Day 14: Die a Hero or Live Long Enough to Become a Villain | "I'll be right behind you."


Obi-Wan woke in pitch blackness, in the same instant his hand reached for the lightsaber hidden under his bed. He sat upright, ready to thumb his blade to life, when he heard another rustle—and through the thin walls Obi-Wan felt a familiar warm glow, like a banked fire burning steadily in the dark.

Anakin.

There were no intruders. It was only Anakin, stealing quietly out of their quarters. Headed for the training ground, most likely. He had spent the better part of the day making repairs to his prosthetic arm—no doubt he was eager to test those new adjustments, and simply couldn't wait to do it in the morning.

Obi-Wan relaxed. He put down his lightsaber and lay back on the bed, feeling a little foolish. The years had made him a light sleeper—it couldn't be helped, when his Padawan kept such ungodly hours and was seemingly allergic to sleep—but the war had made it a necessity. For a moment he had thought he was still on Forscan VI—or Anoth—or Bakura—or some other backwater planet, some other Republic territory that needed defending from Dooku's Separatist forces. The engagements blurred together in his mind, each one indistinguishable from the last.

It was their first night back in the Temple since they were deployed, after a too-brief stop to heal from their injuries on Geonosis. Weeks ago, now, since the war had began. Every moment since had been spent fighting from one battlefront to the next. Who knew how long their respite would last. They could be sent back to the frontlines for yet another mission at any moment.

Or perhaps it would only be Obi-Wan who would be sent on a new assignment sooner rather than later. Maybe it would only be Anakin. There was no guarantee they would be given the same mission after tomorrow.

After tomorrow, Anakin would no longer be a Padawan.

The thought made Obi-Wan's chest ache, like a vice tightening around his lungs. It was too soon. It was too dangerous. Anakin was only nineteen, and to make him a Knight and a general—to make him fight a war not even the Order's most skilled Masters had been prepared to fight—was too great a burden to place on someone so young. Obi-Wan had made his objections known, but in the end the Jedi served the Republic, and the Republic needed more Jedi to fight its war. Yoda had said as much—he had rapped Obi-Wan's shin with his gimer stick and had said, sternly, Yours to keep, he is not. Know this, you do.

Obi-Wan had ducked his head, his stomach churning. Yes, Master, but I fear Anakin isn't ready, he had said. I'm not ready, he didn't say, and he could do nothing but look away from those knowing, reproachful eyes.

Then let go of your fears, you must, Yoda had chided him, and so Obi-Wan had tried. Obi-Wan was still trying. Thirteen years an apprentice and ten years with a Padawan of his own, and Obi-Wan was still trying. It had been his problem from the start, and the Masters had known it. Qui-Gon had known it—had seen his fear and the anger it bred—and he had been repelled by it.

The memory of their rocky start gnawed at something deep in Obi-Wan even now, knowing how close he had come to a life on a farmer's field instead of the stars. The pain of it lingered, because every day he looked at his Padawan—his replacement, the bright little star Qui-Gon had found in the desert—and every day he was reminded of how deeply he'd failed his Master. Qui-Gon had been right all along.

Obi-Wan's breath left him in an exasperated rush. You knew this day would come. What does it matter that it came sooner that you'd hoped?

He lay in the dark for a little while longer, before resigning himself to another sleepless night. He pushed to his feet and left his quarters, stretching out his senses—as he'd predicted, he found Anakin in the courtyard, practicing against training droids.

Had it been a more reasonable hour, Obi-Wan knew a crowd would have gathered to watch Anakin spar. It happened often enough over the years that it was no small wonder his apprentice had developed something of an ego. Obi-Wan had done his best to curb it, but there was no denying that Anakin was gifted. Watching him now—he was a blinding blur of motion as he leapt and spun around the courtyard, his lightsaber whirling fast as it deflected the barrage of blaster bolts with graceful ease, sending some ripping through the walls and the floor, others back toward the droids that had fired them—one would have never suspected he'd been wounded in battle, much less had lost his arm. One would have never thought he could be wounded at all.

When the last of the droids fell in a tangled, smoking heap, Anakin spun, flipped, and landed lightly on his feet, turning to Obi-Wan with an expectant look. Obi-Wan could easily bring back in memory the early days of Anakin's apprenticeship—that young boy who had looked up at him with bright eyes and a crooked smile as he'd asked, How did I do, Master? Did I get it right? Obi-Wan's heart had squeezed with such fondness, such pride, that he could only clasp Anakin's shoulder and say, tightly, Well done, Anakin, but it would do you some good if you had a nightful of rest, wouldn't you agree?

He had always been so eager to learn, his Padawan. Always so eager to please.

