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As soon as he’d been assigned Ahsoka as a Padawan, Anakin had moved out of his shared quarters with Obi-Wan and relocated to a new shared quarters with her. 

“Now you can finally be free from my ‘blasted tinkering’, as you so kindly referred to it,” Anakin teased, as he loaded the last box of meticulously cataloged mechanical pieces onto a hover-cart. “Your dream has finally come true!”

And it had; with Anakin gone, Obi-Wan’s quarters were more quiet and calm than they’d ever been that he could recall. He also could never remember the four walls feeling more empty.

But before true loneliness could fully set in, Anakin had awarded Obi-Wan a standing invitation to Zhellday dinners with the two of them. Obi-Wan had gratefully accepted, making a point to attend each week. He enjoyed the opportunity to catch up with his former Padawan, as well as get to know Anakin’s Padawan. It was a welcome reprieve when their separate duties had prevented them from spending much time together over the past few days.

Typically, Anakin did most of the cooking, aided only by Ahsoka assembling the necessary ingredients, as Obi-Wan himself held no talent in the culinary arts. But for Anakin, trying new recipes had long been a part of his moving meditation, and each week, he presented the other two with a freshly created delicacy from worlds both within and outside of the Republic. The greatest contribution Obi-Wan had to offer was usually a bottle of wine, and, if his duties had taken him outside of the Temple that day, an assortment of pastries from one of the many bakeries and sweet shops that lined the Senate district. Often Obi-Wan and Ahsoka would split their treat in two and then each swap a piece so they could sample both varieties, and while Anakin, who did not enjoy sweets, munched happily on the savory roll Obi-Wan had purchased specifically for him. 

Those nights were the ones Obi-Wan looked forward to the most. When he could walk through the door and inhale the scent of simmering sauces and spices, hear the rhythmic chopping of a knife dicing vegetables, and see Anakin and Ahsoka laughing together as they measured ingredients and sprinkled in dashes of herbs. The sight was a balm that soothed away any of the day’s earlier frustrations or grievances. It was what he daydreamed of during meandering meetings or Senate sessions that stretched on at tortuous length thanks to bureaucratic grandstanding. All he wanted in those moments was to immerse himself in the warm, welcoming atmosphere of Anakin and Ahsoka’s quarters.

Since Obi-Wan had been banned from the kitchen after setting one too many soufflés ablaze, he did little to assist with dinner preparations. After he trudged inside, weary but grateful, he would greet them both with a hug, ask about their day, and help Ahsoka with her remaining homework if Anakin hadn’t yet had the chance to look it over himself. Sometimes, with nothing else to do while he waited, he would wander over to the sitting room, glass of wine in hand, and note which planet’s landscape was simulated to display that day on the holographic enviro window that Anakin had designed. If he remembered, he would also attempt to discern whether Anakin had created any more crocheted animals to add to the collection that occupied the tiered shelf in the corner. More often than not, his attempts were in vain; with the speed at which Anakin finished making new animals and then gave both new and old away to the younglings, Obi-Wan would have had more luck taking inventory at the Temple Creche itself.

Those happy nights, those warm evenings spent laughing, soaking in the good food and good company, were the part of the week Obi-Wan cherished more than nearly anything else in his life. The war had robbed them of so much, but at least it hadn’t taken away these dashes of cheery camaraderie.

Perhaps it was unrealistic to expect the dinners to resume immediately after the Hardeen mission, but he didn’t believe he could be faulted for trying.

“I could stay,” Ahsoka offered, lingering in the doorway, drumming her fingers on her datapad where she clutched it to her chest, her gaze flicking from Anakin to Obi-Wan.

She’d been on her way out the door when Obi-Wan arrived, off to study with Barriss. Once it became clear Obi-Wan planned to stay, she’d opted to remain as well. Even though her evening would be occupied by schoolwork, she was wearing field boots. Ahsoka wore field boots all the time now. He wondered if that was a recent change, or if she had done so before and he just hadn’t noticed until now. 

There had been no warmth in Ahsoka’s eyes when she’d opened the door and found Obi-Wan on their threshold, only a brief look of shock and then a tightening of her mouth.

“No need, Snips,” Anakin returned evenly. He was sprawled at the kitchen table, but instead of food, he had several sheets of flimsi before him, each page crammed with Ahsoka’s familiar scrawl—one of her essays, presumably, that he was proofreading. “You have an astronavigation test tomorrow and need to prepare. Besides, I want Barriss to have those spiced creams.” He nodded at the cookie tin Ahsoka had tucked under her other arm. “It would be a nice thing to do. I don’t think she has anyone to cook for her with her Master gone away on that mission to Wild Space, poor thing.”

There was no shift in Anakin’s level tone, but a trickle of annoyance ran through Obi-Wan as he struggled to avoid considering the comment a personal jab. 

“If you’re sure,” Ahsoka said, casting one last dubious glance at Obi-Wan before refocusing entirely on Anakin.

“I am,” Anakin replied, still in that same even tone. “Tell Barriss hello for me. And let her know she’s welcome for dinner anytime.”

Obi-Wan’s annoyance spiked.

“Will do, Master,” Ahsoka said, turning in the direction of the door. “I’ll be back at the twenty-first hour. See you then.”

Anakin nodded. “Mind how you go, Snips.”

“Goodbye, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan added, wishing to show his grandpawadan that he still cared for her in spite of any recent events.

But Ahsoka just shot him another wary glance over her shoulder, and then vanished into the hall without another word, the only sound of her departure the hydraulic hiss of the door sliding shut behind her. 

In her absence, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but notice that without the aroma of food cooking and the sounds of her and Anakin talking and laughing, the shared quarters somehow seemed colder and grayer than any time before. The only noise interrupting the silence was the quiet hum of the housekeeping droids, rescued by Anakin from various refuse pits and repaired to beyond their original capacity, dutifully conducting their tasks.

Once Ahsoka was gone, Anakin slumped down in his chair, as though the brief interaction had utterly drained him. Then he reached out to grasp a page of Ahsoka’s essay, before dropping it again to flutter down to the tabletop. The motion forcibly reminded Obi-Wan of a droid given orders that extended beyond its programming and struggling to reconcile the directive with its internal processing.

Finally, Obi-Wan’s former Padawan turned towards him.

“Do you want something?” Anakin asked Obi-Wan wearily, all calm and composure gone from his voice, replaced by apathetic irritation.

Though Obi-Wan thought he had prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation, he found his words failing him in the moment of truth. The Negotiator had lost his most prized weapon in the face of the Hero Without Fear.

“I was thinking—” Obi-Wan began, but found himself at a loss. “I mean, we always—” he lifted up the bottle of Alderaanian red he’d brought along with him.

Several heartbeats passed as Anakin stared at him in askance, and then he closed his eyes for a long moment.

“You can’t ,” he breathed, half to himself. Then he opened his eyes, looking directly at Obi-Wan, speaking more loudly, though his tone remained level. “You can’t seriously believe that you can just waltz in here and everything will go back to normal. Is that really what you want to happen?”

“I had merely hoped that you were able to look past your own feelings and recognize that your duties as a Jedi took priority over your own ego,” Obi-Wan returned frostily.

A tight, tense smile split across Anakin’s face, and he looked remarkably like a Corellian sand panther baring its teeth. “You sure as fuck didn’t mind my feelings when you were using them to sell your ‘death’ convincingly,” he replied, his tone just a touch too controlled. “But it’s good to know that the man who spent eleven years telling me I needed to learn to harness my emotions isn’t above exploiting them when it’s to his benefit. Of course,” he added acidly, striding forward to pluck the wine bottle from Obi-Wan’s limp grasp, “it’s even better to realize that you expect me to pack them away, all nice and neat, as soon as they become inconvenient for you again.”

Turning toward the cupboards, he opened the one directly opposite the stove and removed a single wine glass. Immediately, Obi-Wan recognized the rough-cut chill stone crystal as one of the set of four Quinlan had gifted to Anakin on his seventeenth birthday, when he’d reached Coruscant’s legal drinking age. Anakin’s first drink—well, first law-abiding drink—had been from one of those glasses, thanks to a bottle of Whyren’s Reserve procured by Aayla.

Though he anticipated Anakin had poured the wine for his own consumption, Anakin instead returned to the table and silently handed the glass of Alderaanian red to Obi-Wan, taking no refreshment for himself. Obi-Wan gave a nod of thanks, settling himself in one of the chairs, while Anakin remained standing, fingers flexing and gripping the bars of his own chair.

For a moment, Obi-Wan contemplated the young man before him, freshly amazed that the scrawny child and then gangly youth had morphed into this tall, confident Jedi Knight with a Padawan of his own.

Though at the moment, Anakin did not seem particularly confident in anything but his martyrdom. Visible tension lined his lean shoulders, and though Anakin’s looks and constant HoloNet coverage had attracted admirers throughout the galaxy and beyond, whatever appeal his face held was now marred by the mulish set to his jaw and stubborn frown wrinkling his forehead.

Determined not to allow the tension in the room to ruin his wine, Obi-Wan sipped at his glass, savoring the vintage, before lifting his gaze back up to his former Padawan.

