late winter frosts.

It is barely more than a ripple, when it happens, a soft collision of a raindrop to the vast expanse of a deep lake. Still, it is enough. Everything stills for less than a moment and then...

"I thought you might benefit from a spare pair of hands," the voice says behind him and Anakin freezes.

Obi-Wan cocks his head to the side, when Skywalker turns, his hair slightly longer, his beard slightly unkept. The little pinpricks of freckles faded into his skin, as the winter forced his coat to grow thicker. Now his ginger strands can be easily pushed behind the roundness of his ears, which Anakin does almost absent-mindedly. Obi-Wan leans into the touch, still cold and therefore craving attention.
His cadence is thick and coarse, his words having an unfamiliar shape inside his mouth, no doubt. When he takes a tentative step closer, he wobbles, unused to the body he hasn't possessed in so long.

Anakin catches him, arms going around and closing behind his spine, grasping, clenching, reeling closer.
Obi-Wan goes willingly, his skin hot against Anakin’s touch.
Skywalker presses his nose, his mouth up to the side of his face, where red hair is tickling and the scent is strong.

"I've missed this body of yours," Anakin says quietly as Obi-Wan awkwardly paws at his shoulders in resemblance of a human pet.

They stay like this for some time, before Obi-Wan shivers and Anakin draws back. The man blinks at him, before moving his eyes to the warming bottle of milk and Anakin laughs. Of course. How could he forget.

"Help first," he demands, in a playful, gentle tone, "Reward later."

Obi-Wan scrunches his face, his nose inhumanly twitching.

"It is offerings, not reward," his familiar points out, but still edges past him to grab a bowl.

There are not many preparations before a big cleanse and technically, Obi-Wan should not do it in his stead, but Anakin is mesmerised by the way his fingers scout across the many shelves of his kitchen, the familiarity of movement coming slowly back to him. Even in this form there is something unnaturally graceful about him, like water flowing through the stones, strong and capable. A stream of Nature.

Anakin takes off his shirt and covers bare, mole striken shoulders of the man, as he prepares all the ingredients. The material is still warm, still holds his musk and Obi-Wan's form relaxes a little after he settles into the sleeves.
His strong hands grind salt and pluck rosemary, for Anakin's to take over, a crast contrast against the whiteness of his skin, as Skywalker joins them together, adding drops of lavender and chamomile.
The makeshift candles are solid enough to be arranged in the small altar, so when Obi-Wan passes him the wallnut shells, he takes them and presses his fingers against his own lips.
The tiny kisses feel like blessings too.

Obi-Wan leaves him then, to find his comforter, wooly and warm, as his bare soles pad away on the harsh cold floor. Anakin finishes alone, viewing his own magic into the bowl and its contents, before moving back into the room and putting it on the table, where the rays of renewed sun would graze its sides.

When he is done, Obi-Wan is dressed and bundled, his feet inside the knitted socks Anakin's mother made just for him. Skywalker smiles and pulls him closer, leaving a quick peck on the rosied cheek.

"What now?" Obi-Wan asks, even as his hands sneak past the hem of Anakin's trousers just to press against where it's warm.

"Now we swipe the floors and wash windows," Anakin answers with a cheeky smile, "And then we clean the rest that piled over the winter."

Obi-Wan hums softly and it sounds hoarse, like he is trying to use his throat for something it is not accustomed. Anakin huffs, to conceal his amusement, but it sparks in the Force anyway. Obi-Wan bites his shoulder - his human teeth duller, but no less forceful.

They get to work. His familiar wipes the dust, sneezing loudly, shuddering with his entire body. It is ridiculous, considering how he usually occupies these same places on days he's mad at Anakin for something - without as much as a sniffle.
Skywalker gets to clean the windows, opening them wide to let the air in. It flicks the lit up candle flames like a child playing with a new toy.
The floors are last to go. Anakin does them himself too, just because Obi-Wan still hasn't developed a full grasp on the movement of sweeping. It is alright, though, Anakin simply appreciates the company.

However, the slow creeping back toward the kitchen and closer to the milk does not go unnoticed by the mage. He manages to snatch the bottle right before Obi-Wan's clever fingers lay their claim on it.
His familiar pouts, his big blue eyes graying around the edges.

"I remember someone teaching me that patience is virtue," Anakin notes, pouring some of the milk into the nearby glass.

"It is also considered rude to use one's words against them, young soul," Obi-Wan retorts, but his expression smoothes when Skywalker passes the full glass to him, "Thank you."

Anakin watches his familiar dip his tongue into the glass three times, exponentially frustrated with his inability to drink how he got used to for the past months.
It takes an incredible amount of restraint on Anakin's part not to snort right into Obi-Wan's face.

"Tip the glass," he says instead, praising the Force that his voice turns out smooth and even instead of choked up, trying to hold back all that laughter, "And then swallow."

Obi-Wan does so, slightly awkward at first, but quickly getting the hang of it. Anakin takes his cup away when it's half emty and dones the rest of it.

There is milky mustache atop of Obi-Wan's red whiskers and Anakin gently wipes it off with his thumb, before licking it off from the tip. Obi-Wan frowns at him, like he wanted to do it himself and something searing pulses underneath Anakin's skin.

"More?" Obi-Wan asks, eyes fixed on the glass the mage still holds in his grasp.

"Sure," Skywalker replies easily, "But first, a blessing."

"I thought we already blessed Her," his familiar wonders as his voice grows stronger, silkier. Like the gentle forest breeze, like the rustle of greenery.

"Not Her's," Anakin corrects him with a sly, wicked smile, "Mine."

Obi-Wan's eyes spark green, vivid and haunting and beautiful. Bewitching.
Right before he leaves a small, barely there, peck on Skywalker's lips, snatching the cup from his slackened fingers.

He then smirks, showing all his morphed fangs and turns away for seconds.
Furry bastard.

Chapter Text

Anakin did not have a favourite celebration. For each and every one of them he was always busy, overloaded with work and rituals, traditions he ought to keep as a meridian between the words, a beacon of Force itself.
But if he had to choose, he would say spring equinox comes rather close.

It has nothing to do with the actual celebration, or the goddess who they honour on the day. It is entirely because of Obi-Wan.
Spring is the time he spends the most in his human, Anakin's most beloved, form.
Skywalker loves his soft, cat-like familiar with everything he has, but an Obi-Wan who can touch him with his own hands, whose lips are soft and body firm against Anakin's explorations - is something else entirely. And spring is the season he spends most often on his two legs and somewhere very close to Anakin, because it is still too cold for him to sneak into the farthest corner of the bed, because it's blissfully cool there in the heated days of summer.

