Chapter Sixty-Eight: Beneath the Stars

A sharp crack echoed across the plains. Then another, and another—sounding in time as the head of the axe bore down on another piece of wood.

The sound of splitting logs cut through Obi-Wan's senses—it kept him alert, awake. Free from the pitfalls that came with meditation and sleep. Dreams and visions always accompanied his restful moments—dreams of the unchanging past and the ever-shifting future, nightmares of long-lost friends that he could hardly recognize.

Instead he worked. He tended the gardens, patched up the fences, chopped firewood. But even this was far from foolproof. Everywhere he looked, everywhere his mind wandered, he risked being overwhelmed by something else.

The Force was always moving, always flowing around him in rolling waves—and at the crest of each cascade Obi-Wan could almost sense his former student's presence. It was out there—distant and distorted, but connected nonetheless. And each time he felt it, it took everything within him to pull away.

Every second risked detection. Every moment that he brushed the edges of his senses against the sensation that resembled Anakin's aura, he knew he was putting himself in danger. Putting Padmé in danger. The child in danger.

And yet, every withdrawal felt like a wasted opportunity. A lost chance to reach out to Anakin. To offer help. To bring him home.

Crack. The axe slammed down into another log, each half flying away from the other. Split. Separated.

Like you and him.

Obi-Wan bent down to lift another piece of wood onto the chopping block, letting out a weary exhale as he did. When the breath left his mouth, it lingered in the air as a cloudy mist. Tangible. Visible—but only for a moment. It vanished as quickly as it appeared—the goosebumps on his arms the only trace of what had just happened.

The world had gone cold.

The Jedi's breath caught in his throat. This was no ordinary breeze of chilled air—the sun still graced the sky, its cozy light slicing through the gaps in the clouds even as it descended toward the horizon. This was something else.

He dropped the axe and ran.

Back toward the cluster of prefabricated dwellings—toward his own shack, where relics of the Force now rippled with the same chill. The tomes of the Jedi Order, the crystal wrapped in sackcloth, the sapling from the Temple's tree—all of it quivered in the air of looming darkness.

Obi-Wan threw the door aside to find almost nothing out of place—save for one person, standing where she didn't belong.

"Padmé?"

The name was weak and scratchy as it rose from his throat. Unmoving, she stood there, back to him. It was only when the door swung shut that she turned around. Her eyes were red and puffy, her jaw clenched tight—and in her hand she held a book bound in old leather.

"I couldn't get it out of my head," she began, her own voice hardly stronger than Obi-Wan's—she cleared her throat before speaking again. "We're having the same dreams about him. We see the same things. And yet you seemed so convinced that he could be . . ."

She trailed off, gesturing in the air as she searched for the right word. When it came, she spoke with disgust. "Saved. So I started to think that maybe you knew something I didn't." Her gaze flicked sideways, toward the bookshelf. "Turns out I was right."

As the tome in her hand shifted, Obi-Wan's eyes fell upon the words etched into the cover—and a lump formed in his throat.

The words Aspects of the Force glistened in the dwelling's artificial light—but this, Obi-Wan knew, was not the textbook that Jedi students across the galaxy had struggled through for centuries. The cover was too pristine, the edges of the pages too perfect to belong to a text so often opened.

This was, in fact, Aspects of the Force's second volume—its ownership restricted to those who had achieved the rank of Jedi Master. The book shifted in Padmé's grip, and its subtitle came into view: The Dark.

"You had this just sitting there," she muttered, running her finger along the lettering on the spine. "Out in the open. An entire book about the dark side. Has it always been like this?"

Obi-Wan held out a hand; he felt his head shake back and forth so fast it seemed to vibrate. "Padmé, I—"

"Did you let him read this? Did you make him?"

"No!"

"Well then what happened?" She jabbed the book at him, as though the words held within could cut. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like he learned everything he knows—and I mean everything—from you."

A deep inhale filled Obi-Wan's lungs as he beckoned calmness to wash over him. To his frustration, when he spoke, his voice still shook "Padmé, please. Put that down. You don't know what you're dealing with here."

At this, a humorless bark escaped her mouth. "I don't know?" Turning back, she slammed the leather-bound tome back into place, rattling the bookshelf against the prefab floor. "I'm the one who's actually seen him, Kenobi. I'm the one he almost killed. I know a hell of a lot better than you do."

