Many thanks to those who read, comment and keep my story on their radars. You justify all my nutty hours researching (thanks, Wookieepedia), writing, re-writing and editing… Queen Yoda, Mo Angel, Raiukage, Eldar-Melda, QueenNaberrie, maesde, Mireille (no end in sight, for now) and Guest – thanks again.
Here we go: Obi/Ani mega-bonding. Jedi getting their dander up. And… a plotline!
Chapter 20
Leave it to Obi-Wan to find the most obscure of "necessities" with bare notice.
The Jedi master sits in the co-pilot's chair, hand buried in a cloth that glides methodical circles into his well-scuffed boots. The habit is long-practiced, yielding a sense of ritualistic peace as Anakin observes – with absolutely no intention of polishing his own.
"Apparently, smugglers have a sense of propriety about their boots," the master informs, firmly applying another dose of polish as he eyes assorted nicks on Anakin's footwear. "Certainly wouldn't hurt yours at all."
Anakin offers a careless shrug as his gaze falls to the Corellian boy slumped awkwardly in the pilot's chair. His face is squashed at a distorted angle, rolling snores showcasing his exhaustion. Anakin's piecemealed shirt bunches about his neck with a snugness bordering on uncomfortable.
"How's he doing?"
Obi-Wan decodes the question: Should I expect to find the blunt end of a blaster near my temple anytime soon?
"Oh, he's angry. Snide." The master swipes at his boots with a bit more gusto than before, as if on a mission to remove every particle of Tatooine from the soles. "More of a smart-arse than you were, surprisingly enough."
The scar around Anakin's eye moves with the arch of his brow. "Really? That might be the first time you've given me a compliment about my teenage years, Master." But his mischief-tinged smile dulls the sarcasm.
"Not surprisingly, he's interested in why you fell. I told him to ask you." Scuff, scuff. Dab of polish. Scuff some more.
Anakin wryly pulls up a chair. "That should be quite a conversation. Understanding it as an adult is difficult enough."
He plucks the cloth from Obi-Wan with flourish and gets to work on his own boots, since his master's have been buffed to spotless perfection – as always.
"What? I'm to look like a Hutt when we meet the alliance? First impressions, you always told me."
Obi-Wan snorts in the same manner he saves for the penultimate move of a zealous dejarik match. "I certainly did, but you showed no signs of listening."
"Hey, I listened!" Nonplussed, Anakin's fingers freeze, mid-swipe. Pause. "Sometimes." Obi-Wan's own eyebrow quirks. "Well, when it suited me."
What is that glimmer in the older man's sage eyes? Anakin knows the wait for whatever nugget of knowledge Obi-Wan is about to bestow will be worth it, but that doesn't lessen the itch to give his master a good smack for dragging it out.
"Han will listen." A knowing smile crawls beneath Obi-Wan's beard as he pats a wayward cord from Anakin's tunic into place. Patience, padawan. "When it suits him."
Anakin leans back into the chair, considering. Yes, his master is probably right. And fatherhood is grudgingly stretching his patience to degrees he'd once thought unattainably high.
When Anakin glances back, Obi-Wan is chuckling with a closed smile. "You do that a lot more now," the master observes.
"What?"
"Smile. Look happy, rather than ready." The grin morphs into a slight frown. "It suits you, Anakin."
Could take some getting used to, Anakin thinks, this open current of affection that flows unexpectedly from Obi-Wan's Force signature and easily into his own. The connective tissue of a padawan-master bond, powerful as it is, differs greatly from the nuances of a link brokered from decades-long fellowship, especially now that it flourishes freely.
Anakin's throat is a bit constricted when he responds. "Might not look bad on you, either. Perhaps a certain handmaiden with a weakness for bearded Jedi could – "
Before he can finish, setting the stage for Obi-Wan to protest, a dissonant snore blares from Solo as the boy twists in the chair. Sable hair falling over his adolescent cheekbones, his eyes flicker and he thrashes for a moment, then falls back to noisy slumber.