“I expect,” he said, letting the words fall slow and weighty between them, “for you to be able to realize that there are reasons it was decided you were to be excluded from internal knowledge of the Rako Hardeen mission. And perhaps you would be wise to examine your past actions and behavior and allow yourself the time to discover why.”

“ ‘It was decided’,” Anakin repeated flatly. “Nice deflection. You were the one who decided not to tell me, Obi-Wan. You urged the Council not to clue me in, even when they wanted to. So why don’t we skip the soul-searching, and you just tell me what compelled you to trick me into believing you’d been murdered.” A corner of his mouth tugged up in a bitter smile. “Other than wanting to make a show of me mourning to fool our enemies, that is.”

The patience Obi-Wan typically prided himself on was wearing thin. “Basic logic, Padawan,” he retorted, his tone snippy even to his own ears. “The fewer individuals who have knowledge of a secret mission, the less chance of it being discovered.” He couldn’t quite resist adding, “I would have thought even you could determine that.”

Anakin didn’t miss a beat in his response. “And I would have thought you would understand that your unexpected death and then sudden miraculous survival is going to take some time for the rest of us to process. Yet here you are.”

Obi-Wan drained his first glass and then reached for the bottle to fill it a second time. “We’re talking in circles now. Haven’t we already beaten this topic to—”

Death. The word hung between them like a phantom whisper. 

A long, weary sigh escaped from Anakin, and he slumped where he stood, passing a hand over his face in a gesture that might as well have been a white flag of surrender. “You want new information? Have some. When you supposedly died, none of the Council expressed their condolences to me in any way. Other Jedi did—Aayla was here every evening during that first week, and Quinlan stopped by as soon as he finished his own assignment. But not one of the eleven Jedi who you served with on a daily basis. At the time, I thought it was strange, because even if they didn’t give a damn about me, surely they were sorry to lose you.” His voice grew tight and strained. “I even found myself wondering if they rather would have had our roles switched. Me die while you lived.”

“Anakin—” Obi-Wan breathed, aghast, but Anakin didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes looking past Obi-Wan.

“And then, when I realized you hadn’t died at all, it all clicked into place. The Council wasn’t going to bother to waste their time giving me sympathy when they knew all along that you were alive. Commission’s still out on if they would have if you were really dead, I guess.”

At his former Padawan’s melodramatic proclamation, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Since you’re not willing to ask yourself these questions, I’ll do it for you: does this type of paranoid self-pity assist you in any way?”

Anakin whipped his gaze back to him, his brilliant blue eyes piercing through Obi-Wan. “Is it paranoid?” he asked, a spring-coiled calm to his words. “Is it truly? Because the Council is willing to go to extreme lengths to lie to me if they deem it best—and you’re the one encouraging them to do so.” Abruptly, he glanced away, briefly breaking eye contact, before returning his gaze to Obi-Wan, exhaustion on his face.

“You know, when I was a Padawan, I used to believe that the Council constantly spoke of me when they were in session,” he said quietly. “That each incorrect answer in class, or every subpar lightsaber performance, or any time I chose moving meditation over the regular kind all were reported to them, so they could discuss my failings in unanimous disapproval. I couldn’t move in the Temple without feeling eyes on me, without wondering what the latest gossip and criticism of the so-called Chosen One would be that particular day. That’s why I enjoyed racing in the lower levels as much as I did—it wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t even about the adrenaline rush. It was the chance to be just another contestant. No one special. No one who’d be noticed unless I won.

“But when the war began and I was Knighted, I told myself I’d been silly. That the Council and I were on the same side, that they had far more important matters to concern themselves with than me. I convinced myself that I’d been wrong and overly suspicious to assume that the Council were holed up in their chamber hatching plots against me.” Anakin huffed for breath, scrubbing at his face with his gloved hand. “Only now, I find out that I was right all along. The only aspect I hadn’t anticipated was that you would be there as the leader among all of them.” 

The words stung, and Obi-Wan had a sudden flash to Anakin as a young child, sickly and frail from years of malnutrition, sent to rest again after yet another dizzy spell during calisthenics. 

Master, he’d asked that day, curling into a flummoxed Obi-Wan like a tooka kit seeking warmth from its mother, what is the ‘Chosen One’? The kids in my class keep saying that it’s me, just like Qui-Gon did. But if that’s right . . . who chose me?

“That’s not what this was,” Obi-Wan snapped with sudden heat. Regret surged through him, and abruptly he found himself longing for the days when there was no war, when Anakin had been young, when Obi-Wan could comfort him with a clumsy hug, which Anakin always accepted no matter how awkward and unpracticed it was. 

It’s this damn war, he thought, despair giving way to anger, churning fast and feverishly hot in his stomach. Suddenly, he felt helpless in the face of Anakin’s accusations. It’s tearing us apart from each other—it’s changing us—it’s drawing dividing lines between us as Jedi. And we can’t stop it.

“It was the war,” he said out loud, determined to help Anakin understand his perspective. “If it hadn't been a matter of Republic security, if it hadn’t been our democracy at risk of falling to the Separatists, I would have told you, I swear it. But you must understand how critical the success of this mission was. We couldn’t take the risk of any part of this plan going awry. There were enough obstacles as it was.”

But Anakin just stared at him, unmoved.

“You and the rest of that crowd never really do want to take risks on me, do you?” he asked, almost conversationally. “The Council never wanted me in this Order. Didn’t think I belonged. Rejected me right from the start. And you didn’t think I could be a Jedi, either. Told Qui-Gon that I was dangerous, that he was better off giving up on me and instead using his time to vie for a seat on the Council.”

“I—what—Anakin, that was years ago! Over a decade now!” Obi-Wan threw up his hands in exasperation, his composure finally cracking. 

“It was,” Anakin agreed. “But we’ve never discussed it.”

“Is it necessary that we do?” Obi-Wan retorted. “I can’t help but notice that when faced with your own errors, your own flaws and overblown expectations, you choose to concentrate on the mistakes of others rather than your own.”

“Maybe because I’d like someone to acknowledge that I’m not the only one here who makes mistakes,” Anakin replied bluntly. 

“This is absurd. I’m not going to apologize for offending your ego,” Obi-Wan warned him. “The security of the Republic was at stake—”

“Oh, here we go again!” Anakin’s calm fizzled out in an instant, his eyes blazing, frustration visible in the tense hold of his stance. “You know, for all everyone never shuts up about my ego, no one fucking complains when I singlehandedly take out a Separatist fleet and save their sorry hides from being obliterated from orbit. And you know what? I’m not upset about being left out of the plan because of my ego. I’m upset because you lied to me. Exploited me—and believe me, I’ve been exploited before by creatures whose only desire was to make me scared or angry, simply because they could, and because they knew I was helpless to stop it.”

A guttural choking grated from Anakin’s throat, and Obi-Wan watched, speechless, as his former Padawan paused to draw in a shaky breath. Several seconds ticked by in silence before Anakin continued, his voice still trembling.

“You had a choice. You chose to let me think you were dead so you and the Council could wring every last drop of grief from me to sell your cover. I thought you’d died in Ahsoka’s arms—before I could say goodbye, before I could get to you, leaving all that guilt and responsibility on her . Leaving me to carry your corpse back to the Temple. I had to sit through your funeral. Then I wasn’t able to sleep or eat or meditate because of the sheer guilt pressing down on me. And on top of everything else, I had to comfort Ahsoka and keep strong for her when she couldn’t sleep because of nightmares. Is that reason enough for you? Does that meet whatever ludicrous standard you have for what qualifies as a justified reason to be upset? And for fuck’s sake, this isn’t even the first time you were believed to be dead!”

Any response Obi-Wan had formulated now withered on his lips, his breath catching in his throat. Anakin spoke the truth: not long after the first battle of Geonosis, he and Anakin had been stranded on Jabiim, an Outer Rim world of the Republic that had been overrun by Separatists. Though the Jedi had been dispatched to restore order, the effort had been useless, resulting in mass casualties of clones and Jedi alike. In the confusion of a fiery battle that persisted despite the pouring rain, Obi-Wan and ARC Trooper Alpha-17 had narrowly avoided an exploding AT-AT, only to be kidnapped by Ventress before the smoke cleared. She’d tortured them, attempting to extract information from them at first, and then just for the sheer pleasure of it.

But while every other Jedi thought Obi-Wan had died, Anakin hadn’t given up. Though he was just a Padawan, he was able to concentrate on their bond, reaching out through the Force until he was able to see through Obi-Wan’s own eyes and recognize the planet where he and Alpha were stranded. Then, without delay, he’d launched a mission to rescue them both. 

At the time, other Jedi had believed Anakin was losing his mind to grief, that his sense of reality was slipping because he remained unable to process Obi-Wan’s loss. They assumed his connection to Obi-Wan was a delusion manifested from his inability to let go.

“I have to confess,” Ki-Adi-Mundi had told Obi-Wan afterward, “that I assumed young Skywalker was suffering hallucinations due to losing you.” Ki-Adi had taken over Anakin’s training in the face of Obi-Wan’s presumed death. “He’s stubborn and reckless, perhaps, but magnificently talented for one so young. And as we’ve seen, magnificently devoted to you.”

“I never doubted you,” Anakin had murmured to Obi-Wan later, curled up close to him on his hospital bed, his face buried in Obi-Wan’s shoulder even as he carefully avoided aggravating any of his injuries. “I dreamed of you. I sensed you. I never gave up on you. No one could convince me you were dead.”

