I cannot say, and I will not say

That he is dead. He is just away.

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,

He has wandered into an unknown land

And left us dreaming how very fair

It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn

For an old-time step, and the glad return,

Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here.

Think of him still as the same. I say,

He is not dead—he is just away.

― James Whitcomb Riley

Chapter Nine

Commander Cody was used to war. He was raised on it, existed in it, bred from his very moment of conception—if what they did on Kamino could be called that—to endure the hardships of combat. He had seen many horrors during his relatively short lifetime. Brothers in more than just arms missing limbs, entire villages destroyed, death, destruction and pain in so many different forms that by now, he was almost completely hardened to it.

Taking orders was also something to which he was accustomed. A clone's duty revolved around obedience, never contradicting, never pausing and never stopping. In this war it was do or die, and the clones were trained to do. It was this way that he sacrificed his life for the Republic, not so much with loyalty, but duty. His way of serving a Republic that didn't care for himself and his brothers and tossed their lives away like so much bantha poodoo.

But the Jedi, his Jedi—although he would never admit to thinking that—were different. He might even say his sense of duty went farther for them. Generals Kenobi and Skywalker cared about their troopers' lives and would gladly sacrifice their own for the clones. This demanded respect in the eyes of their soldiers. They may not true Mandalorians, yet their genetic material came from the most feared and respected bounty hunter in the galaxy . . . a man that, while ruthless, understood the importance of honor. And both generals' actions commanded such respect.

The two of them were the ultimate team, two halves of a whole. Nothing could stop those two. Many times a hopeless situation turned around because of the arrival of the two Jedi. They would fight until their dying breath if it meant another life could be saved. And irrational as it seemed, the clones found themselves willing to take risks if it meant those two men would be saved too. Perhaps this went beyond duty and honor, but loyalty had a place in war too.

Yet nothing he had seen prepared him for the sight that met his eyes in that landing bay on Bespin's moon.

His first thought while flying toward the hangar was that multiple grenades must have gone off, so extensive was the damage to the uncountable number of droids leading up to the landing bay. But upon exiting the ship his eyes found their way to the center of the room and, for once in his life, he froze.

Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight, General of the Grand Army of the Republic, the Hero With No Fear, sat crumpled in the middle of the room, cradling the still, silent body of Obi-Wan Kenobi in his arms.

General Skywalker took no notice of the Commander's approach, his awareness taken up completely with the man clasped in his arms. He rocked gently back and forth, his lips soundlessly mouthing words at the fallen man.

Even the Commander knew how firmly the Jedi believed in developing no attachments, and this display chilled him to the bone. He had seen firsthand the young general's tenuous hold to the light. He had seen depths of rage flash in Skywalker's eyes that he had never known to be possible. Sometimes the white hot fury he kept inside escaped, wreaking havoc and death in its wake. So while Cody trusted Skywalker with his life, he was still wary of the darkness within. Many of the troops felt the same way. They knew the depths of loyalty in this young man ran almost as deep as the rage, and would hope upon each mission that the former would outweigh the latter. Everyone knew to fear the power the young general possessed, and simply thanked whatever gods there were that he was on their side.

Yet not everyone feared him. Through it all, a guiding hand had always shown him the way. Sometimes it was a small smile, a touch on the shoulder, a light correction; other times it was a flashing eyes and flashing sabers, two bodies moving as one, knowing the other would protect them. It was a light to counter the darkness, good to counter the evil. It took the leering, annihilating rage and anger, twisting and molding them into something productive and good.

But now, that guiding light was gone. And what Cody saw scared him.

He came to a stop beside the broken pair, his own breaking heart firmly hidden behind his stoic, soldierly visage. General Kenobi had been a good general, a good Jedi, a good man. This war had already taken so many lives, and Cody respected his General considerably. Out of respect, he removed his helmet and tucked firmly under his arm, his shoulders back and at attention, his eyes on the young Jedi. "Sir?" he attempted.

At first there came no indication that the young general had seen him, or even heard him. There was no movement from the man save for the gentle rocking of his body and the carding of his fingers through Obi-Wan's auburn locks. "Sir?"

At length, Skywalker slowly looked up, and once again Cody froze. His eyes . . . Force, his eyes. Cody had seen death before, but never had he seen such dead eyes upon a living creature.

The Commander realized they would not be carrying one, but two corpses back to the ship.

"Cody," Skywalker swallowed, finally ceasing his movements. He blinked sluggishly up at him, his eyes glazed and unfocused. While Cody knew he was in shock, he could not shake the perception of how much he looked like a lost child. In a way, he was. The man cradled in his arms was a father, a brother and a friend. To lose such a person . . . Cody dreaded to think of the consequences—for the young Jedi, and the person who committed the crime.