Before he could speak, she'd brushed past him and stormed out the door.

For several seconds, all he could do was stand and stare at the space where Padmé had been. He remained rooted in place as the quadbike engine roared to life outside his door; as it grew fainter and fainter, disappearing over the hills. She was gone again, off to the Spice Dancer.

And when she gets back, we do this all over again.

When the outside air had finally grown still, he lingered for a few moments longer. Then, his movements limp and halting, he ambled over to the shelf and picked up a book.

He reached not for the volume Padmé had held just minutes earlier, but for another—one far more lived in, its spine creased and its corners bent from years of use. His thumb slid along the edge of every page, memories rushing back to him as the smell of browning paper wafted upward to his nose.

Cradling it loosely, Obi-Wan allowed the book to fall open of its own accord, landing on whichever page it wished. He stared down at the text, and the text stared back—not just the predictable edges of the typeface, but the inky scrawl of handwritten notes.

It was Jedi tradition for master and apprentice to keep a shared library. Many a great debate, it was said, had played out in the margins of the old Jedi texts. And as student became master, their collection came with them—until generations of wisdom filled every page, leaving no room to write, and the cycle began anew. The margins of Obi-Wan's Aspects of the Force were mostly bare—Yoda's notes had been made on pages far older, and as a result his pupil had barely touched his newer book.

There were, however, bursts of handwriting that popped up here and there in the margins. The Jedi skimmed through the pages, his eyes darting from one scrawled note to the next until he reached the back cover. Then, turning back to the shelf, he withdrew another book and started from page one. Here, too, notes were scrawled, in that same scribbling text that the writer had always been self-conscious of.

So many questions, Obi-Wan thought as page after page slid from beneath his thumb.

It was typical, of course, for a student to be curious. But Anakin's curiosity had been of a different sort. He challenged the wisdom of the Jedi with every stroke of the writing stylus.

Patience isn't virtuous if it means letting the enemy strike first.

What if I surrender to the Force, and it fails to act fast enough to save someone in need?

And then in thick, bold ink, underlined by a sharp and scraping line—a single word: Why?

Obi-Wan felt his pulse quicken as his eyes scanned the words. He knew what Yoda would have said—things that were written in the very books Obi-Wan had shared with his master. There is no why. Clear your mind of questions.

The same things that he had said to Anakin. Time and again, he'd pushed back against the curiosity. Starved him for answers.

And in turn, Anakin had found his answers elsewhere.

Obi-Wan's hands shook as he returned the book to its place on the shelf. His eyes slowly crept up the collection until they fell upon the pristine binding bearing the words The Dark. Its spine sported no creases, its pages no folds. The edges of the cover were immaculate, as if the text had just been bound that very day.

This was the one book Anakin had never read. The one thing Obi-Wan had kept from him.

And perhaps if you hadn't, he'd still be here.

Heat rose up the Jedi Master's neck, his breathing hurried to match his racing heart. With a shout of fury, he tore the book of darkness from the shelf and hurled it at the opposite wall.

The noise was hollow and disappointing, the book hitting the wall with a dismal thump and landing atop Obi-Wan's bed. Undeterred, he turned back to the shelf and yanked free another volume, spinning around to launch it at the wall too. Over and over he did this, throwing books until his arm ached—and when he'd finally run out of books to throw, his hands began to shake again.

Standing in silence, the drumbeat of books against wall gone dead, dread slithered through his heart—horror at what he had just done. What he had just felt—raw anger, pure and hot and overwhelming. An anger that he'd been insisting to himself was under control, over and over, day after day.

The same darkness, whispered his thoughts, that took him from you.

Fighting past the trembling, Obi-Wan hurried over to the bed and pulled a knapsack from beneath it. One by one he jammed the books into the bag until the seams threatened to burst. Then, yanking open a nearby drawer, he crammed even more into the knapsack—mementos from the life he'd left behind. When he was done, all he had brought with him from the Temple—and every Jedi relic he'd found hidden among his supplies in the weeks after he'd disappeared—was stuffed into the bag.

Hoisting it over his shoulder—his back protesting at the weight—Obi-Wan made his way toward the door and threw it open. He marched across the center of the makeshift homestead, unable to stop and admire the beauty of the setting sun. The walk continued until he'd arrived back at the place he'd spent most of the day—the chopping block, and its pile of waiting firewood.