Both Jedi are gazing pensively at the young Corellian when Obi-Wan borrows the cloth for a last shine.
"When Han stepped between you and the twins' room, I felt that… presence, heard that... drone." When he straightens, Obi-Wan's back is too rigid, an indication that the spectral depiction of the Dark Side had thoroughly unsettled him. "It was so calculating. Cold." His vision wanders toward the windshield, seeming to contemplate adequate phrasing with the passage of the stars. "Formidable."
Anakin's gaze follows his master's, even though the celestial bodies hold no answer. "He always was formidable. I didn't see the cold and calculating parts until… well."
"Sidious." Obi-Wan breathes the word as if it's the most tawdry in his rather sizable lexicon. Probably is. "Greedy Sith. I'll give him that. Relentless, too." Obi-Wan holds himself in check, unsure if he's as hungry as he thinks for the details. "How often do you hear encouragement like that?"
"Too often to keep track." Anakin flicks at a flyaway thread on his trousers, head turning toward Obi-Wan in sudden awareness. "How did you hear it? That hasn't happened before."
Obi-Wan's fingertips comb through his whiskers. "I thought I felt something in that moment at your mother's grave when we both refused to attack. A cleansing, of sorts, within our Force-bond." Fragments of stale burdens and mistrusts had withered, crumpled, then flushed harmlessly away within the depths of the Force.
"It's not necessarily a genesis of our bond, because it was never broken. We're just more attuned, centered. As it should be."
Anakin recalls his earlier desire for rebirth, which he'd considered just another throwaway wish to the stars, at the time.
Perhaps he's been granted something just as significant. The purification of his link to Obi-Wan symbolizes that fraying bonds of brotherhood and friendship can be patiently re-strung, if both parties are willing to thread the needle.
"Thank you, Obi-Wan."
"You're welcome." But the Jedi master's reply isn't automatic. He's listening acutely now to nuances and crevices of their discussions. This earnestness in reforging their communication could become tiresome if it lingers too long; for now, Anakin finds it oddly touching. "For what?"
Anakin reclaims the cloth, now so stained by worn polish that it's hardly useful.
"For knowing that voice in the dark wasn't me."
x x x
x
A remote hangar
Alderaan
Ever the pilot, Anakin thumps the Falcon's throttle on his way out of the cockpit, mouth tweaked in a small smile. She's certainly not the Azure Angel, but the intrepid freighter has now twice pulled his arse from the fire.
Once the Jedi disappears from sight, Solo follows, giving the throttle his own grateful smack. "If Shrike could see us now," the boy mutters, a crooked – and quite similar – grin on his face.
Obi-Wan straightens the wrinkles from his spacious robe, shaking out the last bits of sand. Force, it's been forever since he's seen the splendor of real vegetation, or the ripple of a waterway, or anything not dusted in musky grit.
"Off that planetary sandcastle at last!" Threepio exclaims, toddling down the gangplank with fussy enthusiasm. His metallic arm clanks onto a silvery-blue dome at his golden waist. "Oh, look! I'm visualizing water, and green landforms, and, according to my databank, enormous, petrified hives on this planet. Do hurry, Artoo!"
The married Skywalkers exit the freighter moving as one, joined at the hands as each free arm cradles a twin. With Luke's fair coloring and Leia's dark-eyed beauty, there will be no mistaking their heritage. Having the toddlers presented by the parents they resemble will merely drive the point home.
"Letting the nexu out of the bag, I see," Obi-Wan mumbles into Anakin's ear, somewhat amused as he treads behind them. Clutching a knapsack with his meager belongings, Solo lags a few steps south. He can't remember if he's ever been to Alderaan; entirely possible, since his early trips with Shrike were spent toiling in the galley of the Falcon with barely a breath of fresh air.
