Obi-Wan Kenobi stared into the glass of electric-blue Keela blankly a few moments before contemplating whether to take another shot or not. His throat already burned from the previous three he'd had and his stomach was warm with its effects; his head beginning to buzz. However, no matter how hard he tried, the tension in his back and shoulders would not subside.
He tossed his head back and drank, clacking the glass back down on the table-top.
The bouncing electric lights of club were pounding and threatening his peaceful resolve, he realized; music blaring a path through his head and rattling around his skull, bringing with it the beginnings of a severe migraine he'd regret in the morning. The place smelled strongly of alcohol, bodies, and some type of food that didn't seem the least bit appealing. Save for the flickering strobe lights of a myriad of color, matched only with the array of different people, it was dim and overpopulated; loud and unrelenting.
It was exactly what he needed after such a day. After such a life.
He'd frequented here before in his younger years before the war – Qui-Gon had introduced him to Club Bothamia, where he'd had friends on the inside that were not only good sources of information, but kindly entrepreneurs as well. Obi-Wan could remember his shock the first time he'd been in here apart from Qui-Gon – once a modest club had become a breeding ground of trouble and miscreants. But, the lively atmosphere was able to drown him; keep him hidden in the shadows of his far, Friday night booth.
He'd brought Anakin here once, after the attempt on Padmé's life, in search of information. He'd tried the bar scene at the busy counter, and it hadn't gone well for either of them. After being shoved around, offered death sticks, and caroused by the local waitresses, Obi-Wan had found the idea of a back booth far more appealing in his later visits.
And so he'd come, sporadically; never a pattern to his methods of his visits. Obi-Wan liked to keep a low-profile outside the Jedi Temple, as he knew there were people who very much hated him – and the Order. So, he'd dropped in every so often to have his Keela and people-watch, no rhyme or reason.
Mostly this was because he came when he was frustrated.
There were a lot of events in Obi-Wan's life that had driven him to the precious arms of Keela – it, after all, was the best listener, and the best conversationalist. It never talked back and it never disobeyed his orders – it never died and it never left him with unwarranted and unwelcome responsibility. It didn't constrain him, nor did it stop him. It didn't make him question everything about himself or everyone he loved. It was just simple Keela.
And so, he drank. He drank away Anakin's rebelliousness and disobedience and the anger he knew was anchored in the boy's eyes. He had never wanted to train Anakin Skywalker; had never wanted him as a padawan. It was his dying mentor's wish; the dream of a man bent on change within the Jedi Order; who followed his own rules and understood the force like no one Obi-Wan had ever known. The boy was prophesied to bring balance to the order, Qui-Gon had said – to bring balance, and to bring peace to the galaxy. And in his dying breath he'd past the torch to a much too young and irresponsible Obi-Wan; who may have stepped into Knighthood of the Jedi too early. Emotionally unbalanced and unsure of himself he'd taken a padawan – the padawan. No one had asked him what he'd wanted or how he'd felt – and like a fool he'd run with it.
But, while Anakin was his biggest challenge, he was also his biggest reward. His time with Skywalker had taught him a lot of things about himself and about the Order of the Jedi. He would've never understood war like he had beside Anakin; would've never understood a directed passion. Anakin, in his swift success in the arts of the Jedi, pushed Obi-Wan to be better – pushed him harder and stretched him farther. He'd engaged wisdoms he'd never dreamt of knowing and practiced a patience that probably would've had Anakin never become his padawan. He'd learned forgiveness and chance, intelligence and stupidity. Well acquainted with risk and even more familiar with victory, Anakin had made him a Master. Or, made a Master out of him, whichever came first; he didn't know. Regardless, Obi-Wan was pretty sure Anakin was the reason his hair was thinning and losing its vibrant – and highly coveted by women – auburn shine.
The Keela burned a track down his throat and wrestled with his memories, which were oddly planted in his gut tonight. He was beyond exhaustion after such a mission in the Outer Rim – exhausted beyond extension. Obi-Wan was pretty sure he was spent, and wouldn't have been able to write his name with open eyes and intelligence much less report back to the temple. His muscles ached – keenly reminding him he was not as young as he once was – and his head throbbed complacently, like it always did upon return to Coruscant.