Tremors still wracked his hands as he stacked the logs atop each other, wedging kindling into the spaces between with little care. When the pile was large enough, he took a step back and struck a match. Flames danced upward, sounding with sharp crackles as Obi-Wan stepped backward and shoved a hand into the knapsack.

He plucked out the first thing his fingers brushed against—a pouch of sackcloth no larger than his palm. Tugging against the drawstring, Obi-Wan eased it open to look inside—though he already knew what sat within.

Glinting blue stared back at him. Qlik's parting gift—a shard of kyber.

Squeezing it in his hand as he drew a ragged breath, Obi-Wan tossed it into the still-growing flames.

Tongues of fire lapped against the crystal—and deep within the leaping blaze, Obi-Wan was all but certain he could see the face of Anakin.

Though the night wind carried its ever-present chill, and the breeze rustled the grass beneath her, the cold was not the reason Padmé trembled. Guilt gripped at her heart, its pangs growing stronger as she gulped shallow, anxious breaths.

Beside her the quadbike engine crackled and hissed, dwindling off to sleep. She had stopped short of the settlement when she'd seen the flames, her pulse spiking in fear as she mistook it for an uncontrolled blaze—but even when she'd realized what it truly was, nothing more than a simple bonfire, she had dismounted the bike. Smooth glass sat cradled in one hand—the bottle of wine she'd brought back from the Spice Dancer. A shitty peace offering, but it wasn't as though she had anything better. And she'd known, even as she'd stormed away from their argument, that if she didn't make amends now, she wouldn't get another chance.

And yet, as she stood and stared at the fire—at Obi-Wan, his back turned as the blaze cast him in silhouette—she couldn't bring herself to move any closer to him. Everything about the way he stood—his rigid posture, shoulders tense and feed rooted to the ground—broadcast a wish to be left alone.

Padmé's gaze flitted downward to her belly—she raised an eyebrow. Well, kid, if you have any advice I could use it. Earlier she'd felt them move, somersaulting about and kicking a foot against her stomach. Protesting, perhaps, against her invasion of Obi-Wan's home.

Now there was nothing. Stillness and silence—the child was asleep. At peace. She'd get no guidance from them now.

Sighing, Padmé took a step backward. Then he spoke.

"Don't go."

Her heart rate fluttered yet again at the sound of his voice. It was weary, hoarse and ragged—as if he'd been shouting, or had just woken up.

"Please," he continued. "Just stay."

She glanced down at the glass bottle in her hand, then back up at Obi-Wan. As she moved toward him, she fought to keep her voice soft and gentle. "What're you doing out here?"

His shoulders slumped, and he hung his head. "I got angry," he said—the words were quiet, as if he feared even saying them out loud. "We aren't supposed to get angry."

As Padmé moved beside him, Obi-Wan tossed something into the bonfire. Flames leapt upward as they consumed the discarded object—then, bending down to a knapsack set beside him, the Jedi pulled something free.

A book.

Her eyes shot sideways to the roaring fire—within, she could see charred and curled edges of page after page. Inky text vanished as fire lapped against it. She looked away from the fire, back to the book in his hands. Then back to him.

"Aren't supposed to get angry," she began, echoing his words, "or aren't supposed to act on that anger?"

She'd hoped to cheer him up, to convince him he'd done nothing wrong, but a painful wince painted itself across Obi-Wan's face. "Anakin would've asked that question." Then, hanging his head even further: "I should have seen this coming."

Padmé flinched against the urge to recoil. She wanted to push back, to invoke their abandoned agreement not to talk about him—but she knew it would ring hollow. After all, she'd already broken the rule herself. And looking at Obi-Wan, she knew he wouldn't be able to bear it.

Striding to his side, she let her free hand fall upon his shoulder. "No. Don't do that. None of us saw this coming. It's not your fault. It's not mine." As she trailed off, her gaze wandered to the wine bottle in her hand.

The Jedi's head turned toward her—the movement, slow and deliberate, seemed to take great effort. Pain sat behind his eyes as he stared at her. "That book about the dark side," he began, his voice still a low hush, "is only meant for Jedi Masters. It's the one book on that shelf Anakin never touched."

She nodded, forcing a smile—hoping he would follow in her footsteps. "That's good."

"No it isn't. I failed to teach him. Failed to warn him. He didn't learn it from me, which means he learned it somewhere else. If I had done my job, he'd still be with us—"

"Stop that." The sudden harshness in her voice surprised even her, but it seemed to snap Obi-Wan back into reality—if only for a moment.

Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly, gripping the wine bottle as tightly as she could to slow her spiking pulse. "I was wrong, Obi-Wan. I was looking for someone to blame. That someone shouldn't be you."

He seemed to ponder this for several seconds, gazing past her in silence—then, his posture deflating, he turned back to the fire and tossed in another book. As the flames consumed it, Padmé winced. "What are you doing?" she repeated.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "Taking your advice. Making peace, moving on. That's what you said to do, isn't it?"

"I didn't mean this—"

"I'm a wanted man, Padmé," he said. "When we leave this place, I can't be General Kenobi. I can't be Master Kenobi." Then, with a shrug: "I'll just be . . . me." He waved a hand toward the knapsack at his feet. "It's time to put all of this behind me."

She could have said anything in the silence that followed. She could have hung on the hope found within that single word—when. Could have pressed him for more information, could have made sure he meant it, made sure he intended to actually leave this forsaken place someday. She could have offered encouragement, brought him comfort in the idea that being "just him" wasn't so bad—or begged him to stop burning the books. Instead, a question left Padmé's mouth that surprised even her.

"What about the kid?"

As the words lingered in the air, and pain rose on Obi-Wan's face, regret bloomed within her. Biting the inside of her cheek, she willed that regret to transform into resolve. You wanted to make amends, she thought. So go ahead. Make them.

Obi-Wan spoke before she could. "You said I could never train them—"

"I didn't mean it. I was being an ass. Trying to make you feel bad. But I didn't mean any of it. I'm sorry." Pausing, she offered Obi-Wan a shrug and a wry smile. "It isn't really up to me. It isn't up to you, either. If they want to be a Jedi, they'll figure out a way. This is my kid we're talking about."

For a moment there was only the sound of crackling fire as she watched the reflection of the flames dance in Obi-Wan's eyes. "Anakin's, too," he muttered, turning away from her and bending down to reach into the knapsack at his feet.

She could only manage a weary exhalation, a single whispered word. "Yeah."

Then the firelight shone against a polished silver cylinder, and her eyes shot wide open.

"Wait!" Padmé shouted, reaching out a hand to snatch the lightsaber from Obi-Wan's grip—to stop him from tossing it into the waiting blaze. There they stood, staring at each other, each with one hand locked around the weapon's grip—until Obi-Wan yanked his arm away, tearing the saber free.

She shook her head, feeling the movement blur her vision. "Don't do it."

"Why not?" Obi-Wan asked—his image wavered as her tears diffused the firelight.

Her free hand wandered upward to the wooden carving hanging from her neck. "You'll regret it."

She thought of the countless nights she'd unclasped the necklace while she rode the quadbike across the plains, and the countless mornings she'd scoured the fields looking for the place it had fallen. The freedom she had felt every time she let the trinket loose into the air, and the overwhelming relief that had washed over her every time she was reunited with it.

Obi-Wan let out a long sigh and lowered himself to the ground—lightsaber still clutched in one hand.

"Anakin may be gone," Padmé said, "but we don't have to pretend he never existed."

At this, he glanced up at her with one eyebrow raised. "I thought that's precisely what we were trying to do."

"And look where it's gotten us." Bracing one hand against a nearby tree trunk to steady herself, she grimaced as she moved to sit. "I already lost him. I don't want to lose you too."

Padmé exhaled as she leaned back against the fallen tree, relief washing over her aching feet. Keeping her gaze fixed on her Jedi friend, she held aloft the bottle of wine that was still clutched in her right hand. "What do you say? Truce?"

Obi-Wan held out a hand, his head shaking from side to side. "Wait, Padmé. We should save that for when we can both have some."

A laugh—the first real laugh she'd let out in a very long time—escaped her lips. "C'mon, Kenobi. Don't do that. You need a drink."

Offering a shrug, Obi-Wan reached into the knapsack and withdrew a battered metal mug as Padmé uncorked the wine. She leaned over in his direction, tilting the bottle and letting a generous pour of the drink loose into his cup. Then, as he raised the glass to no one in particular, she held the mouth of the bottle against her lips and threw back the slightest swig.