"We're not in the dustbowl anymore, are we?" Solo mutters, surveying the hangar warily.
Luke squeals in Anakin's arms as a cool, misty breeze brushes his cheeks. They'd been guided to a secluded airfield on the cusp of the breathtaking mountain range near Juranno. In the midst of royal vessels scattered about, rich splashes of emerald grassland and sapphire-waved lakes peek through windows atop hangar walls.
Anakin squeezes Padme's hand before she can tell him how much she misses a like planet dear to them both. It would be callous to feign the kindness of saying "When the war is over." He murmurs simply, "Soon, love."
They descend the gangplank without a moment's pause, Anakin discreetly scouring the hangar for the flavor of their welcoming committee. He's barely swept the right flank when Obi-Wan's whisper calms through the Force: Relax. Why do you always expect trouble?
Because people aren't nearly as magnanimous as you think, comes the reply. Sometimes, I'm actually right.
Obi-Wan's expression remains placid, but Anakin hears his Force-chuckle. If you say so.
Bail Organa's dark hair is now dappled with gray. He approaches in the ornately-colored robes of his home planet, flanked by what appear to be a few regiments from the Alderaanian military. Others – those employed by the airfield and selected dignitaries in garbs of magenta and olive, scatter nearby.
Completely ordinary, Obi-Wan thinks. And yet, something tugs through the Force, a rustle urging anticipation. Be ready.
Organa wears an expression of official welcome, hands clasped behind his back as he passes the droids to greet the Skywalkers. If their obvious closeness surprises him, he conceals it expertly as he addresses his colleague, senator to senator.
"I am pleased to offer you refuge in Alderaan, Senator Amidala. And much more pleased to see that you have avoided Imperial entanglements safely, milady."
Padme doesn't flinch an eyelash, merely smiles in gracious acceptance, every inch the dignified public official despite the conspicuous toddler nestled against her shoulder.
"I am truly grateful for your hospitality, Bail. And, if you please, I prefer to be addressed by my rightful name, Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker. You know my husband, Anakin, of course."
The newly-announced husband, redolent in a crisp, if muddy-brown Jedi robe with no trace of grit, nods while gamely stifling the grin of a rogue. There's a rush of euphoria at finally hearing his wife's full, wedded name roll from her lips, even more of a thrill as those who absorb it gape like children on Winter Fete morning.
She is brilliant, his wife. And enchantingly clever. And more breathtaking than the majesty of a Nabooian waterfall to a boy born from sand.
She's his. He can crow it to the moons of Iego now, and even after his exultation rebounds to this planet, it will still be so.
The jubilation lasts a fleeting moment before Organa flashes an expression of dutiful apology to both Skywalkers. "Yes," he answers with reluctance.
The instinct of readiness heightens as Obi-Wan watches Anakin's inertia shift from his heels to the balls of his feet. The Jedi master feels the pulse of his own adrenaline increase from a trickle to a palpable stream.
Something's happening. They utter it simultaneously within the Force.
When Organa speaks again, it is with formal statesmanship as he beckons a legion of olive-clad troops who'd been absent just a few moments prior toward the beleaguered travelers.
"Anakin Skywalker, it is my duty to inform you that the Alliance to Restore the Republic places you under arrest for high crimes against the former Galactic Republic and the Holy Order of the Jedi Knights."
Organa's eyes fall to the bundle in Padme's arms, recalling the little one named Leia's unearthly beauty on Polis Massa. His tone softens. "Please, Knight Skywalker," he beseeches to the tight circle, "release your weapon and do not resist. There is no battle to be won here."
Despite his building trepidation, Anakin agrees. He's half expected this would unfold at some point, had hoped to preempt a scene with a bit of adept negotiation from his master. No matter now.
The Jedi merely pulls his son further into his embrace, a hand cradling Luke's head in his billowy robes, soberly cognizant that the privilege may be short-lived.