He looked across the bar to find a blond-haired waitress reaching high for a peculiarly shaped bottle of ale. She was waifish and frail, with honey-colored hair and delicate, pale skin. From behind she instantly reminded him of Satine. The vision of the Mandalorian Dutchess skipped through his mind like a jammed gear, and he had to close his eyes and look away from the woman. A thousand regrets anchored in his chest, weighing down his breathing as he stared into the depleting amount of blue Keela.
He shouldn't ever have left Mandalore with Qui-Gon, he reasoned. He should've stayed with Satine, and she wouldn't be dead. He wouldn't be alone. Her empire wouldn't have crumbled in the wake of her burial – Mandalore would still be. He could still feel her soft touch on his skin as she ran her fingers through his hair, the melody of her voice as she whispered his name. He remembered again the goose-bumps he got when she laughed. He had felt things with Satine he'd never known before – experienced an aliveness that he didn't know was accessible to men in the galaxy. She had completed him, and he had completed her. A beautiful, delicate balance of poise and romance that was only talked of in dreams and novels. His heart plummeted to his ankles, perhaps past the floor. A burning grief raged through the core of his gut, and tension rushed up and blossomed behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head. Another failure of his; Satine. Mandalore.
The waitress stopped by shortly, dropping off another Keela. He didn't recall ordering another, but relished the idea of the drink. He stared into its mesmerizing blue, finding himself lost in the oceans of Naboo – lost in yet another memory of his, another grief. His throat constricted as he remembered his time there with Jar-Jar and Qui-Gon in the beginnings of Anakin's trainings. There had been only a promise of war then, only a prayer against it. There had still been hope for peace and politics and democracy. He remembered a most sweet and pure Padmé Amidala, in the deep of her reign as Naboo's Queen – a raging innocence and democratic fire in her wake. She had been all bravado and grace at the same time, as had her people and the planet itself. A much more peaceful, just time he recollected.
He raised his head and spotted in the corner an older man, with a long braid and strong shoulders eyeing the crowds. He too looked alone and wallowing in his regrets; oddly securing a feeling in Obi-Wan that he was not alone in the universe in this sailing ship of regrets. The man's graying hair and beard struck him a remembrance of his former master, Qui-Gon. He had never really gotten over Jinn's death, or the fact that he had killed Maul – had been the first Jedi to kill a Sith in over a thousand years. It had all happened so fast and he had been so young and inexperienced…it had gotten Qui-Gon killed. His failure to act and logic had cost him his best friend and master; the Jedi's perhaps most liberal and open Master. The way Qui-Gon used to laugh or gesture with his hands rushed back into his mind, bringing a barrage of harsh memories and lessons that he'd never failed to execute in his mind. Somehow they'd never managed to escape his thoughts, but had not managed to transfer so easily to Anakin either.
Then, with Qui-Gon, he'd been young and emotional – all braun and no brain. Granted, times had been simpler then for the Jedi, but they had also been estranged. Then he'd been discovering his feelings for the first time and debating whether or not they'd deceive him. His Master hadn't failed to pressure him into the force and discover what it meant not only to be a Jedi – but to have the feelings of a man. That passion wasn't always the dark side of the force, it was only how we used it. Grief stole away his breath and he sighed, looking down again at the Keela. Qui-Gon had drank Keela. Obi-Wan briefly considered that all frustrated and estranged Master's drank Keela. Or, maybe it was just the regretful ones.
The music and strobes of the place pounded his senses, honing them to the situational context of his surroundings. He was well acquainted with the place now; the beat from the music having cemented itself into his chest, pounding away like a beating. He was sure he'd have some type of bruise by the end of the night – or perhaps hearing loss. He closed his eyes to block out the noise his eyes followed, but was struck with the familiarity of the feeling resting on his chest. The name, as if he needed more memories, struck him hard between the eyes: Siri. Oh, my sweet Siri.