"All better, then?" Obi-Wan said, nodding at Anakin's mechanical arm.

With a shrug, Anakin deactivated his lightsaber and clipped it to his belt. "It'll do. I thought I'd give it a test run."

"A bit late in the night for that, isn't it?"

"I couldn't sleep."

Not more nightmares, I hope? Obi-Wan almost asked, but truthfully he wasn't certain he wanted to know what Anakin would say—wasn't certain he even deserved a proper answer. Obi-Wan wouldn't be surprised if Anakin stormed off seething, if he had the heart to ask. Instead, he offered Anakin a wan smile and said, dryly, "When do you ever."

Anakin's chin lifted. His eyes narrowed. "I was feeling—productive, I suppose. I needed something to do."

Something to do. As though he hadn't just turned the training ground into a graveyard of broken droids. As though he wasn't drenched in sweat and his chest wasn't heaving with the exertion it took. As though he hadn't returned to the Temple that morning on a medevac transport, bloodied and bruised and grey-faced with exhaustion.

"What you need is rest," Obi-Wan said.

Anakin pulled a wry face. "Pot, meet kettle."

"I'm not the one getting Knighted tomorrow. Don't say I didn't warn you if you wind up dosing off during the speeches."

Anakin rubbed a hand over his face. "Why the speeches," he groaned. "Why even bother with the ceremony. Just cut my damn braid off and be done with it."

In truth, tomorrow's ceremony was nothing more than a formality. Anakin had been officially promoted to the rank of Jedi Knight only days after Geonosis. Enough time had passed that his hair had begun to grow past the standard Padawan trim, and the braid he'd been wearing for the last ten years now looked ruefully out of place. Blasted thing's always getting in the way, Anakin had often groused, when he'd find his braid singed short by a stray blaster bolt or by his own saber. I'll be glad to be rid of it.

And tomorrow, at last, he would be.

Such an important milestone, something that ought to be celebrated—now reduced to mere procedure. Obi-Wan's own Knighting had been much the same—years he'd spent imagining what it would be like to press his severed braid into Qui-Gon's hands, to look up and see the pride in Qui-Gon's eyes—all those daydreams had faded in the fog of grief, and it pained Obi-Wan to know that Anakin's ceremony would be similar. That he could not give Anakin anything better than an illusion of normalcy.

"It's tradition," Obi-Wan said lightly. "You don't need me to remind you."

"It feels like a waste of time to me, Master."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "Eager to get back to the battlefield, are we? We've been here for a day, Anakin. Not even a full day, mind you."

Anakin scowled. "And that's a day of us stuck here while our men are dying out there."

"We're on furlough for a reason. You're no good to your troops if you can barely stand on your feet."

"I'm standing now, aren't I?"

"Not for long, if you insist on forgoing sleep."

"You worry too much," Anakin grumbled, scowl deepening. "How many times do you expect me to say it? I'm fine, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan couldn't help but flick a frowning glance at Anakin's prosthetic. My fault. It was a permanent reminder of how he had almost lost Anakin. How easily it could happen again. The vice in his chest tightened—that familiar fear, dogging his every step like an unforgiving shadow.

Obi-Wan blew out a long breath. "Why don't I believe you?"

At once, Anakin stiffened. His gloved hand clenched. His face twisted into a snarl. "That sounds like your problem, Master," he snapped. "Don't make it mine."

Obi-Wan felt his throat close, felt the heat of Anakin's anger billowing like an open furnace. Careful now—careful. He's not your Padawan anymore, remember? He isn't yours to keep.

"Perhaps it is," Obi-Wan said gently. Warily. "I admit, I am rather tired. I think I'll turn in for the night." He clasped Anakin's shoulder and somehow managed a smile. "So should you. Big day tomorrow, after all."

Maybe it was the right thing to say. Perhaps it was the right way to say it. Obi-Wan was never certain which it was when it came to Anakin. Either way, he must have done something right, because some of the furious energy was draining from Anakin's tense expression.

"Oh yes—the speeches." Anakin grimaced. "Can't miss those."

Obi-Wan snorted. "One mustn't miss Master Windu's speeches."

Anakin made a soft amused noise, almost a laugh, and the rigid line of his shoulders seemed to ease. Relieved, Obi-Wan let his hand fall to his side.

"Well?"

"You go on ahead," Anakin said. He drew his lightsaber and flicked the blue blade into life. "I'll be right behind you."

Obi-Wan frowned. "Come now. Is this really the time? Aren't you tired?"

