Chapter Text
T h e n
Someone is going to die in this story. Though none of them knew that yet.
Right now, all Anakin knew was this—he was sick and tired of hanging on by a thread.
His arms hurt, his head hurt, his back hurt. This was war, of course—aches and pains were part of the job description. But as he hung onto the edge of Dooku’s exploding ship, watching the Sith Lord himself disappear yet again into the smokey horizon, Anakin briefly contemplated just letting go and plummeting down the rest of the way.
“Need a lift?”
Anakin turned as best he was able—still dangling from one hand as the ship fell to pieces. And there, in a beaten speeder below him, was Obi-Wan.
“You certainly have a habit of falling off of things,” he said.
Anakin shrugged. “I learned from watching you.”
Obi-Wan didn’t dignify that with more than an eyeroll.
They made it back to the ship with little fanfare—which was nothing short of a miracle, given recent events. Oba Diah was relatively quiet, and with Dooku gone, the Pykes paid them little mind. When Anakin gave a hard exhale, the sound was engulfed by the hiss of the boarding ramp closing behind them.
“He escaped. Again.”
“Did he really? Odd—I could’ve sworn he walked back here with us,” Obi-Wan said dryly.
“I should’ve had him.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, “we both know this loss is not your fault.”
Anakin was about to continue, lamenting Dooku’s cowardness or his dramatics or his insistence upon sending others to do his dirty work. But as he entered the cockpit, his mind returning to the moment, the words stuck to his throat. He sensed something. Something…off. He studied Obi-Wan’s stilted pace, watched the way he chewed the inside of his cheek.
Anakin’s eyes narrowed.
“Hey, you alright?”
“Fine.” Obi-Wan sank into the co-pilot seat and started the launch sequence, though Anakin noticed his fingers fumble the buttons.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” Anakin pressed. “Looked like you got hit pretty hard when Dooku kicked your ass.”
“He did not kick my—” Obi-Wan cut himself off with an exhale. When he turned to Anakin, the look of amusement was forced. “He kicked me in the chest. And I’m fine.”
“Alright, alright. Just checking.”
Anakin kicked the ship into gear and the engines rumbled to life, filling the cockpit with a deep and comforting hum. But even as he sank into the familiar rhythm, he couldn’t quite relax—the Force rippled with unease, and it wasn’t his own.
His eyes trailed again to Obi-Wan.
He really did look fine. With the exception of the darkness beneath his eyes and a weary slouch of the shoulders that plagued so many Jedi as the war dragged on, Obi-Wan had mastered the art of facades. But Anakin found his mind drawn back to the precipice—to the flash of Dooku’s blade against his, against Obi-Wan’s, to the spark in the Force that something was about to give. How Obi-Wan had fallen off the edge. Held his grip, pulled himself up, returned to the fight. But never quite recovered his poise.
Even now.
“That could’ve happened to anyone, you know,” Anakin said quietly. He punched the coordinates into the nav and leaned back. “Anyone would’ve lost their balance—”
“I shouldn’t have, though,” he said, then sighed. “But there’s no use dwelling on mistakes, I know, so long as you learn from them.” He gave a weak smile. “Qui-Gon always used to say that to me.”
“Just like you used to say it to me.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. Such is a lineage—we learn from those who taught us, but also those who taught them,” he said. “You are as much Qui-Gon’s Padawan as you were mine. And Yoda’s.”
“And Dooku’s.”
At that, Obi-Wan’s smile drained away. He didn’t answer.
“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anakin said. “You’re distracted. On Geonosis. On Florrum. Even now.”
“What bothers me?”
“Him.” The ship lifted off the ground, and Anakin used the moment of turbulence to decide how to phrase his next words. “He’s bound to you, in some weird way. Like you said—even if you never learned from Dooku directly, he’s played some role in the person you are now,” he said. “I mean, he’s your grandmaster.”
“He was my grandmaster,” Obi-Wan correctly, with a bit more sharpness than Anakin expected to hear. “And, in any case, I never met him before he left the Order. He’s a Sith Lord—and as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been a Sith Lord. There’s nothing lost. Nothing to mourn.”
“So then why do you get so unbalanced?”
There was a long moment of nothing—nothing but the hum of the ship and the swirl of clouds as they lifted from the atmosphere—during which Anakin wondered if Obi-Wan would answer at all. Wondered if he’d pushed just a little too hard.
But then he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Imagine…imagine you fighting Qui-Gon.”
“That’s not the same,” Anakin said. Then, stating the obvious, added, “Qui-Gon wasn’t a literal Sith Lord. And besides. I knew him.”
“Did you?”
Anakin opened his mouth to insist that of course he did. Qui-Gon was a good man—a leader, wise and bold, who freed slaves and fought evil and protected the weak and weary. But then he found his mind trailing to back to when he was young—to the few times Obi-Wan had actually managed to speak of his old Master. The memories he’d alluded to, ones that didn’t seem at all like the Qui-Gon he remembered. There had been something about children on a war-torn planet—the name of which Anakin couldn’t remember now—whom Qui-Gon had argued weren’t theirs to save. Something about another Padawan, before Obi-Wan. Something about loss. As the fragments came back to him, Anakin suddenly wondered how much he didn’t know.
Still, he shook his head. “I knew enough.”
“Yes, that is usually the way of things. With those who’ve raised us, we know enough. But we will never know everything,” he said. “Twelve years with Qui-Gon taught me a great many things. But I never did learn who he really was—at his core.”
