First Watch
Far above them the night rambles on, while here there is but silence, and stillness.
The cold marble floor is muffled under a thick layer of blankets and warm bodies, throwing off the acoustics, and making the grand underground chamber ring hollow. There is no sound but the quiet sibilance of the backup generator, and the oceanic chorus of breathing.
Anakin Skywalker sits cross-legged at the center of a sea of sleeping children, holding himself in a light meditative trance. He is carefully feeling his way along the subtle threads of temporal actualization, which are the source of his terrible gift of foresight. The future is like a frolicking sundog, leaping in micro-causal rainbow arcs over the infinite cloudless sky of reality, threatening to manifest at every moat of dust and tiny snow crystal which disturbs its otherwise perfect emptiness. Yes, always in motion it is, as it laughingly skirts his mental grasp, time and time again.
The Senate will fall. The Jedi Council will fall- has fallen. He can feel it. Everything is being torn up and turned open. The august institutions which have structured all of their lives for so many years are being pulled up by the roots. Their rich old pulp will serve as humus for the new growth. The land will be clear-cut, and field-burned, and from this new tillage, nourished by the ashes of the Old Republic-
Anakin's heart hammers in excitement and fear. For once in his life, he is truly untethered. As much as he has always resented his confinement, he has also come, after a fashion, to rely upon it. But now, to discover on what shifting sands the architecture of the Old Republic rested! To find that all he fought and killed for was a lie, that nothing matters, nothing is real-!
But love is real.
Oh, yes. He is critically balanced on the precipice of an uncertain future, but he is not alone. The two people he loves most in all the galaxy are lying curled in the nest of blankets, just centimeters from him on either side, safe, and clean, and sound asleep. The Republic be damned. He has everything he needs right here.
Earlier, they had ventured upstairs one by one to scrub the battle from their skin. And Anakin had briefly wept as he bowed his head under the pressure of the water-shower, and washed himself clean of the Chancellor's vile touch.
But now he is exactly where he belongs: With Obi Wan and Padmé. The three of them are huddled together at the center of the galaxy, in the eye of the gathering storm. (And they are all smooth skin, and elegant limbs, and silky hair which smells of gentle soap...) The memory of Palpatine's withered old hand on his shoulder can no longer hurt him, as he relishes the nearness of strong, young, beautiful bodies just like his own.
As the opal-bright spearhead of the present moment continues its slaloming course through the gossamer tangle of probability, some threads are caught and integrated into the fabric, while others are dropped like loops of wool by a crochet hook, blinking out of existence the instant their lines are tugged. Anakin searches among these dead ends for the terrible future which Obi Wan spoke of, the one in which he would have found himself alone. Feelings and images spring to the fore-
A brave young woman cringing under the rigors of torture, her dark eyes glittering with defiance as she refuses to betray her peoples' secrets. A kind young man with grain-colored hair cradling his severed limb as he dangles over a bottomless chasm the very blue-black of space and lit by winking diode stars. Millions of voices crying out it terror, suddenly silenced-
The glare of infinity blinds his inner eye, and he can't seem to make out the specifics of what must have lay along that other path. But this much is absolutely clear:
His master has saved him.
He had been falling, and Obi Wan had caught him. He had been trapped in a spiral of confusion and despair, paralyzed by the simultaneous pull of all his various desires and duties and allegiances, and it was only because of his master's timely intervention that he escaped the vortex intact. Other figures of authority have given him commands and promises, but only Obi Wan has produced results. Without attempting to bribe him, or threaten him, or coerce him in any way, without even asking for anything in return, Obi Wan has given him the means to have everything he wants- Not only to save Padmé from immediate peril, but to make the entire galaxy safe for his wife and child, forever. Yes, it is only because of Obi Wan's goodness and courage, his wisdom and knowledge of the Force, that Anakin has managed to avoid a fate worse than any he can imagine.
And that, he thinks fondly, is why he is but the learner, and Obi Wan is the master.