Closing her eyes, she let the notes of oak and berry dance along her tongue and coat the insides of her cheeks. She held the mouthful of wine for several seconds before her eyes fluttered open—and when they fell upon the name etched into the bottle, she leaned to one side and spit the wine onto the ground.

She glanced beside her to see Obi-Wan, who had a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That is excellent," he said. "Who do I have to thank for such a lovely drink?" Reaching toward her, he plucked the bottle from her hand before she could protest.

As he read the label, his eyes grew wide. Padmé didn't know whether to stare at him or look away—her heart had leapt into her throat, and she couldn't help but bite her lower lip and wince.

"Padmé," Obi-Wan said, drawing out her name in a lengthy, shaky breath. "This is from Chancellor Palpatine's vineyard."

She could only offer a wordless nod.

"Where did you get it?"

She spoke without hesitation, as if acting on instinct—offering up a version of reality, just as she'd learned to over the years. "I found it in Liz's stuff. After she died."

"And where did Liz get it?"

A faint groan escaped Padmé's mouth as she leaned back against the fallen log behind her. "You really want to know?"

Obi-Wan took another sip of wine—this one accompanied by a chuckle. "I believe I do."

The crackling of fire underscored the silence as she hesitated—where to even begin? When she could bear to wait no longer, she blurted out the truth. "She stole it."

A smile formed on the Jedi's face, cast in an orange glow by the bonfire's blaze. "Well yes, I figured as much." He trailed off, beckoning her to continue.

"She stole it from the vineyard. While we were on Naboo."

His eyes narrowed—but before he could ask a question, the floodgates opened.

"We were doing opposition research. Digging up dirt on Palpatine. We were trying to make sure he'd never get reelected. Snooping around his vineyard, pulling old files at the library . . . aaaaand then we broke into a Republic Archives vault."

Obi-Wan sat frozen in place for several seconds—then, when the silence had gone on too long, he raised his mug to his lips and took a gulp of wine. "'We?'"

Padmé nodded. "Me, Liz, Bail . . . a few crew members from the Sundered Heart." She paused, head tilting toward the ground as the next name left her mouth. "Tyyria Nox." Then, raising her eyes to meet Obi-Wan's, she sighed. "Mace Windu."

The Jedi's gaze seemed fixed on something far away; Padmé could see the wheels turning in his mind. He lifted his glass, the motion halting before the edge of the cup reached his mouth. "Does Anakin—"

"Absolutely not," she interrupted. Her voice was stern, weighty—and despite this, the words seemed to send a cascade of relief over Obi-Wan. The tension in his shoulders vanished—and as his posture deflated, he threw back the contents of his mug and reached for the wine bottle once again.

"Good," the Jedi muttered, barely loud enough for Padmé to hear. Then, speaking up to let his voice cut above the crackle of the fire and the evening wind: "I don't suppose it was Mace who talked you into it? He has some"—Obi-Wan paused, gesturing with the wine bottle as he finished a hearty pour—"interesting ideas about Palpatine."

Padmé chuckled. "Tell me about it." Then her mind caught up with her mouth, and she felt her stomach drop. "Wait, what?"

Despite the grin that had formed on Obi-Wan's mouth, Padmé felt panic seep into her. Her thoughts raced as the Jedi raised a glass in her direction. "You first," he said—the words drawn out, not quite slurred.

"He, uh," she began, nervous laughter forcing its way out as she spoke, "he thought Palpatine was some sort of puppet master. Controlling both sides of the war for his own benefit."

Obi-Wan nodded. "He said the same thing to me."

She should have felt relieved that he already knew. Perhaps a small part of her was—though Padmé couldn't be certain. Any ease she felt was drowned out by her heart pounding in her ears. There was, after all, more to the story. Does he know that too?

And if not, what will he think of me when he finds out?

Before she could change the subject. Obi-Wan spoke up between sips of wine. "Do you believe him?"

Padmé shrugged and let out a long sigh. "At the time, I did," she said. Sure as hell wouldn't have gone along with his plan otherwise. "Now, though? After everything that's happened? Coruscant, San Sestina . . . " She trailed off, then shrugged again. "Doesn't really matter, I suppose."

Obi-Wan lowered his mug of wine, then gazed at the ground. "He wanted to kill Palpatine." Padmé froze in place—unable to move, unable to even look at him until he spoke again. "Though I'm guessing you already knew that."

It wasn't an accusation. His voice was low and gentle, warm and inviting—practically beckoning her to say something.

