Sleep in my arms now
All your pain is passed.
Sleep, for you have traveled far
Now you are home, at last.
Go as you came here
Time to say goodbye.
Light, soft as a melody
Safe in a lullaby
The anguish rippling through the force is what draws Obi-Wan back to a hazy semi-consciousness. Anguish, agony, raw terror, all radiating along the remnants of their long - dormant training bond, all tragically, overwhelmingly Anakin. Before Obi-Wan has a chance to prise heavy lids open, to force air back into aching lungs, there are arms around him, gently dragging him from the rocky ground to their owner's lap.
Breathing, ragged and heavy above him. It doesn't take much to realize that it, along with the arms and the lap he is so tenderly cradled in, belongs to Anakin. His once - apprentice is murmuring something nearly incomprehensible and edged with raw panic, something that Obi-Wan, consumed with his effort to breathe, can't even begin to make out. Blood wells hot and thick in his throat, spilling over his chin and choking him, impeding his airflow and halting any efforts he could make to speak, to reassure his brother. At the sight, Anakin's anguish only grows, overwhelming in the force, threatening to suffocate them both. Obi-Wan knows what a sight he must make, gaping, gasping, choking on his own blood. Dying. He's dying, blackness already beginning to crowd the edges of his vision, promising to draw him down into it, to unite him with the force.
It is real this time. There are no lies from the council involved, no undercover mission, no Rako Hardeen. There will be no miraculous return from the grave. He will not be here to take the brunt of Anakin's anger. He will not be here to soothe his grief.
Trembling fingers clench in the fabric of Anakin's tunic, blindly searching, grasping, until he finds not the mechanical hand but the flesh one, his own curling around it and gripping it as tightly as he can manage, though he's weak, his grip not as strong as he'd like. He reaches out in the force, touching Anakin's mind with his own, seeking to reassure him that way, sending tendrils of comfort, peace, along their old bond.
I am proud of you, he tries to convey. I am so, so proud of you, my padawan. To be your teacher, your friend, has been the greatest honor of my life.
It is suddenly terribly important that Anakin know and believe that, if nothing else.
A low moan, absolutely gutted, tears from his former padawan's throat, and he only rocks Obi-Wan faster, too quickly to soothe. Water splashes his nose and he blinks at the grainy, darkening sky, wondering if it is rain or if Anakin is weeping for him.
Please don't cry for me. But it is clear now that Anakin is not receiving the words, is uncomprehending.
Though his body forces him to gasp and heave for air, Obi-Wan is not afraid to die, to join with the force. To be so wouldn't be the Jedi way. His regret lies only in that he will leave his padawan, his dearest friend, his brother –- that Anakin will be left with such grief, evidence of his attachment laid out plainly, loud and clear.
Too weak to hold it up, Obi-Wan's head sinks against Anakin's chest, strength failing him along with the power of speech. His fingers slacken around Anakin's hand as his old padawan's devastated features blur out of focus and his cry of grief fades into silence, their tenuous connection in the force faltering and fading entirely as the blackness beckons, drawing Obi-Wan into its depths with gentle arms.
The fields are green
The rivers are unclean
And all so far from here ...
Rest for a while, now
All you work is done.
Rest here in my waiting arms
Now that your race is run.