How he has misjudged the elder Jedi! He feels terrible now, for the bitterness he once nursed. He had come to view Obi Wan as just another manifestation of the tyranny the Jedi Council held over his life, but now he knows better: His poor master is even more a victim of the Council than he is. They have had Obi Wan since infancy, and their indoctrination has crippled his soul. They have never been able to fully destroy his capacity to love, but they have done the next best thing: They have made him feel ashamed of it.
Through their strange new link, Anakin can finally sense his master's emotions, without any boundary or filter, and this has given him a whole new perspective on the man. At first, he had been disappointed that his psychic touches were so haltingly, tepidly returned. But at length, he has come to understand the sad truth: These tortured, hesitant stabs of affection are the most Obi Wan allows himself to feel towards anyone.
Anakin gazes wistfully down at his sleeping master -the pale curl of his fingers against the rise and fall of his chest, the troubled creasing of his brow beneath the fringe of his copper hair- and smiles to himself, earnestly resolving to teach the poor man how to love fully and properly. It is the least he can do for the person who has saved him, who has given him everything. Yes, he has been horribly unappreciative in the past, but he will make up for it. He has changed, he is more than he was before, and now he will fix everything exactly the way it should be.
With renewed purpose, Anakin dives again into the rushing, glowing morass, and this time, the Force sees fit to answer his wild, violent prayers. Time is a spinning prism of inconceivable crystalline variance, constantly throwing kaleidoscopic lights in all directions against the smooth, black surface of eternity. It is impossible for any mortal to perceive all of this multiplicity at once, but sometimes a stray beam glances off the inner eye just right, and facts about the future can be gleaned: No matter what the Chancellor claims to have foreseen, Anakin will never call him master. Padmé will not die in childbirth. Anakin will not find himself alone. His nightmares have been well and truly averted.
Another light strikes him, and this one is so beautiful that somewhere in the waking-world, his corporeal body audibly sobs with joy. Oh, Padmé! He loved her to the point of madness before, but her ability to give him children has made her even more dear to him. She is lying with her hands folded over her belly, her dark hair still damp from showering, her milk-smooth face washed clean of paint. The Force is beckoning- The halo of destiny surrounds Padmé's child. It will have his powers, and Padmé's noble heart. Not only will its birth lend meaning to his own troubled existence, but it will touch the lives of trillions. In this time of bloodshed, and chaos, and rupture, his lovely, virtuous wife will bring forth, by the very labor of her body, something more than a child: A being both light and dark, male and female, novel and ancient- A new hope for the galaxy.
And they will be the proud young parents of this, this new galaxy without Jedi, or Sith, or Separatists, or Republic. Padmé will teach it about worldly things, and Obi Wan will teach it about the Force, and they will raise it together, the three of them. And it will be free- Free to flourish, free to fulfill its potential, free as they never were.
Anakin Skywalker opens his eyes, and he is still sitting cross-legged on the floor of an echoing basement chamber, and he is still surrounded by sleeping bodies, and the planet is still turning beneath him, and his loved ones are still close enough to touch. He laughs a soft, cathartic, gasping laugh, and the air is cool and dry as the inside of a cave. The ancient totems carved into the walls around him are as ephemeral and meaningless as bantha tracks in sand. The stately pink marble columns are nothing but course chunks of stone. The Jedi temple has been reduced to its raw materials. It no longer commands his reverence.
He reaches out to lay a hand on Padmé's swollen belly. This is what he reveres now: The future. His family. Obi Wan and Padmé, by their willingness to share things of such great value with him, have both proven their loyalty to him beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He smirks to himself, in satisfaction. He hopes there will not be any jealousy over his affections. His loved ones are both so diplomatic and reasonable, far more so than he is, he is self-aware enough to admit. In fact, now that he thinks of it, Obi Wan and Padmé have many things in common, which is probably why he loves them both so well. Surely, they will manage to make some sort of arrangement- To find a solution which is fair to everyone.
