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The flames crackle and spark with life, shooting ribbons of twisting smoke upwards into the inky Bestoon sky. The heat warms Anakin’s face as he pokes absentmindedly at the pile of mulch and tinder scraps filling the makeshift fire pit.
With a sigh, he sets the poker aside and sits back on his rolled-up sleeping bag, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze settles on a singular star shimmering above him while the scene from two days prior plays in his mind.
Something wonderful has happened.
A smile pulls at his mouth before he even realizes it. This moment, this miracle, this fresh new beginning—it’s all too much to process, and somehow, he still yearns for more.
His emotions tangle into an impossible knot. Joy, fear, and exhilaration—all of it coexist at once. He is bursting at the seams, unable to sit still, buzzing with euphoria, overcome with tension and anxiety. He wants to scream; he wants to weep. He wants to leap into his speeder and fly across Coruscant trailing a banner: My wife is pregnant!
At the moment, though, he’s unable to do much of anything. Padmé and their unborn baby are millions of parsecs away and the reality of that distance presses on his chest like a weight. Restlessness itches under his skin and crawls through his veins, demanding release.
He’s been thinking about it ever since she whispered the words between the towering columns framing the entrance of the senate building. It hasn’t left his mind for one second—not even though the Council’s briefing, during the flight, and now, after the mission’s conclusion.
He needs to confess the truth and tell someone. And who is more deserving to know than his brother, his mentor, his master—Obi-Wan? He’s been a solid, stabilizing presence in his life for fourteen years, and Anakin wants him to continue being that presence, no matter what.
Anakin breathes out, his exhale swaying the fire into a flickering dance. The flames heave and bend, casting restless shadows that stretch and retract across the steep cliffs in the near distance. Obi-Wan’s silhouette appears between the shifting patches of light, gaining height and width as he approaches. His arms carry a bevy of canned goods, bottles of water, and other foodstuffs generously gifted by the locals they’d saved.
He gently unloads the bounty out of his grip, then tosses several ration bars to Anakin. “What’s made you so happy?” he asks as he maneuvers to sit on his sleeping bag without stepping on Anakin’s boots. “Surely not the fact that most of our supplies are gone, our ships are in a state of disrepair that we cannot even attempt to fix until morning, and insects the size of our head wish to eat us?”
Anakin’s smile grows broader. “No, master. Just happy that this mission is over.”
Obi-Wan nods in agreement. “Yes, well, I suppose so. The shipyards of Bestoon will finally be safe from the Sith-affiliated pirates.” He’s silent for a few seconds, then adds in a low voice: “They don’t know where Grievous is.”
“Who, the shipyards?” says Anakin playfully, but Obi-Wan frowns.
“The pirates, Anakin,” he responds dryly, tearing into a ration bar and staring at the fire. The wrinkles creasing Obi-Wan’s forehead soften in the fluttering glow, and he looks younger—almost serene.
But Anakin can sense his master’s stress. Anakin’s connection to the Force is a beam of pure but fractured sunlight, intense and overwhelming, like living in the core of a supernova. In contrast, Obi-Wan is a precise ripple beneath a glassy stream, the calming influence that tempers Anakin’s more chaotic impulses. Yet, even within their tranquil Force bond, there are occasional blips of turbulent, uncontainable energy that threaten to crack the smooth surface.
The hunt for Grievous and the mysterious Sith lord consume much of Obi-Wan’s thoughts, as well as something else he keeps camouflaged behind a carefully constructed wall of Jedi-honed regulation and self-control. Anakin feels the same kind of apprehension where Grievous and the reemergence of the Sith are concerned, perhaps even more acutely than Obi-Wan will ever comprehend. But there are no pirates or practitioners of the dark side on Naboo. Only clear skies, lush fields, rolling hills, and turquoise seas. Maybe he and Padmé can live in Lake Country, raise their family within the idyllic sanctum of Varykino Villa. Anakin will go wherever she and the baby are.
“They’ll talk, master. As soon as we get them to Coruscant.”
Obi-Wan scratches his beard and gives a short, affirmative nod. “No doubt. One look at the Jedi Temple’s detention centre will have them spilling their secrets.”
Secrets. Anakin has them…well, two to be exact. He peeks sideways at Obi-Wan, then closes his eyes for only a few seconds, just long enough to allow the daydream to take shape—the one in which he summons the courage to utter those simple yet life-changing words.
--
“Obi-Wan, I have something to tell you,” Anakin says before he can second-guess himself and change his mind.
His master must have sensed the urgency because he tilts his head to regard him, the ever-present lines between his brows deepening. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, of course,” Anakin says without hesitation to assuage Obi-Wan’s concern. “I’m just…I need to tell you this right now. It’s good news.”