Perhaps the first and largest of his regrets rested with Siri Tachi. The first woman to have ever recognized him as a man and more than a Jedi was Siri; the first woman to challenge everything he knew about himself. The first person to show him dedication and determination – the first person he'd ever met with unfastened passion and the purest bravado of strength he'd never know. He had not met another person like Siri, nor had learned any more lessons like the ones she'd taught him.
Hers had been the most purest of loves, the most loveliest of dedication and servitude. While Satine had completed him, Siri had built him – had laid the foundation for how he would pursue the world around him and those in it. His vow to never profess his love for her again had been the first vow he'd broken, as he'd cradled her dying body against his own and felt her blood mingle with his for the first time. Her soft, dying eyes had been the last piece of the boy Obi-Wan Kenobi he'd known – her death had grown him into a man; had changed him. The memory of it swallowed him whole, spit him out, and left him more broken each and every time.
He downed this Keela in one go.
The next came in a blur, without him even flinching. Obi-Wan felt his vision begin to swim as the monsters of his past came rushing into his mind and began kicking his memories around like toy balls. He felt them ricocheting off the walls of his heart, making it profoundly harder to breath and pump blood to his appendages. He had so many regrets that he couldn't even list them all anymore – they were long enough to hang a noose, long enough to strangle him in a hold he'd never be able to break.
His life had been one big roller-coaster of emotions that he'd been told never to process, to always force down and disregard. It got harder with age. As time began to creep up on him and remind him that he was nothing more than a refined, chaste servant of the force, it was harder to drudge on and harder to see the bigger picture. Now that there was war with the Seperatists and he was responsible for men's lives, it was nagging and piercing. His emotions were more unbalanced than ever, and the war didn't help. Being in control of a fleet had been the last responsibility he'd needed – and to be in joint control with Anakin, more or less, had risen his cholesterol a few points. He'd been plucking grey hairs for weeks now since the event had happened.
Being responsible for his own life was not hard – he made choices for himself, took chances he could explain the consequences for later. It was fine – he knew his own limits and what made him tick; what he could and couldn't expect to do. It was easy to gamble with his own life and force himself to do things – he didn't mind chancing death and waltzing with risk on his own accord. It provided adrenaline and opportunity to put into practice his life's efforts and work. He provided him with stamina and bravado, a chance to atone for his mistakes and make right all this mess that was Obi-Wan Kenobi.
But throw in the lives of a company of brothers, then it was different. Commander Cody and Rex and the entire Open Circle Fleet was far too much responsibility to rest on a council of shoulder's, much less those of one man. Two men, if you counted Anakin – if he could even be counted as a leader. He needed as much council and guidance as the next man, which left the duty to Obi-Wan.
He had to collect the thoughts of a thousand troopers and two Jedi – himself and Ahsoka, before she'd left the Order; another regret he wouldn't even mention – and see those thoughts to reality. He had to lead troopers into the reality that they were expendable and created to be disposable– that they were born to die, in a war no one really understood truthfully. He had to know them and know their names and understand their weaknesses, assess their strengths. He had to look into their eyes before every mission and pep-talk them; provide hope for them – only to watch that hope crumble in death or crack in defeats. He had to gamble their lives regularly and hope he didn't fail – and he had failed, many times. A lot.
He had to somehow cope with their screams and their fallen bodies in his dreams; had to listen to their blood cry out for revenge. He was in command of their destinies and their fears, their victories and their losses. Him. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Who'd shaken and lost everything he'd ever gambled his entire life.
It was all a lot to live with, these ghosts. They followed him everywhere he went and never were away on leave. They trailed him like a shadow and spoke to him when he meditated, reminded him when he slept, hounded him when he was alone. He remembered these things in war and in pleasure; thought on them when he was alone or in company. They nagged and pulled and tore at his resolve, cracking away at the barricade he'd placed up around his heart many years ago as he'd stared into the eyes of everything he'd ever loved and watched as it had died in his arms with Siri. His losses had been reconfirmed with Qui-Gon. And it had laughed at him with Satine. And it challenged him with Anakin, each and every day. It pushed him in the war, grappled with him in the eyes of his troopers. Flooded him before the Council and whispered to him in his Keela.
It was what had driven him to drink.
And drinking was one regret Obi-Wan Kenobi didn't have.