For the first time in all his years as a Jedi, the ancient Grand Master looks as old as every day of his 9 centuries. Yoda's long ears droop pathetically with fatigue (although that is to be expected, after his confrontation with Darth Sideous)…and Obi-Wan sees new lines of sorrow etched in the already deeply-creased and wrinkled brow.
He knows his own appearance must be no better – the black soot and sand of Mustafar, mixed liberally with his own sweat, stain his skin and his singed, torn and raggedy clothing. He can feel the furrows weariness and horror have carved into his face.
So he finds it rather funny and must hastily squelch his sudden absurd desire to laugh when "Obi-wan, fare well, do you?" is Yoda's opener to the conversation.
"As well as can be expected. And you – how…are…you, Master?"
"Concern yourself with me, do not. When nine hundred years old, you are, look this good you will not."
This small attempt at levity is met by soft chuckles from both Jedi.
Mirth… Such a foreign sensation now…when short days ago he and Anakin had shared laughter, trading blows and friendly banter in the Temple dojo…
"Come on, now, one more round… You can't be tired already! Or is my Master becoming feeble in his old age?"
"Would that your blows stung as sharply as your barbs, my very young apprentice!"
Anakin's laughter rings out across the salle, answered by Obi-Wan's feral grin.
Obi-Wan clings to the brief memory of happier times as a drowning man clutches a floating life raft, pressing the palms of his hands against closed eyes to keep the images of Mustafar from intruding…
The chuckles fading into silence, all traces of humor are erased from Yoda's face as he continues, "Tried to reach our fellow Jedi, you have?"
Obi-Wan swallows, hard. "Yes, I attempted to make contact. No one responded." A desperate, ridiculous hope rises in his breast and he blurts out, "Have you - ?"
That hope is soon quashed. Yoda's silence is answer enough – and the answer, though one Obi-Wan has been expecting, is terrible.
The Grand Master nods his head once, sagely, and sighs. "Feared this, I did." His eyes, as they meet Obi-Wan's, are filled with infinite sadness.
"No more, the Jedi Order is."
Save for the two Jedi Masters, there have been no survivors of Order 66. What will come to be known as the Great Jedi Purge has been a resounding success for the Empire.
They choose not to speak of their fallen Jedi comrades (brothers and sisters in the family of the Force), instead offering up a moment of mute remembrance, sending out a prayer that the Force may take its faithful children to its breast and grant them peace in their final eternal rest.
Yet the Order is not quite dead…not yet.
Despite the events which have left their harsh marks on them both – or conversely, perhaps, because of them – Yoda is the most welcome sight Obi-Wan's eyes have beheld in a long, long time, and the Jedi finds himself hungrily drinking in the sight of the little green Master, vaguely aware that Yoda is doing exactly the same thing.
They do this, Obi-Wan realizes, to reassure themselves that they are not completely alone.
'I am not the last Jedi in the galaxy.'
A tiny whimper that speaks of serious discomfort sounds from beneath the loam-brown over-robe, along with a prickle of an emotion closely approximating intense displeasure through the Force.
Startled back into basic awareness of his surroundings – how quickly he forgets his training! – his arms immediately relax their punishing hold. A surreptitious glance about reveals no prying eyes.
He can't be too careful – spies for the Empire lurk everywhere, combing the galaxy for Force-sensitive infants to corrupt and train as child soldiers of the Dark.
He opens his cloak ever so slightly, just enough to peer down to check on his twins.
The twins. Not really his – Padmé's. And…Anakin's.