"Not really," Anakin said, shrugging, but in the pale blue glow, his face looked gaunt and drawn, his eyes sunken. Easy enough to dismiss as fatigue from the war, and perhaps it was—but Anakin had looked the same months ago, when his dreams about his mother began—

His mother . . .

Obi-Wan didn't know what had happened on Tatooine. Nothing beyond what Padme had told him—that it had been her idea to leave Naboo for Tatooine, then Tatooine for Naboo, because she was so infuriatingly like Qui-Gon. Nothing more than what Anakin himself had bellowed at Obi-Wan in rage, when he had been convalescing from his injury—that Shmi Skywalker had died in his arms, and he had carried her to her grave.

What that meant to Anakin, Obi-Wan didn't need to imagine. He could still feel the cold weight of Qui-Gon's corpse in his arms. Could still feel the bright flames of Qui-Gon's pyre. And in Anakin, he could see the same pain—the same fear Qui-Gon had seen in Obi-Wan all those years ago, it was in Anakin now, burning like cold fire in his chest.

How could Anakin stand to look at him after what had happened to his mother? After Geonosis? How could Anakin forgive him?

Obi-Wan wanted to ask—to ask about all of it. He had always known there was more to what had transpired on Tatooine than Anakin had let on. More than the bald fact of Shmi Skywalker being kidnapped and killed by Tusken Raiders and Anakin's dreams coming to life. There was a story there. There was a story. But what it was, Obi-Wan didn't know—he had never let himself think about it. To his shame, he feared what he might find if he started digging for the truth—feared the thought that he might have failed his brilliant Padawan so miserably, the way he had failed his Master . . .

"All right," Obi-Wan sighed. "But you will at least try to get some rest, won't you?"

Anakin huffed, already in a fighting stance as he prepared to go through his combat forms. "Yes, Master. Now go—it's not like I'm going to get lost. I know my way back to our quarters."

Except it wasn't really their quarters anymore. Anakin would have his own after tomorrow, one that he would one day share with his own Padawan. It filled Obi-Wan with warm pride, imagining it—Anakin with a spitfire of an apprentice, all the trouble they would get up to—though the warmth was bittersweet.

Obi-Wan hesitated. Sighed again. Finding he had nothing more to say—or, rather, finding he hadn't the nerve to say anything more—he left the training ground and returned to his quarters. With every step away from the courtyard, he heard Yoda's somber words—that age-old adage, echoing in his ears. Let go of your fears, you must. Let go of fear, and loss cannot harm you.

And what could Obi-Wan do but try? The decision had been made for him long ago, with his Master's dying breath. With his Master's burning pyre.


With each swing of his lightsaber, Anakin lost himself in the familiar motion, buoyed by a wave of reflexes. Every movement was instinctive, each step quicksilver, unthinking. Not a single bolt touched him as he spun and slashed through the courtyard. The droids fell, one after the other.

Training droids. These were only training droids. This was only practice. He knew that, distantly, but in his mind's eye he was on the frontlines with Rex and his troopers at his side. They were fighting as hard as he was, as pumped with adrenaline as he felt, and so, so desperate to come home and see their brothers live.

So Anakin fought. He had to. He had to tear through as many metal bodies as he could, because every droid spared was a droid who would not spare his men. He remembered all the soldiers and pilots who had been lost under his command—their faces were locked tightly in his memory, each man's scars and unique quirks—and it cut him like a blade to look at Rex and Coric and every trooper who followed him into battle, knowing that each moment with them could be the last. Knowing that no matter what he did, he couldn't protect them all—that he couldn't save their fallen brothers, like he couldn't save his mother.

Ten years, he thought. Ten years at the Temple with the comforts of a warm bed and plentiful meals, and he hadn't saved her. He had left her behind in chains, a bomb embedded under her skin, and he hadn't looked back. Ten years, and he hadn't looked back.

The memory burned like a festering wound. In the beginning, when he'd been nine years old and had first arrived at the Temple, he had remembered her so clearly—he could close his eyes and see her smiling face against the cloudless blue skies, hear her laughter carried by the winds and the shifting dunes. But then time slid by, and her smile became blurred, her voice grew faint.

Over the years he had wondered what would have happened if he had looked back—if he had turned around for just a moment. Maybe then he wouldn't have forgotten the planes of her face or the slope of her nose or the crinkles of her eyes. But the Masters had told him to let go—Obi-Wan had told him to let go—and now all he could remember of his mother were her hollow, unseeing eyes on her hollow, unmoving face.

All he would ever remember of his mother was her corpse.

Anakin swung again, his lightsaber flashing. He could barely hear the hum of his blade, drowned out by the symphony of ripping metal and despairing screams and falling bodies. He was fighting more than droids now—he was on another battlefield entirely.