So, if Anakin had to choose, he would pick Ostara.
But of course, Obi-Wan will still choose to be a bastard.

He spends an entire morning starring at Anakin from his honorary place atop the wardrobe, pissed, because Skywalker got him the wrong kind of fish. Even though Anakin tried to explain, that the Fett's catch has been short on his favourite and if anything, he should be mad at the brothers and not him.

Still, Anakin had things to do.
Spring always got busy. His garden required attention more often these days and his offerings had to take second place. He still decorated corners with the branches of pussy willow he has gracefully requested from a large shrub that grew just a little east off the road to the city.

Tabletops were adorned with fresh flowers, they had found together on a walk through the forest a day before. Obi-Wan picked out each stem himself, so that they would stay longer and carry out their scent untill the very end. He had a way of knowing, speaking to the Nature Anakin was still growing into.
He had years, centuries of practice before Skywalker had even been conceived, so, in the end, it was never a fair fight.

What was more difficult to come by was of course - the eggs. No matter how expert, even Obi-Wan was unable to find them a good dozen without disturbing a few nests. Luckily enough, the market in town was brimming with them this time of year and a sweet girl who sold them, had that familiar twinkle in her eyes that told Anakin he could take them for a smaller fee if he smiled and winked at her just at the right time.
Now, the fruits of his hard labour, laid painted in chalk and berry sap, bright in the nest atop a windowsill, as Anakin prepares the seeds and saplings to be planted in his freshly ploughed garden.

Obi-Wan follows him, when he leaves the house, although still keeping some distance between them, while reciting the entire anthology of poisonous mushrooms inside Anakin's head - slowly but steadily giving him a migraine.
It was his own fault, he delegated reading the thing for months now, yet, somehow, it still felt like an entirely too cruel of a punishment.

Still. It was Obi-Wan's voice. His slightly low, raspy cadence, flowing like the sweetest mead - igniting and soothing the very core of Anakin's mind. Which is why he did not mind it too terribly. He spent the last decade with this voice in his head and still he couldn't get enough of it. Perhaps, he never will.
Or maybe just to the way that lovely voice said his name. Breathless. Languid. Sated.
But above all - loving.
Devoted.

The work flows steadily, as gentle sun warms his back and the air smells damp and heavy with greenery. Obi-Wan picks his spot nearby, laying languidly among a sprouting patch of bright purple crocuses. His tail swishes from time to time, a peak of orange against the natural luster.

Anakin was right in the middle of his garden work, his fingers deep inside the soft, fertilised soil, as he felt it. The disturbance.
So miniscule, like the tiniest whisps of wind ruffling the hair at the back of your head.

He straightens his back, ears now attuned to each single noise, the singsong of birds on the branches of nearby tree, the dance of leaves in-between. He turns his head to ask Obi-Wan if he feels anything amiss, so much more attuned to the nature as he is, and instead of bright red fur his eyes peer right into the dirty grey brown coat of an ugliest hare he had ever seen.

The animal stares back at him, it's long hideous ears twitching and turning along with it's disproportional head, as the hare blatantly chomps on his freshly planted carrot tops, without ever breaking eye contact.

"You know, basil and parsley should not be raised so closely together. They don't get along well."

Anakin turns around and sees a young woman sitting at the very edge of the woods, her hunched pose reminding him of an overgrown frog. Her long hair tied up into two fat braids, framing her beautiful face. She supports her chin with a fist, curiously looking back at him like he is just one of her various sprouted experiment.

"Aayla," Anakin mutters, but his words are swallowed by loud chewing, as the hare continues to disintegrate his hard labour.

He turns around, annoyed and irked, the matter of the very universe around him rippling like a stormy cloud, smelling of ozone and petrichor.

"Get your jackrabbit out of my carrots," he hisses right before a boom of laughter thunders above his garden.

"No need to get your knickers in a twist, baby hag," Aayla's familiar says, squashing the newly planted seedlings with his massive bottom, "Also. A Jackrabbit? How dare you."

He towers over fresh greenery, large and imposing, his muscled arms exposing markings of life embedded onto his darkened skin. Anakin always thought the guide spirit of his friend was the most annoying and inaccurate presence he has ever met. His forms so different, so ill-fitting when put together. Nothing like the fluidity of his own familiar, a continuation of his spirit in every shape he took.

His own familiar, who is currently approaching the smirking man, with the slowed sneaky way he most often uses while stalking a prey. Anakin looks, as the orange sleek shadow stalks forward, his entire body the size of the man's forearm, as if he only saw a nescient buck rabbit.

He stops only a scant distance away, just enough to pounce and sink his tiny sharp fangs right into the vulnerable scruff, his body tight like a wire. And then, in the blink of an eye, his form morphs, before he opens his shoulders wide, hands crossed before his wide chest in the most condescending, hacked-off way possible. Still, despite the put-upon look of exasperation, his eyes shine.

"Look who the cat dragged in," the man smirks, still smothering Anakin's flower beds.

"Quinlan," Obi-Wan responds, and his voice carries that purring quality Anakin always found irritating when it was not aimed at himself, "I hoped someone finally had you for lunch this winter. I see my dreams remain unfulfilled."

They exhange looks, Quinlan keeping up with the most effective raised eyebrow of disapproval, before his familiar laughs, softly and flicks his wrist in that smooth, mesmerising way, that leaves Anakin breathless. Quinlan is instantly dragged onto his legs by an easy but rare expression of Obi-Wan's natural charms.

Anakin looks back down at his seedlings, annoyed to find them not only unharmed under the weight of a large man, but looking better than when he planted him. Quinlan catches his eye and winks at him, wearing that infuriatingly smug smile.

"Are you not going to invite us in?" Aayla chimes in, right before Anakin can bludgeon her familiar to death with a garden spatula.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, his fair eyebrows furrowed in light disappointment, as if the whole ordeal is somehow the fault of Anakin's own tardiness that is rooted in a dreadful lack of manners.

It is incredibly unfair, that's what it is.

"Please," Skywalker grits, his teeth clench as tightly as his grip on the spatula's handle, "Do come in."

Quinlan grins at him again and Anakin feels his fondness for Ostara leaking out of him like a sour bitter stream.
For all the goods the Goddess brings into the world, she had an absolutely appalling taste.
The evidence of which, stood right before him, still forcing out an insufferable smirk.

