Work Text:
The child would have been easier to kill.
His muscles burned, exhaustion soaked through his tunics in the hot gusts of air spewing from the reactor shaft.
Qui-Gon was a strong fighter, and the element of surprise only went so far.
Twelve years kept Obi-Wan fighting. Twelve years of deference, obedience, patience, only to be discarded like a placeholder, like trash.
The child was nothing. A desert rat, a bug to be squashed.
Not worth a fraction of the knowledge that would die with his Master.
And yet the moment he’d laid eyes on Anakin, the Force had screamed.
Mine!