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She sat near the end of the corridor, where the chatter and laughter of the mess hall faded into the background. Her eyes stared straight ahead, fixed on the wall opposite. He’d seen her excuse herself—seen her slip away from the corner of his eye.
He sat down beside her. Neither spoke; only the hum of his new respirator broke the silence. He didn’t mind. He would have sat there forever, if that’s what she wanted. He would have left, too, if she’d asked.
He didn’t know, anymore, what she needed. Too many years had passed.
“There was a mission, once—“ she began, shaking her head slightly. “I got there late. Late enough, anyway. The Inquisitors showed up while we were still in the house. I shielded us, of course, tried to hide Oholi’s Force presence. That was her name. Oholi Adu. It was close, and I was almost ready to hold them off so she and her mother could escape. And then… the Inquisitors got a comcall. From you.”
Her head turned and she met his eyes. He nodded.
“I remember,” he said.
“You do?”
“I could feel you there. I knew it was you. And so I—“
“Killed them,” Ahsoka finished.
“I did,” he said, nodding again. “I wanted you to live.”
“You were already Ekkreth then.”
He didn’t reply. She knew that he was.
She sighed and settled deeper into the wall, resting her head against it.
“What’d you tell Palpatine? I’m sure he noticed the Inquisitorius shrinking.”
Anakin grimaced. “He thought I was… ah, eliminating the competition. On both counts, actually.”
She arched a brow and glanced at him again. “Both?”
“The children, too. I never disabused him of the idea. There was no reason for him not to believe that.”
“Oh.”
She seemed lost in thought, her breathing steady and her eyes closed.
“I remember them all, you know,” she breathed out. Anakin almost had to strain to hear her. “All the children on those lists. It was the most important work I did in all my years with the Rebellion.”
And the most dangerous, she didn’t add. She didn’t need to; they both knew it.
“I don’t know that it was even a priority for the Rebellion,” she continued, “at least not at first. And we didn’t have your lists then, of course. Mon wanted to send me after the Jedi survivors.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “It was more important, far more important, to have experienced fighters on our side. And of course, I helped with that too. But I insisted.”
Her voice cracked, and she sounded so young, so small, so like the way he remembered her.
“I couldn’t leave them,” she said.
Of course she couldn’t. That was Ahsoka to a fault: willing to risk herself in the defense of others, recklessly persevering as if the world would bend itself to the force of her stubborn will alone. How many times had she ignored or outright disobeyed his instructions to do what she felt was right? With scant exception, he’d been grateful she had.
And he... Well. There was a reason Depur had believed him capable of murdering the children on those lists.
“I was glad it was you,” he choked out. “When I found out, I mean. After Oholi. I was glad Mothma’s agent was someone I could trust.”
He had been. He remembered that. After his rebirth in the desert, when he’d made contact with Bail and Mothma and Leia—he’d never once failed to send the Inquisitor’s lists. He provided the Rebellion with plenty of information besides, of course, not least among those the plans to the Death Star. But when it came down to it, if there was ever a choice between the lists and other intelligence, he’d send the lists. Every time.
He’d scarcely admitted it to himself—it was poor penance, after all. As if the lives of the children he’d saved could ever make up for those he’d slain. As if it could all be made right, if only the number of saved surpassed the number of Younglings scattered throughout the Temple’s halls.
And he hadn’t even saved them, not really. That was all Ahsoka. She was braver than he; she always had been. She’d been brave enough to leave the Order, and to keep fighting regardless. She was capable, she was indomitable, she was—
“Depu’uma,” he murmured.
“Mm?”
His gaze snapped to hers and he smiled softly. “Depu’uma,” he repeated. “Chain-destroyer. That’s what you were, to those children. On Tatooine, we prefer to take our own freedom, rather than rely on outlanders to do it for us. Even if they mean well. But sometimes…” he shrugged. “They would have been slaves to the Empire—to Palpatine. And they wouldn’t have been able to free themselves. Not without dying, anyway. You broke their chains before they had them.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way,” Ahsoka said quietly.
“Hazards of being a slave yourself, I guess. You see it everywhere.”
His attempt at levity fell flat. He’d meant it sardonically, but Ahsoka looked at him with sadness and, perhaps, a little resignation.
“I never knew,” she admitted. “Before.”
“I know.”