Because Quinlan was one of the personal spirits of Ēostre, a continuation of her powers. A guide and bringer of fertility and healthy crops.
And a total, unendurable ratbag. Or rather, harebag.

Unfortunately, he was also one of the oldest friends of the other half of his soul. At least, oldest by some standard of measure, considering Quinlan was a newly hatched spirit when they met and Obi-Wan was already much older than him. He was older than most other spirits who served as guides.

Anakin leads them to his hut, his palms still black with remnants of the earth. The specks of it on his skin match the markings of Aayla's exposed abdomen, close to the source of her connection to the magic she practised.
It was common for witches to develop them over time, the impressions the Force left on them, like a brand, a recognition. Depending on the inclination, the markings of each witch are unique and in-tune with the branch of the Force they alinged with.

Anakin didn't have them. Not at thirteen and not at twenty three. All his markings were placed upon his skin by his own hand, woven carefully with incantations so that all of them served a purpose.
When he asked his Master about it, about him being so different from the others, the older man just laughed.
He said the Force didn't need to mark him. He was owned by her like no other thing, no other being was. Anakin, himself, was a mark she left on the world.

Aayla looks around, her tenacious umber gaze picking up on the drying herbs and fresh greenery Anakin added for a little festivity. Under such scrutiny, he feels self-conscious, defensive about his modest, slightly cramped home. But Aayla doesn't comment, doesn't scrunch her beautifully sculpted nose at the faint scent of dust that never quite leaves, despite the vigorous cleaning. She is kind. And she's his friend too.

So, when Aayla turns and sets her goal on the clumps of freshly shorn flowers, he lets her.
The daffodils preen under her touch, their petals opening just a little wider to show-off under her glance. The snowdrops Obi-Wan found a week ago, ring with the crisp song of a melting snow.
They always loved her, the flowers. She had a way about her, a fresh breath of an early spring caught inside a person.
Aayla was often an opposite of him, a chiming spring contrasting his roaring depth. She also was much easier to work with. That is why the gods preferred her. After all, they are incredibly resentful to any sort of competition.

"You could've sent a message," Anakin grumbles, rummaging through his cupboard in the search of a cup he can offer her, that was not his or Obi-Wan's, "Let me know you were coming to visit."

"So that you could come up with an excuse to cancel?" she laughs, her braids brushing against his tabletop, when she joins him in the kitche, "I know you too well for that, Ani. You can't hide away from everyone forever. One day, somebody will find you."

"You did. What good did it bring me? Only half-eaten crops."

"Blessed," Quinlan chirps in from the main room with a completely unhelpful simper on his face.

Anakin responds by throwing him a very dirty look.

Aayla laughs, distracting him from his very righteous outrage, and finally a feeling sets over his heart. She is here. She is with him.
His friend, the first one he ever made, as a little boy, too stuck-up but also incredibly apprehensive, a black sheep in a herd that was supposed to be tighter than family. He was an outsider, a prodigy without perception. Yet, she offered him her hand and never once since then did she make him feel ostracised in her presence.

He allows himself to smile at her, a warm sensation settling in his chest and inside his mind, something suspiciously akin to Obi-Wan's purr.
Aayla picks out a cup for herself, a slightly contorted one he tried making years ago. Anakin pours her tea. She and Obi-Wan preferred the same blend. Herbal. For reasons that were very close, but still not quite the same.

He ponders if that was the reason he liked Aayla so much, - because she spoke to the part of his soul that was Obi-Wan. After all, all things green and living loved her. Why should he be the exception?

They sit down together, bumping knees under his small kitchen table, the scents of their teas mingling together. She talks, he listens. And then, by the way she always does, she makes him speak too, her soft gentle accent dragging the words out of his mouth like a whisperer charming a snake.
Hours trickle by, their occasional laughter filling his living space like fresh air - forcing the staleness of his life out through the open windows.

When he finally notices that they are alone in the house, the light outside is tinted cerise with the fast approaching sundown.
Anakin ventures in search of them, partly because Aayla asked him to call for dinner, but mostly because a thought of spending even a little time without his half is causing Anakin great unease.

He walks outside, looking around the house, and there they were, sitting together in the clearing, the wild grass around them brimming with life - so much greener than in the yellowish thatches it grew on the other side of the hut, and a fluffle of wild rabbits spluttered like specks of seeds on awaiting flower beds.

Quinlan's fingers run through the little ones fur, as they cling to his body sensing his call. Some of the brave things even creep closer to Obi-Wan's languid form, weary of the duality of his nature, but still allured to the force he embodies.
It looks tranquil, almost sacred, the way the two familiars connect with the very essence of life. Although they come from different things, both were creations of the Force's most cherished child. Nature itself.

Obi-Wan's digits reach out to gently ruffle the bristling hair between the two tiny ears of the closest bunny. It's so small, a baby really, not yet aware of the dangers the vast world holds for it, so the little thing has no incertitude about hopping right into the cosy spot between Obi-Wan's crossed legs. Quinlan tells him something then, Anakin can see his lips moving, but the wind carries his words away before the young mage can hear him, and then Obi-Wan smiles. It's an easy thing, open and joyous and so very beautiful that, for a moment it blinds the sun.
Quinlan looks at him too, the same look on his face, that Anakin's own must reflect. But then he shakes his head, fond and wistful, even with a lapful of wriggling rabbits.

Anakin counted at least a dozen.
A good sign, he thinks. The year will be plentiful and generous.

"Shall we join them?" Aayla asks, somewhere behind him and Anakin throws her a quick glance.

There is a basket in her hands, the one his mother handed him over the first time he set forth without her so many years ago. He has no doubt that Aayla had filled it with enough food for a good, hearty dinner.

But she doesn't look at him, doesn't meet his gaze, - her eyes centred on the clearing, her soul as connected to a single point out there just like his is. Even if the bond woven around his very being is just slightly different to hers. She can understand him, still.

"Yes," he tells her then, softly, simply, "We shall."

Chapter Text

Aayla stays with them for a month. And although it is great to have a dear friend and a fellow witch so close by, available for help and joint rituals, it is also three weeks too long.

Anakin has never learned to be a social creature, nor he could tolerate anyone other than Obi-Wan on his own territory. It proved to be incredibly exhausting. But finally, a week before Beltane, she took her overgrown vermin and left.

Watching Obi-Wan make goodbyes with the rodent was almost as vexing as witnessing their daily interactions, so when they are blissfully alone again once more, Anakin feels a nearly forceful need to keep him as close as possible.

