Chapter Text
"Death is just the beginning" - Season 6, episode 12
The hut looked larger when he was sprawled out on the floor. Of course, it was all a matter of perspective and the tiny shelter that somehow classed as a hut was certainly no bigger than the last time he checked. But the ceiling looked higher and the walls further apart when he was laying down. However, despite its impermanence the appearance of his accommodation did little to distract from the sweltering heat or stinging sand that scratched at him from beneath his head.
Or from Anakin.
Oh force, Anakin. The temple. The younglings. The Sith.
Mustafar.
He could still see it. The molten lava, the stench of smoke and burnt flesh, the flashes of lightsabers, clashing against each other. The horrid tint of yellow that lined his eyes.
He tried to forget, to block the memories, but always they persisted. In his dreams, in meditation, in the most random of moments when everything seemed fine, he would hear those damning words.
I HATE YOU!
His padawan, his brother, Anakin-
No.
Anakin was dead. It wasn’t – it wasn’t him who had done this. It was Vader. All of it was Vader.
That was who came to him in his nightmares, clad in black with a saber as red as blood. It was him who he saw strangling Padme and striking down younglings. Him who had fought Obi-wan on that hellish planet. Him wo had betrayed them to the Sith.
For all his shortcomings, Obi-wan was exceptionally good at lying to himself.
The sand burned under his head from where he lay, sprawled on the floor of his hut in the middle of nowhere.
How pathetic. The great general Kenobi, jedi master, one of the youngest members on the council. What was he now? Reduced to a rat in the desert, gorging himself on Jawwa juice because it was easier to swallow than guilt.
The ceiling span in circles, and colorful spots painted their way across his field of vision. Reds and purples danced on the ceiling, mixing with the cracks that bloomed over the roof like spiderwebs. Perhaps he would die, he thought idly. It would only be fitting after all. Ending things where they began, though he had never thought he might die on Tatooine of all places. He had thought he would die on Bandomeer, with a slave collar around his neck, and then on Melida/daan, fighting alongside children who were no more than younglings, and then in the war, in a thousand battles that all blended into one another. But no. It seemed Tatooine would be his grave.
Just Another failure to add to his collection.
First, he failed Qui-Gon, then Anakin, then Cody, and now he was failing the twins. Luke and Leia. Two stars burning fiercely in the force, like supernovas (like Anakin). It was forbidden, it was against the code, but he had gone and gotten attached. How could he not? He was the first to hold them. Padme was – she was too weak by then. The droid had given them straight to Obi-wan. But Sidious would find them eventually. There was no way he would be able to hide such strong force presences for long. And then he could grieve over two more children and wallow a little longer in his infinite sadness.
It was pitiful.
It was useless.
It did nobody any good, he should get up, drag himself from the floor and get to work. But it was so much easier just to lie there. He would come back to himself soon, he reasoned. Just a little longer.
Cody would have gotten up, he thought. His commander had always been ready, taking the initiative, getting the job done. Obi-wan didn’t know how he would have coped without him. He was a good man, loyal.
Until he shot you in the back.
And wasn’t that just the icing on the cake? His own men had turned against him. The men he had spent years fighting alongside. He had fought and bled and grieved with them, he had come to know them as his comrades, his friends. Why would they-? that was one of the thoughts that kept him up into the small hours of night. How had he managed to fail his men so spectacularly that they had resorted to killing him? What had he done to make them hate him so?
But he didn’t need an answer to that question. Not really.
The clones had been slaves to the republic, classed as property instead of sentients. They had been mistreated by the Kaminoans, and then the Nat-born officers and then the republic citizens. Hell, some had even been hurt by their Jedi generals. (Jedi did not hate as a rule but Pong Krell was an exception). And what had Obi-wan done to change that?
Kriff-all that’s what.
He had been too busy fighting a pointless war to involve himself in such politics. He was too blind to see beyond the campaigns and missions that the Sith had so thoughtfully laid out for him. I bet your laughing now Palpatine.
It was ironic really, that Obi-wan had always despised the man. His dislike of politicians was public knowledge and his distaste for the chancellor even more so. He wanted to scream ‘I was right! I was right all along, and no one listened!’ but there was no one left alive for him to tell. Even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
His vision blurred and he had just enough rational thought left to realize that he was probably passing out. He smiled. At least unconsciousness came with the benefit of peace. Not even his thoughts could bother him then.
And then he heard it.
A soft buzz that seemed to emanate from all around him. It pulsed in his ears once, twice. Distantly he worried that it was the sand people, come to steal his water and butcher him. But the noise was familiar in its essence.
Where the force had previously been quiet in gentle despair, it was now humming in – comfort? Consolation? It was hard to tell in his alcohol riddled state, but it was soothing. The noise was deep and quiet, almost like the engine of a spaceship, the ones Anakin used to spend hours fixing whilst covered in oil stains. He would look up from them, grinning crookedly at Obi-wan.
Yellow eyes glared from the lava banks, IHATEYOU!
SafeQuietHushPeace
the force whispered, and Obi-wan listened. During his exile he had become better at listening to the forces will. After all, it was the only friend he had left. It was a bitter comfort though. Every time he had reached for it, he had felt it slip through its fingers like he was trying to grasp smoke. Until now. He let it lull him into unconsciousness, feeling the familiar pull of darkness.
FixItFixItFixItFixIt
The force hummed again, the buzz echoing around him in his vertigo. Fix what? He wondered briefly as he went under. Perhaps it meant the cracks in the roof.