Twenty-eight other Jedi had died in battle on the rain-drenched landscapes of Jabiim, including a group of other Padawans that Anakin had tried his best to evacuate but failed in his attempts. Instead, their bodies had been left to sink into the muddy battlefields, strewn amongst hundreds of clones and the wreckage of assassin droids. Of the thirty Jedi dispatched to the planet, only Obi-Wan and Anakin had survived, and it was only because of Anakin’s heroism that Obi-Wan was still alive.

The ordeal was not one Obi-Wan had considered when he accepted his mission as Rako Hardeen.

With new eyes, he studied his one-time Padawan, observing for the first time that Anakin’s tunic and tabards seemed looser, that his face was drawn and tinged gray at the edges, and that sheer exhaustion permeated his entire being.

“So tell me,” Anakin said, his voice tight, defeat lining the slope of his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. “Is it so wrong? To not want to have to mourn you unnecessarily once more? To not be told, again, that it’s time to let go of you when you’re not truly gone? To not have to wonder if I’m going insane when I think I can still sense you? To not want to have you and the rest of the Republic’s High Command fuck with my head, even if it’s for a good cause?

“Sometimes I don’t think I’m going to make it out of the war alive,” he said raggedly, the words nearly indistinct. “Other times, I think it’s my curse to live while everyone else dies around me, and that when this war finally ends, it will have all been for nothing.” 

“Anakin . . .” Obi-Wan began, and then trailed off when he realized he didn’t know how to continue. He wanted to comfort him, draw him into an embrace, and hug and hold this boy he’d raised, this boy he loved, until he was able to reassure him that all would be right and well in short order.

But his heart sank as he realized he had nothing to offer that would resolve the situation, and any potential placations sounded trite and hollow as they ran through his head. None of them knew how this war would turn out, when it would end, or who they would lose the next or the day after that.

“I didn’t come here to argue,” he managed finally, suddenly feeling as weary as Anakin looked.

Anakin scoffed, shaking his head and swiping impatiently at his eyes. “Oh, of course. You came here expecting me to cook you dinner. Expecting that Ahsoka and I would be so ecstatic at your miraculous survival that we would be able to instantly overcome the mindfuck you and the Council put us through, with no questions or lingering grief. No anger. No confusion. You thought we’d all sit down to a happy meal, just glad to have you back, totally willing to ignore any complicated feelings to avoid giving you any trouble. Is that about right?”

“Well, why can’t you be happy that I’m alive?” Obi-Wan challenged him, his exasperation spiking as his exhaustion mounted. “Why can’t you just accept my return? Accept that you may not have been included in this mission and just be grateful that I survived?”

“Why would I be happy about being tricked into believing you died ?” Anakin asked, staring at him in disbelief. “Do you not understand the issue here? Am I failing to communicate to you that I didn’t want the man who raised me, and the people who I trust and take my military orders from, to use me as part of your scheme to fake your death?” 

He crossed over to the cupboard again to grab his own wine glass. “But I get a kick out of you reciting all the emotions you’d prefer me to have in this situation. Gratitude. Happiness. Once again, you don’t mind me having feelings the instant those feelings make it easier on you.” 

Returning to the table, Anakin grabbed the wine bottle, which glugged gently in the quiet as its contents splashed into the glass. “And for the love of all that’s sacred, drop the wounded bird act. You were the one making all the decisions in this situation, from plotting with the Council on how best to manipulate Ahsoka and I, to wanting me to hail your triumphant return. I don’t know why you’re acting like you’re the victim here. You’re the one with all the power. I guess Ahsoka and I can eagerly await to see how you decide to fuck us over with it next.”

“Stop bringing Ahsoka into this,” Obi-Wan snapped. “You’d do well to be careful not to bias her with your persecution complex regarding the Council.”

Though Anakin had been about to take a sip of his wine, at Obi-Wan’s remark, he slowly lowered his glass until it thunked back down on the table, and turned a hard gaze back to his former Master.

“I would say that you and the rest have already involved Ahsoka in this situation by virtue of pretending to die in her arms,” Anakin replied, his voice quiet but shaking with suppressed rage. “And even if you hadn’t, of course Ahsoka would still be a factor in this situation. Want to know why? Because I used to comfort myself with the idea that even if my fighter went down and I died tomorrow, you would be there to take care of her. That she’d be safe with you there to look out for her. Seems like a spice dream now, but that’s how I used to be able to sleep at night.”

“What?” Even after their heated exchange, it were as though the floor had been yanked out from beneath Obi-Wan. “Of course I’d care for Ahsoka in your absence—”

“Until what?” Anakin challenged, his voice taut. “Until the Council tells you otherwise? Until they decide that finding some fresh way to traumatize her is in everyone’s best interests? If Ahsoka needed you, can you honestly promise you would be there for her?”

“Yes—”

“Then promise me,” Anakin begged, his voice breaking. “Promise me that if she ever ends up in trouble and I can’t help her, you’ll do everything in your power to help—give her whatever she needs. That you’ll risk your spot on the Council to make sure she’s okay if you have to.” 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said helplessly, his tone dangerously close to pleading himself. “I—I can’t make that promise. I am a Jedi—as is Ahsoka! The Code—the Republic—those must always be our priority . . .”

Though he intended his protest to be a staunch declaration, it instead trailed off as if he wished to say more but couldn’t. He was left to gaze at Anakin's anguished face, noting the frantic working of his jaw, the traitor tears that threatened to escape from his eyes at any moment.

“I love you and Ahsoka more than anything,” Anakin rasped, the sheer brokenness in his voice piercing through Obi-Wan deeper than the sharpest blade ever could. “In spite of anything else, I adore the both of you. I love you, and I thought of you as a father for years—even if you didn’t approve of me telling you so—until I realized you were more like an older brother. The stuffy, rule-abiding kind.” Through his tears, a smile tugged at his lips, but it couldn’t quite fight their trembling. “And when I was assigned Ahsoka, she became a younger sister. And then, I thought we had our own little family. That something good had come out of this endless, endless war. It’s been almost three years—three years of my life spent fighting, and the worst part is that I’m good at it. I’m good at fighting in a way no Jedi is supposed to be. But I always told myself when we finally got through it, we would have each other.” His voice splintered over a barely suppressed sob. “But now I’m not sure.”

Hesitating slightly, Obi-Wan made a tentative move toward him. “Padawan—”

“I love you both,” Anakin choked out, eyes bright and desperate, tears trickling down his face like the raindrops back on Jabiim. “I love you both so much, and I wish I could prove it to you somehow. Show it to you in some way so that there’s never any doubt in your mind for the rest of our lives. I value you more than anything. More than being a Jedi. More than the Jedi Code. And I would do anything you asked, because you were the one to ask it. That night in the club on the lower levels, when I told I loved you—I meant it then. And I mean it now.”

Swallowing hard, he gazed at Obi-Wan imploringly, transparently begging for a response that Obi-Wan knew he could not provide. And Obi-Wan sincerely regretted his inability to supply the answer Anakin sought.

Still, he opted to aim for the bright side anyway. “The war has to end sooner or later,” he offered, trying to combat the tension with a reassurance. “I can’t make any promises to you, but we both know it must end at some point.”

Truthfully, Obi-Wan ached to draw Anakin into a hug and hold him tightly, savor the moment of being able to embrace the child he’d raised one more time before the war inevitably separated them again.

But in light of Anakin’s confession and their argument itself, it would perhaps be cruel to give Anakin unrealistic expectations.

And as Anakin stood before him, staring at him in desperate hope of an answer that would never arrive, Obi-Wan could not push away the tendrils of guilt that began to ensnare him.

“Perhaps I should go,” he volunteered, reasoning that his presence in the quarters was no longer productive.

There was a cracking sound from the glass in Anakin’s gloved hand, and then it shattered in his grip, crystalline fragments cascading down to the floor in a deluge of sharp edges.

Anakin looked down at the glittering pile without expression.

“Yeah,” he said, more tired than Obi-Wan had ever heard him before. “Maybe you should.”

Once Obi-Wan departed from Anakin and Ahsoka’s quarters, the quiet of the Temple halls pressed down onto him, increasing with every echo of his footfalls. The stillness forcibly reminded him that at one time, he’d walk through a corridor and bump into an old friend, spot an acquaintance returning from a mission and inquire about its outcome, or encounter a cluster of giggling young Padawans flinging themselves around a corner in a race to see which one could reach the recreational area first. (Obi-Wan would then proceed to scold them for running, naturally.)

Now the halls were bare beyond the occasional clone who passed by with a nod of acknowledgement or the harried-looking Knight or Master who’d clearly just come back from the front, blood and grime staining their robes. If any Padawans passed by, they were grim-faced and tight-lipped, aged far beyond their years and much too weary for running.

The war had taken its toll on all of them, and Obi-Wan found himself brooding on the subject as he wandered through the halls. It was strange to consider that Anakin and his entire generation had never known peace as Knights. Some of them never would, dying in battle less than a month after receiving their new rank. And then there was the group of Padawans who’d died on Jabiim after already losing their own Masters. 

