He left him there, screaming and burning. He'd been sent to eliminate that person he'd grown to love as a son, but when the final moment came...he couldn't do it.
Some would say that leaving him alive was a sign of weakness. He'd agree. That one decision made all of the difference in the universe in the years to come. He'd allowed Darth Vader to live and aid the Emperor in his reign of terror. How was he to know that Palpatine would be able to save him? Of course, Yoda couldn't possibly fail! At least that's what he'd felt at the time, so he truly thought he'd been leaving his former padawan to die...by suffocation or starvation.
He never said it felt right. Every step taken away from what was left of his padawan's burning body compounded his self loathing exponentially. And he still couldn't do it.
Some would say that leaving him alive was a sign of his affection...his attachment. He'd agree. Both affection and weakness were synonymous in his mind anyway. Attachment went against the Jedi code. Attachment made you weak. It had certainly made him weak, for he had loved the boy he'd raised, and while he hadn't wanted to admit it earlier, he had become attached.
Some would say that leaving him alive was a selfish act unbecoming of a Jedi. He'd agree. Jedi didn't leave people to suffer. Especially not the child he'd watched grow into a man and shared most of his life experiences with. They'd saved each other's lives countless times, and he'd trusted Anakin.
He would not soon forget that foolishness.
Some would even say that leaving him alive was an act of the dark side; of anger and vengeance. Mercilessly leave a comrade in arms and fellow Jedi to die a slow, painful death instead of ending his misery. In this, Obi-wan could not agree. He'd reflected so many times on that day and the events leading up to it. If he could have returned somehow to days previous, he would have done so in a heartbeat, no matter what his fellow council members would have said. Undoubtedly they would have come up with some stupid rule about the flow of time and keeping it pure.
They hadn't seen the aftermath of the slaughter in the Temple. They'd been apart of it.
He had dissected and analyzed every single feeling he'd had that day (and he could remember each moment as clearly as if he'd only just lived them, no matter how much he wished he could forget). He'd done so multiple times, actually.
Had he felt angry? Yes. Hurt? Yes. Heartbroken? Yes. Betrayed? Most definitely. He'd also begun to feel pings of loneliness as the deaths of the people he'd considered his family (by the boy he considered his son none the less) finally began to register in his mind. The numbness had already started to wear off when he'd sneaked aboard Padme's ship.
All of those feelings, if given into, lead to the dark side, so if anyone accused him of leaving Anakin there as an act of the dark side, he could see their logic. Thing is, he hadn't given into those feelings. He'd stayed true to the Jedi code until the end. Oh he'd wanted to give into the dark side for a moment there, but Anakin's red-yellow eyes, so filled with hate and pain were the perfect reminder to keep his feelings in check. He probably would have done so anyway. He hoped he would have. Sometimes he isn't sure.
But the fact of the matter was, he hadn't given in.
If the council members remained alive, they'd ask how he could be so certain. Yoda had asked when they'd discussed plans for the future after all was said and done. How was he so sure he hadn't touched the dark side in such a situation?
His answer had been simple: because he didn't kill him.
Because with all that anger, and hurt, and betrayal running rampant through his soul, he was afraid. If he'd struck Anakin down and ended his life then and there feeling like that, mercy or not, it would have been his first step to the dark side.
He often wondered as he sat outside his hut, watching the twin suns of Tattoine set over the horizon, if it was really worth it. He'd basically traded the freedom of the universe for the sake of his own soul. Maybe that's why he stopped thinking of himself as a true Jedi, because if given the choice again, he'd choose exactly the same, no matter how selfish it seemed.
In his state of mind on Mufustar, killing Anakin would have been wrong, and the consequences of those actions would harm his soul far more than living through a thousand wars ever could...and he would never give his soul willingly to the darkness. Doing so would have betrayed everyone he'd ever cared for, including Anakin.
So maybe it wasn't quite as selfish as he thought. He hoped so, but didn't quite dare to believe.
Most likely his decision to leave Anakin there was a combination of all viable options.