After all: Isn't that exactly what his master promised him?
Second Watch
The Jedi have fallen- are falling. Their deaths ring out across the Force.
At first it's just a few, like a pattering of cold, stinging raindrops against the bruised surface of his soul. But as the night wares on, the losses mount, and by the time two of Coruscant's four natural moons are high and bright in the sky, he is drowning in the bitter black water of his grief. The congregation of lights to which he has belonged for his entire life is being systematically extinguished. Every death leaves him more anguished and alone than the last, until he is rocking and weeping as he has never wept in all his years of tribulation and war.
Obi Wan Kenobi clutches himself in abject misery, as measure by measure, hour by hour, his world grows dark.
Why? Why would the image of Qui Gon show him the future destruction of the Jedi Order if he couldn't prevent it? Has he somehow misinterpreted the visiting spirit's instructions? Has he failed his old master yet again-? But that thought is too much to bear. He can almost taste the sand in his mouth now, almost feel the desert winds battering his face.
He takes a long, shuddering breath, dragging both hands through his recently washed hair. Despite the nearness of so many warm, sleeping bodies, he feels his bones throbbing with deep, metaphysical cold. He has betrayed the will of the Council by recklessly meddling with powers he doesn't understand, and it has all been for nothing-
But no, not for nothing! Obi Wan rubs at his salty, burning eyes, with the heels of this hands, cursing his own deplorable weakness. He can't afford to give in to despair, not when so much is at stake. He hauls himself up into a proper meditative pose, legs folded, back straight, palms open atop his thighs. They've managed to save the younglings, haven't they? The future of the Order. They can still survive this, they can still rebuild. This isn't the same as the world of his vision, it can still be salvaged-
At least you still have Anakin.
Oh stars, but that selfish voice in the back of his mind is growing harder and harder to ignore! As one by one his brothers and sisters fall victim to the clones' overwhelming firepower, the horizon of the Force seems to narrow, leaving him more and more bereft and alone. Except that he's not alone, not really, not with Anakin lying less than half a meter away, his vibrant presence growing more irresistible by the minute, as every other friendly light in the galaxy is brutally snuffed out.
His former-padawan looks like a playful dæmon in repose: the splendor of his golden skin under the shifting violet half-light, the mute workings of his shameless lips, his pyrite-colored hair fanned out across a dark blue pillow. His dreaming mind calls out to Obi Wan's across the winding aureate cord, seeking to share in some lush, moody, mellifluous fantasy. Anakin's imagination is a rolling tableau of nonsensical images- Of beauty, and violence, and carnality, and innocence, and shivering, frothing unrealized potential.
Obi Wan closes his eyes against a frisson of panic. Grief, he can assimilate, but this-! This is, well, rather beyond his ken. He has no idea how to receive, much less reciprocate, this sort of covetous attention. Ah, but it won't be the first time he's made an exception where Anakin is concerned. And he won't be the only one- The world makes exceptions for Anakin.
Obi Wan Kenobi doesn't know exactly when and how Anakin Skywalker stopped being a burden foisted upon him by a dead man, and started being the single, great, consuming project of his adult life, but it's certainly fair to say that somewhere along the line he has become attached to his young apprentice. This may not have been ideal exactly, but it was inevitable, and forgivable. What is occurring between them now, however, goes far beyond the boundaries he once set for himself. It is one thing to have grown fond of the boy after years of living and working in such close proximity- It is quite another thing to allow himself to bedrawn into this... whatever it is. But despite himself, despite everything, he feels almost... excited. Keyed-up, thirsty, like a darting blade. Like a bursting-ripe fruit flower. It's like seeing the world through Anakin-colored lenses.