And so she did.

"I told him how to do it."

Obi-Wan—who was halfway through a sip of wine—let out a sputtering cough. "You what?"

She stared—not at him, but at the fire. "I paid Windu a visit before we left. Shared some secrets I learned while working for Bail. If he ever finds a way out of the Jedi Temple, he knows a way into the Senate building."

"Oh," the Jedi said, his voice still raspy from the coughing.

"Yeah," Padmé managed, her gaze still fixated on the flames.

"What if Mace actually did it?"

It was her turn to look surprised—and as she raised her head to look upon Kenobi, she saw remnants of herself. The version of her who'd sat awake at night, scheming and sketching out escape plans—plans that involved Palpatine's demise. That same plotting was suddenly behind Obi-Wan's eyes—eyes which he seemed to be struggling to keep open.

"That's the wine talking," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I've thought this through a dozen different ways, Kenobi. Palpatine being dead doesn't change things. It doesn't earn us a pardon. We couldn't just waltz back into Republic space as if none of this had ever happened."

Vader would make sure of that, she didn't say—though the look on Obi-Wan's face suggested his own thoughts weren't far from hers.

"Do you think he knows?" the Jedi asked. Then, after another unceremonious swig of wine: "Palpatine, I mean. Do you think he knows what happened to Anakin?"

She sighed, frustration bubbling within her as her thoughts dwelled on the chancellor. "I have no idea."

"Palpatine has it out for the Jedi. Has for a long time, by the sound of it," Obi-Wan said, waving about his wine glass as he spoke. Then, reaching for the bottle once more, he poured the last of its contents into the mug. "I keep asking myself why he would ever be all right with Anakin using the Force. In what world would he accept a right-hand man who used to be a Jedi?" He threw back more of his drink. "I don't like any of the answers."

"Maybe it's a secret," Padmé said, her voice wavering as her mind pushed the idea of those answers as far away as it could. "He kept it from you. He kept it from me."

"Did he keep things from Palpatine?"

She couldn't find it within herself to answer the question. She could only watch as Obi-Wan leaned over to the nearby knapsack and stuck an open hand inside.

"Hey," she said, stretching out the word while trying not to sound like a scold. "I thought we were done burning books."

"Not a book," Obi-Wan said, the words muddled and indistinct. "A message." He pulled his hand free of the bag and held a datatape aloft. The edges of its plastic casing glinted as they caught the firelight.

She knew what he'd say before she asked. "For him?"

The Jedi nodded. "I recorded it before we left. Couldn't bring myself to send it."

"What did it say?"

As Obi-Wan spoke, his voice cracked ever so slightly. "That I'm sorry. That I failed him." He scrubbed absently at his eyes. "That I just wanted him to come home."

For once, to her relief, Padmé didn't feel her own tears beckoning. "Back to the Jedi, you mean?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "That's what I meant when I recorded it. Now, though?"

Letting out a long, slow breath, he tossed the tape into the fire. They both sat and stared as the flames gnawed at the plastoid casing; as the metal data ribbon within curled and shriveled in the blazing heat.

The Jedi was the first to break the silence. "'Home,'" he repeated. "Funny word, that. Where is home, really? Is it Alderaan? The Jedi Temple? The Spice Dancer?" Tearing his gaze away from the bonfire, he glanced at Padmé. "Is it here?"

She forced a laugh to mask the ache. "So you're a contemplative drunk." Grimacing at the pins and needles in her legs, she scooted along the ground until she sat directly at his side. "You want to go home, Obi-Wan? We can. We can go right now. Get in the Dancer and just . . . leave."

The Jedi sat in silence for several seconds. A spark seemed to glow behind his eyes—hope, perhaps—though it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "No, Padmé. We can't. The child."

As her eyes darted downward, Obi-Wan continued. "If we leave now—if we're caught, and you haven't had the baby, that's the end of it. If we're going to protect the child, we have to wait to leave. Even once they're born, we may have to—"

"I know!" Padmé interrupted. Then, softer: "I know that as long as they're with me, they're in danger. I know what I might have to do." She lowered a hand to her belly—from within, she felt a tiny palm press against hers.

I just don't know if I can do it.

Keeping a hand pressed against her stomach, she raised her head to glance sideways at Obi-Wan. He was staring up at the night sky, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"If we did leave now, you'd end up having the baby in the Dancer's cargo hold." Chuckling, he lifted his mug to his lips and took a sip of wine. "That ship would be absolutely impossible to childproof. Poor child would be tripping over everything trying to walk through the galley."