Anakin rubs his sweaty palms over the weatherworn fabric of his black trousers. Now that the moment has arrived, Anakin is a complete mess. His heartbeat quickens, his internal temperature seems to rise by ten degrees, and his tongue is too heavy in his mouth. But the truth, uncaring of Anakin’s physical state, forms deep in his guts and travels upward to explode from his lips like a firework.
“I’m expecting a child.”
Obi-Wan squints, his lips mouthing the sentence as though repetition will render it sensical; then, he snorts and points at Anakin's midsection.
“Are you suggesting that an actual baby is growing in there?”
Anakin shakes his head, and the fire seems to imitate his movements. “No, no, not me! What I meant to say is that we are expecting a child. And by ‘we’ I mean…my wife is pregnant.”
Obi-Wan’s reaction is instant. He gasps and reels back in shock, and perhaps Anakin might have found his master’s response amusing had the situation not been so extraordinary.
“Wait a minute,” Obi-Wan sputters. “Your what?"
--
“Huh?” Anakin blinks out of his reverie and jerks his gaze to Obi-Wan, who watches him with a solid, unflinching expression.
“The future, Anakin.”
“The future? What about it?” Anakin’s heart flip-flops in his ribcage amid the maelstrom of emotions he’s experiencing. Did his master pick up on something in the Force? Is now the right time to admit what he’s concealing?
“I know you prefer to live in the present moment,” says Obi-Wan, his voice even with only the slightest hint of reprimand. “But we really do need to discuss our next steps.”
Anakin nods, emphatic. “I totally agree. I’ve actually been thinking a lot about the future.” From the sparse brush to his left, a lone nocturnal bird chirps. It’s the only animal sound he’s heard all night, and he interprets it as a positive omen.
“Excellent,” Obi-Wan replies. He wraps a wool scarf securely around him as a biting wind suddenly whips through the clearing. “That’s promising to hear. Because finding this Sith lord will require every resource we have.”
“Sith lord?” Anakin echoes. His posture immediately deflates—shoulders drooping, spine folding inward—and his eyes drift to the frayed edge of his sleeping bag. If Obi-Wan notices the downward shift in his mood, he doesn’t comment on it.
“We need contingencies. Redundancies. Fail-safes. Plans upon plans. We’ve been outsmarted and outstrategized for years. But we”—Obi-Wan gestures between them—“we can end this. We can defeat this darkness. I believe that.”
Anakin swallows hard. A familiar, bitter brand of guilt uncoils in his centre and binds around his lungs until his breath constricts. He knows defeating the Sith requires all his attention, that his actions should focus solely on destroying the evil plaguing the galaxy. He feels the same darkness as Obi-Wan, swirling just past the fringes of his perception, like storm clouds on the horizon. But his thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
--
“My wife. Padmé Amidala. She and I are married.”
Obi-Wan looks at him, unmoving, silently digesting the bombshell. After the longest five seconds of Anakin’s life, he shakes his head and sighs.
“I knew it was serious between you two, that your relationship had evolved beyond professional acquaintances. But I never once thought…”
“Everything is about to change,” Anakin interrupts.
“Yes, I understand that.” Obi-Wan closes his mouth, then opens it again. He hesitates, eyes narrowing in thought as he considers what to say next. “The Jedi have strict codes about marriage, as you are aware.”
“I know, and I’ve already decided. I’m planning to leave the Order for good before the baby is born.”
At that, Obi-Wan turns back to the dwindling campfire and picks up the poker. He doesn’t speak for several minutes as he nurses the flames into a roaring furnace to stave off the encroaching chill.
Anakin studies the side of Obi-Wan’s face, searching for a fond smile, a nod of approval, a subtle sign of encouragement. Something. Anything. But the resulting quiet feels too heavy and burdened, and Anakin can’t tell if it’s frustration, disappointment, or indifference that clings to the air between them.
It’s alright if Obi-Wan has nothing further to say, he thinks. He’ll just pretend that everything is fine, that his heart isn’t breaking into tiny pieces at his master’s rejection. It was a stupid idea to tell him, anyway. Obi-Wan is a staunch Jedi, committed to the Order’s principles to a fault, even when adherence leads to his own personal detriment. It’s Anakin’s fault for expecting differently, and now he’s ruined everything.
He needs a distraction—something to keep his hands and mind occupied until he can climb into his Eta-2 starfighter and chart a course directly to Padmé’s side. He scoots off his sleeping bag and begins to prepare his arrangements for the night just as Obi-Wan’s voice slices through the hush.
“How far along is she?”
Anakin keeps his head down and voice neutral. “Not too long, actually. It’s still quite early. I just found out a couple of days ago.”
