"Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses."—Proverbs 27:6

A crack of blastfire, revebrating through the chill night air, drills into a man. A living, laughing, loving being. A friend, a mentor, a brother—he is all these, but death is no respecter of status. It grabs us, wrenches us all from this realm at some point or another, and as the blaster bolts drills through chest and skin and heart…I feel reality begin to unwind.

And then he plummets, falling, falling, falling…

"Anakin?"

The sheer utterance of my name jolts me out of this dark reverie, this delving of my mind into hell. Because I remember, tell myself, I'm not there. Not on that rooftop, strobes of Coruscant lights playing across my features as the sniper fires an ultimatum. I'm not there, watching a single hyphen of light streak toward my friend, and I no longer see his boneless form twisting to the distant ground. I'm here, seated in Chancellor Palpatine's decorous office, meeting the milky gaze of the man himself with a long sigh.

I give my head a quick shake, try to rid it of lingering memory-ghosts. "Sorry, Chancellor. I was…I'm still trying to sort this all out, I guess."

The Chancellor's thin, wan lips pull into a kindly smile. "Don't be, my boy. Your reaction to all this—to thinking your friend was dead, then finding him alive—is natural. Quite natural, I should say: after all, the whole of the GAR is still reeling from his death." His pale eyes warm. "Even Commander Cody is a little addled by everything."

Ah, yes. Obi-Wan's "death". It's a surreal thing, the way events have transpired: one moment, I'm watching his body descend into a crematorium, on all sides surrounded by weeping friend and comrades. The next…well, I'm face-to-face with a rugged mask, all angles and hard lines, and the man wearing it is him. Is Obi-Wan, clean-shaven and garbed in armor and bandoliers, face warped far beyond recognition and voice a raspy, mechanized dirge.

And as I met his familiar blue-grey gaze and watched those copper brows tilt in words inexpressible, I knew. Realized that something was different, that there had been a change between us. That there's a rift, its gaping maw forced apart by circumstances that should've never been.

I knew—and I know—that he lied.

"Something else is troubling you, isn't it?" Palpatine queries, head canted. He leans forward, knitting his bony fingers together on his desk, and in a lower voice, "you know you can say it, Anakin. I won't judge you—never have, never will—for simply proclaiming truth."

But that's just it. It—this, that, whatever—isn't simple. It's messy, convoluted, a veritable labyrinth of deception and broken trust. And it hurts. Like crap. So even saying it—that sends pain, sharp and astonishingly raw, coursing through my veins. "Chancellor, with all due respect, I—"

The Chancellor lifts a hand, cutting me off. "Anakin, Anakin, Anakin: please. I know what's troubling you."

I snap up, spine straight against the back of my over-stuffed chair. Great. Just great; after all, last thing I want is to spill my heart, let is gush onto this carmine floor. Because maybe, just maybe, allowing it to flow will break…everything. "I don't feel like talking about this."

"I know. I would feel the same if I were under the impression that a friend had lied to me."

"He didn't lie to hurt me," I point out rigidly.

"Of course. He was doing it protect me, wasn't he? He should be hailed as a hero, even." He leans forward more, plants knife-like elbows on his desk. "But you want to know what I think, Anakin? It's that it doesn't matter. Lying is lying, hurt is hurt, and when you get down to it, he did both. And he knew it."

A muscle leaps in my jaw. "He apologized afterward, Chancellor. He was sorry, sorry that he'd made the decision to keep me in the dark."

Palpatine cocks a thin, snowy brow. "Sorry he deceived you…or sorry he was caught in the act?"

"Neither. Both." I slump in my chair, drag a hand down my angular face. "I don't know, honestly. Not anymore."

"And why is that, Anakin?"

"I don't know," I repeat. But I do. I know, grasp it all with my mind. Want to shout it out, release all the doubt-shadows writhing in my thoughts, tell him that I hardly trust anyone. Even Padme, her umber eyes locked to mine as the inward monsters rage on, reminding me that I am engulfed by liars. "It's…I can't really put a finger on it, Chancellor. I hope you can appreciate that."

Another warm, doting-uncle smile touches Palpatine's mouth. "Of course, my boy. I'm only interested in helping you through this."

I straighten. "And how you would go about doing this?"

"I couldn't really say, I'm afraid," replies Palpatine, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. "All I know is that doubts are like mysteries; once they are uncovered, laid bare for all to see, they can either be proven or disproven. And the more naked they are, the more sure the truth."

"Are you suggesting that I should—" Eyes going round, I cut myself off. No. No, I cannot accept this, not in a million lifetimes. I'd rather slash my own throat, listening as scarlet life patters on the floor.

But the Chancellor's merely nodding stoically, as if he's somehow in favor of the unthinkable. "I am, Anakin. I'm asking you to spy on him."