Disquieted, Cody crouched next to the young Jedi. "Sir," he began again, then gently reached out a hand to place it on his shoulder. "We need to take him home."

The general looked back down at the body in his arms. "I know," he answered, his voice a rough hiss of pain.

Standing, Cody gestured to the medic—so helpful in some moments, so useless in others—to bring over the grav-stretcher. Skywalker noted their approached and shook his head. "No, I'll carry him," he whispered again.

Slowly, the young Jedi stood up, staggering under the weight in his arms. The older Jedi was a slight man, but compact—Cody had never ceased to marvel at the amount of strength hidden in the small form. That small, limp form now sagged against his former padawan's chest, one open hand dangling to the side. For a moment Skywalker stood there, motionless, eyes closed. Then, his face frozen and unmoving, he carried the body of his master, his friend, to the stretcher.

The men snapped to attention as he passed. A useless courtesy; the General was dead and had never demanded it anyways. Yet it is not for dead that the living do such things. A lightsaber clipped to Skywalker's belt that Cody recognized as General Kenobi's gently slapped against the young Jedi's side as he walked.

Skywalker reached the stretcher, pausing for one last moment before tenderly setting the body on to it. He swallowed, his face a mask of grief. One trembling hand reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from Kenobi's face, resting there a moment longer. The body required no such comfort now; it was no longer Obi-Wan Kenobi, just the form he had been allowed to wear in life. But Cody understood. He recognized the need to perform one last act for a loved one, to hold on to the illusion that everything would be fine for a few moments longer. He lost brothers almost every day, after all.

Skywalker stared for a moment intensely at Kenobi's face, brows drawn, trembling lips pressed tightly together. His eyes were memorizing every aspect, every dip and plane, every smile and frown, a face that comforted and gave correction, creating a memory to be pulled out in times of need.

Then something shifted. Something dark and foreboding, wrathful and cold. The air seemed to snap around Skywalker as his shoulders stiffened and he turned to Cody. His eyes, once so dead, had been replaced by something so much more disturbing. In the depths of his eyes rage and fury sparked, setting his eyes alight like burning embers.

"Where. Is. Malus?" he growled, spitting out the last word as if it were a curse, a profane and vile thing. Cody was not Force sensitive, but even someone completely blind could feel the striations of fury building a thunderstorm of darkness around the young Jedi.

Cody replaced his helmet on his head, vaguely aware of the grav-lift carrying General Kenobi's body being pushed to the awaiting ship behind them. "Sir, the Negotiator reported one ship leaving the atmosphere, but it went into hyperspace before they could launch an attack."

Anakin's face held no trace of the lost child from before. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his fists clenched. "Did they get a lock on where he was heading?"

Cody shook his head. "No sir. However, we've put out an alert. All of the Republic ships will be on the lookout for that bounty hunter scum."

For a moment it looked as though he was going to argue, but they both knew nothing could be done at that point. Instead, he nodded once, sharply. "The second they hear anything¸" he snarled, "inform me immediately." He looked back to the waiting ship, chest heaving. "I am going to make that Sith-spawn son of a vetch wish he had never been born."

The wind caught his tattered and blood stained cloak, whipping it around his ankles in sharp snapping jerks. Irrationally the image of an angel, like the ones rumored to live on the moons of Iego, came to Cody. But this man was no angel. No, he was an avenging demon, a winged devil of rage and vengeance.

Cody was used to war, but this was different. Cold fear slithered down his backbone, and pity for the assassin flitted unexpectedly through his mind. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Swallowing his unease, he strode after the General to the waiting ship. There would be time enough for concern later. Now, it was time to mourn the dead.

It had been a week. A week since Anakin Skywalker's world had been irrevocably changed. A week with no word on where the bounty hunter had fled to, a week in which every minute was spent in an attempt to forget. Sleep did not help, sleep led to dreams. His dreams consisted of death and destruction following in his wake, a hurricane of ruin, a tsunami of vengeance. A week without sleep, a week where the blurring moments broke now and then with painful flashes of memory.

Upon hearing that one of their own had fallen, the Council reassigned the mission on Bespin to another Jedi. The war had taken so many of their kind already; they did not have time to mourn. The ability to care about each life had become just another cruel casualty of war. Besides, for them, death was nothing to be mourned, it was rather just another step on a journey. However, they recognized the importance of allowing time of those left behind to adjust to their new reality. While Jedi did not grieve, they acknowledged the imbalance a death caused in the lives of those left behind.

But Anakin did grieve.

Somehow he had no idea where the hours went. He was caught in a cycle of pain and regret. Yet at the same time the days seemed to stretch on to infinity as memory after memory assaulted his mind, each one leaving him broken and shattered. He stalked the hallways in the Jedi Temple endlessly, feverishly avoiding one particular corridor leading to one particular room. He mindlessly worked himself to exhaustion in the training salles. No one dared enter the training room occupied almost constantly by Anakin. The small attempted words of comfort were met with blank eyes and clenched teeth.