One of them emerged in Obi-Wan’s thoughts more strongly than any other, and he found himself musing on Zule Xiss, a fiery Zeltron Padawan whose anger had nearly consumed her in the wake of her Master’s death. In spite of drifting dangerously near the dark side, she’d perished while giving her life in battle, fighting fruitlessly to save the remaining Jedi on the planet. Her last impulse was to wish the Force would be with her friends; alas, each one of them had been slain shortly after her. 

But had Zule lived and discovered her Master’s death had been manufactured by the Council and that Glaive was truly alive, would she forgive him? Would he ask it of her? Or would the pain of the deception be too great for their bond to survive?

His wan ruminations swam aimlessly through his mind, drifting in and out between other preoccupations. With Anakin having neglected to prepare dinner, Obi-Wan hadn’t eaten. He was just debating if he should stop by the nearest refectory for his evening meal when he rounded the corner, almost bumping into Mace. 

The Master of the Order looked just as drained as Obi-Wan felt, and carried himself with the demeanor of a man who’d just finished a day of being besieged by bureaucrats and knew that tomorrow he’d have to return to more of the same.

But weary or not, Mace was as sharp as ever, and in a millisecond, he’d assessed Obi-Wan, intelligent dark gaze sweeping across him and missing nothing. 

“I think you’re a man who could use a drink,” Mace said conversationally. “And I know I’m one.”

The tapcaf of choice was a quiet one in the Orowood District, with unobtrusive lighting, low ceilings, scrubbed wooden tables, and mismatched chairs. The air smelled pleasantly of polished hardwood, with soft music of relaxed tempo drifting throughout the establishment, settling into the silent spaces. The overall atmosphere was one of composed coziness—this bar was not one where customers went to frolic, but to enjoy a pint in tranquil near-silence. Most of the patrons kept to themselves or spoke quietly to one another over their drinks, the murmurs of their conversations not discernible. The loudest group in the room was a flock of students playing some kind of strategy game by the transparisteel globe fireplace, but most of the noise was the clatter of dice on the table and the rapid scratching of a stylus on flimsi.

“Cheers,” Mace said when the Theelian barmaid delivered their order. He lifted his usual drink, straight Corellian whiskey, and clinked his glass gently to Obi-Wan’s. “To this war ending tomorrow and all of our Jedi returning home safely.”

“Ditto,” Obi-Wan agreed wholeheartedly, and drank deeply from his tankard of local ale.

But as they both set down their drinks again, Obi-Wan studied his friend and colleague. 

“Is that what you earnestly wish?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “Peace as soon as possible?”

“Don’t you?” Mace asked bluntly, leaning back in his chair. “If there were some way for the Separatists to surrender without any cost to us, to finally have order restored in this galaxy, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I dream of it,” he added, his voice softening. “Of bringing home the Padawans I sent out to the battlefield, and the older Padawans I Knighted solely so we could have more generals in our ranks.” A long sigh escaped him, his characteristic stoicism vanishing to reveal an exhaustion beyond any possible measure. “It would be a welcome change from sending condolence letters to their families when we receive the daily death report.”

His frankness caught Obi-Wan off-guard, and though he’d lifted his tankard to take another sip, he lowered it again.

“I hadn’t realized,” he said distantly, and found himself wondering if his family on Stewjon had received such a message.

Mace glanced at him, instinctively guessing what he was thinking. “They went themselves,” he told Obi-Wan without preamble. “Anakin and Ahsoka. To express their condolences in person.”

Abruptly, Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat, and his airway suddenly constricted. 

“Oh,” he managed. “I hadn’t—hadn’t realized.” While he didn’t want to repeat himself, he found he was unable to avoid it.

“It seemed cruel to stop them,” Mace explained, rubbing his temple with a battle-scarred hand. An undercurrent of regret could be detected in his tone. “After all, they had just lost you. Allowing them to travel to Stewjon seemed like a necessary step in their grieving process. It also lent credence to the idea that you were truly dead.” He eyed Obi-Wan. “How has Anakin taken your sudden resurrection, if I may ask?”

A long breath escaped Obi-Wan. “Not well. He’s angry. Hurt. Outraged.”

“Ah, the intensity of youth,” Mace remarked, taking a pull from his whiskey. “Well, he’ll calm down in time. If for nothing else, then for the Padawan he’s raising. I’m glad he has that stability to keep him grounded—Sunrider knows I could have used it when I was his age,” he added, a touch ruefully. “But that’s why we assigned him to train Ahsoka, and he’s more than met our expectations.”

For several minutes, they sipped their drinks in comfortable silence, listening to the excited half-whispers of the students nearby. 

“Do you ever worry that your first assessment of Anakin was correct?” Obi-Wan asked eventually. “That Anakin was too old to become a Jedi?”

Mace glanced at him sharply, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Dare I ask what inspired this question?”

Discomfited, Obi-Wan could only raise and lower one shoulder helplessly. “I only ask because in my observations when we . . . discussed my mission as Rako Hardeen, the subject appeared to inspire misgivings on his behalf. Regarding his place in the Order.”

“That’s only natural, isn’t it?” Mace returned, his brows knitting. “Your undercover mission was exhausting for the both of you. Ahsoka as well. Of course Anakin is hurt about being left in the dark, but eventually, he’ll understand that the circumstances demanded it. Give him time. You’ll see.”

Anakin’s heartfelt words echoed in Obi-Wan’s head. I love you both. I love you both so much, and I wish I could prove it to you somehow. Show it to you in some way so that there’s never any doubt in your mind for the rest of our lives. I value you more than anything. More than being a Jedi. More than the Jedi Code. And I would do anything you asked, because you asked it. 

“His emotions on the subject were . . . very thoroughly experienced,” Obi-Wan hedged, knowing he could never reveal Anakin’s full confession.

“Obi-Wan, he’s young,” Mace said flatly. “He’s much younger than you or I when we became Knights. Him and his agemates—they’re all so young. At twenty-one years old, I never would have been considered for Knighthood, let alone assigned a Padawan. And Anakin was nineteen when he got both.” He sighed, slumping in his chair, a grimace overtaking his features. “We were privileged to reach maturity in peacetime, when we could focus on expanding our knowledge and devote ourselves to the mysteries of the Force. I remember when we would pride ourselves on exploring new worlds for the Republic, meeting with dignitaries and demonstrating how we could help their people.”

“We still help people,” Obi-Wan said quietly, conviction searing through him with the words. 

“Yes,” Mace agreed wearily. “But at such a cost. Now our Padawans learn battle strategy in class. Most of our young Knights don’t spend longer than a week at a time in the Temple, and that’s usually to recover from one grueling campaign before being ordered out to the next. They have no time to heal spiritual wounds or concentrate on how to realign their focus and refresh themselves. Self-improvement is all but forgotten—it has to be, because it’s been cut away to allow time for new generals and commanders to learn to manage their battalion or practice counter-measures for the latest Separatist weapons. Our own ways are being gradually diminished by this war, but we must fight, because it is our sworn duty to defend the Republic.” Mace looked past Obi-Wan, his gaze dim and distant. “But sometimes I wonder when it’s finally over, if we’ll have anything left of ourselves.”

The comment was strikingly similar to one of Anakin’s. Sometimes I don’t think I’m going to make it out of the war alive. Other times, I think it’s my curse to live while everyone else dies around me, and that when this war finally ends, it will have all been for nothing.

“Is that what worries you regarding the younger members of the Order?” Obi-Wan questioned softly. “That they will lose their way as Jedi?”

The churning overtook his stomach once more, this time not due to anger but his own anxiety, and he awaited Mace’s reply in trepidation, wondering if he would again recognize Anakin in Mace’s response. 

For several heartbeats, Mace did not speak, soothing himself with a restorative pull of whiskey before setting down his empty glass. “The strange part is that I don’t have a specific worry for them,” he said quietly. “I just . . . I worry what will become of them when it all ends. There’s never been a point in our lifetime when our young have been constantly mired in battle and death without respite. The extended exposure to such a level of strife, the unending cycle of pain and loss and grief, with little time for resolution and closure—I worry if they can withstand it. We ask so much of them, because the Republic needs so much from us. 

“But are we asking too much of them? We placed— I placed Anakin and all of the Padawans of his year on the battlefield as Knights, thinking that this conflict would be brief, that we could resolve it in a matter of months, and then they would be free to recover. But now it’s nearly three years later, without any resolution on the horizon, and many of those same Knights are dead. And none remaining know how to move on from the perpetual barrage of battles, nor do they hold the experience or maturity to cope with the outcome. All because I decided to allow the Chancellor's initial request to send Padawans into the field.”

Again, just like Anakin, Mace looked wearier than Obi-Wan had ever witnessed before, and he knew he couldn’t let him bear the weight of responsibility alone.

“All of us Councilors supported Palpatine’s request at the time,” he pointed out. “It seemed reasonable then.”

“So it did,” Mace agreed somberly. He looked at Obi-Wan directly. “But our collective decision can’t negate the responsibility that I hold.” He drew in a deep breath. “And because of said responsibility, I feel it would be remiss of me not to offer you advice regarding your situation with Anakin.” 

Only the briefest moment of hesitation impeded Obi-Wan—did his argument with Anakin constitute a “situation”, much less one to be remarked upon by the Master of the Order? He wasn’t overly fond of the idea. Nevertheless, Mace was a personal friend, and Obi-Wan valued any contribution he could provide.