Either way the result would have been the same, and he came away with the strongest conviction ever to never fall to the dark side...leaving his best friend to burn behind...
And despite the fact that he'd do it again in a heart beat, he'd hated himself for it ever since.
xXx
He never did forgive himself. Not really.
After he'd talked to Yoda, handed Luke over to Lars, and been told in no uncertain terms to stay away from the boy, he went about trying to live with the guilt as he tried to reach the consciousness in the force that was his own master.
It took him years to learn. Often, Obi-wan wondered (in his moments of deepest frustration) how Yoda had stumbled across this kind of meditation. He hated that line of thinking though, because then it would inevitably lead his thoughts to Anakin and how much he'd hated meditating. Probably still did. Scratch that, undoubtedly he did. Did Sith ever really meditate with the Dark Side?
He decided he didn't want to know.
And maybe that had been his problem. Well, part of it. He'd always been rather good at turning a blind eye.
He began avoiding news holos. Not only would they arrive from Courscant almost a week late due to the traveling of the holo-waves, but they only served to remind Obi-wan again and again of his failure. That Yoda had failed too only compounded his depressions.
Then he really met Luke for the first time. He had been out buying necessities from the nearest vendor, and was on his way back when he felt a twinge in the force. In an instant, he changed course, following the twinge to its place of origin. A little boy sat next to a sand-buried boulder, huddling there while trying (and failing) not to cry loudly.
Obi-wan couldn't help but smile (albeit a bit worriedly) at the thought of a lost, four-year-old Luke hiding from the suns' rays in the rock's shadow with his arms flung around his legs and two tear-stained streaks through the dust covering his rather tanned face.
It took him a moment to explain to Luke that he wasn't a Sand Person, or an evil Bounty Hunter bent on making him a slave (yeah, that comment brought up a lot of discomfort). Once Obi-wan had convinced the boy he meant no harm, they'd started back towards the Lars' farm.
That's when Luke had asked the question.
"Why are you cry?" he asked in broken, four-year-old basic. Obi-wan couldn't help but feel surprised.
"Why am I crying? What do you mean?"
"You hurt, here," the boy said, putting a hand over his chest. Obi-wan didn't know how to react to that. Part of him wanted to berate himself for being so obvious that an untrained youngling could see straight into him. He also marveled at Luke's connection to the Force if he'd been able to see that. "You cry."
Obi-wan smiled sadly. "I did something wrong," he said, half to himself, half to Luke.
"Sit in the corner?" Obi-wan almost laughed, memories of his cresche days when he would indeed be put in a corner so to speak. It had been a large, force-shielded area set aside for those needing punishment, but the concept was similar.
Maybe isolating himself like he had wasn't just a choice of anonymity.
"Yes," he said, feeling that stupid sad smile come back. "For a long time."
The boy's face practically lit up. "Then you done and you come help me!"
Obi-wan blinked. Twice. They were the words of a child who didn't understand anything of the universe, and yet those words had hit him so hard. Done? This child had basically just urged him to throw away a lifetime of mistakes after only four years? Four years of blaming himself (for after all, who else was there to blame?). Four years of hating himself. Four years of hating the circumstance, but never allowing that hate to go any further. Never allowing it to go far enough to drag him into darkness, but unable to let it go.
Was he keeping himself in limbo? In a place between the light and dark because of the guilt?
He certainly deserved it, but what good could he do there?
To help Luke, he'd have to be a Jedi again; rooted in the light. If he wasn't, he'd be condemning this innocent child to the same unspeakable fate as his father.
And he could not do that. He could not turn his back on the boy like he'd had to on Anakin.
"I hope so, Luke" he said at last, realizing that the boy hadn't stopped watching him, awaiting an answer.
And for the first time in four years, a pinprick of light stabbed into the self-made prison of isolation and darkness he'd unwittingly built himself into.
After his conversation with Luke, he found himself tearing away at the weight of guilt and pain, making that small pin-prick bigger, allowing more light to show through because he would not make the same mistake again, and if he had to throw away those emotional burdens that he so deserved, then so be it.
He would not turn his back again.