Should he be fighting these feelings? Are they not the very thing doctrine cautions against? But what if they can't be fought? No doubt they are a side effect of the peculiar bond which he and Anakin now share. That golden element tugs at him, teases him, presses itself wantonly against him. Is this all part of some plan? Could the image of Qui Gon have intended for this to happen, for them to be changed in this way? And what if it can't be undone? Obi Wan clears his mind of questions and commands himself to focus. He may not be Anakin's master anymore, according to Jedi hierarchy, but he still feels responsible for the boy, and certainly in this. He has done this to them after all, he has opened this can of kouhuns, and he must find a method of dealing with it one way or another.
His pulse is racing now, for he is truly and deeply afraid.
The Republic is falling. He can feel it. Everything is being torn up and turned open. Before him, Anakin and his lovely wife lie sleeping wrapped in each others arms, like the proud young parents of this brave new world, surrounded by a sea of mystic children. Padmé's own child, a blazing glory in the Force, is due to arrive any day now, thus completing the picture. And then they will go forth, the three of them, and remake this desolated galaxy in their own charming image. An image of youth, and innocence, and violence.
What place could there possibly be for Obi Wan Kenobi, in a world without Republic or Jedi? Will he linger on, an odd appendage to this fated little family? He supposes Anakin will probably want him around in some capacity, if only so that his body might be used as an inexhaustible numinal power source. Will they... embrace often, in this new future? Will Anakin solicit physical affection from him? Will he ever be able to refuse, or will that liquid-gold-warmth render him utterly helpless every time they touch? And if it does, will he be able to bear it?
But of course he will. He will better than bear it. He will relish it. For he has caught a glimpse along the path not taken. He has seen himself in his desert-exile, stripped of everything he once held sacred and dear. He has seen his former-padawan lost to the Dark Side, consigned to a waking nightmare worse than death. This is nothing when compared with that.
Yes, he will gladly submit to spend his days as Anakin's comfort-object, if it will spare them all that fate.
Third Watch
Yellow dawn is breaking over Coruscant, a dawn as naïve, and new, and terrible as the explosion which began the universe.
She peels back the skin around her fingernails with the edge of her teeth, a filthy habit, and something she never used to do before she was pregnant. At the taste of blood, she stops, feeling briefly along her incisors with a clumsy thumb. Twisting her hands in her lap, she gazes up into the vast, ornately carved ceiling of the cavernous red granite room, and considers that the invisible heat of all their combined breaths must be pooling there, like a microcosmic layer of atmosphere.
Padmé Naberrie swallows down the dry knot of dread tangling in her chest and throat. She is reclining in a pile of dark blue pillows, at the center of the galaxy, in the eye of the gathering storm. She grabs numbly for her comlink, knowing she won't get reception this far underground, but anxiously flipping it on and off again anyway, watching its pale blue light wink in and out in the darkness, just for something to do.
The Republic is falling. She can feel it.
Not being able to guess the fate of all her friends and colleagues in the Senate is nothing short of torturous. Tears prick at her eyes, and moment later, the baby kicks. It has been clear for over two months now that the child within her can sense her emotions. Padmé's gaze falls upon a group of younglings, huddled together in sleep. Recalling the placid, serious faces of these Jedi children, she presses a wary palm to her belly and wonders, not for the first time, whether she is bringing into the world some aloof, numinal creature which she can never hope to understand. Or something even worse; For what if the child is like Anakin? As much as she loves her husband, she does not envy his mother.
Looking summarily back and forth between Anakin and Obi Wan, she wonders whether these are only two kinds of Jedi. Must they be so rigidly subdued, or else so ruinously wild? She wonders what it must be like to live with their strange, devastating powers. Perhaps it drives them all to madness of one sort or the other.
And now, oh now. They have taken things even farther than that. They have done something to... augment themselves, she can tell. A charismatic aura of low-humming power surrounds each of them like a corona of starlight. It's not that she's afraid of them- No, certainly not that- But she is a little bit... wary.