His wife, however… Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker's stature snaps in an instant, her royal bearing evident in the upward flare of her shoulders even as she shelters Leia closer and turns her erect body into her husband's. With the ironic shift in perilous terrain, it is wife who shields husband now.
"Very well," Padme declares in the much the same brook-no-argument tone she used when announcing her marriage. "Under those conditions, Senator Organa, please instruct your troops to arrest me, as well."
x x x
x
It takes Obi-Wan a minute to get his bearings amid a flurry of startled inhales and outright gasps.
Flummoxed, he stares blankly at Organa, unsure which of them is more discomfited, until Anakin has to scoff "Obi-Wan!" so he can pass Luke gently to his master.
Obi-Wan's simply never seen this before. Anakin, surrendering with passive compliance. Even in the most dire of situations – Muunilinst comes quickly to mind – there would be a burst of bravura that his padawan would, somehow, manage to pull off with either panache or sheer, stupid luck – but he'd never just… succumbed. Handed his son to another with an expression so grim it nearly knocks Obi-Wan clean over, but then, how will he attend to Luke from the tarmac floor?
Leia, too. Despite Anakin's fervent hisses to the contrary, the senator of Naboo is freely surrendering, as well. Organa himself seems to have lost the capacity to roust another command, so baffled is he by Padme's intentions as she kisses Leia's forehead in hasty farewell. The Force-sensitive girl, jolted by both her father's and Obi-Wan's climbing agitation, begins to cry.
"Here, I got her." Solo jumps forward just as the Jedi master shuffles Luke from one arm to the other. Padme gratefully transfers her daughter with a soft acknowledgement to the boy from Corellia, notices how gently he cradles Leia, even if his "ssh, ssh, it's okay" murmurings are clumsily ineffective.
"Padme – " Organa attempts, a venture to regain control of what is rapidly disintegrating into an embarrassing kerfuffle. Those who have gathered buzz, mystified, at the senator of Naboo as she stands near her husband – husband, the Hero With No Fear! – while preparing to part from her twin children – sired by the Hero With No Fear! – and… waits. Her tiny figure is dwarfed by Anakin's stout, intimidating frame, but it is her hands that draw fascination from the crowd.
They rest in front of her, upturned so the lighter palms cup toward the sun, her fingers slightly curling. The stance is unmistakable; it appears her hands have already capitulated to unseen binders.
This… Anakin will not have this.
"You will not march her away in restraints." Obi-Wan stiffens as the tone of Anakin's warning – it is assuredly a warning – washes over them; awakened warrior, poised to erupt. "She will not be dishonored that way." Half mind-trick, partial command, it comes with the authority of a general accustomed to giving orders.
His durasteel hand remains at his side, motionless. Away from his lightsaber, thank the Force. "I'm going to hand over my weapon and settle my children. Then, you will allow Padme to walk of her own volition, without binders. We will not resist."
As Anakin goes through the motions of what he'd just promised, Obi-Wan's temple develops an abrupt throb. I don't know what in the kriffin' hells she thinks she's doing, Master, so snap out of your stupor and figure it out!
"I am not arresting you." Organa addresses his colleague, trying mightily to ignore the seething Jedi – make that seething Jedi husband, of all things. Face a mask of contained anger, Anakin proffers the hilt of a gouged, scuffed lightsaber in his gloved palm.
Few things shame a Jedi more than relinquishing his storied weapon.
"By your own standards, I believe you must," Padme argues coolly, earning a cantankerous glower from her husband and a gape of bafflement from Obi-Wan. "By the nature of my association with the former chancellor, now known as Emperor Darth Sidious, I have committed crimes against the Republic."
Various negotiation tactics rampage through Obi-Wan's mind. From squabbles in varied local chambers, to rages in the battlefields, he's seen them all. This little gambit of Padme's, he realizes, is more suited to a rowdy sabacc table than a fledgling rebellion base.