Thus, he nodded, meeting Mace’s gaze head-on. “Thank you. I would welcome your input.”

Mace held his gaze, deadly seriousness in his eyes. “Then you shall have it uncensored. Years ago, when the Council assigned Anakin his first solo mission as a Padawan, you approached Master Yoda and I with your doubts about his character and preparedness. You called him arrogant, citing your opinion that his advanced abilities had led him to believe himself superior to others. In response, I defended Anakin, and I’ll defend him now.” 

“I—” Obi-Wan attempted to break in, but Mace merely held up a hand.

“Perhaps you still consider Anakin arrogant. Perhaps these misgivings of his that you mentioned test your own patience. But I would remind you that at the same age Anakin was plunged into war and granted his own command, you still had another six years of training, without the responsibilities of Knighthood or a Padawan. Can you honestly expect Anakin to behave as you would have at his age, when you had these luxuries that he never did?” 

The reasoning was sound, and a pinprick of guilt pierced through Obi-Wan—perhaps he was too impatient with Anakin given the circumstances. But Mace’s point didn’t change the substance of the earlier disagreement between himself and Anakin.

Still, he was of the mind that his main point warranted validation. “Anakin and I are Jedi of separate eras,” he conceded. “But it remains my sincere belief that in the wake of my mission as Rako Hardeen, Anakin is responsible for his own conduct and that he should be able to conduct himself as a Jedi.”

“By forgiving you, you mean?” Mace asked, arching an eyebrow. 

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I did what the mission required of me. You should know that more than anyone. I had no intention or desire of hurting Anakin. There’s nothing for him to forgive.” 

For a long moment, Mace contemplated him, the firelight reflecting in his dark gaze. Then he spoke.

“Do you know what I dread most in the course of my day?” he asked, an uncharacteristic melancholy overtaking his tone.

Obi-Wan shook his head, and Mace continued heavily.

“I dread walking into my office. I didn’t have one before this war, just a meditation chamber. But now, any time I enter that Force-forsaken room, there’s a pile of death notifications beckoning, insistently informing me of which of my friends or children or mentors were slain in the past twenty-four hours. And for each death, I send a notice with my condolences to their family. I apologize to each of them, because ultimately, it was my decision to involve the Jedi in this war and it is my duty as Master of the Order to protect all Jedi. But even then, it’s less about guilt or blame than it is an acknowledgement that my choices led to the death of my fellow Jedi—hundreds of them. That is what being a leader is—admitting that my decisions can and will hurt others and sometimes end in their deaths.”

The shadows of the tavern suddenly seemed to stretch longer, almost fully engulfing Mace as he continued to speak. 

“So many of the early days of battle blend together for me. There has been an intolerable number of fatalities even from the beginning. I never could have predicted how many we would lose. But a moment I recall with staggering clarity was when we received Anakin’s report from Jabiim. When I realized that thirty Jedi had gone to the planet, and now he was the only one to leave it alive. You can never imagine my despair in that moment—the highest number of deaths since Geonosis, and more than a quarter of them Padawans. And I knew some of them—Aubrie Wyn was the youngest, only thirteen, but held such promise that I had personally selected her for special training with the High Council, thinking she was destined to serve with us one day. Mak Lotor was the eldest, and upon the death of his Master, we’d contemplated Knighting him, but ultimately deemed it too early. In hindsight, I wish we had—I doubt it would have changed his fate, but at least he would have known we recognized his skills and conduct prior to his death. Instead, we awarded him the rank posthumously and informed his family as such.” 

The pinprick of guilt blossomed into a blaster bolt, and Obi-Wan’s tankard was heavier in his hand this time when he raised it to take another gulp. Bizarre as it was to consider that his kidnapping and torture by Ventress had insulated him from any other horrors, the length of time she had imprisoned him had allowed the Jabiim aftermath to be distant, nearly immaterial, to him, just one more piece of bad news on top of a pile of other defeats at the hands of Separatist forces. But Anakin, still a Padawan himself and the only known survivor at the time, had experienced it fully, left with no choice but to debrief with the Council and Senate each, entirely alone, without a Master to lean on. Then he’d been left to recover from Obi-Wan’s presumed death as the Council deliberated on who should be assigned to take over his training for the time. 

“But there were others I didn’t know,” Mace went on. “Zule Xiss, for one—” Obi-Wan startled at the name, recalling his own brooding on her from earlier, “—the only details I could recall about her were the number of Masters who’d repudiated her as their Padawan: five in total. And that once, in a moment of impatience, I told her that if she didn’t clean up her act, she’d end up dead in a cantina brawl. You can imagine that I regret that now—not that it does either of us any good. And since her own Master had died at Ventress’s hand barely a month before, I summoned Anakin to my office. I knew he was still reeling from losing you, but I desperately wanted some scrap of positivity to include when I told her parents she’d died a horrible death at sixteen years old. I needed something to tell them other than that her last sight in life was the wreckage of an AT-AT Walker hurtling toward her.

“And despite his own grief, his own burdens, Anakin sat with me and helped me write the condolence letters for not only her, but each of the seven other Padawans who’d lost their lives. Just so he could offer the slightest fraction more comfort to their families.” Mace’s expression held more sorrow than Obi-Wan had ever witnessed previously. “Perhaps he’s arrogant on his worst days, but there is a profound generosity to the boy. And I can tell you from all my years in this galaxy, that quality is rarer than the most precious of gems. I only regret that it took a war for me to recognize it.” His tone softened. “That was the only time I didn’t have to write those letters alone.”

Astonishment rocked Obi-Wan to his core, and though he was sitting, it were as though he’d been knocked off balance. 

“I didn’t know,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I had no idea.” The words seemed to have a life of their own, pulsing and reverberating in his ears as his thoughts were flooded with nothing but his Padawan.

“There was no reason for Anakin to tell you,” Mace replied calmly. “By the time Anakin rescued you and Alpha, both of you were in desperate condition. I doubt Anakin wanted to trouble you during your recovery. But I’m telling you now because I want you to understand that the issue at play in your current circumstances isn’t Anakin’s arrogance or pride or whatever you would fault him for. It’s because he knows loss well, and like the rest of us, he’s weary from the pain of it. That was why I advocated for Anakin to be informed of your mission as Rako Hardeen, but ultimately left the decision to you. You chose to allow him to believe that you had died, and you are now reconciling with the results. I won’t fault you for your decision, but I do want you to understand Anakin’s perspective on the issue—an issue that you had nothing of the kind to cope with when you were his age.”

Incredulity swept over Obi-Wan, and he stared at his friend and colleague, open-mouthed. “You mean to say that my choice was wrong? That I should have—what? Prioritized Anakin’s feelings above the mission?”

Unperturbed, Mace drained his whiskey before responding. Setting his glass down with a gentle clink, he squared Obi-Wan with an even gaze, direct and unflinching. 

“I mean to say that I’m due back at the Temple. The list of our newly dead friends awaits me in my office.” Without breaking his gaze from Obi-Wan’s, he reached into his inner robe and tossed out a handful of credits that fell to the table with a clatter. “You think Anakin is being selfish or childish for reacting in the way we all told you he’d react? Fine. Then be the adult in this situation. You were the one who decided to exclude Anakin from the plan against the Council’s advice. Your judgment proved sound for the mission, and you succeeded in rescuing the Chancellor. I congratulate you for it. But now you have to cope with the fallout of your choices and decide if Anakin is collateral damage to you, or if you can acknowledge that your choices hurt him.

“Just be aware that the war does not wait for any of us. There’s nothing to say I won’t have to write Anakin’s condolence letter tomorrow or next week, that the Hero Without Fear won’t be ripped away from the Republic within seconds. So if you have an issue with Anakin, resolve it. Don’t allow it to fester, to separate the two of you. I know what it’s like to have a former Padawan on death’s door, to lie awake at night with regret suffocating me, thinking of all the things I should have told her but didn’t. You are my friend, Obi-Wan, and I don’t wish for you to spend the rest of your life that way.”

With his parting words hanging in the air, Mace rose from his seat, offered Obi-Wan a nod as a goodbye, and strode for the door. His footsteps were nearly drowned out by the rattling dice from the students’ game.

Left alone with his now empty tankard and Mace’s ominous warning replaying in his mind, Obi-Wan motioned to the barmaid to bring him another ale. As he waited for his second drink, the hushed laughter of the students washed over him. And he couldn’t help but wonder if, in another life, Anakin would have been one of them. 

Following his evening at the tapcaf, Obi-Wan returned to the Temple, trudging to his quarters and grimacing when he entered, the persistent silence of the darkened room almost accusatory in its permeance. He could recall times, before the war and its weariness had consumed them all, when Anakin would leave freshly baked sweets for him on the counter for him when he returned from a difficult mission, or when Ahsoka would waiting for him to proud display a holo presentation for her literature class that had earned an impressive score from her instructor. 

But now, the only greeting he received was the low trilling of the housekeeping droid Anakin had rescued from the scrap heap, repaired, and then handed over to him as a parting gift when he took up residence in his new shared quarters with Ahsoka.

