There were times when you had to recognize certain facts, Obi-Wan Kenobi knew. Times when you had to spread your eyes open wide, banishing the soothing veil of dark to face light, to see. Had to force yourself to take in the world around you, both embracing and dreading the comprehension of reality. Of the moment when you squared your shoulders and said, "this is happening. Here. With me watching, watching close."
And that's exactly what he was doing now: watching. Observing. Gazing out at stars as they whizzed past, their unseen eyes returning his hazy stare.
They're gone, then. Both of them. And me—I'm still here. Watching, and hoping I can close my eyes.
And not just gone. No, that would've been too easy, too clean. Too painless. Instead, they had been ripped apart by that bomb, their presences winking out from existence like dead stars, and hadn't left so much as a charred shadow on the silent ground.
Where and why that bomb had gone off, he didn't know. No one did, for that matter—not the Rebels, and definitely not Mandalore's own populace. They seemed just as perplexed as he and Ahsoka, after all; the moment the bomb had detonated, they'd raced through the streets in a frantic throng, their cries of shock and disbelief rising just above the shrill ringing in his ears. A few of them had even gone so far as to try and strike back at their unknown enemy, had fired blasters at random into the din before all had unraveled around them. Before Sundari's crystalline skyscrapers had bid the clouds farewell, twisting toward the ground in splintered, glassy death.
Deaths the Mandalorian people had blamed on the Empire.
Funny, though, how destiny worked. One moment, he was wagering on Bo-Katan to free the oft-forgotten world, was holding out for the hope that she would somehow wrest it from the Empire's grip; the next, he was watching her apparent death catalyze dreams. All around them beings were revolting, rising above the tide of tyranny to scream "enough! We're done living under you, under your shadow. Leave this planet…or die." And somehow, someway, the shadow was hearing the call—and it was flinching.
The day before he'd departed for Tattooine, the Empire's presence on Mandalore was all but memory.
Except that hardly mattered now. Mandalore—that was just another planet, a dull gem drifting through the voice tapestry of space. A side-note in the ever-scrolling record of time.
"You didn't want to leave, did you?"
Sinking against the pilot's chair, Obi-Wan gazed out the dizzying, kaleidescope display that was hyperspace. She was right, of course: he hadn't wanted to leave, his very fiber attempting to maintain a white-knuckle grip on the darkling world. He'd had—and still had—beings there that his heart drummed for, people whose absence had already forged vacuums in his cavernous soul, and letting them slip through his grasp had wrung him dry. Had left him wasted and worn, his hands quivering as he dragged them down his face. "You already know the answer to that, my friend."
She shook her head. "I'm not talking about Mandalore; I'm talking about my nephew, that kid you rescued from the Empire." Her luminous, cattish eyes narrowed. "He's your son, isn't he?"
He stiffened, body going all-ice. Swiveled his chair around, faced the woman in the co-pilot's seat. Folded his arm across his too-hollow chest. "You were eaves-dropping."
"Hey, I wasn't dropping any 'eaves'," she retorted, holding her hands up in mock-protest. "Actually, I wasn't sure that he was your son. Not entirely, anyway. I mean, I had my suspicious and everything, but those are always far-off from cold, hard facts." A wry grin touched her thin mouth. "And thanks to your reaction, I'm absolutely certain."
Frowning, he returned his seat to its original, forward-facing position. "I don't have to tell you anything."
Her brow shot up. "Oh, is that right? Well, I was under the impression that you were the one who told me that it was impossible that you'd impregnated my sister—force rest her soul. Or did I somehow 'misread' your little diary?"
"You didn't. It's just that when I wrote it, I didn't consider myself the same being as I was before. For all intents and purposes, Ben Kenobi never had children—illegitimate or otherwise."
Her grin broadened. "Ben Kenobi, eh? So your Obi-Wan friend-he went cuy'val dar…?"
He gazed back out at the lines of brilliant, whizzing stars, dismal. Once, he'd explained the concept of cuy'val dar to another being—one who'd been every bit as cheeky as the woman beside him. Only, that being had been a friend, so the memory stung. Reminded him of the boy who was now lost behind the midnight helmet and hissing, grating breath. "Until the galaxy needs him, yes. And perhaps not even then."
As if she'd sensed that was sore subject, the woman replaced her grin with a more somber—and more appropriate-expression. "Plenty of people still need Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ben."
"Name five."
A softer, lighter smile graced her usually hard features. "I can't name them all off the top of my head, Ben. But at the moment, I can definitely name one."
Careful to maintain a neutral expression, Obi-Wan regarded her openly. Before the bomb went off, he'd known in some hidden, inward place that he'd have to let her go, set her free. Give her up, like he'd done with everything, everyone. But afterwards—afterwards, he couldn't be so sure. And wasn't even certain he shouldn't: just as he'd told Ahsoka, there were really were some things you couldn't allow to pass you by.
The question, then, wasn't whether he should nurture some sort of relationship with her. That was a given, really, with her being the aunt of his only child. Rather, he felt that the choices he now faced went far deeper than that, went further than shared-blood and intertwined pasts; these crossroads challenge boundaries. Moved the ancient gates, rattled them with world-splintering questions.
The question was whether he'd keep her on as a friend, as he'd decided before the explosion…or whether they'd be something more.
Strange, how that was actually coming to mind. When the Order had been there, thriving amidst a mire galaxy, he would've instantly banished the thought. Smothered it with his own frigid mindset, the chains which had caused all his embers to wither and die. But now…with the Order itself all but snuffed out, the door was left hanging open, beckoning.
It was about time to step over the threshold, to take whatever was left of the old Order and forge it anew. To strengthen it, set it ablaze with things he'd never had. Things he'd been forbidden—but had always, always wanted.
