Chapter Text
Two people died on Mustafar that faithful day. Anakin Skywalker, lost in hatred and fear, burnt. Every remaining drop of his true self extinguished with the flames. Out came someone truly unrecognizable, born from the fiery embers of hatred. Anakin was gone. Only an armored, cold, mechanical shell remained.
And Obi-Wan Kenobi? You could say he died that day, too. He had to watch the person, the kid who he called his brother, die. Maybe fate was already decided that day on Tatooine. That day 13 years ago when the person Obi-Wan saw as a father found little Anakin while on a journey for a new hyperdrive. He freed little Anakin from slavery, saying he was the Chosen One. And maybe he was. Anakin was dead now, he thought. Anakin Skywalker was dead along with Qui-Gon Jinn—along with the hope of balance between both worlds of the Force.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, the one who watched everyone he held close, die. What could he do about it? Nothing. He could do nothing. Even as the Tatooine sand blew into his eyes, he could do nothing. Balance was lost long ago. Change would keep coming, whether for the good or evil, nothing could be done. Even as he watched the two suns set, all Obi-Wan Kenobi was filled with was guilt. Obi-Wan Kenobi was no more, only Ben remained.
Ben Kenobi, the old hermit of Tatooine.
So if you asked someone who died that day on Mustafar, they might say, “No one.” But deep down, everyone knows. Anakin Skywalker is dead, only Darth Vader remains. Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead, only Ben Kenobi remains.