There was a generosity to Anakin; Obi-Wan would admit that. But there was also such a stubbornness, such an insistence that he knew best, that his motives were beyond reproach while everyone else’s were in question. It was that self-centeredness that frustrated Obi-Wan to no end.

But perhaps it shouldn’t. Perhaps it was only to be expected for someone as young as Anakin. After all, Mace hadn’t been outraged or surprised by anything Obi-Wan had relayed to him. Far from it; he’d been quite empathetic toward Anakin.

But I would remind you that at the same age Anakin was plunged into war and granted his own command, you still had another six years of training, without the responsibilities of Knighthood or a Padawan. Can you honestly expect Anakin to behave as you would have at his age, when you had these luxuries that he never did?

It was bizarre to consider that any element of Obi-Wan’s time raising Anakin could be considered a luxury. From the very beginning of Anakin’s time at the Temple, he’d required extra attention: special surgeries thanks to his years of malnutrition, a detailed meal plan with a daily target number of vitamins and calories thanks to the same, extra tutoring sessions to make sure his education was on the same level as his agemates, and of course, supplemental literacy lessons because Anakin could barely read in Basic and had grown up learning Huttese and Bocce. Naturally, as Anakin’s Master, responsibility for ensuring Anakin was eating enough and getting to his Healer’s appointments and understanding his homework had fallen on Obi-Wan.

But, he was willing to concede, as difficult as it had been to raise Anakin, to cope with mentoring a Padawan who was so irreconcilably different than any child Obi-Wan could have anticipated choosing as a Padawan, it would have been more difficult to accomplish any of those tasks during a war.

During his return journey to his quarters, Obi-Wan had intended to muse on both Mace’s revelations from earlier in the evening as well as Anakin’s own distraught admissions until he reached a resolution regarding his feelings about both. However, the moment he crossed the threshold, exhaustion descended upon him, pressing down like torrential rain dousing his clothing, and it was all he could manage to check his datapad for new comms, respond to the more urgent messages, and then treat himself to a long shower before settling into bed. 

But as he stretched out beneath the blankets, weary gratitude settling over him for the chance to rest on an actual mattress instead of a ship’s bunk or a prison pallet, a question floated into the forefront of his mind: if their positions had been reversed, if Anakin had accepted the Council’s mission to fake his death, leaving Obi-Wan to cope with his loss and comfort Ahsoka, would Obi-Wan be willing to forgive him?

As much as Obi-Wan wanted to say that he would, that he would accept the will of the Force and accept that Anakin had done what was necessary to complete his mission, he wasn’t so sure. And the thought of losing Anakin, of the boy he loved slipping away from him and leaving him alone, had his breath catching in his throat as anxiety riddled his limbs.

Back in the dark and damp of Ventress’s dungeons, with the cold cutting into his bones, blocked off from the Force, he’d almost gone mad with the question of if Anakin was alive or dead. When he’d finally laid eyes on Anakin again, as Anakin battled through a horde of mercenaries to rescue him and Alpha-17, Obi-Wan would have broken down and wept had they not been in combat.

He hadn’t wondered before, but now, he found himself asking the question of how many nights Anakin had wept instead of sleeping, aching with Obi-Wan’s loss, wracked with despair at losing his former Master during a moment they’d thought themselves safe from the violence of war.

The image stayed strong in Obi-Wan’s mind, and though he was weary to the bone, it was a long time before unconsciousness claimed him.

Eventually, Obi-Wan must have given in to sleep, because when he opened his eyes, the faint light of Coruscant’s artificially amplified sun was creeping through his privacy-filtered transparisteel window.

Realizing what the day’s chief priority must be, Obi-Wan hauled himself out of bed and set his caf brewer to standard so that a cup would be ready and waiting for him when he returned. Then he washed, dressed, and set out to his favorite isolated corner of the meditation gardens, safely ensconcing himself between a moss-blanketed statue and a softly burbling fountain. The daylight-simulation glowpanels above bathed him in the golden luminescence of a fresh dawn, soothing and pleasantly warm.

Once settled, he extended himself outward into the Force, focusing on absorbing the tranquility and calm it never failed to provide to him. Only then, once he was immersed within its soothing waves, did he raise the question occupying his mind.

Why hadn’t he allowed the Council to inform Anakin that his death was a ruse? Why had he himself argued against it?

The obvious answer flared into his mind: security. With the Chancellor’s life at stake and the future of the Republic in the balance, any hint of the ruse could have alerted Dooku and tipped the scales in favor of the Separatists. With the sheer weight the undercover operation held for the Republic, maintaining its integrity was paramount. And the fewer individuals aware of Obi-Wan’s deception, the safer the secret was.

But . . . no. As Obi-Wan concentrated, carefully maintaining his breathing even as he dove into the depths of his frustrations with Anakin and his own irritation during the prior night, he could recognize that the clandestine nature of the mission held little relevance to his decision.

Playing through the confrontation with Anakin in his mind once more, he pictured his former Padawan in his head. Tall, lithe, and strong, with the graceful movements and impressive stature of a learned warrior who spent most of his spare time perfecting lightsaber techniques and then passing them down to others. Young, but with a face that already bore the visible wounds of war. And much more sure of himself than the sandy-haired scrap of a boy who’d followed Obi-Wan through the Temple on the first day they’d returned from Naboo, wordless and wide-eyed at the huge statues and soaring pillars of the Temple to which Obi-Wan was long accustomed. The child Obi-Wan had once sought to protect was now an adult, perhaps before his time, and now had a Padawan of his own to train and protect.

Protect. The word seared through Obi-Wan like a blade cutting through swirling mist, and his pulse quickened as his mind raced.

Protect.

Had his choice revolved around Anakin as a Jedi? What he thought his former Padawan might do, what he believed the mission required? His beliefs regarding Anakin’s skills and capabilities for an undercover assignment?

Or had it been borne of Obi-Wan’s own desire to protect the young man so near his heart, the boy he’d raised for a decade only to reach the end of Anakin’s childhood to find the both of them plunged into a war far beyond anything they were capable of resolving?

Attempting to calm the sudden rapid pace of his heart, Obi-Wan drew in another deep breath, exhaled, and then drew in another. Releasing all judgment from clouding his mind, he contemplated the new question before him: had he decided to exclude Anakin from the mission not for the mission’s sake, but for Obi-Wan’s own?

Unbidden, Mace’s words about Anakin drifted back to Obi-Wan: He’s much younger than you or I when we became Knights. Him and his agemates—they’re all so young.

“Did I want to protect Anakin?” Obi-Wan wondered out loud to himself, his stomach swooping in sudden trepidation. Had he acted based on emotion without even recognizing what he was doing? Had protecting Anakin and then protecting Ahsoka become such second nature to him that he unconsciously structured his decisions around the prospect?

This time it was more difficult to center himself, and Obi-Wan needed to focus on a more concrete idea, one familiar to him, one where he could review his actions and know precisely what guided them at the time.

Think of another time. Think of another time when you protected Anakin.

And there were plenty of examples. Struggling through the snow-blanketed cliffs of Carnelion IV when twelve-year-old Anakin had been captured by the Open. Fighting through the ranks of slave traders to rescue thirteen-year-old Anakin when he’d been recaptured by Krayn and sold back into slavery. Frantically searching for seventeen-year-old Anakin when he’d been captured by the amoral scientist Jenna Zan Arbor. Arriving to rescue him only to be hit with the heart-stopping realization that Zan Arbor had already begun to use Anakin as a test subject in her experiments and that his hotheaded and impulsive Padawan was now a stranger to him.

But it was another instance entirely that took center stage in Obi-Wan’s mind, unfolding before him like a scene from a holodrama. 

Shortly after Anakin had arrived on Coruscant, as part of their meditation lessons, Obi-Wan had taken him on an outing to the most bustling area of the city. There, they’d boarded a hoverbus, where all the seats were occupied and the only room for them to sit was on the floor. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan had instructed Anakin to open himself up to the Force entirely, ignore all the hustle and bustle of the beings surrounding them, and find the peace within himself to meditate anyway.

When he’d first started as Anakin’s Master, he’d had little to no idea what he was doing. Obi-Wan could see that now. He’d begun his apprenticeship under the tutelage of Qui-Gon at twelve years old, and he’d been raised by the Jedi at the Temple. So his expectations for Anakin, who was a mere nine years old and still wide-eyed and awed by his unfamiliar surroundings, frequently proved unrealistic, especially in that first year or so.

No instance proved Obi-Wan’s disconnect from his Padawan more than that attempt at a lesson on the bus. For three stops, Anakin did his best to concentrate, his tiny hands on his skinny knees, his small face pinched in a scowl of concentration. Then, just as the hoverbus had pulled away from its third stop, now carrying an exhausted-looking mother and her wailing infant, Anakin himself burst into gasping, full-bodied sobs that jolted his frail frame with every gulp for breath, sending Obi-Wan himself to the verge of panic.

“I-I’m-I’m s-s-sorry,” Anakin hiccupped out, looking up at Obi-Wan, terror apparent in his enormous blue eyes. “I tried, I tried! I promise I did, but everything was too much and too loud and kept pressing down on me. I tried to be calm, I tried to meditate like you said, but I couldn’t breathe –”

And Obi-Wan, though still so inexperienced, though still so certain that Qui-Gon wouldn’t have made that mistake and wouldn’t have given Anakin too big of a task for him to handle when he had been on Coruscant for less than a month, had soothed Anakin and shushed him and comforted him until the little boy could catch his breath. 

