Author's note: Canon divergence AU, cross-posted from AO3.

Blanket disclaimer for the entire fic because I am not typing a disclaimer more than once, and I don't know if a disclaimer is even necessary anymore: I don't own Star Wars. (Gee, who'd have guessed?)

Also, comments make my day, and I would love you hear your thoughts!

The room around him was too quiet for peace. Too quiet to drown out the screaming that echoed endlessly through his mind. He wished Artoo was there, but the astromech had been left with the ship to keep watch for threats. It seemed unlikely that a single Jedi and a senator would be missed in the chaos that was the present galaxy, but unlikely had just become his entire life, so all possible precautions were taken. Which left him here, alone, waiting. For what, he was no longer quite sure; for Padmé's child to be born, for the nightmare to end, for someone to tell him it was all a trick of a holocron? Not that he remembered recently having tampered with any holocrons.

There was a piece of Obi-Wan that wished he had not survived the battle on Mustafar. The master, after all, should never outlive the padawan if they were of the same species. And the master should never, never, never— His hand trembled as he lifted it to wipe at his eyes.

There is no emotion; there is peace.

But there could be no peace after Utapau, and after Coruscant, and after Mustafar, and so he was left drowning in a stormy sea of emotion.

There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.

He had no knowledge of how this had occurred or of where he had gone wrong. He was ignorant of what had happened, how he could have prevented this, when the damage had become irreversible, why he hadn't seen that something was wrong.

There is no death; there is the Force.

But the Force was death, torn by the pain and the cries of the dying and wracked by thick darkness. Every aspect of the Code had failed him.

Or perhaps, a shard of him admitted, I have failed the Code. For if he had had no attachment to Anakin, he would not have been hurt, and yes, angered at his betrayal. It would have been a betrayal of teachings, to be sure, but not a betrayal of… family.

The other fragments of the master revolted at this idea. There would still be the shock and horror of the decimation—or worse—of his entire Order, there would still be the feeling of failure. He was a member of the Council, intended to oversee the affairs of the Order, and he had failed to observe the greatest of threats. Had done so, even, when he knew damn well that the creation of the clones had been shady, at best. (Dark, at worst.) It was not their fault—he knew Cody and his men, he knew that many other vod'e were as close to their own Jedi, and now that he knew the Chancellor to be a Sith lord, it was as clear that he must maintain some kind of forced control over the clones.

It was clear. It was clear, it was all clear! How the Separatists could be so very well-informed of Republic movements. Why the Chancellor had taken such an interest in an extremely Force-sensitive nine-year-old. Obi-Wan ground his teeth at that particular thought, and an unbecoming fury swept over him, a disturbing and yet oddly pleasing image flashing through his mind, of himself skewering the genially-smiling Chancellor on his lightsaber. They were un-Jedi-like thoughts, dangerous thoughts that winked to the dark side, but they were preferable to Seething yellow glare. I hate you! Sabers flashing, blue on blue, as they had thousands of times in sparring—now, in deadly earnest. The faint, brief slowing of his swing as saber met flesh. His body frozen, unable to leap forward for the final stroke, mind stalling as his eyes watched flames creep over his padawan's body. This wasn't real. It simply could not be real. It was too hellish to be anything but his fears of losing Anakin mingling with memories of Mortis to create yet another nightmare.

Even now, as he sat in this nondescript antechamber, his brother's screams continually piercing his memory, it was only from the jagged end of their now-shattered training bond that he knew for certain the past day had, in fact, been reality. Which brought him, once more, to the awful questions. Why? How? What could he have done differently? (What if he had died instead of Qui-Gon? Would his master have known any better how to prevent this hell?)

"Excuse me," came the voice of a med droid, interrupting his thoughts.

Obi-Wan looked up. "Yes? How is she? How are—"

"Your companion is as well as can be expected, given her state upon arrival, and her children are healthy."

Relief—and then—

"Children?"

"Yes, twins."

The shred of his mind that was seriously contemplating insanity found something about the situation amusing. It was too absurd—his former padawan turning to the Sith and leaving him as guardian of Padmé and not one, but two infant Skywalkers. Really, Anakin? You just had to go out in as dramatic of a manner as possible.