He did. How could she have known, when he himself had been keekta-du?
Ahsoka hummed in acknowledgment. “I tried to find my family, after I left the Order. Never did. I don’t even know their names.”
“I’m sorry,” Anakin said, covering her hand with his.
She sighed. “I wish we were back on the Resolute, sometimes. Not that I want to relive any of it, but…”
“But at least you knew where you fit.”
The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Exactly.”
She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. “Does it ever get any easier?”
“I used to think it didn’t,” Anakin said, now taking her hand in both of his, “but then…”
Ahsoka smiled and nodded in the direction of the mess hall, where Leia and Luke and Kadee still waited.
“But then,” she repeated. “And I’m happy for you, Anakin, I am. But I’m not like you. I don’t have anyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Not about this, I haven’t.”
That was true. He’d owed Ahsoka the largest apology, second only to Leia and Luke, after it all. He’d apologized; couldn’t stop apologizing, in fact.
But it was the wrong thing to say. She withdrew her hand from his and narrowed her eyes in annoyance.
“You didn’t take my family from me, Anakin, or stop me from making my own in the last twenty years. You give yourself too much credit.”
“I could have followed you out of the Order. I could have helped you look for your family. At the very least, I could have not made an Empire you had to hide from.”
“It’s not about you!” Ahsoka’s voice rose and echoed down the corridor. “I’m not fourteen anymore. I’ve lived a life independent of you, and you don’t get to control it.”
“I know,” Anakin said softly. “I’m sor—“
“Don’t you dare say it,” Ahsoka cut in, voice low in warning.
Anakin fell silent.
Ahsoka breathed deeply, eyes closed and hands gripping her knees.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I’m angry.”
He’d have to take her word for it: he couldn’t feel anything from her in the Force. Her walls were closed up tight.
“You can be angry.”
“I don’t like being angry.”
“Anger is part of being a person, Snips.”
She didn’t say anything. Really, he couldn’t blame her. Jedi General Anakin Skywalker—the Anakin she knew, the Anakin who had tried so hard to be what the Council expected of him—would never have said that. Would never have been able to say it.
He tried again. “Is that why you came out here? Because you were angry?”
“Yes.” Her tone was short, clipped.
“I know it’s not about me,” he began cautiously, “but was it about me?”
She nodded.
“Because you’ve always done the right thing, or tried to, and you’re lonely, and I’ve done horrible, unforgivable things and I’m not?”
“It’s not fair!” she burst out. After a moment she smiled wryly, as if equal parts amused and embarrassed that she’d sounded childish.
“No, it’s not,” he agreed. He shifted slightly, tucking a prosthetic leg beneath him.
It was still strange to him, to speak openly, to be honest with others and himself. He didn’t know that he’d ever really be used to it. But Ahsoka deserved his honesty.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I wish more than anything that I could go back and change that. But I want to be now. You’re my sister, Snips. I hope I’m your family, too.”
He met and held her gaze for a moment. She huffed out a breath and shook her head.
“When did you get to be so wise?” she grumbled.
He laughed, or tried to, anyway. Even after several surgeries, the damage to his lungs and vocal cords was permanent. His laugh came out as more of a chuffing sound.
“Not soon enough, Snips. Not soon enough.”
He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and leaned over to her, hand extended. She hesitated for only a brief moment before placing her hand in his. He pulled her up. She’d grown. Of course she had—it’d been twenty years, after all. He didn’t tower over her anymore.
“You went and grew up without me,” he said. He swallowed a lump in his throat and blinked back the sudden burning in his eyes.
“Feeling nostalgic, are we?” She smirked up at him.
“Absolutely.”
He folded her in his arms.
“I missed you, Skyguy,” she whispered into his chest.
He drew back a pace, holding her by the elbows. “Come meet your family,” he said, nodding in the direction of the mess hall. “Properly, this time.”
She snorted. “Does that make me Ripple’s aunt, then?”
He grinned down at her. “Auntie Ahsoka, if you like.”
“I would.”
His grin widened. “Excellent. You can be in charge of scaring off Solo, then.”
Ahsoka swatted his arm. “He’s a good man, Anakin.”
Privately, he agreed. But he enjoyed seeing Solo squirm too much to let it go just yet.
“Come on, Snips,” he said, throwing his arm over her shoulder. They walked, together, and disappeared down the corridor.