"That's all right," Padmé said, a smile to match Obi-Wan's growing on her face. "They'd probably learn to fly the ship before they learn to walk. I'd have them tearing apart the engine room instead of playing with toys."

"How many holes do you suppose we'd burn into the walls while training with the lightsaber?" Obi-Wan asked, glancing down at her with a smirk.

"It's the Spice Dancer, Kenobi," she said, shuffling closer to him and laying her head against his shoulder. "Always room for another hole in the wall."

Sparks flew upward from the bonfire as his head rested against hers—flames crackling on until they fell asleep beneath the stars.

Padmé was the first to stir—the morning dew slick against her skin. Though she still sat against the fallen tree, Obi-Wan had moved to lie along the ground beside her—one arm tucked beneath him to keep his head off the dirt.

Before them, the fire had dwindled into a cool pile of ash—above, a starry night had given way to a hazy dawn. Though her back protested the motion, Padmé gritted her teeth and moved to stand up.

As she took in her surroundings, her thoughts wandered back to their very first morning together, all those years ago. The soreness she'd felt from sleeping on the ground. The fire she'd allowed to burn itself into nothingness. There was, however, something missing this time.

Or rather, someone.

And unlike their first bonfire together, the pile of ash left in the fire ring bore evidence of the night before. Melted, mangled datatape had wrapped its tendrils around a charred book—the page edges blackened, the text now faded and illegible.

And in the midst of it all, a crystal of blue glinted in the morning light.

Crouching down as best she could, Padmé reached into the ash pile and plucked the crystal free. Dusting off what few bits of soot still clung to it, she held it aloft and gazed at its brilliance. It carried a certain warmth, an alluring aura that beckoned her to draw closer—

Then Obi-Wan began to move, and she shoved the shard into her pocket.

"Good morning," Padmé said, forcing a smile as the Jedi raised a hand to rub his temples. "Feeling refreshed?"

Obi-Wan waved a dismissive hand. "I'm fine," he said, and moved to stand up.

The moment he was on his feet, he stumbled toward her.

Padmé caught him in her arms, steadying him as he struggled to find his footing. When he could finally stand on his own, she took a step back and locked eyes with him.

"You okay?" she asked—but she already knew the answer. His eyes were wide, darting about. His chest rose and fell far too quickly for a man who had only just woken up—and the breath that left his mouth was faintly visible in the air.

"I'm fine," he said, shaking as if a chill had just washed over him. "Still working off that bottle of wine, I suppose."

Padmé wanted to push. To call him a liar, to press for answers—and yet, something within urged her not to.

He was simply pretending, just as they had last night. Imagining a better world than the one they lived in now—and she couldn't bring herself to shatter the illusion. Not yet.

She wasn't certain what he'd felt. She could only begin to guess. But Padmé knew that whatever it was, they couldn't hide from it forever. When they finally left this place—finally headed home—they'd have to face whatever awaited them.

But not today. Today, just pretend a little longer.

Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath, then bent down to snatch his knapsack off the ground. "Come on," he said, gesturing away from their makeshift camp. "Let's go home."

Home, Padmé thought. Funny word, that.

Perhaps he'd sensed the thought inside her mind. Perhaps he'd seen it written on her face. But just as she was allowing him to pretend, he was allowing her to do the same.

"Okay," she said aloud, following in step as they walked along the plains.

Toward home.

Jedi Archives: Warning Signs

[Excerpt of a note penned by an old Master of the Nar Shaddaa enclave. A petition to the Masters of Coruscant's Jedi Council]

Our enclave knows better than most the pain of losing a knight to the darkness. If, as many of us believe, this course is irreversible, our efforts should be focused on prevention. The only way to save a lost Jedi may be to stop them from taking their first steps down the dark path.

We put so much stock in the wisdom of the Masters. Their sayings, their books, their notes in the margins. Should we not pay just as much attention to the writings of the apprentices? So often these are brushed aside, dismissed as errant wanderings on the path to true enlightenment. The naivete of someone who has yet to fully understand the Force. It is only when the student becomes the master that their words are given weight.

What might we learn if we paid their musings more attention? What wisdom might we find? What knowledge and understanding?

What warning signs?