The sun is at last warm and pleasant and out in the sky for most of the days. In a weather like this, Obi-Wan prefers to bask on the grass, soaking the heated light for as long as he could, while Anakin worked on his garden. The blessings took well and his crops looked healthy and sturdy, promising great harvest.
It left Anakin plenty of time to do the chores before joining his familiar out in the clearing, positioning Obi-Wan's head on his lap with a book in hand.

With the raise of the spring, strong in it's hold on the Nature around, the meadow behind his house filled with flowers. Small, insisting buds bloomed all across the emerald grass, bursting splashes of colours like stark enchanted flames.

They are useless in spellwork Anakin specialises in, but he still collects them in small bundles to put into cups all throughout his cabin. With just a touch of Force they stay open and joyful for an entire season of their rather short life-span. It's the least Anakin could do, after cutting their stems away.

He likes spring, it's bountiful vitality, the song of every living thing vowen into one - beautiful and harmonious.

The warmth leaves Obi-Wan's face freckled. Tiny sun-kisses specks across his nose and cheeks, Anakin loves each and every one of them. They make him look young, too young to witness the births and deaths of entire generations, too bright to cause them in the shadows of the colossal trees.

The light makes his hair shine, copper and golden streaks as rich as the precious metals travelling merchants offer up on the Sunday markets. Anakin braids them, plucking up stray daisies and late primroses, adorning his head with splashes of white and yellow.

Obi-Wan lets him, squinting his eyes and making soft sounds deep within his chest.
He likes the attention, the feel of Skywalker's fingers tangled up in his hair, the gentle tug of it. It's the head scratch that he secretly enjoys, prolonged for hours.

Anakin plucks a stray daisy, twirling it between his digits, before setting one behind his ear. When he was younger, he would pick off the leaves in a childish game of "loves me loves me not", because the world seemed so grand and vast and his feelings for Obi-Wan's presence in it was too overwhelming to contain within a little boy's body.
But now he knows better, of course. He doesn't need tiny flowers to tell him the truth, doesn't need fuzzy dandelion fluff carried away by the wind to achieve his wishes. He is all grown now, and his destiny, his desires are just at the tips of his fingers. He only needs to reach.

The meadow is overgrown this time of year, bursting with life and colours. The wildlife taking over the green grass. It is good. It gives the bees their piece of work and it gives Anakin enough to bottle up in jars of wine and honey. Or jams, if he is feeling fancy. Obi-Wan doesn't like them, so he barely makes any these days.

Instead Anakin collects dandelions in a basked Qui-Gon veawed for him five seasons ago and sits back on his spot. His fingers are sticky with greyish milk of the stems and his clothes will probably be ruined with it, but all of it is worth everything for the end result. Obi-Wan's head migrates back onto his lap, his soft snores undisturbed by Skywalker's move. The sun is up high, yet it's not scorching enough to burn just yet, so Anakin lets him sleep.

He starts carefully veawing them together, twisting the stems against each other. It's a delicate work. Messy. But soothing too.
He listens to Obi-Wan's light snores, catches the way his chest raises and falls, the way his eyelids move, flutter. Anakin smiles, hums a melody his mother used to sing to him when he would fall tired after a hard day of running in the sun, as he works. The carcass in his hands grows thicker, sturdier. The blossoms are stark yellow, their pollen colouring his fingertips, leaving imprints where they touch.

When he finishes, Obi-Wan is already awake, stretching his spine in a devastating move that would break Anakin's back in half. Sometimes it feels like he has no bones, that his body is just muscles, fluid and effortless.
Skywalker looks inside his mouth when he yawns, his pink tongue giving way to his sharp, inhuman teeth hidden behind supple rosy lips. His insides are red, just like any other. Plain red. Human red. Mundane. While he is anything but.

Anakin holds the freshly made flower crown in his palms turned up. It's an oblation of sorts.

"For you," he says softly and Obi-Wan squints his eyes, like a cat, his pupils small and slit-like against the bright light.

Still, he lowers his head, waiting patiently for Skywalker to place his creation atop of his head.
It looks good on him, pretty against his copper locks. But also oddly right. Like he has a right to it, like he wore it before, a crown of leaves and twigs, of mushrooms and fern, adorned with cranberry like splashes of fresh blood.
He wore it with pride and the rays of sun got tangled in the kissed blossoms that laced his head.

Later in the day Anakin prepares food. The feast is a common practice on the hight of spring. A celebration of everything the earth has given, consumed and cherished.
So he makes preparations in advance, makes sure his table will be plenty and bountiful, enough to host anyone who decides to pay a visit. It is good manners to leave out a plate of milk and bread, offer wine or mead to the passing by. Regardless of their nature.

Anakin does not worship gods of the old, the only spirit he pays true tribute is Obi-Wan, who gets a generous portion of honeyed loaf and a full cup. The milk leaves white residue on his mustache and Anakin laughs, when he wipes it away with a thumb.
Obi-Wan licks his finger clean, his tongue slightly scratchy, the texture so different to Skywalker's own, yet it still raises fire deep in his lower belly.

Obi-Wan still wears his flower crown, and whether he simply forgot of it's existence or if he valued Anakin's offering with such regard, it pleases Skywalker immensely.

When the sun finally starts to set, Anakin takes his familiar out by hand, their fingers intertwined and Obi-Wan's warmth radiates throughout an entirety of Skywalker's arm.
They collect wood and twigs, things that required burning from Anakin's spells and practices. Anything that will bring prosperity and good fortune. It doesn't have to be big, yet, each year it ends up that way.
Skywalker lights it up and the flames burst through the cooling twilight air, igniting the clearing in brilliant ochre.

The heat of a bonfire rears high, stretching up into the sky, it's red tongues licking the starred darkness of the night. But Anakin doesn't look at it, or the beautiful display it paints. Instead, his gaze is set on Obi-Wan, the way the shadows dance across his slightly pinked skin, elongating the smooth feline features of his face.
He is mesmerising, like flowers born in the deep shade of an old forest, where nothing but damp moss is supposed to grow. He is ancient and Anakin has the giddy feeling of a child touching a forbidden relic you're not supposed to even glance for too long, when his fingers curl around Obi-Wan's face.

It's not something they do often, his familiar foreign to the concepts Anakin craves with his whole heart. But Obi-Wan is indulgent. Lenient.
He lets Skywalker turn his head closer, caress his prickly cheek, overgrown with soft bristles of his red beard. Anakin likes it too, the way it feels on his skin when Obi-Wan rubs his head on him like a cat.