The rest of him, being marginally more stable, only nodded, and the droid beckoned to the room beyond. "Your companion requests your presence."

Padmé was holding one infant in each arm when he entered. Purple shadows hung beneath her eyes, stark against the pallor of her cheeks, and mottled bruising had covered her throat like a high collar, but there was the faintest of smiles upon her lips as she looked down at the twins.

"Obi-Wan," she said, wearily, as he approached. "Sit."

He eased himself down to perch on the edge of her bed.

"How are you?"

"Tired," she replied, "as if my energy was just draining away. I wonder why," she added with a rough laugh. "You would think the past day had really—had really been something—" The wry façade slipped, and a tear escaped her eye. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Obi-Wan laid a hand on her shoulder; she closed her eyes and rested her cheek against it, allowing herself just a moment to soak in the warmth, to think how it should have been someone else's hand, someone else's eyes meeting hers over the sleeping twins, before she rallied herself again, saying, perhaps a little too brightly, "You need to meet your… niece and nephew, I think."

He ought to protest, for with such titles came the acknowledgement, indeed the very expectation of attachment, but he found himself unable to form the words. Too tired. Too shaken. Too enthralled as he reached out into the Force and saw the twins, two unique presences, blazing so brightly that they melded into one, each the perfect complement of the other. Each familiar, like don't think it.

"You have named them both already?"

"Yes." She smiled, a little sadly. "I was certain the baby would be a boy, and Anakin—was just as sure that it would be a girl, so… two names. Leia," she shifted her left arm slightly, "and Luke."

For the first time in what felt like a century, Obi-Wan smiled as he stroked one finger across Leia's forehead, then Luke's. Even as the galaxy crumbled around them, hope was born, new and shining, like green shoots emerging after the devastation of a wildfire—and Obi-Wan silently swore that, whatever errors had led to the dire present, he would not make them again. Somehow, perhaps in many ways, he had failed Anakin; he would not repeat the mistake with Anakin's children.

Padmé pulled him back to reality. "Obi-Wan, the Force, are they—?"

"Very much so." Likely their father's equals in that regard.

"Then—you, the Jedi, can sense each other in the Force, can't you?"

When he nodded, she asked, "Can—will the Chancellor be able to find them?"

Of course he would, and if Obi-Wan had not been so absorbed in his own problems—attachments—he would have realised that, and he would have shielded them. Perhaps, however, it was not too late; the Sith might have been distracted enough by the galactic chaos, and the triumph of enacting his great plan, that he might not yet have noticed the twins. Or, if he already knew of them, their sudden disappearance might lead him to believe that they, like so many others, had died. And so he extended his own shields around the twins, marveling as he did at their ability to sleep despite the turmoil in the Force.

"There," he said after several moments. "They should now be hidden from Sidious' perception. However, if he has already observed their presence here, shielding will be futile. We must seek another refuge as soon as—" Obi-Wan cut off abruptly as, turning his attention back to Padmé, he saw that the shadows about her eyes had deepened even in the few minutes he had been with her, and her eyes were nearly closed, her skin paler even than before.

"Padmé?"

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

"Are you feeling worse? Should I fetch the med droid?"

"No, I'm just… so tired. I swear, sometimes… you worry as much as Ani. Told him it was silly, sometimes dreams… just dreams."

Ani. Worry. Dreams. Visions. Shmi Skywalker.

"Padmé?" Obi-Wan asked sharply, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"The droid… said I'm fine. Not like I'm going to die for… no reason, is it?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"No-o, no, of course not. All the same…"

All the same, why would a woman who was young and strong, and who had been declared out of danger, now look as though the life was being literally pulled out of her? Wait—what was it she had said? Tired, as if my energy was just draining away. Almost as if… he would have called it impossible, but after seeing the Daughter's life transferred to Ahsoka on Mortis, did he really have any idea of the limitations of the Force?

So, he found her presence in the Force—an ember, dim, yet radiating warmth—

And attached to it, there was a thin bond, twisted, and redolent of a frigid darkness.