[This is kriffing stupid,] Artoo informed Padmé for the umpteenth time, as she applied the final touches to her makeup.

"There was no security checkpoint, and we got into airspace just fine," she reminded him, quickly slipping a pair of green temp lenses in her eyes. "I don't look like Amidala, and I'll use Revenant's voice if I have to talk to anyone. It will be fine."

She leant forward to watch rolling hills and peaceful meadows skim past below the ship. Oh, to be a shaak, with nothing to do but graze in placid indolence, knowing nothing of the world beyond their meadow, and caring nothing for what they did not know. Thousands of years they had lived this way, and they would continue for thousands more, come Republic or Empire or total anarchy.

The island of Varykino came into view, and Padmé forgot her reflections in the ensuing swell of nostalgia. Artoo brought the ship to hover just above one of the villa's terraces, so she only had to make a small jump to dry land.

A thick quiet permeated the air of Varykino. Wind whispered through its trees, water lapped placidly along the shore; the occasional bird sang out a cheery call that made the quietude all the more desolate when it ended. Padmé climbed the stone steps to the house, whose windows were boarded up. Vines sent forth envoys to explore the walls, while the shrubbery had lapsed into a comfortable sprawl, and delicate lichens presided over the veranda railing. The place hadn't actually fallen into disrepair, but the present caretakers, it seemed, had more pressing priorities than regular manicuring of the foliage.

Why had she come here, anyway? Why had she thought seeing this place again would do anything more than dredge up droves of old memories that had remained packed carefully away for so long? Those last, peaceful days before she had decided to take on the Senate… the heady week after Geonosis, when she and Anakin had been barely more than children, from her present vantage point of thirty-four—in love with each other, in love with love, half-delirious and wholly blinded by the stars in each other's eyes.

Lost in a haze of past and present, Padmé rambled listlessly around the estate. Luke and Leia would have loved it here. She could imagine them trying to use the Force to leap from terrace to terrace, and daring each other to dive from the highest spot they could find. [On second thought, maybe it was a good thing they weren't here.]

Graffiti adorned the villa's boarded-up windows. She ignored the scrawled messages, taking them for ordinary vandalism, until an image on one window caught her eye. It was an outline of Queen Amidala, who stood with her foot planted squarely in the middle of Vader's back as the Sith sprawled on the ground. Beside the sketch were the words, Her spirit lives on. There were other messages, too. Down with Palpatine! Down with Vader! Quash! Quarsh!

Anonymous defiance, screamed silently in the dead of night. There was unrest on Naboo. It was quiet, probably spoken only in whispers behind closed doors, but the signs were there.

Down with Palpatine. Long Live the Republic. Fight back Queen K, the words accompanied by an image of Palpatine looking down at the current queen, Kylantha, sitting in his pocket. For Apailana! Victory and justice.

And there was an old, weathered GAR propaganda poster from the Clone Wars, with a picture of—

Padmé tore the poster down and stomped it in the dirt. When she looked up again, her eyes fell on another message.

THE HERO WILL RETURN—HAVE NO FEAR.

There had been times—late at night, when old shades roamed the space that common sense occupied by daylight—when she had let herself think that maybe, just maybe, Obi-Wan hadn't quite killed Anakin. That somehow, he had survived, that he had repented, that he would come back to her. Silly, foolish dreams, in which she had indulged less and less frequently with every passing year. Now they had given way to sick reality.

A light rain began to fall. The edges of the GAR poster began to curl, and its surface rippled with the damp. Padmé crouched and brushed her fingers over Anakin's likeness. Everything falls apart. She picked up the poster, crumpled it in her hand, and bowed her head with an ignominious sob. It was soon followed by another, and another. Trying to hold them back was pointless.

I loved you.

Why did you do this to us?

Why do you keep hurting people?

It was like the early days all over again, another round of anger and grief and asking why, why, why? Only now, there was added a constant, buzzing refrain of worry—for herself, for her children, for the Rebellion—and Padmé felt she could never know peace again. She could foresee no end to this situation which did not involve someone's death, and someone's heartache.

Eventually, her sobs ran out. She smoothed the old poster and tacked it back to the window board. Let the rebels keep their hero. Anything, to give them the strength to face the Empire.

Some former artist had left a can of paint on the stone windowsill, and a brush, its bristles stiff with a crusting of old pigment. The rain had turned to mist some time ago, so Padmé pried open the can and dipped the brush in. Paused, then set her jaw. One moment of petty spite. That wasn't too much to allow herself. She raised the brush to the boarded up window and began to write, in large, bold aurebesh.