The kiss is soft, short. It's testing waters to see if Obi-Wan will alow him more. Sometimes he doesn't. It's still strange for him, unnecessary human practice he has to learn from Skywalker's own enthusiasm. But Anakin loves him. Like one not supposed to love their guide, the spirit of which will long outlive him. Yet, he does. And he is greedy.

Beltane is time of high spring, the parallel of the great Samhain, but this night is the night of witches.
His ancestors, related to him not by blood but by Force, would ride the brooms and laugh as the wind striked their faces. Dance naked around the fire, bathe in wine and blood and give themselves to the devil. Or at least that is what the old tales told.

Anakin thinks of the witches he knows, tries picturing them naked and wild, dancing barefoot with the sparks of the high flames and the image somehow feels absurd. His mind conjures up a picture of High Priest Windu, all in his 6'2 glory, bald and bare, splashed with blood and doing a strange sort of ritualistic dance and nearly chokes on his own spit.
No.
He is not overly saddened his Coven doesn't follow that particular tradition.

Still, it doesn't mean he can't.
He kisses Obi-Wan again, his fingers gently skitting across the fuzzy blossoms of dandelions still adorning the crown atop his head.
Obi-Wan doesn't kiss back, he never does, but his lips are soft and parted, his mouth tastes like milk and honey and that is more than anything Anakin could ask for.

The forest is full of fairies at this time, raised under the leaves and deep roots. Creatures of magic and Force, lurking between trees, escaping the rivers, galloping the fields. They are drawn to the people and wonders alike, to fires and warm homes. And everything made of Force is drawn to Anakin, like an enchanted pull.
But he doesn't care for that now, for any prying eyes, spying on them from faraway darkness.

He brings Obi-Wan onto a soft grass, the ground still warm with the heat of the sun. His big eyes are reflecting the fire, glowing in the cooling night air. Anakin kisses the corner of his mouth, the little breath that escapes his lips is swallowed by Anakin's lungs.
He is allowed to explore, to wonder, and he takes the opportunity, sinks his teeth into it like a man starved.

His familiar's body is pliant beneath his hands. Malleable. Pale and soft and yielding, as if just for one night, Obi-Wan relinquishes all of his powers over to Anakin, thrusting them to him, like he is trusting with his own life.
Anakin gets dizzy from the intoxication this feeling gives him. Exhilarating.
It is everything.

For this night he gets to own him, posess him like he so rarely does. It is a gift, an answering blessing.
Obi-Wan offers him his neck when Anakin lowers his head to adorn it with kisses like jewellery.
It is a night of passion, of fertility and abundance.

And for a night - Anakin gets to take it all. Blessed enough, to have it offered to him. Even for a fleeting, wild moment.
So he does just that.
Takes.

Chapter Text

It always rains on Litha.
Something about the day of celebrating the sun makes it shy enough to only show itself in brief moments of clear sky between the moody low clouds.

Yet, the world still rejoices.

The weather has been harsh, humid and hot, with blistering heat making everything and everyone fight for the small reprieve of cool shade.
Anakin is used to the heat. When he was little, his mother moved them away from the little village on the edge of the forest, where he was born.
Their new place was smaller and in a spot where it seemed the sun never came down, with long scorching hot days making the Skywalker family acclimatised to the dry parching climate.
Which didn't mean that Anakin grew to like it. Quite the contrary. It made him temperamental, and some even say capricious.
Still, it never stopped him from doing his job.

Obi-Wan loves the sun, as all cats do. His languid form can be spotted laying in the patch of sunlight, basking in it's warmth. From the first rays in the approaching spring, all throughout the bright summer.
Obi-Wan loves the sun, but it might not love him back.

The raising heat has been affecting him even more than Anakin. His fur was too thick for him to comfortably spend his time in his cat form, so he was forced to stay human for weeks without switching back. It made him tense and strained, agitated and a little awkward.

His ginger complexion did not agree with the heat and now if he wondered outside for too long, he would turn red and sensitive to touch.
And although Anakin loved to wake up to his beautiful human face next to his in the morning, his absolutely naked form only covered by a thin sheet, - Obi-Wan being heat-cranky brought him no joy.

So when the day of the solstice came, Anakin was greeted with an unusual picture of his water-avoiding familiar standing outside in the pouring rain, his meagre clothes tightly hugging his body and his copper hair wetly plastered on his face.

He approaches Obi-Wan slowly, his footsteps hushed by the drum of the storm. Ocassional thunder reverberating in the very bones, as he feels how the downpour brings out the life in everything around them. Like living water, his mom used to say.
Anakin certainly feels invigorated, offering the geavy rain his own tanned face.

"I never expected to see you out in the rain by your own volition," Skywalker chuckles, slinking his hands on the wet figure of his beloved spirit.

"I missed this. It's nice," Obi-Wan whispers, when Anakin presses himself to his back, trailing gentle kisses on the slope of his neck.

"I do love your freckles though."

Obi-Wan laughs a little. The sound is short and crisp like raindrops.
Anakin knows that he likes them too, just as much as he likes the way Skywalker's skin turns darker and his hair bleaches back to the sandy colour it was when they met for the first time.
They both have something to thank the sun for.

When his clothes are soaked through, Anakin parts with his familiar and leaves him alone to check on his garden.
With the heat so thorough a lot of his plants have blossomed and doubled in size. However, there was one he was especially proud of.

It is just this year that the seeds Qui-Gon had given him before finally bloomed. Thick and heavy sunflower heads were reaching up towards the sky, soaking up the rain just as eagerly as they did sunshine just a few days ago.
Later, Anakin can cut them down and pick the seeds from their blossoms to roast with salt and enjoy throughout the year. But right now they continued to grow, strong and beautifully bright, - little suns on the bulky velvety stems.

Anakin brushes their petals with the tips of his fingers and feels faint warmth spreading over his skin. Like residual ghosting heat of a faraway star.
He muses to himself that he ought to write his mentor a letter, to at least tell him of his seedlings progress if nothing else. It has been a while since their last talked. Let alone seen each other.

But instead of reminiscing, Anakin choses to do something productive. Something that wouldn't leave his chest gaping like the opened maw of horrible heavy beast.
So he goes back inside, picking up the the oak branches he collected just days prior to finish up the wreath he has been working on before tge rain started.