There was no comfort, only revenge. With the flickering flames from his master's pyre burning in his own eyes, his soul spiraled away from the light.

Guilt ate away at his soul. Guilt for never telling Obi-Wan about his marriage, guilt about what he said in the command room on The Negotiator, but most of all guilt that he was the cause of Obi-Wan's death. His heart was an open and seeping wound, with the lightest stroke against it resulting in insurmountable agony. Obi-Wan. The name, once synonymous with everything good in his life now seemed to turn and impale his soul. To be the one left behind; he could think of no greater hell. That he continued living and breathing while Obi-Wan was frozen in time and memory—it was unthinkable. And the fact that he died for him . . . each time his mind brushed upon that fact his soul dissolved into the dark a little more.

The seventh day after, Anakin suddenly found himself standing in front of the door he had been trying so relentlessly to avoid. It was down a nondescript hallway, the surrounding rooms hushed and subdued. As if sensing his presence, the door swished open. Jedi had no locks; for whom did they have to fear?

The room resembled all the other rooms at the Temple. The main room contained minimal furniture; a couch, several low cushions, a small table. To the right, a small kitchenette sat tucked along the wall. Straight ahead, a large picture window led out onto a balcony overlooking the never-ending Coruscanti traffic. Situated as it was on the west side of the Temple, the red, flaming sunlight from the sunset was just beginning to peek into room, sending streaks of warm red light dancing across the floor. The pollution and the overabundance of chemicals in the atmosphere resulted in spectacular sunsets, setting the sky alight with vibrant colors every evening. Anyone outside the Jedi Order would not be able to tell the difference from this Temple apartment to the next.

But Anakin knew.

Anakin froze, lips trembling. Had it really only been several weeks before that both of them had been sitting in this room, arguing and laughing? Anakin often found himself walking in on his former master right around meal times. Both were renowned for their skill in the kitchen, Obi-Wan forhis skill: Anakin for the lack of it. Thousands of meals had been eaten together in this room, through their good days and bad days, a small island of stability in a galaxy constantly changing.

He forced himself to step inside, flinching at cold chills cascading down his spine as he felt the force signature of the room's occupant.

Former occupant, his mind cruelly supplied.

He stood in the center of the room, eyes closed. Until just over a year ago, he had lived here as well; it was traditional for masters and apprentices to share an apartment just as they shared everything else. Both of their Force signatures mixed and mingled together, overlapping like strains of music in an orchestra, like beautiful colors in a painting.

So many memories, so many things that would never be again.

There. That singe on the table came from when he accidentally activated his training 'saber after dropping it years ago, nearly burning his own leg in the process. And there. That dent in the wall was from when Obi-Wan, feverish and delirious from a wound he had ignored for too long, mistook Anakin for an armed intruder and had attempted to punch him. Only the Force and Anakin's cat-like reflexes had saved him from a broken nose. A fleeting smile played across his face. Obi-Wan still hasn't gotten that dent fixed? Then reality hit him again and the pain returned.

Fingers trembling, he pressed open the release to Obi-Wan's room. The door swished open.

As he stepped inside he was hit by the scent that was only and distinctly Obi-Wan. Throughout the years he could never quite place it; a slight waft of tea and spices, a scent of rough wool, but above all the smell of serenity and peace and home.

It was all he could do to keep from collapsing from the agony of loss. While the outer room may be conformed to Jedi standards, each Jedi was allowed a certain measure of anonymity within their own room. The bed was neatly made, and several datapads rested on the nightstand beside it. A cloak rested on an overstuffed chair where it had been carelessly tossed. An extra pair of boots sat tumbled in the corner.

The desk under the window was chaotically organized, yet several items that Obi-Wan constantly insisted were not possessions rested on the surface. An ornamental stylus he had found in the markets of Vanqor. Some pieces of flimsy with his former master's bold handwriting scribbled across the surface. An amulet gifted to him by a grateful mother on Ryloth. Some holocubes. And on the small night table beside the bed, a bead the color of the deep blue night sky of Naboo. The same bead that had been woven into Anakin's braid, and Obi-Wan's own padawan braid, and the braid of his master before him.

Choking out a pained, wheezing laugh, Anakin reached out and fingered the casually discarded cloak on the chair. Memories floated thick and unwanted like a cold mist.

"Master, you're almost as famous in the clothing division of the Temple as you are in the Halls of Healing . . . what number cloak are you on now?"

"Keeping track of clothing items does not become you, my young Padawan. Since when do you care about my clothing habits?"

