Oh, he had known that Obi-Wan hadn't exactly been thrilled about him and Padme, but this...this was on a level of its own. Anakin could feel his fingers trembling as they held onto the thin paper; how much else had Obi-Wan hidden from him that he had never known? If something this important would have been, in all probability, never once even mentioned, were there other truths in his Master's head that Anakin had never learned?
Wild possibilities sprang unbidden to his mind—maybe Obi-Wan had written, somewhere in here, that he despised his Padawan as much as he had when he had first taken him. Maybe he regretted his decision to follow Qui-Gon's death-wish, maybe Anakin had been nothing but a burden to him all of these years, a useless irritation—
Anakin hastily fumbled with the previous pages that he had skipped over, suddenly terrified, and made himself read quickly over each entry, praying fervently that there were no more awful truths. For the first time in his life, he understood what people meant when they said that ignorance was bliss.
But there was nothing. In all that Obi-Wan had written before that single entry, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Anakin finally let out his breath and allowed himself to relax slightly. Maybe it had been a one-time thing, he thought, permitting a shred of hope to enter his mind. Perhaps Obi-Wan had simply been extraordinarily depressed on the fifteenth of April, which had been less than six months ago, and, in an unusual burst of paranoia, had written that disturbing entry.
Hoping to prove this theory, Anakin turned back to April the Fifteenth and read on, skimming over the words. The little book seemed to hold many more pages than Anakin had originally thought—there seemed to be an entry made at least once a week, if not more often. But again, there seemed to be no more deep, dark secrets belonging to his Master.
Gradually, Anakin's breathing patterns returned to normal as he neared the end of the book. One day, that was all it had been. Just one day. Surely if Obi-Wan had really felt like that, he would have mentioned it more than once.
Feeling entirely reassured, Anakin turned to the last written entry in the diary. It was dated less than a week back.
September the Third, 5093:
The Council called Anakin and me to the Council Room this morning, to ask us to retrieve a holocron that had been carelessly left on Dathomir. We'd be leaving in a week, and the mission itself sounded fairly simple. What many people don't know about Dathomir, however, is that half of its natives are almost a twisted version of the Jedi. Going to Dathomir is rather like watching a small-scale battle of the much larger one that is perpetually happening between the Jedi and the Sith. For some reason known only to them, the Council has restricted this information, and tells it only to Knights who have a need for it. Their plan was to fill me in, and then I would tell Anakin, or not, at my discretion.
Anakin, it turned out, already knew about the Dathomir "witches", long before I did.
Somehow, it seems, he managed to get a look at some locked data files in the library, which Padawans are never given access to. He says that they were already on the screen when he sat down to use the computer, but I find it a bit hard to believe. No one with access to those files would be so careless as to leave them open like that.
Technically, I suppose, it doesn't really matter, since he was to find out soon enough anyway. Really, though, it's very annoying when he does stuff like this. Honestly, what's the point of being a Knight if your Padawan knows more than you do? I wish he'd at least tell me when these things happen—I could have stood to know a few things about the witches before the Council sprang the mission on me.
Again, technically, it doesn't matter. But it's still extremely irritating.
Here, there was a blotch of ink on the page, as though Obi-Wan's arm had been jarred while he was writing. Then, a few lines down, the entry took up again.
Anakin just came in, with a very random question in mind. He does that sometimes, and I always wonder where he gets these things. I really wish he'd at least knock—to keep him from wondering about this journal, I had to hide it under the bed just before he saw it. He wanted to know what my main goal was for him.
Well, of course, I told him what I wanted to hear: that I wanted to see him become a great Jedi Knight, or maybe even a Master, although I did add mentally that the odds of Anakin becoming a Master were very small. He's far too like Qui-Gon for that to happen.
He's left now, satisfied—and I'm left alone with my guilt. Because I didn't tell him the truth. Of course I want him to be a Knight, very much so—but what I truly want for Anakin is not a goal that I can accomplish. It's more of a wish, a petty child's wish.
More than anything, I confess, I would want Anakin to forget that he ever loved Padme. I would want things to be like they were before, when his attention was on me and only me, and there was no choice that he had to make.
Despicable and selfish as it is, it's what I truly want for him.
After that, there were only blank pages.
There was a loud pounding in Anakin's ears that made it nearly impossible to think. All he could manage was the forceful thought that he hated this book, this horrible book that told him things he had never wanted to know. He looked at it in his hand—it appeared so utterly innocent, as though it had not just broken his world in two. And then he couldn't even bear to touch it any longer, and Anakin threw it to the ground and ran, ran faster than he had ever run in his life. All he wanted was to get away from that—that thing, but no matter how hard he ran he could not escape from the awful words that were echoing in his brain over and over, keeping in time with the pounding of his footsteps.
He hates her. He hates her. He hates her. He hates her.
Anakin found himself in the Room of the Thousand Fountains with no remembrance of having gotten there. Without even slowing, he headed for the corner of the room. There were many other Jedi around him, and a few shot curious looks at him as he sped past them, but no one spoke, and when Anakin reached the corner, surrounded by dozens of large fountains that hid him from a casual observer's gaze, he sank to his knees and felt himself about to cry.
Obi-Wan had lied to him.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, his Master, his best friend, his brother, his father—had lied to him.
He had said he did not mind, he had told Anakin that he was happy for him, and all the while he had been hiding this—this dreadful secret that, to Anakin, seemed the worst thing in the world. For if he couldn't trust Obi-Wan, he could trust no one.
Not even Padme.
He hates her. He hates her.
And then, the unspeakable thought: Does he hate me, too?
But no, that was the reason for all of this. Obi-Wan would not have his Padawan taken away from him, by anyone. He would not let Anakin share his affections with anyone else.
So I can't love anybody else, ever? Anakin thought bewilderedly, angrily. The thought that Obi-Wan had somehow betrayed him overwhelmed his mind, but that was a thought he was not ready for. Anakin tried to bite back the tears that threatened to escape, but he could not stop them, and all he could do was lean his head against the wall and let the salt roll down his cheeks as he drowned in self-pity.
More coming later!