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Obi-Wan Kenobi was so skilled a diplomat that it nearly preceded his reputation as a Jedi. His flagship was named the Negotiator. He could debate Separatist leaders in his sleep. It was almost too easy, sometimes, and when it was difficult, it was fun. He entered a verbal engagement and saw a chessboard laid out in front of him, a hand of cards, a war table.
Following the Daughter to speak with the Son on Mortis was none of those things.
It was not easy, it was not fun, it was not exciting. The Daughter was pure-hearted and earnest, and it was difficult to find fault with her or anything she said because of it. That wasn’t to discount her intelligence; her candor and willingness to show vulnerability was part of her strategy, and it was an effective one. The Son’s was surprisingly similar, but his underlying ambition and impatience bled into each of his words, making them cold and cutting instead of warm and reassuring. Obi-Wan wondered which of them he emulated most when he spoke with terrorists and politicians.
This place made him feel raw, stretched thin into a thousand strings and wound tight enough to snap under a wayward speck of dust. Each word from the Son felt like another turn of a tuning peg, building explosive tension with no intent to stop. Apparently he was still strong enough to hold firm, however tenuous, and a bow scraped across his strings in a teeth-grinding stab when the Son mentioned Anakin was in danger, offhand and an obvious trap. He did not hesitate to find him.
As he raced across the courtyard, he heard nothing but the thunderous sound of lightsaber-on-lightsaber, deaf to everything but the clashing of weapons, the frustrated growls of his former padawan, and the enraged shrieks of his. His heart sunk to see blue against green, to watch Ahsoka kick over the head of her own teacher, her guardian, to ignite a weapon at him in the moment after.
Obi-Wan kind of always thought he’d be the one with his student’s weapon at his throat. Stars knew he’d made enough mistakes to earn it.
Even with his heart beating somewhere between the soles of his boots and the rough stone beneath them, he lit his lightsaber against Ahsoka as well. He was at a loss; this wasn’t Ahsoka, clearly, and it was obvious the Son was to blame, but nevertheless it was her body in front of them. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, yet she had every intention of hurting them. She was aware of his presence in the fight and acted accordingly, but it was clear her main assault was on Anakin.
He felt Anakin’s panic, clear as day, as surely as he knew his own. The pinpoint precision in his eye was gone, he stood too rigidly, his flesh hand shook just slightly– Anakin was terrified, his nightmares turned reality without the chance to form a plan, even a terrible one. But that was what Obi-Wan was for, and he cut in between Anakin and Ahsoka easily, giving him space from the object that tore his world down around it. He would not let Ahsoka hurt Anakin, and he would free Anakin of the burden of hurting Ahsoka. If he had to make the tough call, to make the hard decision, to take the hit or the blame for injuring the child so dear to them both, then so be it. Anakin had hated him before, and he was sure he’d hate him again. If he could take this moment that could make Anakin hate himself out of his hands, then he would.
Of course, Anakin’s attachment to Obi-Wan was just as strong, and twice as obvious. “Any suggestions?” Anakin asked, angry and rough, and Obi-Wan knew it was out of desperation, for the same instinctual attempt for comfort that led him to blame Obi-Wan for every mistake, because Obi-Wan was supposed to fix everything. In moments like these Obi-Wan remembered there was very little time between Anakin’s teenage years and Anakin now.
And thankfully Obi-Wan had a suggestion. He’d hate to validate any fear of Anakin’s that Obi-Wan wouldn’t come to help him; something he should really work on. Anakin was a Knight now, and young though he may be, he was not Obi-Wan’s responsibility anymore. That particular bond was cut alongside the braid that used to fall over Anakin’s shoulder. He revealed the dagger he’d taken from the altar, and though Ahsoka screamed with the Son’s voice, it was enough like her own that his heart stuttered.
The Son and Daughter came crashing into the courtyard, and shards of stained glass rained around them, scattered to pieces at their feet much like Obi-Wan’s plan with the dagger. Ahsoka handed the dagger to the Son, Anakin nearly jumped out of his own skin, and Ahsoka crumpled to the ground before either of them could move.
The heart-rending scream Anakin made as Ahsoka fell was remarkably similar to the Son’s as he took to the sky, his sister bleeding in their Father’s arms.
Obi-Wan did not follow Anakin as he ran to Ahsoka’s side. He couldn’t have even if he wanted to; it was like the stone had melded with his boots, rooting him in place, cold creeping up his body to cement him in the moment. Maybe if he stood very, very still, he would not have to lose two of the people he cared about most; one to death, the other because of it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to see Ahsoka’s cold body, or feel the hurt that would singe Anakin to the bone. Maybe he could delay losing even more people for just another moment, and maybe he would be able to handle it, then.