She runs a seeking hand over Anakin's beautiful head, which is leaning rather heavily against her knee at the moment. She rather expects this sort of thing from her husband- But from Master Kenobi, well, she is surprised. Feeling reckless, confused, and dammit, maybe even a little angry, she inclines her head in a harsh, insistent whisper:
"Obi Wan?" His back is facing her, his limbs curling away. His steady, silent breaths look a little too deliberate and shallow for genuine sleep. She tries again after a moment. "Obi Wan, are you awake?" He rolls towards her, and up into a sitting position, blinking his keen, silver eyes a few times before meeting her expectant gaze.
"M'lady?"
"Hello there," she ventures.
"Good morning."
"We'll see."
Obi Wan regards himself and the room they are in with mild perplexity. "Yes, well-" Catching sight of Anakin and the children still sleeping, he subdues his voice. "Give it the benefit of the doubt, at least."
"Do you know you practically died yesterday?" she exclaims.
"An occupational hazard of dealing with Sith lords, I should think." He smiles wryly, scrubbing at his beard.
"But Anakin saved you. I saw it," she frowns. "He just sort of... healed you. With his touch."
"Yes, I... I know," he nods, remotely.
"I never realized the Jedi had such powers."
"Usually," he says, fidgeting uncomfortably, "we don't."
"But Anakin does."
"So it seems..."
"Perhaps," she says, narrowing her eyes, "it has something to do with his being your Chosen One... But then, what do I know? I must bow to your expertise in religious matters, of course."
"M'lady-" He hangs his head in exhaustion. "Padmé- Is there something you wish to ask me?"
Silence. Then:
"What have you done with him?" she rasps, her dark eyes wide. "Sorry, I- I didn't mean for that to sound so-" She is swallowing repeatedly and worrying her hands. "It's just that, Anakin seems... different. You both do." And then she is almost pleading. "Just tell me it's not something bad. Tell me it's some perfectly natural Jedi-thing I just don't understand, and I won't say another word about it."
"I won't lie to you," he sighs. She has never seen the poised, implacable master Jedi look so utterly lost. "We have done something which might be considered extreme. Certainly, it is forbidden. I don't understand it much at all. And I... I cannot yet say whether it is for good or for ill."
"Forbidden?" she frowns. "What do you mean?"
"By the Jedi Council."
"But surely-" She shakes her head in disbelief. "Obi Wan, you of all people-!"
"Yes," he snorts derisively, a truly uncharacteristic sound. "Me of all people. But you know..." He trails off oddly. "Times, measures..."
Padmé buries her face in her hands. This is the moment of truth, the moment she has been dreading. "Tell me. What is it?"
"The knowledge will hurt you."
"Yes," she whispers. "I know."
He nods in solemn understanding. "I took Anakin into the restricted section of the Jedi Archives to find an ancient artifact recovered by my master many years ago. When we both tried to handle it, its power... bound us together. I do not know what the consequences of this will be. I do not know whether it can ever be undone. What I do know, is that I hadto do something." He pauses, waiting for her to meet his gaze. And then, as gently as he can manage: "I know that if I hadn't gone to Anakin when I did, he would have fallen to the Dark Side of the Force, thereby forsaking me, and you, and your child, and everything he has ever held dear."
Before Obi Wan can finish his sentence, the denial is already on her lips. "No-! I don't believe that. I'll never believe that."
"Padmé, it- Padmé it's true."
"He would never-!"
"He would."
"But why-?" she sobs, taking Anakin's head in her hands as if directing the question at him. "Why?"
"Chancellor Palpatine offered him a way to save you from his nightmares. If I hadn't made him a... counter-offer, of sorts, he would have accepted."
"To save me-" She is weeping and clutching at the young man in her arms. Anakin, for his part, remains insensibly asleep.
"Yes. But the Dark Side is its own maleficent engine. Once he was in its thrall, it would have be easy for him to forget his original reason for turning."
"This is all my fault," she moans.
"Certainly not! How could anyone possibly blame you-?"
"You don't understand," she says, crumpling in defeat. "I could have prevented this years ago. I should have told someone- I should have told you-!"