At the next stop, he’d ushered Anakin off the hoverbus and into a nearby tapcaf, small and beginning to show its age but cozy and more than serviceable. He’d bought them a pot of tea to share, a pastry for himself, and a savory bun for Anakin. (They’d both learned fairly quickly that sweets hurt Anakin’s teeth, as he’d grown up unaccustomed to the luxury of sugar.) But Anakin calmed down as they enjoyed their refreshment together, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug of tea, breathing in the aroma, and offering Obi-Wan a watery smile, which Obi-Wan had returned. 

On the hoverbus back to the Temple, Obi-Wan had managed to snag a seat for the both of them to share. Undeterred, as soon as Obi-Wan had settled, little Anakin had clambered into his lap. Ignoring Obi-Wan’s sputtering, he had curled up against Obi-Wan like a contented tooka kit, his short hair tickling beneath Obi-Wan’s chin.

“I love you, Obi-Wan,” he’d murmured sleepily, without hesitation or reservation, as only a child could.

Then he’d dropped off to doze for the duration of the return journey, with Obi-Wan cradling him gently so he didn’t slide down onto the floor.

I love you, Anakin had said without preamble or embarrassment as a nine-year-old.

I love you, Anakin had vowed that night in the lower levels when they were pursuing Padme Amidala’s assassin through a seedy nightclub. And I don’t want to cause you pain.

Back then, Obi-Wan hadn’t responded.

And now—

I love you, Anakin had declared in a moment of pain and fury and desperation last evening.

And again, Obi-Wan had obfuscated, done all that he could to avoid answering Anakin, to either expressly admit he returned his feelings or outright reject him.

But Obi-Wan did love him. He loved the boy who’d arrived at the Temple a frightened waif. Loved the lanky teenager who chattered incessantly about ships and racing and new ingredients they’d found at that one village market on that one backwater planet and the new recipes he was going to make once they returned home. Loved the young man who stood beside him, tall and lean and confident and graceful, who he’d trained as best he was able until the war had decided for them that Anakin was ready for Knighthood.

He loved Anakin with his whole heart, and now he loved Ahsoka as well. So he’d decided to protect them, to let them believe he’d been killed by Rako Hardeen, because even if his false death would hurt them, at least it would prevent them from the physical harm the mission might cause.

He loved them both. That was why he had insisted to the Council that Anakin not be included in their plan. Obi-Wan could see now that he’d made the decision not because he didn’t trust Anakin or because he doubted his skills, but because he’d acted on what had become first instinct to him over the years: to protect the boy he’d been charged with training.

These days, there was little he could protect either of them from. Not with the war. Not with Ahsoka seeing more combat than most individuals thrice her age, not with one of Anakin’s first campaigns resulting in every one of his fellow Padawans being slaughtered.

But Obi-Wan had done his best this time, and he’d still managed to hurt them in the process. 

Did Obi-Wan regret accepting the mission? Musing on the subject, he acknowledged that he did not. Did he regret leaving out Anakin and Ahsoka? No, because he had believed it to be necessary to keep them safe. He’d make the same decision again if it came down to it.

Yet he had hurt them. His decision had caused a rift between the three of them, and it was now his responsibility to bridge that gap.

More of Mace’s words flowed into his mind. If you have an issue with Anakin, resolve it. Don’t allow it to fester, to separate the two of you. I know what it’s like to have a former Padawan on death’s door, to lie awake at night with regret suffocating me, thinking of all the things I should have told her but didn’t.

Rising to his feet, Obi-Wan took a moment to stretch, and then left the gardens, intent on apologizing to those who needed to hear it.

Eventually, he located Anakin and Ahsoka in a disused map room, one too small to be of any use during the war. At one time, it had been used mainly by students for research and learning about the cultures and geographies of planets; the audio files of any one of hundreds of holographic worlds could be activated to list off overviews or details regarding their population, economies, or topography. A user could hear a weather report for a specific region of Naboo’s Lake Country, or the latest import and export figures for Alderaan’s most recent trade close, or the precise wind speed of any given coordinates on Hoth. If one preferred, then one could even have all of the information at once.

No one preferred. No one but Anakin.

“So, how exactly is this exercise going to help me study for my geography exam, again?” Ahsoka asked, half-amused, half-perplexed. 

Obi-Wan could picture Anakin even as he spoke, legs crossed beneath him as he sat on the floor, hair brushing against his robe-clad shoulders (and the robes would be black, of course), scar shifting ever so slightly as he offered a small smile.

“It’s a meditation technique I designed when I was around your age,” he explained. “Before I knew about moving meditation, when the usual meditation method wouldn’t work for me, I would meditate with all of the audio files playing at once, so you almost couldn’t hear any individual words in the babble.”

“But that must have made it difficult to concentrate,” Ahsoka objected.

“No,” Anakin corrected gently. “It made things easier. Well, for me, at least. Instead of concentrating on my troubles or worries, I would focus on detecting each and every voice, until I could hear their words and name which planet they were coming from. And when I was absorbed in that task, I completely forgot about everything that was on my mind, and I was able to find a new perspective on the situation—a new calm.”

“Then that’s the goal?” Ahsoka questioned. “Calm through chaos?”

“Well, for you it’s more geography through chaos,” Anakin admitted. “You can memorize facts from a datapad all day long, but what if you went looking for them instead? So, if you remember searching for the sounds of Ergeshui, and you hear the sounds of the ocean, you’d remember that their economy is ocean-based, and their capital city is—”

“Ergesh,” Ahsoka answered without missing a beat.

“Right on, Snips. And if you hear a lot of discussion regarding Dantooine and their farming practices, you’ll remember that their main export is—”

“Wheat!” Ahsoka supplied triumphantly.

“Precisely,” Anakin replied, fondness evident in his voice. “You’ll do our lineage proud when it comes to your schoolwork, which is more than I ever did. I was always too busy hanging out with the Chancellor to show up for class. Thinking about it, I’m surprised no one ever complained. Oh, well.”

There was a natural pause in the conversation, and Obi-Wan decided that now would be the opportune moment to make his entrance.

Clearing his throat as he rounded the corner, he saw that his mental picture of the scene was inaccurate, but only slightly. Instead of sitting on the floor, Anakin and Ahsoka were both ensconced in squashy armchairs that must have been transported from another section of the Temple. Perhaps a few of the Temple droids had assisted; they wouldn’t have hesitated to help after all the repairs and upgrades Anakin had provided over the years. 

While Ahsoka wore her standard Padawan gear with only the addition of a colorful sweater (hand-knitted by her Master, no doubt), Anakin had neglected his black robes in favor of a militaristic blue jacket over a dazzlingly white tunic, paired with ecru-colored trousers and tall mahogany boots. He must have responded to one of the numerous requests and done an early Holo-Net appearance for a morning talk show—whenever Anakin graced the ‘Net, the production’s wardrobe department dressed him more like a buccaneer than a peacekeeper. They wanted the ratings and prestige that accompanied featuring the Hero Without Fear on their program, but preferred to keep the inconvenient Jedi aspect as far in the background as possible. And with an accent like Anakin’s, his Huttese rough edges only barely softened after more than a decade living in the innermost Core, Obi-Wan supposed it was more than possible.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Obi-Wan offered, aiming for a conciliatory opening to their conversation.

“Depends on what you’re here to say,” Ahsoka replied coolly, folding her arms over her chest even as her gaze remained level.

“Snips . . .” Anakin cautioned, but it was more of a sigh than a warning. The exhausted, exasperated expression from the previous evening returned to his features as he regarded Obi-Wan. “Master, neither of us are trying to be rude, but Ahsoka does have a test to prep for. Can we keep this brief?”

“I’ll do my best,” Obi-Wan answered, trying to maintain a warm, light tone. Truth be told, their reactions, though different, both stung–Anakin and Ahsoka alike assumed he was there to cause problems for them.

With his track record, he supposed he couldn’t quite blame them.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he declared, deciding there was no point to prolonging his main purpose. “Not for accepting the mission. Not for keeping the both of you in the dark. Not for faking my death. But because I hurt you when I did all of that. I know the secrecy was necessary, was essential for the success of the mission—but it caused you immense pain and grief. I’m sorry for that. And I’m even more sorry that it was necessary in the first place.”

Surprise was plain on Ahsoka’s face, but she tilted her head, blue eyes narrowed. She was listening to him, but wasn’t quite certain of what she was hearing. Meanwhile, Anakin’s face was carefully blank.

With neither of them volunteering any response, Obi-Wan took it as permission to continue.

“I blamed the war during our conversation yesterday,” he said directly to Anakin, meeting his former Padawan’s ice blue eyes without flinching. “And maybe you thought it was a convenient excuse, but I wasn’t lying. Just—obfuscating, so I wouldn’t have to be honest with either of you or myself. My decision to lie to you both is because of the war, but because I know I won’t be able to protect you from it.” 