Anakin always found the repetitive motion of wreath weaving quite soothing. Almost meditative.
As young witches they were all taught how to meditate and concentrate on the magic all around and within them, yet Anakin struggled with it more than others. He discovered meditation through movement, something most of his age-mates thought was dull and showed his lack of discipline, just like with everything he participated in, never willing to stick and truly embrace a singular practice.

It used to bother him when he was little and desperate for a connection with someone who could understand him.
Now, he takes an oak branch, he and Obi-Wan collected together, and meticulously adds it to the sturdy structure.
Something about the oak tree served as a special conduct for the summer solstice, Anakin had learned. It proctected from the evil lurking in the thinned veil, but also symbolised a strong hold, a mighty connection to one's roots and soil. There were plenty of oaks in the depth of the woods and Skywalker did not feel too bad for snapping few dozens of it's smaller twigs rich with emerald leafs.

In the village where he was born, it was a tradition to veawe wreaths made of oak and decorate them with wild flowers and weeds to wear as flowercrowns. Young maidens would set the crowns afloat at nightfall to seek knowledge of their own fortune.
People would set bonfires high as sky and dance in circles around it before jumping through the flames, laughing and singing to welcome the hight of summer. The shortest night of the year.

And of course some would bring gifts and offerings right into the rim of the forest, never deep enough for the burly trees to cover up the sliver of skies, to leave the wreaths and harvest for the mighty spirit of the oldest woods.
It has been a whole lifetime since Anakin has visited that place. The village has been decimated and the forest burnt to the ground.
His mother would tell him he was too small to remember it, but he did anyway. His hands knew how to place branches right by memory alone.

When Anakin finishes, he finds Obi-Wan on the porch, the wet grass stack to his barefoot soles and his gaze trained on a faintly yellow moth fluttering around.
Skywalker chuckles when he places a heavy wreath upon his head and startles his familiar enough to have him jump.
Obi-Wan frequently got very rapt by things moving around him, to the point of oblivion of his surroundings.
It still amuses Anakin to no end.

"Go get the food, I'll start the fire," he says gently, petting Obi-Wan behind his ear before leaving a quick kiss to his scrunched forehead.

Obi-Wan, however, doesn't move from his spot.

"The grass is wet," he answers instead, trying to find the missing moth with his gaze. It's gona now, but Obi-Wan still looks.

Anakin smirks.

"Well, when did that ever stopped me?"

Half an hour later, the bonfire is high. It's greedy red tongues licking away at the wood Anakin had chopped in the spring. The logs have been kept in the shed, dry and thick, so the fire can keep burning long into the night.

The patch of grass around the firepit had dried enough for them to lay outside, staring at the slowly darkening sky full of sparkling stars. Their bellies full and limbs relaxed, Anakin kept petting his spirit's hair that now in the light of the dancing fire looked just aflame as the blaze.

"My mother used to tell me stories, you know," Skywalker begins, his voice as soft as the careful caress, "About how once a year in the shortest night, a fern flower will bloom in the deepest part of the forest. Such a rare and magical ocassion that it only happens for a few hours and never again. She said that if a man is ever lucky to find such a flower, he will be granted his deepest wish. So every year, on this night, people gather the bravest of them all and set their journeys into the depths of the night, hoping to encounter a magical bloom and not their demise, when they would ultimately get lost among the dense trees."

"It doesn't bloom," Obi-Wan says, from his vacant place on Anakin's belly, his eyes still closed and if not for his moving mouth, it's easy to assume he is sleeping, "The fern. It never blooms. I would know."

Anakin huffs, somewhat annoyed. He, of course, knew that, living in the woods and foraging for elixirs and spells for so long, but the tale was pretty and his mothers voice soothing and soft when she had told him the story over and over again.
But Obi-Wan doesn't have that memory, he does not understand what it means.
He is a creature of Force and she is an absent patent in the life of her children.

"It's a story," Anakin presses on, his fingers carding through the thick locks of hair, "It doesn't have to be real. Just pretty."

Obi-Wan is quiet for some time, his breathing even and deep.
Skywalker is certain he had finally falen asleep, when his familiar cracks a bright eye open. It glimmers golden and green in the flickers of a bonfire and Anakin is mesmerised.

"Would you like it to bloom?"

"What?"

Obi-Wan lifts himself up, as gracefully as no other living soul can. His eyes flicker amber with the flashes of fire sparks and when Anakin looks at him, he can feel the breath of the universe contained in a single vessel.

"I can do it for you," Obi-Wan tells him, his tone soft like the cracks of the burning wood, "If you want. Just tonight."

Anakin knows his words to be true, feels the power ringing behind them, the uncanny might of the simple promise. Obi-Wan could do that. He could rearrange the very constitution of things birthed from ground.
Anakin can imagine seeing it, in the deepest parts of the forest, where the sun never lit the damp moss with its shine, a bright pulsing blossom blooming where nothing should ever flower in the night just for him.

He smiles.

"Maybe next year," Anakin responds just as softly, lingering with fingers on the soft bristles of Obi-Wan's beard, "Right now I have everything I could ever wish for."

Chapter Text

The bread making was a tradition as deep as time itself. But for Anakin it started with his mother, who would wake him up on the first day of the harvest with the sweet warm scent of fresh bread wafting throught the room of their tiny hut.
Back then they would it the loaf as it was, sliced thinly to last them longer, burning their tongues in the hurry to warm their bellies with its blessings.

When he grew older, mom would request his help, kneading the dough and adding the spices because even before she knew he was of magic, she knew he had keener eye than most.

It has been years since he baked with her, or for her for that matter, but despite the years, their little tradition stil stands, even miles and miles apart.

Obi-Wan prefers it sweet, soft and fresh with a light layer of berry jam they make together in the heat of summer, when they are ripe and full of trapped sunshine.
Anakin likes it salty, slather with garlic batter and salt, crispy and hot on his tongue. But they make it work regarding.

Obi-Wan rarely helps with baking. His fingers get sticky with dough and in frustration he oftens leaves prints of white flour and residue all over the countertop. Anakin can only laugh so many times, before he has to clean the mess and start over.

So instead, his familiar is tasked with other things.
Like resting atop of the small wardrobe, where it's cool and breezy, after a hard work of plucking the early harvest from Anakin's garden. And sneezing from time to time, unhappy about the heavy scent of burning cinnamon Anakin decided to use as a cleansing method this year.

The spoils of Obi-Wan's labour lay in bundles on the kitchen table, garlic sprouts waiting for his attention and the hips of wild roses in a small basket, soaking the remnants of the sun, before they will be turned into a sweet jam. But that would be later, when all is done and the bread is crisping out in the heat of the lit fire.