TO THE DEATH, SHEEV.

She sketched a few more lines, and finally swept the brush in a great arc to complete the Alliance crest.

Vader, meanwhile, seethed in a miasma of frustrated wrath. Long accustomed to his word being law to all save a select few beings, he found Padmé's rejection frankly infuriating, even as he longed for her presence. It was an irritating state of existence, nay, it was untenable. He could not set a bounty for his wife and son without alerting his Master to their survival, and even the hiring of a single bounty hunter was too great a risk.

How, then, was he to wrest his angel from the clutches of the Rebellion that poisoned her against him?

You did that yourself. You did it when you when you killed the padawans… the younglings….

He forcibly dismissed her words. She would see that it had all been necessary, when her vision was no longer obscured by the insurgents' anti-Imperial sentiments. As for those insurgents themselves…. They formed a barrier that stood between Vader and his wife and son. Therefore, he would see them shattered.

Do you really think killing her people will gain you any favor in her eyes?

Silence, Vader told Skywalker's ghost, and spoke into his comm.

"Admiral Ozzel. Gather Death Squadron's captains. It is time to move against the rebel faction on Wrea."

The Empire had known of the Wrea base for weeks, but had elected not to move against it, due to its sheltered location near the Smuggler's Run asteroid belt. Vader, however, was in no mood to allow an asteroid belt to stand between him and his objective. He would ferry troops to the planet himself, if the Navy's pilots proved incapable of navigating the field, but the rebels would fall.

Something felt different about Theed. It was subdued. Once, as Padmé passed along a busy street, full of popular shops and cafés, music and chatter, a couple of stormtroopers came around a corner. Merriment bowed its head and did not look up until the white figures had moved out of sight. There were not many soldiers in Theed, compared to places like Kafrene. Just enough to remind the Naboo that their Emperor knew his homeworld's democratic values and kept a watchful eye, lest insurgence should break out.

Down one street, in a less well-to-do area, Padmé saw a cantina where troopers seemed to stop as they went off duty. Plastered to the window was a sheet of flimsi featuring a rough sketch of a Gungan with a large X over it. No Gungans permitted. Her administration had made progress in improving relations between the Naboo and the Gungans, and it rankled to see that progress reversed in so short a time. Yes, it was an establishment which catered to Imperial troops, and it did not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Naboo, but still. Such sentiments had no place in this city, and she feared that if they remained, they would spread throughout the populace.

Do you see what you have done, Anakin? Once, you helped to free my world. But now you've brought it back under the heavy hand of oppression.

It was all too much. Artoo was right—coming here had been a kriffing stupid idea. Everywhere she looked, there was something familiar. Everywhere she went, the past rose up to greet her. If she looked to the streets, she remembered festival days from her time as queen. What a bright future she had believed lay ahead! And how very wrong she had been. If she looked toward the skies, she recalled the blockade. It had all started here. Galactic peace had been a house of cards, while she? She had been the one who bumped the table. I called for the vote of no confidence. I opened the door for Palpatine to assume power.

She just needed to get away from it all. She walked half-blindly through the city streets, keeping a watchful eye for threats, but heedless of her general direction. Eventually, the street she followed gave onto a lush park space, with a set of stairs leading down the side of a cliff. At the bottom of the stairs was a single building, guarded by a serene stone chatelaine in royal attire. And her face—it was Padmé's own likeness. This, then, must be her "tomb." The Handmaidens had been thorough in the staging of her death.

The tomb was still. An image of Amidala in her regalia gazed tranquilly out from a stained glass window at the far end. Inaccurate, Padmé thought. Amidala was never just one person. She was a persona, a figure, a philosophy. An ideal. She was what Padmé had wanted to be, and she was based on her beliefs, but it had taken the help of so many people to make Amidala the figure the public had seen. Amidala wasn't Padmé. Amidala would not have compromised her principles to plead with a half-mad Sith. Amidala would not have married an emotionally unstable Jedi padawan in the first place. Amidala would not be sitting here, tears trickling down her cheeks even though she thought she had exhausted her supply hours ago, when she should be back on Yavin planning her next moves for the Rebellion. But Padmé? Padmé would, and did.

Distantly, she registered the sound of the mausoleum door, and hastily attempted to make herself presentable. Thank goodness she always used waterproof makeup. The last thing anyone needed was to find a very alive former Senator Amidala crying inside her own tomb.