He was back on Tatooine, standing among the ruins of the Tusken camp.

His mother was a gaping hole in his chest—she had always been, from the moment he had walked away from her—but now he was hollowed out. He had been scraped bare when she breathed her last, and nothing could fill that emptiness. Not the Tusken Raiders that had captured and tortured her. Not the rest of the village that had stood by and allowed her to suffer. Not even the rage that burned in him like the suns.

He had killed them all. He had slaughtered every single being in that village, and he couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Even the thought of his mother's disappointment, if she had lived to see what he had done, could make him regret the blood he had spilled.

Maybe that was his greatest regret of all: that he had left her behind for nothing. That he wasn't the Jedi Qui-Gon had believed he could be. That the Council had been right about him from the beginning. That he had proved Obi-Wan right after all.

The boy is dangerous. They all sense it. Why can't you?

What had it all been for? If he couldn't be the Jedi he should be, then he should have stayed. Let him languish under the suns. Let him rot in the sands. He should have never left Tatooine at all.

The cacophony of noise suddenly stopped. Gone were the desperate screams and pleading sobs, the Separatist droids and the Tusken Raiders. Silence descended on the courtyard, ringing loudly in his ears.

Anakin had run out of training droids.

He took a deep, steadying breath. For a moment, he half-expected to find Obi-Wan again, standing there and looking at him with that ever-present reproving frown. But no—there was no one there. It was just Anakin, standing on a carpet of dismembered and shattered droids.

He became aware, then, of a dull throbbing at the stump of his arm, where the prosthetic met his skin. It was a familiar pain now. Sometimes he didn't even notice it until after the battle was done. When it did ache on the battlefield, it was never to the point of distraction—he wouldn't let it. He would sooner lose this arm and the rest of his limbs than let his discomfort show. He had enough strikes against him already.

Anakin wasn't blind. He could see the way the other Jedi stared at him when they passed, the way they whispered about him behind their hands when they thought he wasn't looking. It had become worse after Geonosis, when their stares became lingering looks at his prosthetic arm and the disbelieving whispers about the prophecy seemed all the more deafening. If he showed his weakness, if he gave them any more proof of what a failure of a Jedi he had become . . .

It was worse with Obi-Wan. It was always worse with Obi-Wan, who was never satisfied with anything he did. His Master, who constantly held him back and picked at his every flaw. The closest thing he had to a father, who could see to the heart of him and found him so lacking that he'd fought with the Council to prevent his Knighting.

More than once, Anakin had caught Obi-Wan looking at his prosthetic, face etched with lines of disappointment and pity. It stung Anakin more than the Council's censure and the other Jedi's antipathy. When Anakin felt those looks—when he felt Obi-Wan's gaze boring into his mechanical arm, tinged with dismay—it took everything in him to keep his temper in check. To bite his tongue and stop himself from snarling at his Master, Don't give me your pity. I don't need it, I don't want it, I'm glad I lost my arm, I'm fucking glad it's gone. Dooku had the right idea, and if he had a single merciful bone in his body, he would have cut off more than he had, he would have ended it then and there, and I would have thanked him for it. So would you, if you knew what I'd done, because you were right, the Council was right, you were all right. Qui-Gon should have left me in Watto's junk shop.

In some ways, the loss of his arm had been a relief. His prosthetic hand had never known the weight of his mother's corpse—had never felt Tatooine's sands through its fingers as he knelt at her grave and made his promise—had never been stained red with the Tusken Raiders' blood.

Sometimes when Obi-Wan's looks lingered, Anakin wondered if he could see. Could Obi-Wan see what he'd done? Was it whirling in the Force around him, the river of blood he'd shed? Had it spread so far and so deeply that it still smeared his skin?

But Obi-Wan had never asked about what had happened. Maybe it was from tact or indifference, Anakin didn't know. Which would be worse—to learn that the Master he'd so utterly failed had loved him after all, or to affirm that his Master didn't care for him as anything more than a promise to a dying man? Anakin never wanted to find out.

He drew in another long, shuddering breath. The servos in his prosthetic hand pulsed as its fingers clenched. He could see the sun peeking over the horizon, that thin bright line slowly spreading. Soon it would wash the city in gold.

Dawn on Coruscant. A new day. His Knighting ceremony was upon him. Only a few hours before they cut off his braid for good, and then—a promise fulfilled, for Obi-Wan. A joke of a title, for Anakin.

And the war. More battles to fight, systems to defend, lives to protect. Rex and his men. Obi-Wan. Padmé.

I wasn't strong enough. But I promiseI won't fail again.

Anakin would save them. He would save them all.