Anakin's hands were almost elbow-deep covered in sticky dough and additional flour, so when a resolute knock sounded through the cabin, he could only relegate the task of guest-greetings to Obi-Wan.

He actually expected his familiar to swiftly turn whoever it was at the other end of the door down, but instead he heard a familiar laugh booming across his small home.

"Is this how you greet your old Master, Ani? Or have I not taught you good manners for long enough?"

Anakin instantly turns around, his dough forgotten as he stares into chuckling face of Qui-Gon Jinn, standing tall and imposing as always in the middle of his hut.

Obi-Wan leaps down from shelf, his body graceful and long in mid-air, before he swiftly lands on the man's large well-defined shoulder and curls around his neck, purring and batting his head against the old enchanter in a baffling display of affection.

"I'm happy to see you too, old friend," Qui-Gon musses and gently scratches beneath Obi-Wan's fragile little jaw.

Anakin feels a pang of jealousy, completely irrational, simply because if it were not for his Master, he probably would never had Obi-Wan as his familiar in the first place, and yet, it still stings him like an unkept nettle sprout.

"Anakin," his familiar purrs, perched comfortably on Qui-Gon's wide shoulders, "Why don't you offer our guest some tea?"

Anakin bristles instantly, which only promts his older Master to laugh again, the sound of it travelling heavy and warm, so achingly familiar that Skywalker's insides tremble with tender recognition.
He can't help but smile too, blowing a strand of hair out of his face.

"Well, you know where the kettle is. Help yourself," he grins and Obi-Wan grumbles, even if Qui-Gon is still laughing at him.

"That's the Ani I know. Always mouth before manners."

Anakin shrugs, his attention drawing back to the dough, that has alreasy risen once and now was ready to be arranged into a baking tray.
"There is porridge left in the pot," he mentions absent-mindedly, as he slices the ornaments onto the top of his bread with a sharp razor.

It is not required, and when he was baking with his mother they had never done that, but now, breadmaking was neatly twined into his own craft with sigils and runes carved into the malleable doughy texture.

Qui-Gon is no stranger in his hut, although last few years he has been a less frequent visitor, now that Anakin is an independent, grown witch with his practice expanding without the careful nudges of his teacher. He even heard that Jinn had a new apprentice, a young tumultuous little boy who's talent layed in more unsavoury ways. After all, Qui-Gon had always liked to collect them strange and unusual, misfits of the magical world, only to nurture them back to glory.
Or so Obi-Wan once said to him, languid with drunken mead and softened by the heat of the afternoon summer sun.

When Qui-Gon returned, he held two cups in his large, calloused hands, Obi-Wan still twisted around him like a noose. The old man would give him a pet now and again, with his free hand, unburdened by the cup he left near Anakin's elbow.

The tea smelled of mint and cool relief and Anakin couldn't quite hold the small smile creeping up on his lips.

"How long would you be staying with us?" he asks aloud, blowing on the scorching heat, before taking a careful sip.

After setting his bread into the oven, hd had nothing but time on his hands and Qui-Gon was always keen on long, mysterious talks.

"Are you that eager to get rid of me already, my dear?"

Anakin huffs, his hands sticky with dough residue, as he takes his cup and gulps down more than his poor throat can withstand.
Obi-Wan looks at him through slits of his eyes, his tail brushing against Qui-Gon's beard before he decides something for himself and jumps down.
His feet struck the wooden floor and he stretches his arms, a long languid gesture that makes Anakin flush in his stead. It takes him a minute to find a robe he discarded before, only to tie it loosely enough for his entire chest tuft to be exposed to the slight breeze swishing through the room.

Qui-Gon eyes him with a quirk of amusement, as Obi-Wan prepares his own drink in the kitchen, no tea for him, thanks, only milk, make it double.
Anakin heard somewhere that mist cats don't actually like milk that much, it makes them sick, but Obi-Wan always was an exception.

He sits beside Anakin this time, one of his legs propped atop the other in an indecent way that makes Skywalker wish Qui-Gon wasn't actually there, so he can freely sneak his palm up that pale, softly furred thigh, but instead he has to force himself to avoid looking at Obi-Wan completely.

Qui-Gon hums into his own cup, taking small careful sips in a comfortable stillnes, as the room fills with delectable smell of freshly baked bread.

"You haven't answered my question, Master," Anakin reminds him, as the time stretches between them and the cups grow empty.

Qui-Gon touches his beard thoughtfully, his thoughts seemingly faraway and deep, while Anakin discreetly reaches out to trace his fingers down Obi-Wan's freckled skin without his Master’s notice.

"There has been a disturbance in the Force. Far enough not to spread wide, but just a tad too potent to be left unnoticed."

Anakin drumms the digits of his unnocupied hand over the table top, as he wait for Qui-Gon to finish. But predictably he never does. A stubborn, infuriatingly cryptic man.

"And here I thought you paid us a visit because you've missed our company so much," he bites back, but there's no heat in it, just a quiet acceptance, "What this disturbance has to do with me?"

Qui-Gon's gaze slides over his face, abd Anakin suddenly feels like he is missing something. Elusive and slipping through his fingers like the grains of sand.

"Qui-Gon?" Skywalker calls, but his old Master beats him to it.

"Actually, it has nothing to with you," Jinn says calmly, but to Anakin his voice rings like the bells of the ancient church, loud and deafening, "It has to do with him."

Anakin tenses, his senses screaming at him that whatever comes next, he wouldn't like it.

"Someone has been trying to summon Obi-Wan back to his forest."

Chapter Text

Mabon is a celebration of harvest. Of bright colours and plentiful fields. Of everything that is made by the Force and her children.
That is why, out of all celebrations of the year, this time is when Obi-Wan thrives.

When the leaves become vivid and crunch under feet, when acorns fall and get buried in the rich black soil next to nuts and conkers - all of it turns into offerings for spirits of forests and fields, of everything that gives what has been nurtured all summer to be collected by hands and mouths, maws and beaks, so that the life keeps its circle.

In the times of old, Obi-Wan would show himself between the fat trunks of the ancient trees, a fleeting mirage of gold ochre like the fall of aspen leaves. His antlers heavy with moss and his footsteps leaving no prints behind in the soft wet soil.