Skirts swept across stone as the newcomer approached.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" a firm but kindly voice inquired, and Padmé looked up into the face of Jobal Naberrie.

She just barely kept from flinging herself at her mother and burying her face in her gown. "M—Mistress Naberrie—"

"Yes. What is your name, child?"

"Not a safe one for you to know."

"I see. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Nothing to bother you with. I needed somewhere quiet. I'm sorry, this place—I shouldn't be here."

"It's all right. This is a public space. My daughter lived and died for the people."

She may have lived for the people, but all she nearly died for was a foolish, selfish dream, Padmé thought.

"I'm sorry," was all she said. "I'm so sorry."

I wish I could tell you… I'm right here. But she couldn't. If Anakin found out that Jobal had seen her...

"Life goes on, as they say," Jobal said. "It's never quite the same, though. I still think I hear her calling me, sometimes."

"Whenever you're in the 'fresher," Padmé said, without thinking, and immediately cringed. Well, that was an awkward thing to say to someone who was supposedly a complete stranger.

But the corner of Jobal's mouth turned up in a bittersweet smile. "As soon as I close the door. You have children, don't you?"

Tears threatened to spill over again as Padmé nodded.

"Are they all right? Are you? Do you need help?"

"I don't know when I'll be with them again. Or even if. Their father and I don't see eye to eye on politics. I had to hide them. I had to lie to my family."

I had to lie to you. I'm still lying, and you're hurting because of it, but if I tell you the truth, you could be in danger. Especially now.

"These are difficult times. Your family will understand that. Well, if they're worth fretting over in the first place, that is," Jobal amended wryly. "Some aren't."

Are you sure, Mom? Will you understand when I tell you, someday, what I've done and why? And why it was all necessary in the first place?

"Let me help you," Jobal said. "My husband and I work with the RRM—we can arrange transport for you, asylum for your children, if you need."

Padmé shook her head. "They're safe, now. And I will be. I'll be fine. I'll be careful."

Jobal eyed her with a keen gaze. "What you do—it gives us all hope. You know that, don't you? You're carrying on her work."

She nodded toward the figure in the stained glass, and Padmé sighed.

"She seemed so composed, like she always knew what to do. Assured. I'd like to be like that. Not make stupid mistakes."

Jobal laughed. "I could tell you stories... Padmé was just as human as you and me. She once told me that not long after she became queen, she and her friends sneaked out to a concert, and she broke a glitter-lit all over her hands. Almost had to meet with heads of state looking like a naughty schoolgirl."

"I remember—doing something like that, one time." Padmé smiled a little in spite of herself, recalling her growing dismay as the glitter-lit had resisted all attempts to remove it. "Those things are dangerous. I wonder how the public would have felt if they'd known their queen was sneaking out for late night concerts."

"Fortunately, we never had to find out. But the point is, we're all just people—nothing more, but also nothing less. We all have our thoughtless moments. Even queens. To be sentient is to make mistakes. It isn't the end of everything."

"You haven't seen my life."

Padmé felt half like a whining child, half like a bitter old woman.

"No," Jobal said softly, "but I've seen many others, young one."

She drew Padmé into a gentle embrace that splintered the fragile composure she had cobbled together.

"I messed everything up," Padmé wept. "I put my children in danger. I've ruined people's lives. So many—my own, theirs, friends', everyone's—it's all my fault. I made mistakes, didn't think, didn't see—and now everyone is paying for it."

"Shh." Jobal held her tight and rocked her back and forth, just like when she was a little girl, when a skinned knee or a dead songbird in the garden had seemed the end of all things. "I don't know your situation. But I do know how we blame ourselves for things that aren't really our fault."

Padmé only half-heard the murmured words, but their very sound was a comfort.

"Nobody would say I'm responsible for my daughter's death," Jobal continued. "But it took a very long time to convince myself that I wasn't. Sometimes I still wonder if I could have prevented it. If I hadn't pushed her, if I had tried to keep her out of politics, if I had kept a better divide between work and home, if I hadn't tried to instill a sense of compassion and civic duty in her from such a young age... I did my best, but even when you do your best, you make mistakes. Especially when you're already trying to carry the entire galaxy on here." She gave Padmé's shoulders a gentle shake. "You are trying, aren't you? The look in your eyes, earlier—I used to see it every time I talked to my daughter."

"Someone has to do it."

"Yes, but no one has to do it alone, nor can they. Just as no one can claim sole responsibility for making a mess of things. Well… almost no one, although—naming no names—one of our fair citizens is uniquely talented in that department."