Obi-Wan offers a distracted grunt of acknowledgment and presses his lips together in a thin line. His gaze darts to the fire, sky, the rugged beauty of the scenery around them. “I know you must think that I’m staid and emotionless. That I don’t care about you, that I’m holding you back from greatness, or that I judge you for your attachments. That I don’t understand you and how you feel,” he muses. “But I do. I’ve seen love. I’ve felt it—not intimately, perhaps. Not in the same way as you, certainly. But I’ve felt enough to know it’s real, despite the mystery of it, even if it was never mine to have. Now, affection—that’s simpler, in a way. Easy to give, but hard to recognize when you’ve spent years trying not to think about the person who made you question everything you believed in.”
Anakin stays silent, unsure where his master is going.
“And time? Time is an odd concept in general, but it moves incomprehensibly in war. Some days go on with no end in sight. Others vanish before you can ever have a chance to properly reflect on what happened. A few stay with you forever, whether you want them to or not.”
Obi-Wan glances back at him. “And now…look at you. The nine-year-old boy from the desert grew into a man about to become a father. Force help us all.” His voice is light, but Anakin catches the tremor just beneath.
“I know this isn’t exactly how my life is supposed to go,” Anakin says, barely above a whisper.
Obi-Wan crosses his arms but doesn’t look away. “Supposed to? Anakin, very little in our lives has gone the way it’s supposed to.”
That cracks something open in Anakin, like a pressure valve discharging too much air at once. He pulls at the zipper of his sleeping bag, but it snags on the coarse material. “Piece of junk,” he mutters under his breath as he fumbles and yanks. Finally, with trembling hands, he uses the Force to ease the blockage just as a shadow crosses his line of sight.
He glances to his right and finds Obi-Wan leaning in closer, the firelight illuminating his features. Maybe it’s playing tricks on him, because Obi-Wan’s eyes glisten and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.
“Pardon me, where are my manners? Congratulations are in order. While the news comes as a surprise, I’m deeply honoured that you’ve shared this with me. And if you have any misgivings about your ability to parent—don’t. I’ve no doubt you’ll be an excellent father.”
“Really? You think so?” Anakin perks up instantly, his earlier melancholy forgotten.
Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. “As long as you don’t take your child on any speeder chases. Or on any covert missions. Or to any strange planets with stranger wildlife. Or…”
“Naboo,” Anakin cuts in with a grin. “Naboo is where we’ll be. It’s safe and comfortable and familiar…the perfect place to start a family.”
“Yes, it’s perfect. Peaceful. And I will visit you and the little one.”
Anakin releases a wobbly breath. The next words tumble out of him before he can stop himself—partly because of instinct, and partly blind hope. “You can do more than that. You can be my child’s godfather.”
The environment seems to still; even the crackle of the fire recedes into the background. Obi-Wan freezes—eyes round, jaw slack, stunned into silence—as though Anakin has just uttered something life-altering once again.
And really…he has.
--
“Utapau’s oceans? Endless.”
Anakin flinches, his head snapping towards Obi-Wan. “Hmmm?”
“Oh, nothing, just thinking aloud.” Obi-Wan rubs his face with both hands, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“You look tuckered out, master.”
“It’s been a long day and an even longer war,” he murmurs, easing the scarf from his shoulders to use as a secondary blanket. He exhales through a yawn and crouches to unfurl his sleeping bag, then pauses as a sudden awareness tightens his features.
“Are you willing to take the first shift?” he asks.
Anakin offers a small grin. “Yes. Don’t worry about it.” He stretches his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness that has crept in from sitting in the same position. “I’m wide awake, see? We’ll switch in a few hours.”
Obi-Wan nods, faint but visible in the low light, and eases into his bedroll with the practiced elegance of someone carrying years of weariness in his limbs. The fire pops. A gust of dry wind punches through the meager vegetation, bringing the acrid tang of embers and the mineral-rich scent of ancient rock with it.
“Alright then. Please do let me know when it’s time.” His eyes slide shut, lids heavy with the promise of rest. “Goodnight, Anakin.”
“Goodnight, master,” he replies softly, more to the vast unseen beyond the cliffs than the man already slipping into a deep slumber.
--
Anakin shifts on the sleeping bag, extending his legs for a bit to relieve the tingling in his muscles. A tiny rectangle presses against his chest as he does so, detectable even through the layers of clothing. He places a hand over it unconsciously, thumb tracing the familiar outline.
The holo. He always carries it in his left breast pocket—the one closest to his heart. It’s of him and Ahsoka from the days when she was still his padawan and a Jedi.
He remembers the circumstances like they occurred yesterday—an assignment to Felucia where the stakes were high but the mood was jovial. “I’ll beat you there, master!” she had scrawled across the bottom in her signature handwriting after losing a friendly bet. Her toothy grin is inked in a constellation of vibrant pixels, capturing Ahsoka’s exuberance and spirit before betrayal and disillusionment stole them away.