His fingers drummed against his knee, and Anakin could practically hear the rhythm. Anakin didn’t speak, hoping his silence would keep Obi-Wan talking—an old negotiation trick his Master had taught him long ago—and, as expected, it worked.
“Once, after he died, I found his old journals. I was cleaning out his room,” he said. “Most of the writing was illegible anyhow. But I suppose…reading tidbits of his life before me was a reminder that, well…there was a before. And there would be an after. Well, there would have been.” He cleared his throat, eyes cast down. “That’s the thing about those who’ve raised us—they live so much life without you, while you’ve never lived a day without them.”
“Until you have to.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, his voice much softer now. “Until you have to.”
Silence engulfed them as the ship broke atmosphere. Anakin leaned forward and oriented the ship, dragging them against the pull of gravity, until he could send them into hyperspace. As the stars turned to streaks, Obi-Wan leaned back and closed his eyes. And in the passing moments, they both tried to forget about it—about Dooku and lineages and people who leave.
And they did.
Until the next time.
•·················•·················•
N o w
There was nothing but light.
Blue on red. Just Dooku’s blade—that was what Anakin focused on. Saved him from having to stare at Dooku’s ugly face. So he slashed and blocked and parried, and beside him, felt Obi-Wan doing the same.
Anakin wasn’t sure exactly how long they had before the ship blew—but the red alert alarms were blaring and the hallways flooded with evacuating crew, so he knew it couldn’t be long. His eyes flickered over Dooku’s shoulder. In the upcoming intersection, droids and officers alike crowded the corridor. Without turning his head, he called to Obi-Wan:
“Traffic ahead.”
“Careful, Count,” Obi-Wan said with a grin. “You know what they say about old ladies crossing the street.”
Obi-Wan landed a kick square in Dooku’s chest, and Anakin laughed. They were in sync now—they always were, but this time, this time…there was something else. He could sense a new resolve in Obi-Wan, and in himself. The feeling that this might be it.
Dooku snarled as he blocked the next strike—like he was really putting up a desperate fight. Like even he knew this time was different. The Force swirled as Anakin drew back, letting Obi-Wan take his place against Dooku’s blade as he himself ran up the side of the wall. He came down on Dooku’s other side—boxing him in.
He kicked Dooku in the back of the knees. Dooku stumbled forward, toward Obi-Wan, slashing a bit wildly. Too wildly. Off balance.
Anakin pressed forward.
They turned into the adjacent hall, melting into the torrent of people who bolted for escape pods. But still their blades didn’t slow. Obi-Wan matched Anakin’s strikes, complemented them perfectly, two minds and two movements made one.
Until at last, the advance stopped—it had to.
Dooku had hit a wall.
“Valiant effort, boys,” he said, his boot striking the corner as he tried to step back, “but this is the end.”
“Yeah,” Anakin said, “for you.”
Dooku’s laughter was deep and slow. “Always so sure of themselves, the young.”
“And what does that say about the old?”
Anakin started to lunge, but a hand from Obi-Wan pushed him back.
“Surrender,” Obi-Wan said. “It is your best option. Grant us the information we seek, and submit yourself to Republic custody.”
“The information you seek,” Dooku replied, “is no longer in the ship’s systems. Your mission has failed.”
“Not yet.”
Behind them, Anakin heard the murmur of voices and rushing feet. A nearby escape pod opened. Then, silence—silence, except for the sound of the blaring alarms, Anakin’s breath, and the hum of his lightsaber as he pressed it near to Dooku’s neck.
“You have the file,” he hissed. “Or you know where it is. And unless you want this moment to be your last, you’ll tell us.”
“I’ll tell you this—no threat of yours will ever match the severity of that which is coming for you.”
“What, Separatists?” Anakin said. “Cause I’m pretty sure we’ve got it under control.”
“Foolish boy. Still believing this war is about the Republic and the Separatists—about differing ideologies,” Dooku said. “Still believing it will end.” When Anakin moved his blade closer, he didn’t flinch. “For you, the future is unknowable. For me, it is immutable. And whether you have the file you want, or not, it will still come to pass. And you will still fall.”
“We’re not afraid.”
“You should be,” Dooku said, his voice light as a breath. “Oh, you should be.”
Anakin slashed his blade downward and Dooku blocked—but there was nowhere else for him to run. Beside him, he felt Obi-Wan lunge.
But then Dooku’s hand was outstretched—and with the Force, he pressed a button. Something beeped.
The door to the escape pod slid open, and Dooku stepped inside.
Yet before Anakin or Obi-Wan had a moment to react, before they could follow him or yank him out or bring their blades down—
BOOM.
The blast came from behind them.
The ship began to implode.
And Anakin and Obi-Wan were launched forward—through the doors, into the escape pod, into Dooku.
Anakin hit the wall first. He felt Obi-Wan collapse on top of him, felt Dooku off somewhere to his right. Through the ringing of his ears and the vertigo, he could just make out the sound of a door sliding shut. The beep of a lock.
Another blast rocked the ship and sent the escape pod shooting out into space, moving at a far faster velocity than one was ever intended to go. Anakin struck his head against the durasteel wall, sending streaks of black through his vision. But before he could worry about it—before he could move to the controls and slow them down—
Someone is going to die in this story. And as his eyes fluttered closed, Anakin just hoped it wasn’t going to be him.