A choky little laugh escaped from Padmé. Jobal stroked her hair with a firm, steady hand.

"There's something my mother used to tell me. I know words are cheap, but they're all I can give you, and I think… perhaps you can find some worth in these. My mother would say, nothing is ever so broken that you can't either fix it or use the pieces to make something new. I've mostly found it to be true."

They stayed a few minutes longer in the serenity of the tomb, until Jobal cast a wary glance toward the door.

"You should be going," she said. "Individuals with certain political views sometimes come to this tomb, and it would not do for you to be found here."

"Thank you," Padmé told her, as she was ushered outside. "For everything, Mistress Naberrie."

Jobal squeezed her arm. "Go. Finish your work. And whatever you do, don't try to do it alone."

At the top of the stairs, Padmé looked back over her shoulder at the mausoleum below. She couldn't deny hoping, just a little, that her mother had seen through her disguise and would give some sign that she knew Padmé for her daughter. But the Naberrie matriarch merely raised a hand in farewell and withdrew into the tomb, leaving Padmé with only the memory of their meeting, and a degree, perhaps not of peace, but of acceptance.

"What's eating you, Firmus?"

Piett, who had spent the last fifteen minutes staring into his drink in the officers' lounge, glanced up into the concerned face of Colonel Veers.

As a general rule, the army and the navy enjoyed a healthy—and sometimes not-so-healthy—rivalry, but there were, of course, exceptions. The comradery between Lieutenant Firmus Piett and Colonel Maximillian Veers was one such. Hailing from the Outer Rim, the Lieutenant lacked the Core snobbery that populated the officers' ranks, and the Colonel, while Core-born, was fortunate enough to have avoided the overinflated ego which afflicted so many of his fellows.

"It's nothing," Piett replied, offhandedly—but Veers, of course, saw through the forced nonchalance.

"It's not nothing. Which of the polished brass has been on your case now?"

Piett restrained an ungenteel snort. "None. I only wish it were as simple as that."

"So, there is an it, then. What's going on?"

"I can't tell you. I gave my word, and it's both of our necks if I break it."

"Both of our… Firmus, what have you gotten yourself into?" There was just a touch of exasperation in Veers' tone.

"Personal business of Lord Vader's, through no intention of my own. I thought I was done for, Max, but he swore me to secrecy and let me go."

"Kriff."

"Emphatically. When I set out to make a name for myself in the Navy, this wasn't what I had in mind. I can't help thinking, though… it's so odd. Vader is keeping a secret, and testing whether I'll keep it, too, which is incomprehensible—or else he's trusting me to keep it, which is unfathomable. It has to be a test, but why would he care whether a lieutenant will keep his secrets? An admiral I would understand, if he had some political game in mind, or maybe even a captain, but a lieutenant? Why not just kill me and have done with it?"

Veers shrugged. "This goes no further than the two of us, but our commander is a strange one. For instance—although troopers are usually safer than brass, I've still seen him off a few of the enlistees and conscripts, now and then. But the clones? Never. Not even once. If I didn't have to set an example for my men, I'd have my money in more than one pool saying he used be a Jedi. And if he was, stars be thanked he didn't turn traitor like the rest of them. Can you imagine if he was on the other side?"

"Rather not, thank you, but I'll say this much: the Empire is fortunate."

At least, I think it is. His conscience was a little troubled, however, when he recalled the boy who had called Devastator. One could not deny that Lord Vader was an effective commander, or that Death Squadron was the best of the Imperial military, but Piett questioned, privately, whether so brutal a being as Vader ought to have the mentorship of a child—and what kind of mentor he must be.

Some days later, returning from a mission to pick up data on Imperial supply lines from a "friend" of Hondo's—honestly, why did the Alliance think it was a good idea to consort with that man?—Obi-Wan found Yavin in the midst of a torrential evening rain. Reaching out through the Force, he anticipated Luke and Leia's joy at the deluge. Over a year on Yavin, and still they were enthralled by the water that fell from the sky. But tonight, he could not sense their exhilaration. Strange—it was early for them to be asleep. I have a bad feeling about this…. He reached out again, searching for their signatures in the Great Temple below, but felt nothing at all.

A soon as his ship powered down in the landing area, he was out the door and hurrying toward the apartment, heart racing. What had happened? Where were the twins?

Inside, he found Padmé in her usual evening spot in the chair, buried in datapads. Artoo, for some reason, was pressed up against her legs. Were he a tooka, Obi-Wan thought, he would be in her lap.