Luke—Luke Skywalker, son of the boy who'd died on Mustafar's hellish shores—and the New Order would be allowed to love.
"And plenty of beings still need to remember Bo-Katan," he said, gazing out at the starry vortex outside their vessel. "They may believe you dead, but your sacrifice—albeit feigned—will continue to inspire your world toward courage. And who knows? The Rebels—your memory might just inspire them, as well." He adopted a tiny smile before adding, "but at the moment, I only know one being who needs Bo-Katan herself."
Genuine shock flared emerald eyes, turning them all green fire and blaze. "So that night before you left—you weren't just playing me, forcing my hand in favor of say…Mandalore?"
"Part of me was," he admitted, "but now—now I think I'm finished with losing everything. If the galaxy stole everything from us, after all, there'd be nothing left to fight for."
"Nothing good, anyway," she pointed out, leaning nonchalantly against the back of her seat.
"Yes, but isn't that what we're fighting for in the first place—good? It's whatever being in this universe clings to, whether he or she realizes it, and in the end, it's that keeps everything going. It sustains things, hold it together." Making certain that he she could read his eyes, he leaned back in his chair as well. "Without good, I don't really believe there'd be an anything."
She studied him closely. "And what's your 'anything'?"
"Ben's or Obi-Wan's?"
She shrugged. "Both. Neither."
Hands clasped in his lap, he mulled that over. Really, there wasn't a lot the Empire hadn't stolen, that they hadn't torn from his life. That Anakin's blaze hadn't consumed, ravished. But what remained, what hadn't been diminished by all the storms and lurking shadows—that was worth fighting for. Was worth guarding with his final breath.
Because love, for whatever reasons, seemed to defy logic. Worlds could come crashing down, plummeting eternally through midnight void; skies could shatter, could fracture and split—but that wouldn't alter love. Wouldn't cause it to fade, to drift away from reality toward another shore. Wouldn't bring it to an end. No, love would push ever forward, lingering, hoping, believing past all things. Past loss and grief, and perhaps to the country beyond.
"Ben Kenobi's anything would be his son," he said after a while, "and you. After that, it's all murky: I can never be certain who'll be able to stay, or who's going to leave me. Again." He sent her a long, meaningful look. "But I'm warning you: it's going to be difficult. Very, very much so. Being a Jedi, I've got a price on my—which means that it'll be over yours, too. So don't jump into this without weighing the risk, because there are some things I'll have to tell you that could put you in jeopardy."
"I'm no stranger to risk," she pointed out, leaning toward him. She reached for his hands, clasped them between her own. "But even if I wasn't, I don't think I could simply walk away. And neither could you."
Retracting his hands, he gazed evenly at her. "Yes, but Ben Kenobi wants to take things slow, to get used to…well, you. You're not Satine, I know—but it might take some time for me to stop comparing you with her. To stop expecting…"
A ghost, he'd been about to say. A spectre. A whisper of a being that insistently lingered at the edges of memory, pleading to be either released or embraced.
And he'd have to let go, one way or the other. Holding on, even to someone as earnest her, was tiring. Made him weary to the bone to constantly clutch and grab, his memory still swarming with past wounds and scars.
As if she'd understood where he'd been going with that, she slowly nodded her copper head. "I know. Just let me know when enough time's passed, and I'll be there. Waiting."
He sagged against the back of his chair. They said time healed things, made them better. Took the bite, hid it away to unseen places—and if that were true, he'd have plenty time to mend. "Waiting where?"
"Oh, here and there," she replied, a sly smile stretching her mouth. "But after that Rae'An idiot tracked you to Mos Eisley, I think we should both stay away from Tattooine for a while."
Straightening, he quelled the tiny protest rising in his throat. There were things on Tattooine, people he had a lot of obligations to. People who might possibly give the galaxy something more than a fool's hope. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. Leaving that place—it could hurt a lot of being, Bo-Katan. Good, innocent ones." He shook his head. "And besides, Rae'An is dead—and there's hardly anything left to take from me."
"She had a vendetta with you?"
Smoothing his beard, he glanced down, studying the vessel's dingy floorboard. So she thought they'd had a vendetta, huh? Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely untrue, now that he thought of it—but it wasn't the truth it fulls spectrum, either. Rae'An hatred for him, the venomous threat's she'd made against all he'd ever love went far beyond mere spite, went past grudges and revenge served icy-cold. "You're changing the subject."
She arched a thin brow. "So what if I am? You have a lot of history, Ben. A lot of baggage." Her leonine gaze narrowed once more. "There's still more to the story, isn't there? About Satine, I mean."
Wary, he sent her a measured side-long glance. "You think I'm withholding the truth from you?"
"You did with the 'I-never-fooled-around-with-your-sister' routine," she pointed out drily. "And even when you did let me in on what really happened, I knew you were leaving something out. Something important." Her voice dropped to downy whisper, stirring his hair with her breathy tones. "She meant to get pregnant, didn't she?"
If she'd speared him with his own lightsaber, he wouldn't have been any more shocked. Rattled. Shaken to the core. "She told me that afterwards, yes."
"So even though you know that there was a high possibly of her being pregnant, you decided to leave."
Reading her expression, he knew it wasn't a question. Wasn't a greedy demand for answers, for the truth right here and now. It was simply words arranged in pointed, poignant way—and once they'd left her lips, there was no denying what she was trying to say.
She was testing him, probing him for flaws. For habits that lingered on. That would die so very, very hard.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi left her," he answered, watching as the stars outside finally coalesced into their natural, dotted form. "But Ben Kenobi wouldn't, and he's ready to head home."
The End