It’s the only reminder he has of the young woman she had once been, that vivacious whirlwind of attitude and potential, still undamaged by the effects of a protracted and brutal war that later took so much from them.
He never shows it to anyone—the holo belongs to him, and him alone. Sometimes it anchors him, but other times, it’s a stark symbol of his failures as a teacher and guide.
He and his padawan were thrust into one treacherous mission after another, the ruthless cycle punctuated by too-short, inadequate breaks in between. Anakin poured his entire being into her training—he taught Ahsoka discipline, instilled bravery within her, and did everything in his power to keep her safe. But the galaxy had taken her away before he could finish molding her into the Jedi he believed she was always meant to be.
His child will be different. His child will not be dragged into war, or handed a lightsaber before learning how to read, or bound to a moral code that prioritizes detachment over love.
This time, Anakin will not fail.
His unborn child is a second chance—an unwritten future, a clean slate free of Jedi doctrine, backstabbing, or senate agendas. He will nurture this small, precious life with strength, protection and tenderness…not as a general forges a soldier, but as a father raises a child.
He pats the holo over his tunic, feels the sharp corners poking timidly against his palm. Ahsoka’s animated laughter echoes in his memory, but it’s not her voice that matters now.
Obi-Wan stirs on the log of his sleeping bag, the light of the fire sweeping across his face. He assesses Anakin for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reaches a hand forward and places it firmly on Anakin’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say except thank you. I would be honoured to be your child’s godfather,” he says, and there’s a genuine luminosity in his gray eyes that somehow puts the silver half-moon hanging above them to shame.
Anakin can’t help it—he emits a full, unguarded laugh, drawing a puzzled look from Obi-Wan, who then follows with a hearty chuckle of his own. Their shared mirth carries over the sizzle of the fire and the rustling winds. Family—an implausible, incandescent concept made real. One day soon, when the Sith lord is rooted out and peace returns to the galaxy, he and Padmé will wrap their arms around each other, watching with joy as their child plays peekaboo with Uncle Obi-Wan.
“I’ve even thought about baby names,” Anakin announces, wiping away the unexpected tears—happy or sad, he isn’t quite sure—that roll down towards his jawline. “I’m certain we’re having a girl. But if I’m wrong and we have a boy, then…Luke. I’ve always loved that name. It means ‘giver of light’ on Tatooine.”
Obi-Wan turns the name over on his tongue like a sip of aged vintage. “Luke Skywalker,” he says, tasting the syllables. “I like it as well. It’s strong and honest. Hopeful. A fine name for your son and it has a great ring to it, too.”
Whatever flimsy control Anakin has over his feelings quickly unravels. He clears his throat and turns away, fixating on a collection of pine needles shriveling into ash.
“Being away from my mother…and then losing her,” he starts, not really meaning to babble and unload his jumbled thoughts. But his defenses are already crumbling, and Anakin feels no compulsion to restrain himself. “It’s still so hard to handle sometimes. I know it’s wrong to want more…I know our Code forbids it. I know I’m not always the Jedi I should be. But Padmé—she’s everything to me, Obi-Wan. She helps me, listens to me, accepts me. She loves me. And now we’re bringing that love into the galaxy, and I…it’s…”
Obi-Wan stands and lunges forward, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a fierce embrace. He rubs slow circles across Anakin’s back, grounding and reassuring.
“Whatever Padmé and the child require from me, I’ll provide,” he vows with so much conviction that Anakin has no choice but to believe him. “This is worth celebrating, Anakin. I’m happy for you. Truly. I’m happy for you.”
Anakin closes his eyes, the heat of the fire warming one side of his face and Obi-Wan’s steady assurance warming the other. His tears fall quietly once more. But for the first time in many years, they don’t sting.
--
Anakin shivers as the flames die down again. He patrols the perimeter of their campsite, digging for any traces of pine needles, leaves, and twigs amidst the arid, rocky landscape. He gathers what he finds and swiftly deposits the bunch into the fire pit. With the assistance of the poker, a full-bodied blaze returns and Anakin plops back down on his sleeping bag to bask in the warmth.
Beside him, Obi-Wan snores rhythmically, lost in his own dreams. Anakin’s eyes momentarily land on the strands of auburn hair splaying out from the opening of his master’s cocoon before scanning his surroundings and finding only stillness.
He makes up his mind. He’ll tell Obi-Wan everything—that he’s married, that he wants him to visit and actively participate in the baby’s life. The right time will surely present itself. For now, Anakin shuts his eyes to feel the mingling of the midnight breeze with the fire’s sublime heat on his face. An image of Padmé’s swollen belly and the young, innocent life growing inside flashes behind his lids. He smiles.