The astromech blatted an uncomplimentary raspberry as Obi-Wan entered. Padmé looked up at the sound, and her studious frown morphed briefly to one of displeasure, before settling into forced neutrality as Obi-Wan ventured a cautious, "Good evening."

"Evening," she returned coolly, already turning her attention back to the datapad in her hand. There was nothing of panic in her attitude.

"Where are Luke and Leia?"

She fixed him with a hard stare. Her eyes, usually mild, now verged on flinty. "Tatooine."

"Why are they there?" It was unusual for Padmé to take her children for an impromptu visit to the Lars, and even more so to leave them.

"Why do you think?" Ahsoka asked from the far end of the couch, where she was curled up in the shadows with a datapad of her own.

"I don't—"

Under the intensity of the women's combined gazes, Obi-Wan began to have an uncomfortable suspicion that, somehow, the lothcat had escaped its bag during his absence.

"Padmé…" he began, warily.

"Why didn't you tell me, Obi-Wan?" she demanded. "Why didn't you tell Ahsoka? Or Rex? Did you think none of us deserved to know that Anakin is alive?"

"Or that none of us needed to know he's the enemy we've been trying to eliminate?" Ahsoka added. "That we didn't need to be prepared for the possibility of ending up on the battlefield with him?"

Artoo added his own accusatory trill, and Padmé went on, "Did the Rako Hardeen deception teach you nothing? Oh, I know you didn't actually lie about Anakin, but you deceived us all, nonetheless."

"I—yes. I deceived you," Obi-Wan confessed. "I thought, if you knew, you would run off and try to bring him back."

"You didn't trust me to protect my own children."

"In hindsight, I see that there was perhaps more reason to trust you than I believed at the time—but, Padmé, what else was I supposed to think, when I heard you begging him to go away with you? After I told you what Anakin did—how he slaughtered the Jedi in the Temple, the younglings—what else was I supposed to do, when you could know what he had done and still go after him?"

She pursed her lips. "The first few years, I grant—you had reason. But after that—you should have told me. I had a right to know, Obi-Wan. And because I didn't know, Vader—Anakin—found out about Luke and me."

Obi-Wan stared, agape. "You were in communication with a Sith—with him?"

"The opportunity presented itself, and Mon and I judged it too valuable to waste."

"Without telling me?"

"I thought you had issues with Sith! I didn't realise you were so disturbed by Vader because he was—if I had known, then I wouldn't have taken the assignment at all! But because I didn't, I took it. And now my children are back on Tatooine, Anakin is probably combing the galaxy for us as we speak, and I have no idea how long it will be before Palpatine knows about the twins!" Rising, Padmé collected her datapads. "I understand that you had your reasons. I know that time was difficult for you, and whatever you did, whatever you've had to live with… but still, it is not a sufficient excuse."

"I attempted," he said, "to do the best thing in an impossible situation. I am sorry that it led to this."

Padmé nodded stiffly. "And I do not intend to hold a grudge. But, for now, I am still angry. Good night."

She withdrew, Artoo trailing after her, and Obi-Wan faced Ahsoka. She, too, was collecting her things, although the look she gave him was more reproachful than angry.

"Maybe she's right, or maybe you are," she said. "Maybe neither of you is. I don't know. But I do know one thing: my brother is not irredeemable, no matter what the Order taught."

Then she, too, departed, leaving him with the feeling that an asteroid had slammed into his orbit and knocked everything askew.

The weather being foul, Obi-Wan was prohibited from using his preferred outdoor meditation space, so he was now doing his poor best to meditate in the utilitarian stillness of the training room. It was not terribly effective, and he was just wondering whether he ought to call it quits and try to make sense of the rather grubby shipping manifests he had received from Hondo's "friend," when Asajj barged into the room without so much as a knock.

"Kenobi."

"Ventress."

"Amidala said you would be in a mood, and she's worried, but she didn't trust herself not to bite your head off, so she sent me instead. Force only knows why she thought that was a better idea, but here I am."

"Your presence has been noted."

Asajj put her hands on her hips. "Well?"

"Ahsoka wants to try to bring Anakin back," Obi-Wan said. "To the light. To—us."

"And?"

"I'm worried about her. She's still so young, and she wasn't there… I'm afraid she will try something, I don't know what, to persuade him to abandon Sidious."

"She's got a good head on her shoulders. I don't think you need to worry about her."

"I didn't think I needed to worry about Anakin, either."