But Anakin rolled Ahsoka over and recoiled violently, and Obi-Wan commanded his frozen limbs to move, and they did. They brought him to stand behind Anakin, enough to see over his shoulder, where Ahsoka lay completely still. The Daughter trembled, her chest rose and fell unevenly, but it stuttered and struggled and was successful at least in moving. Ahsoka was ash, was stone, and Anakin’s tears did nothing to stir her. Obi-Wan stood behind them, like he could stand as a barrier between them and everything else beyond the horrible truth of the moment. The world began to crumble, rock and leaves and soil flew around them as lightning split the sky, but that devastation was nothing compared to what he saw on Anakin’s face.
Anakin curled over his padawan, voice thick with anger and grief as he pleaded with the Father. He was unable, as always, to accept that which he did not want to– answers, orders, the loss of a loved one– and Obi-Wan was powerless to help him. He could not help guide him towards compromise, could not smooth things over with the council after Anakin ignored his mandade, because this was more than that; he could not bring back the dead. It was more luck than Obi-Wan deserved that Anakin truly was the chosen one, and that the Daughter had a kind enough soul to give up the last of her life to save Ahsoka’s. He shielded his eyes as Anakin lit up the courtyard, burning brighter than a supergiant star as he served as a conduit for the Living Force itself.
Obi-Wan bent closer as Ahsoka coughed and shuddered, but this was a moment for her and her master. Anakin pulled her close, tight, and his voice shook when he greeted her. Anakin was every bit the child who would wake up sobbing from nightmares of things Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine. Obi-Wan forced a smile when Ahsoka turned to him, but there was a pit in the center of his chest. She sat in front of him, breathing and talking, and Anakin wiped away his tears behind her shoulder, but Obi-Wan’s gut still twisted horribly. It was too-near of a miss, too big of a potential loss; he was still reeling over the fact that it had happened, much less processed that it hadn’t.
He had thought losing a master was horrible. He remembered being twenty-five, staring at Qui-Gon on his funeral pyre and cursing everything that had led them to that point, that he had been left alone. He knew now that the pain of losing someone who watched over you was nothing compared to the indescribable feeling of failing to protect someone you were meant to care for. Losing Ahsoka would be a devastating loss, but losing Ahsoka would mean losing Anakin, and that was not one he was sure Obi-Wan could survive.
Ahsoka blinked at Obi-Wan slowly as he handed her her fallen lightsaber, and he allowed himself a deep breath. She was alright. She took it from him and turned to listen to the Father without missing a beat. She was ready to move on to what needed to be done, and that meant that Anakin would, too. The Daughter had made her last act a sacrifice which saved Ahsoka, which saved Anakin, which saved Obi-Wan.
They moved to follow the Father’s instructions, and Obi-Wan held out a cautious hand as Ahsoka hopped down from the ledge. She didn’t need his help, which he should be glad for, but he selfishly wished she had taken his hand so that he might feel her warmth, so he could feel that she was still with them. He supposed he could have hugged her as Anakin had, but something locked his muscles, stopping his train of thought when he considered it. He was a Jedi, Jedi didn’t have attachments (or at least did not act on them), he knew the Code deep in his bones, he was a teacher, it was his job to spread the teachings of the Jedi and uphold the Code through example. If he allowed himself a lapse in his discipline just once, it would happen again, and he would be of no use to anyone. All of these thoughts were automatic and undeniable. He’d been repeating them his whole life, and they kept him moving forward. (Or did they hold him back?)
(He wanted to be selfish in a way that gave him something he wanted, not in the superficial way he told himself getting a second drink or spending his credits on something for his quarters or requesting his marshal commander directly accompany him on a mission was.)
(An admission that he loved someone was an admission of guilt, of failure. And when he failed, people died. Obi-Wan loved a great many people, but that love was locked away, hidden under his lungs and caged by his ribs, because if no one else knew, he could not fail them.)
When they returned to the ship, Anakin and Ahsoka immediately began to flit about the cockpit, the engine, the control panels– Ahsoka chattered at them as she moved, but Anakin was quiet. After a few minutes of this Obi-Wan called him over, and though Anakin came, he did not stray far from where Ahsoka had disappeared into the floor panels. A comment about the weather was innocuous, disarming enough that Anakin let his hurt bleed through the sarcasm in his reply.
“You did well, Anakin,” he said, turning to look at him fully. Anakin sat hunched, trying to make himself smaller, just like he used to when he was little enough that it worked. Obi-Wan would be a fool if he denied then what he always knew– Anakin was the best out of any of them, more powerful and capable of things no one could fathom. He had channeled life energy back into his padawan and survived the process and the only scars he had to show from it were emotional. “How do you feel?”