"Well, I'm just worried about you . . . What will you do when you can't dramatically discard a cloak before a figh—OW! Hey! Doesn't using the Force to hurl pillows at your padawan fall under the "frivolous use" category of the Force?"

"Not when said pillow is being used to teach a lesson to an insolent youngling . . ."

The room, the clothes, the bed . . . they breathed of Obi-Wan. The way the apparent orderliness truly hid what was underneath. Many people thought his former master to be so fastidious, so proper. But Anakin saw the other side, the casual disarray, the selflessness, the humor, the recklessness within him that drove him to feats of bravery even Anakin marveled at. Most people saw the Jedi and not the man. They saw the robes and outward demeanor and missed the kind and courageous heart that beat inside. He could be many things, a master, a Jedi, a negotiator, and a hero. In the blink of an eye he could change from calmly lecturing his padawan on proper Jedi decorum to leaping out a window after an assassin. (That particular feat had has earned him a harsh scolding from both Master Yoda and his padawan.)

With a pained cry, Anakin sank to his knees, twisting his hands in his hair. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace . . .

"Obi-Wan, how can I believe that?" he gasped into the empty room. "No emotion? It's all I can feel!"

If only, if only he could feel peace, if only he could be serene. If only he could be happy for those who joined the Force. But how could he be happy when he was left behind? There was no harmony in his spirit, only chaos. Obi-Wan was gone, lost to him in the swirling currents of the Force.

No more light jokes and teasing banter, no more sparring with a partner that was like the other half of a whole. Never to hear Obi-Wan's dry humor, see his eyes crinkle, his mouth twitch, laughing within while somehow still maintaining complete Jedi decorum without.

He could not get used to the invisible blow in the chest when he realized he would never again speak to him. Never again feel his soothing presence in the Force, or feel his gentle hand on his shoulder. Force, he would give anything just to hear one more lecture, one more critique, anything to hear his soft clipped tones again.

He would have traded anything, all his tomorrows to have one yesterday with him again.

The memories consumed him. The smell of tea would leave him gasping, a glimpse of blue eyes would leave his soul wrenched and aching. A familiar sounding laugh would cause his head to whip around desperately looking for the source until reality caught up to him and sent him crashing to the ground. He did not know if he would ever move past this, ever be whole again. Every waking moment he remembered the feel of the rough cloth brushing his arm, the warm blood seeping through his fingers, the final tiny exhalation of breath against his cheek. No, there was no getting over holding a person you loved in your arms, seeing them there, but knowing they were gone.

There is no death, there is only the Force. But for Anakin, there was only death. In his dreams it haunted him. He saw Obi-Wan die again and again, each time calling his name, each time too slow, too late, a failure.

And that more than anything condemned him. He had made a promise, and he had failed.

Force, what was this pain? He was drowning in it, falling into its devouring profundity, sinking and tumbling until he no longer knew which way was the surface. He had felt despair and rage when his mother died and the raiders had paid for their transgression. But this, somehow he couldn't get over it, move past it. He had felt Obi-Wan's presence ripped from him, the golden thread binding their souls torn away, leaving him ravaged and broken. It ate him up inside, leaving a hollow shell that only looked like Anakin Skywalker, a mask that hid the emptiness inside.

With trembling fingers, he picked up the precious bead off the night table. The light from the setting sun caressed the surface, setting the glass alight with brilliant blue. A deep cerulean—just like those eyes he would never see again.

Anger and numbness suddenly masked the pain. It was all Obi-Wan's fault.

"Where are you? How could you leave?" His voice rose in the still air, the answering silence mocking him. "You promised, you promised when you became my master that you would guide me! Well, I need guidance now, Obi-Wan! You had no right to leave me! You. Had. No. Right!"

Leaping to his feet, he sent the entire contents of the desk crashing to the ground with a violent sweep of his arm, fury pressuring pain down into rage and revenge, his promise forgotten with his humanity when Obi-Wan's death took it with him.

The bead rested in his hand, its meaning mocking him. A representation of a cursed lineage. Anakin alone remained.

With a wordless cry, he hurled it against the wall, shattering the delicate glass into a thousand shards.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't stand to feel the presence of his master when he was no longer there. He couldn't stand to think about the room stuck in time, never being changed by the one who used to live here until everyone moved on, life flowing and changing, forgetting who Obi-Wan Kenobi ever was and never knowing he had ever been born. He couldn't stand knowing that all this—it was because of him.

A sob threatened to rise, but he forced it down and away. Tears had no place in his life. Only vengeance.

But not even black despair or hateful vows for vengeance resonating in the Force had the power to raise one lost into the same. Shadows dancing across the hardening lines in his face, he turned and strode out of the room, never once looking back.

And several kilometers away in the depths of the Senate and swirling dark, yellow eyes gleamed.