"That's hardly a fair comparison," Asajj snorted, settling down on the floor nearby. "She's got klicks better judgement than he ever had. She knows what can happen if she's not careful, too. Maybe she would have tried something with Skywalker, before that mess with the Inquisitor on Daiyu, but I don't think she will now. Not without solid backup and a way out."

"She… she's just so certain—she absolutely believes that he can come back. That there's something or someone left to come back."

"And you believe…."

"We were taught that there is no return from the dark side."

"Do you believe it?"

"Yes." Except that wasn't quite true, was it? Obi-Wan couldn't very well deny that Asajj, though not a Jedi by any means, was a far cry from the Sith acolyte she had once been.

She picked up on his hesitancy. "Then why does it feel like you're not telling me the whole story?"

"It's not something a good person would say."

"But you know you want to. That's why you're talking to me. Because I don't give an ysalamir's ass whether you're a good person or not. Either that, or you don't value my opinion. Fair, either way. So, spill."

"I…."

"Really. Well, what a revelation."

Obi-Wan gave her a cutting look.

"I was trying," he said, "to find the words to say… if Ahsoka is right… if Anakin can be returned, restored—if that can happen, and I have turned my back on him all these years… I have not so much as tried. And so… in a horrible way… I almost would rather she be wrong. Because if she is not… then I have failed him again. Continually. Every day that I have done nothing."

Asajj surveyed him, sharp-eyed. "Are you asking me to tell you that she's wrong? Because I'm not going to do that. Tano is young and idealistic, optimistic and all that soft nonsense, but—" she jabbed a finger at herself, "—living proof right here that she's not necessarily wrong."

"Thank you so much for your support."

"You wanted support, you should have gone to someone else."

"If you'll recall, it was you who barged into my meditation session."

She shrugged. "You needed it. Stewing isn't going to help anything. Anyway—personally, Kenobi, I don't think what you do or don't do would have any effect on Vader. Whatever you did, or whatever happened, that bridge was burned."

Obi-Wan grimaced, and Asajj eased up, sensing she'd struck a nerve. "All I'm saying is that if nothing you do will make a difference, then there's no value to be had from feeling guilty. It's just a waste of time and energy. And at your age, darling," she added, "you don't have much to spare."

"If that's all true—if Ahsoka is right, and if you are, if I couldn't change anything—that's almost worse than if I could," Obi-Wan said. "I should be able to. I am—I was—his master. I should have been able to prevent it. And because I didn't, I should at least be able to fix it."

Asajj huffed. "Kenobi, he hates you. Even if he can come back to the light, you're not going to be the one to make it happen. It's just not how people work."

"I know that, rationally."

"But you can't actually make yourself feel it, and so you tell yourself that old Master Yoda was right, and your padawan is lost forever."

"I told you it wasn't something a good person would say."

"I think you're wrong. You've been through hell, and you're still as stuck in the light as ever. If that's not the mark of a good person, I don't know what is. I think, if your padawan came back to you and asked for your help, there's no distance you wouldn't go to help him. I don't think you are a bad person. But you're afraid that you are one."

"Do you know the word immolation, Ventress?"

"Is this really the time to quiz me on advanced vocab— Oh. You… I see. That would explain… a lot, really." She shook her head, at once impressed and horrified. "I didn't know you had it in you, Kenobi."

"Neither did I. I don't know what happened. I couldn't move… or wouldn't. I could have stopped it all right then. I should have, either saved him or killed him. But I stood. And then I walked away."

"You've been harboring that nasty little secret all these years."

He nodded.

"And that's the real reason you don't want to believe he's redeemable—because you denied him that chance at the very start, and then Sidious…."

"Have you changed your mind?"

"About you being a good person? Not really. I know bad people—I've been, maybe still am one. You're not bad. A bit broken, maybe. Definitely. But not bad."

Asajj stood and took her lightsabers from her belt. "Come on. Spar with me. Meditating's not going to get you anywhere when you're in a state like this."

Perhaps she was right. At any rate, it didn't hurt to stay sharp, and the activity took Obi-Wan's mind off the problems that he couldn't solve. He and Asajj sparred for an hour, resting now and again, but only halting the match when Ahsoka stuck her head in the door.

"I tried comming, but neither of you answered. Anyway—I came down here to tell you that Mothma wants to see us, Obi-Wan. Sounds like the Partisan base has come under attack."

A/N: I've also been doing art for some of the chapters, including this one, which can be found on Tumblr at wendingways if you're interested! (or see link in my profile)