"I'd certainly like to have a look at the language defining 'high crimes against the Republic,'" Obi-Wan intervenes, keeping his tone neutral. "In regard to crimes against the Jedi Order, it is known throughout the galaxy that the Order operates as an informal, rather than an official, intermediary. Therefore, the Republic has no jurisdiction." He fixes a stern glare on Organa. "Conflict within the Order will be handled by the High Council, as it has always been."
Organa finally finds his tongue, and it turns acerbic. "I'd be quite interested in the proceedings, Master Kenobi, considering there are so few members of the Council left alive. Just yourself and Master Yoda, by my count." He risks a poisonous look at Anakin, lowering his voice so it is discernible to only those closest him. "You were quite thorough, Lord Vader."
"That name," Anakin grits, teeth exposed and shining as he enunciates very clearly, "means nothing to me."
"It means something to the Republic," Organa fires back. "It is the name of the Emperor's right hand. If Darth Sidious cannot immediately be tried for his litany of crimes against the Republic, justice will be sought elsewhere. Perhaps the place to begin is with the premeditated execution of the Separatist Council on Mustafar."
The foolish opening given, Obi-Wan seizes it, quickly transferring Luke from his arms to Solo's – thank the Force for Luke's genial nature – then striding crisply forward until he's aligned with the Skywalkers.
"Wha…? Wait!" Solo yelps, juggling the crawlers. "That's two, you know!"
"Then I will surrender, as well," Obi-Wan offers silkily, mirroring Padme's gesture with a show of subservient hands at his own abdomen. "I was solely responsible for the death of General Grievous and equally complicit in the death of Count Dooku. Both were confirmed Separatists, were they not?" His head flicks toward the lightsaber attached to his waist. "I will relinquish my weapon under the conditions General Skywalker has requested."
This is how you figure things out? Anakin roils through the Force.
Solo's mouth droops until Obi-Wan is certain it may get caught in the latch of his belt. "Um… this is all a mistake," the Corellian pleads, addressing Organa, the Jedi, the pretty senator/queen, the blasted droids, whomever will make sense of the farce before him. This is why they'd hightailed it from the dustbowl? This is refuge?!
Time to demonstrate his proficiency in spinning the bantha poodoo, apparently.
"I'm Han Solo. Glad ta meet ya an' all. I'm a smuggler and a pretty good pilot. I play with blasters and I'm not much of a babysitter. Oh… and I'm ten." He sighs rather dramatically, would follow with a theatrical gesture or two, but his hands are full with gawky Skycrawlers. "And I'm really, really irresponsible most of the time!"
The venue nearly explodes then, with hair-triggered politicians, short-tempered Jedi and pre-pubescent smugglers vigorously defending their positions until a single shout of exasperation permeates the din.
"Enough!" Mon Mothma, undisputed leader of the alliance, stands before them. Distinctly unhappy, although Obi-Wan cannot for the life of him figure out who has earned her wrath.
"Bail, instruct your troops to relieve our Jedi guests of their weapons until we can bring some order to this chaos. I am relieved to see you well, Padme, and… congratulations. We'll prepare accommodations for the children promptly. You look no worse for wear, Obi-Wan, which is saying something, considering the company you keep."
Mothma turns her unreadable attention to the Jedi who also has the unlikely title of husband.
"Anakin Skywalker." Is that a smile or a smirk? "Still causing a commotion every time you land a ship, I see."
Fortunately, Obi-Wan is the only one who hears Anakin's smart-arse Force reply.
"Let's get you all inside, then. We've a lot to discuss." Mothma pauses. When her politician's diplomacy dissolves in an instant, all are reminded that dark times have altered every dynamic of relationships once held sacred.
"Be advised: If for one moment I suspect the name Vader fits you better than Skywalker, I will do what I must."
With that, Mothma turns on her heel and marches from the hangar, skirts of her gown swaying in the breeze.
Ideas? Feedback? Life advice for hard luck Han? By all means, light up the comments box!