Remnants of his conversation with Mace floated through Obi-Wan’s mind, visions springing up to accompany them. Parents who’d given their children to the Jedi to raise, now receiving messages that their son or daughter had died before reaching Knighthood. Species like Zeltrons, in which Force sensitivity was exceptionally rare, learning that the only Jedi of their generation had been crushed to death by a falling AT-AT before her seventeenth birthday. His own family, who he’d never met and never had the urge to find because the Jedi were already his family, opening the door of their home to find a grief-stricken Anakin and Ahsoka and wondering why this grim young stranger and his even younger companion stood on their doorstep with the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders.  

Desperately, beseechingly, Obi-Wan looked to Anakin, begging him to understand. “You were nineteen when the war began, Anakin. Far too young for the role you were expected to shoulder, and yet you did. And here you are, a decorated war hero that the entirety of the Republic relies on and looks to for reassurance. And Ahsoka—you were fourteen when you were first sent into battle. It’s appalling that the war brought us to this level, that you’re expected to go to the front lines more than you’re expected to go to your classes. But it’s what is needed from us. We are Jedi, and we fight to protect the Republic, no matter the cost to ourselves.

“But when I think about the prospect of losing one of you . . . all of my knowledge, all of my training as a Jedi doesn’t seem strong enough. I know I’ll have to let go, I know I’ll have to continue somehow without you. That if I don’t, there will be someone else who loses their family. And I know I’ll go on, and I know my heart will be breaking the entire time I do. There’s so little I can protect you from, no way of preventing you from being sent on another dangerous mission where you could die at any moment. 

“So I decided that just this once, for this mission when I had final say of including you, that I wouldn’t allow it. I had an opportunity to protect you both, just this once, and I took it. Because no matter if I hurt you, no matter if you mourned me and believed me to be gone, at least there were a few days where I knew you would be safe at the Temple instead of trying to win a hopeless battle or reclaim a world already lost.”

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath, glancing from Ahsoka’s skeptical expression to Anakin’s impassive face. The latter perturbed him; he wasn’t accustomed to being unable to read Anakin’s mood. 

“If I had to make the same choice over again, my decision wouldn’t change,” he admitted, the knowledge settling heavy on his shoulders. “I have a responsibility to the Jedi, to the Republic, and to the Chancellor. But . . .”

Here Obi-Wan hesitated, certain of the sentiment, but unsure how to give it voice. Finally, he concluded that the simplest way would have to do. 

“You told me last night that you loved me,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t answer in kind.”

Neither he nor Anakin mentioned it wasn’t the first time, or even the most recent time that Anakin had voiced his love for Obi-Wan, only for Obi-Wan to avoid the issue. That night in the lower levels, chasing that Clawdite bounty hunter, the would-be assassin of Padme Amidala, Anakin had unashamedly told Obi-Wan how much he cared for him, not hesitating in slightest to express the depths of his emotions.

“You’re the closest thing I have to a father. I love you, and I don’t want to cause you pain.”

And Obi-Wan had only responded with a frustrated question. “Then why don’t you listen to me?”  

It seemed like years and years ago, now. But in reality, it wasn’t even a full three.

“The truth is,” Obi-Wan started, and then paused, trying to speak around a sudden tightening in his throat. “The truth is that I love you both, and I almost can’t stand the idea of losing either of you. And I will always choose to protect you two, even if it does hurt you in the process. Call it ego, call it selfishness, call it what you like. I will always, always be a loyal Jedi to the Order and the Republic, and I will always place its mission and goals above myself. But if I can help it, I will always prevent you from coming to harm. It’s not because I think you’re incapable or incompetent, but because I’m used to looking out for you, Anakin. It’s become basic instinct to me at this point. And—” he tried to chuckle, but nearly choked on rising tears instead. “I only wish that I could learn to protect you, Ahsoka, instead of learning to trust your strategies in battle or that you can safely navigate a minefield without assistance. In a different life, in a different galaxy—I would have learned to protect you just as much as I protect Anakin.”

He broke off then, because it was becoming more and more of a struggle not to give into the tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes. He yearned to give them peace, give them safety, give them reassurance that they’d all emerge from this war all right.

And he knew he would never, ever be able to promise that.

But it wasn’t necessary. Rising from her armchair, Ahsoka closed the brief distance between them, wrapping him tightly in a hug for the first time since they’d found out he was alive.

“I believe you,” she said simply, and it was enough to unburden Obi-Wan’s heart and let the tension in his shoulders finally recede. Renewal crept through him, washing away the weariness of war, the constant stress of being a general in a cause that had no conclusion in sight.

Without hesitation, he hugged Ahsoka back, clinging to her like a drowning man clinging to a piece of floating wreckage.

Then, unexpectedly, Anakin was at their side, folding them both into an embrace of his own. The scent of the Nabooan fragrance he wore—a crackling woodfire on the shore of a lakeside forest beneath a tapestry of autumn leaves—lingered beneath Obi-Wan’s nose. But not enough to cover the scent of motor oil and ozone that clung to him thanks to his endless upgrades of the Temple starfighters.

“I understand,” Anakin rasped, and though he smiled as best he could, his eyes were abnormally bright. “I was upset, and I may not be happy about what you put me through, but—I understand now.”

“I wouldn’t ask anything more from you,” Obi-Wan said roughly, and curled his arm closer around Anakin’s shoulder, gripping as tightly to him and Ahsoka as he could manage.

He couldn’t ease the war or the pain of it. He couldn’t protect them forever, or even more than this once. He couldn’t fight their battles for them or stop the Republic from requiring them to do so. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he wouldn't always be there to save them. Perhaps not even when they needed him most.

But in this one moment, he could hold them. Hold the boy he’d raised, hold the girl his boy was now raising. In this one moment, he had their love and forgiveness. They knew he loved them, and they loved him right now.

And in this moment, in this uncertain time with the war that would rage around them regardless of love or life or last words before one final heroic stand, that had to be enough.

Only reluctantly did Obi-Wan step back, letting his arms fall from the two Jedi who knew his heart more than any other–the only two he had ever allowed to know him more deeply than he ever would have permitted anyone else. But even as he receded, Anakin reached out to grip his shoulder with his gloved mechanical hand, offering a reassuring squeeze along with a weary but sincere smile. The small but genuine gesture brought Obi-Wan to smile in return, fresh hope flooding through him.

We’ll be all right. The thought flared through his being with a ferocious determination, strengthening his resolve, burning away any weariness. Even if just for now, we’ll be all right.

 “You know, no one ever learned much of anything on an empty stomach,” Ahsoka pointed out, pushing up the bulky sleeves of her sweater. “Why don’t we all go out together for lunch? You can take us to that Corellian tapcaf you’re always talking about,” she suggested to Anakin.

“I could,” Anakin agreed, smiling at his Padawan. He turned to Obi-Wan. “What do you say? You think you’re up to some Corellian food?”

I think I’m just grateful we’re all on speaking terms again, Obi-Wan replied silently, almost weak with gratitude that he’d managed to mend the broken bonds between himself, his Padawan, and grandpadawan. 

He nodded, clapping Ahsoka on the shoulder. “I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the afternoon,” he said earnestly.

At that, Anakin flushed slightly, looking away briefly, and then to his Padawan. “It’s settled, then. We’ll head to the Smuggler’s Salvation. My treat.”

But Ahsoka shook her head, a spring in her step as she moved toward the door. “Nope! Today, lunch is on me.”

“Oh, really?” Anakin asked, arching a good-natured eyebrow as he and Obi-Wan followed Ahsoka out into the corridor. “And how is it that you’ve come into the funds to buy a meal for the three of us?”

“Well . . .” Ahsoka looked slightly sheepish. “I’ve been paying attention whenever you talk to me about transports, Master. And when the Coruscant Speeder Showcase was taking place last month, I decided to put what I’d learned to the test and place a wager. I got good odds, too!” She added proudly. “Everyone else was betting on the latest Skybreeze model because of all the hype about it, but I remembered what you said about its fuel system being temperamental. So I examined the specs of each of the custom speeders in the lineup, and made my best guess based on everything you taught me. And I won! It’s not a whole lot of money,” she admitted, “but it is enough to buy us a nice lunch and dessert.”

“Way to use your resources, Snips,” Anakin said approvingly. “Never let anyone tell you that you don’t know your way around a speeder.” He glanced over at Obi-Wan, a spark of mischief in his gaze. “What have you got to say, Master? Isn’t this when you despair of me and my influence on the younger generation?”

A year ago, Obi-Wan might have. A year into the war, he undoubtedly would have. But now—now time was too precious to waste by telling Anakin and Ahsoka everything he would have done differently regarding her training.

So he merely shook his head, looking from Anakin to Ahsoka with a level gaze. “You’re teaching her to think for herself,” he said simply. “And you’re smart enough to recognize when the popular opinion isn’t the correct or logical opinion,” he told Ahsoka. “I don’t think I could ask for either of you to be doing a better job as teacher and student.”

“And you’re failing at your job of being the grumpy older Master who disapproves of everything we do,” Ahsoka chirped, slipping her arm through Obi-Wan’s as they exited the Temple doors and began descending the steps to Processional Way. “But I don’t mind very much.”

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed, as Anakin loosely slung an arm around his shoulders as well. He glanced from Ahsoka on one side to Anakin on the other, his honey-colored hair gleaming gold in the artificially amplified sunlight. “No, I don’t mind one bit.”