Anakin watches him inspecting the apple tree, studying each fruit with such scrutiny it is almost comical. But Anakin does not dare to interrupt. He now knows that Obi-Wan always picks the best apples for their yearly treats, the ones that are rich in crimson and so sweet you barely need to sprinkle them with sugar even for Anakin’s sweet-toothed tastes.
Sometimes he wonders if his familiar speaks to the trees themselves or if they simply recognise his presence enough to offer their very finest fruits.

"That one," Obi-Wan murmurs, pointing to a top branch and Anakin quickly jumps to get the exact one.

It is silly and not very dignified for a powerful witch with an entire village under his responsibility, but right now it is only them, and Obi-Wan has seen him to things far more stupid than jumping for apples.

Their basket is full and heavy with the fruits of their combined labour. Anakin holds it on his elbow, as they make their way back into the house, leaves crinkling under his feet. Obi-Wan walks beside him, weightless even in his human form, his freckles slowly fading out from his face with the drawing season of rains.
Anakin hooks his pinkie around Obi-Wan's, because the dread that Qui-Gon thrusted upon him with his announcement, has left him constantly fearing that the other half of his soul could dissappear without a trace.

Their home is filled with wreaths made of colourful leaves and bright red berries, while the ceiling supports strings of drying fungi, the ones Anakin will later grind into dust to use in his spells.
It smells of rich soil and sweet scent of decay, infinite and velvety, the savour of autumn befalling upon the world.

Obi-Wan takes apples out of the basket, before washing them in the bucket of fresh water, and passing them to Anakin so that he can peel the deep crimson skin off with a curved knife.
His familiar passes him all but one, keeping the last fruit in his palm for a moment, as if contemplating its destiny.

Seconds later Obi-Wan bites into the crisp apple with a satisfying crack, like a cat breaking the spine of a small rodent in it's mouth.
He chews slowly, savouring the slightly sour undercurrent to the sweetness of the flesh. And when his rosy tongue licks the spilling juice, Anakin feels something big and heated stirring in his gut.

"I thought you didn't like them," he says out loud, knowing full well that Obi-Wan was capable of eating anything and everything that came from the ground.

His familiar looks at him, deep eyes boring right into his core, all-consuming and all-too knowing.

"They have a tendency to grow on me."

Obi-Wan finishes the apple, as Anakin continues to chop the rest of the batch into the finer pieces. He prefers mixing them with sugar and spices, before baking apples into pastry. The rich scent of cinnamon and warm velvety taste of nutmeg is good for banishing unwanted energy and attracting exactly what their house needed. Protection and success.

Since the moment of Qui-Gon's revelation, Skywalker felt uneasy, a sort of premonition weighting down on him like a lowering sky that promises a long cold rain. The summoning has been done incorrectly, otherwise Obi-Wan would not have been able to resist the pull of it, and yet, someone knowledgable enough to cause a ripple strong enough for nearby Force users to feel it.
The echoes of Obi-Wan's presence were still lingering there like fingerprints on a foggy glass. When you learn enough, you can trace their owner as simply as untangling a yarn until you reach the center.

Such techniques, however, are vetoed against familiars, because separating them from their mages resulted in great harm in the old age. Still, nothing is said about practicing it when summoning a guardian spirit, especially in a place of their respective power.
But whoever decided to proceed with the ritual was clearly unaware of Obi-Wan's changed status.
Or, more concerningly, did not care.

It was their mutual decision to wait, to get their tasks in order and allow Anakin to complete his orders and necessary rites before leaving their home, the village he resigned over, and travel north.
Qui-Gon went ahead, and he will meet them at the place.
Anakin was grateful to his old teacher for it. He doubted he could've held his face in the elder Master's presence, if he couldn't seek solace from his worries in Obi-Wan so freely.

He looks at him, licking his fingers clean from the residue juice with his scratchy feline tongue and feels longing that is entirely misplaced in his chest.
Obi-Wan is here, with him, and he is not going anywhere.
The link between their minds is strong, golden thread vowen carefully over the decade of their souls belonging to each other. Even if suddenly his familiar vanished into the thin air, Anakin will most certainly be able to track him down.
Still, that restlessness, that cold stab of anxiety permeates his body, rattling his very bones.

Skywalker arranges apple slices on thin dough, interwining the pattern atop to look like the squares of a hand-crafted basket. It looks nice, even better with a pinch of spice, adding that rich brown colour to the pasty pastry.
He lets it bake, mindful of fingers and scorching hot flames licking away at the ghostly dough, before slowly turning it golden and crispy.

"You know," he says, dragging the words with the pace of a lazy after-rain slug, "I never thanked you before."

Obi-Wan breaks his gaze away from the pastries and looks at him. The warmth makes his cheek plump with flush and somehow, with all the colours around, the bright autumnal calmness, makes Anakin's familiar seem too ethereal, just out of reach of the tips of his fingers.
Like spiderwebs ringing with morning's mist, beautiful but fragile. A fog coming over a sleeping forest.
Obi-Wan blinks at him and turns his head to the side.

"You can thank me now," the familiar answers and although Anakin's mouth twinges in response to a tease, the feeling he carries within is too absolute to be neglected by such trivial things.

So he stalks forward, closer than Obi-Wan might even like with all his solitude nature, but right now there is no pull strong enough to hold Anakin back.

"I am grateful for everything you do for me. For everything you are," Skywalker says, his fingers ghosting over the soft bristles of Obi-Wan's beard, as precious and dear to him as a piece of a raw amber, so often used in healing and positive transformations. Because that is what Obi-Wan does to him, shaped by the strong waves of time, he is everything that Anakin ever needed.

His spirit crooks his head, ever so slightly, and Anakin's palm envelops his cheek in a kind of tender, private moment that make Skywalker's heart soar.
Obi-Wan looks up at him through the eyelashes, blond and long like the spikes of grain.

The pastries are done cooking suprisingly quickly. Or maybe Anakin got too invested in the feel of soft skin above his own, the gentle curve of a familiar cheek and the depth of the eyes staring down his very core - knowing him raw, bare bones and all.
When he takes them out they are crispy and pleasantly golden, flaky at the very top, still sprinkled with earthy cinnamon.

Anakin breaks the fresh baked sweet in half.
In older times, apples were symbols of love. Of devotion and good intentions, but far often it was used for luck between lovers. Cracking a fruit between the two, forbidden and sweet, and eating something that came from one but now is being shared by two. Like binding souls, at least for a year, until the next equinox rolls around.

Anakin looks at Obi-Wan, warm and glowing in the last rays of a setting sun, and offers him the other half.