He sighed and cast his gaze away. “I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing by leaving. The Son is consumed by the Dark Side.” Obi-Wan almost laughed; he had meant his question genuinely, one he did not often ask, and Anakin did what he did best. He avoided things he did not want to touch, and he chose to answer the question as Obi-Wan had taught him, as a good Jedi should, rather than explore and admit to his obvious wounds. Anakin’s rule-following had always been selective in the most inconvenient of manners.
He watched Anakin speed away, towards the Father and whatever else, and had a horrible feeling he was letting him walk unobstructed towards something that would destroy him. This feeling led him to blame the Father for letting Anakin go, but in that moment, he and Obi-Wan were one and the same.
When Obi-Wan arrived at the well of the Dark Side, when he stood on the platform surrounded by a river of molten rock, columns of magma swirling around him, his blood sang with a warning he couldn’t interpret. It made his teeth hurt, it pulled at the center of his soul, but he didn’t know what it meant. He sensed Anakin far too late, because the Anakin he met was not one he recognized. His voice cracked and scraped when he pushed words from his chest, his eyes glowed yellow, bright even when surrounded by the fire that burned beyond the rock they stood on. He took a step forward, shocked, wanting to reach for and find his friend but unsure how, but he was knocked to the ground before he could figure it out.
The red lightning from the Son inflicted a pain upon him unlike any he had felt before; he felt blood and fire and a suffocating weight all at the same time. He smelled the acrid scent of his own burnt hair, clothes, skin, as he pushed himself up, only able to stare at his former padawan, horrified beyond words. Something was obviously different, obviously wrong, but it was not the same as it had been with Ahsoka. Anakin’s indifference to his pain felt deserved, a long time coming, and though Obi-Wan was crushed under the weight of his own terror, he thought, so this is how it happens.
Obi-Wan forced himself to his feet, an arm curled protectively around himself, though the Son could not hurt him any further now that Anakin had left him. “He’s mine, now,” said the Son, and Obi-Wan remained upright only through the same paralyzing fear that had kept him in place as Anakin had run to Ahsoka’s side only hours before.
Ahsoka helped Obi-Wan out of the well, and they found Anakin. Ahsoka cried out for him and when Anakin’s head snapped to look at her, Obi-Wan saw that his eyes were blue, as they should be. He brushed off Obi-Wan’s inquiry to his wellbeing easily, stubborn as ever and clearly shaken by whatever he had experienced. Obi-Wan would ask again, later, but there was no certainty Anakin would be willing to share.
The Son drew Anakin’s throat into his palm and tossed him across the room like a ragdoll. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka moved as one, taking up arms against the man who would hurt Anakin. It did not matter that it was pointless; if Anakin did not stand a chance against the Son, then they certainly would not, but this was Anakin, and Obi-Wan would not let the Son hurt him. Perhaps that was the same sentiment that drove most of Anakin’s own decisions; maybe that’s where he learned it. But Anakin had yet to get up, and Obi-Wan had always been good at making his decisions about Anakin where Anakin could not see.
In the end, Anakin was able to defeat the Son. Each of the Father’s dying words seemed to bow Anakin’s shoulders further, and Obi-Wan could practically see the weight settling onto them. Obi-Wan wished desperately that he could relieve some of that burden, that he could hold up the sky for him, just for a moment, but that was not his lot in this life. Anakin leaned on him sometimes, but not as often as he should, not when it truly mattered, and that was Obi-Wan’s own fault. Even after such a conflict– not the one with the Son, but the one he could see waging just behind Anakin’s eyes, just under his skin, Obi-Wan stood apart from him. This was Anakin’s duty alone, and Obi-Wan could not help, and getting close enough to see its wear on his padawan would only make that hurt cut deeper. Obi-Wan’s drive for self-preservation may be minimal, but it was not nonexistent.
They woke up in their shuttle, tired and confused, but nearly whole. Ahsoka was reeling, Anakin was fractured, splitting to pieces along new cracks and fissures in the pilot’s seat, and Obi-Wan did nothing. He said nothing, and though he told himself he would say something later, he would not get the chance. Too much would happen in the few days after their time on Mortis, and each of those events would just write themselves onto the list of things he probably should address, but won’t. This was war, after all, and it waited for no one. Certainly not for Obi-Wan Kenobi, or Anakin Skywalker, or Ahsoka Tano, or Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, or Marshall Commander Cody of the 7th Sky Corps, or Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, or any of the people he wished to lean himself onto, to wrap his arms around and promise to protect, always.
He watched them hurt, and he did nothing. He was a Jedi, he was supposed to. If he didn’t say that he loved them out loud, it wouldn’t count, it wouldn’t go against the Code, wouldn’t violate the same teachings that he preached, and they would be safe from that, at least.
In the end, it hardly made a difference.