"What?" He leans forward urgently. "What are you saying?"
"I know how Ani can get sometimes... I've seen him at his very worst, Obi Wan. Maybe worse than you've ever seen him." She is shaking her head again and again, as tears endlessly roll down her reddening face. "When his mother died- He didn't just kill the Tusken Raiders responsible. He- he massacred them. All of them. He slaughtered their entire village." She is choking on her sobs. "Their children-! Even their children-! He t-told me-!"
Obi Wan opens and closes his mouth. He tries to speak, but he is frozen in horror. He feels moved to comfort her, or even- hells, to seek comfort himself. Instead he does nothing. He is shocked... but he is not surprised.
Padmé starts when Anakin stirs in her lap. He groans softly, and turns his head, his golden lashes fluttering against her thigh. Before he can attain full wakefulness, Obi Wan instinctively reaches out to lay a hand over his eyes, sending him under again.
"Are you..." She presses her lips together hesitantly. "Are you somehow keeping him asleep? "
"I- I think so."
"You can do that?"
"Yes." He leans back, looking dazed. "It seems I can."
"I should have told you what happened," she says, looking away. "I know you could have helped him. I just... When he told me what he'd done- I told him it was alright. I tried to act like it was somehow normal." She is aggressively twisting her hair between her hands, and refusing to look at Obi Wan's face. "Even though I know- I know if anyone else had confessed to something like that I- I wouldn't have wanted to look at them, much less marry them-! But I love him so much I-" She looks up at last, her molasses-black eyes sparkling with tears. "I know there's something wrong with him. I know he needs help. And I've stopped him from getting it. For years. I've just let him get worse and worse."
"Anakin's choices are his own, Padmé. You mustn't blame yourself." Obi Wan says evenly. "But yes," he sighs. "You should have told someone."
"It's madness, my love for him," she whispers. "I don't like the person being with him has made me. All the things I swore I'd never do, I've done for him. He has made me into someone who lies, who makes excuses, who stands by when wrong is being done, and says nothing." Her eyes narrow in contempt. "I have known politicians like that; I have spent my career opposing them. And now I am one of them." And then, with a wild ferocity he wouldn't have credited her with: "You don't dare judge me, Obi Wan! I know you love him, too. Perhaps not quite the same way as I do, but certainly- More than you are permitted to!" She smiles caustically. "Yes, I know- I may not have the Force with me, but I have my own ways of reading people. Don't imagine for a moment I could have gotten to where I am now without them."
He frowns in consideration. "Your techniques may not be so different from ours after all. It is not uncommon for those who excel in your particular field to possess some degree of Force sensitivity."
"You mean like the Chancellor?" she balks.
"Yes, well. Not necessarily like him."
"Obi Wan," she looks up fervently. "What he said about- About mutilating your souls-"
"No it's-" He shakes his head. "I assure you, it's nothing like that at all."
"It's just that it- It seems so-" She struggles for a moment. "Does it hurt?"
"What? No! Not at all. If anything it... well."
"Does it... feel good?"
"Well-" he blushes. "Yes, actually. Very- much so."
"Okay," she nods. "I was just worried, because it- I don't know how to put this, but it's like the space between the two of you has been- Horribly torn apart, and then sealed back together again. It seems... painful."
"Really?" He rubs at his beard. This certainly puts a new wrinkle in things. If even Padmé, with her limited Force sensitivity and complete lack of training is disturbed by the presence of this link between them- Stars, what will Master Yoda say?
Anakin turns his head and mumbles something incoherent, and Padmé begins absently to stroke his hair. "As long as you're both okay..." She looks up sharply. "I think maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it will make it easier for you to help him." And then suddenly her expression shifts into something keen and fevered, and her coffee-dark eyes seem to silently exhort him:
Tame his demons, and deliver him safely to me, and maybe I'll be so grateful I'll consider sharing him with you.