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jetii · 21 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-One: Cascade

Chapter WC: 10,188

Chapter Warnings: um? general emotional turmoil

A/N: This one kicked my ass. Like genuinely probably the hardest chapter I've ever written, and I'm not sure why. But I'm very much looking forward to next week's chapter!

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

Yaddle's lightsaber hovers in the air before you, the blade humming softly. It's been a week since the Council's decision, and you've yet to leave your rooms. The lightsaber has become a focal point, a symbol, a reminder of what was taken from you. It's also a comfort.

Your connection to her.

Your eyes narrow, and you focus, the energy gathering in the pit of your stomach, the power building. The saber spins, the green blade rotating slowly. A bead of sweat drips down your forehead, and your hands begin to shake, the exertion taking its toll.

You're not even sure what you're doing. You're not practicing. Not really. You're just...playing. Trying to distract yourself. Trying not to think.

You've been doing a lot of that lately.

The hilt tilts, and the blade nicks the side of the chair, slicing through the metal. You curse and lower your hands, and the lightsaber clatters to the ground, its light extinguishing. The sound echoes in your rooms, and you grimace, running a hand over your face.

"Kriffing hell," you hiss. You sigh and cross the room, kneeling to pick up the lightsaber.

You're getting worse. You're barely sleeping, the stress taking its toll, and your emotions are all over the place. You can't seem to focus. It's as if everything you touch, everything you try, is doomed to fail.

You've never felt more useless.

You run a hand through your hair and slump, dropping onto the couch, your head falling into your hands. The tears sting, but they won't come. They haven't for days. There's a hollow ache in your chest, a dull pain that refuses to fade. Your throat is tight, and the guilt is threatening to swallow you whole.

You don't know what else to do. For so long, all you've wanted was to bring justice for Yaddle. To find the truth. But now that the truth has been uncovered, and justice has been denied, there's nothing left. Nothing except this hollow, empty ache. And a lingering feeling of betrayal.

You know you were out of line, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. Obi-Wan shouldn't have kept quiet. He shouldn't have just stood there and watched, his eyes averted, his face impassive. He could have said something. He should have said something. Anything. Instead, he did what he always does. He went along with the Council, playing the dutiful Jedi. Never challenging, never questioning, never speaking his mind. Always keeping his mouth shut. Always toeing the line.

The line of thinking that had been torturing you for days doesn't bring with it the usual anger or frustration now. There's nothing left. No emotion, no energy. Nothing. Just the cold, numbing pain.

You've never felt more alone.

Obi-Wan had tried to reach out, had tried to contact you, had even come to your door. But you hadn't answered, and you know the lack of communication is hurting him. You can sense it. It's a constant nagging at the back of your mind, a tugging in the Force.

The bond between the two of you is frayed, the threads pulled taught, the strain threatening to snap. But still, you can't bring yourself to speak with him. He's reached out to you countless times, and you've refused him. Each time, he's recoiled, the pain and confusion radiating through the bond. It's a physical blow, and each time it hits you, it knocks the wind out of you.

You know it's hurting him, and that hurts you, but you can't bring yourself to end the silence.

Rex has called, too. You haven’t answered. Not once. He doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what went wrong. He hasn’t stopped trying, though.

Every day, multiple times, calls and messages coming in over and over, the light of the screen flickering in the dark of your rooms. After the second day, you buried your comm underneath a pile of dirty laundry. By the third day, the battery had died from its constant use, and the room was cast into silence. You've heard nothing since then. Still, the guilt lingers. And the longing. And the regret. You miss him. You miss him, and you want him here. You want him next to you.

You know what you’re doing. It’s a reflex at this point, as easy as the basic combat forms drilled into you, as mindless as running. Pushing people away. Drowning your feelings. Hiding.

Running away.

Your eyes flick to the saber in your hand, and you run a finger over the hilt, tracing the intricate design, the ridges and curves, the dips and angles. It's familiar. It's comforting.

A part of you is still clinging to the hope that the Council will change their minds, that they'll realize their mistake, that they'll come to their senses and seek justice. It's a foolish hope. A childish hope. But, it's the only thing keeping you from giving up completely.

The truth is, you don't know what else to do. You're at a loss.

Your gaze moves past the saber, your eyes focusing on the viewport, on Coruscant's skyline. The buildings are a blur, a mass of lights and colors, a sea of endless noise. It's beautiful, in a way. An ever-moving, ever-changing kaleidoscope of life. But it's overwhelming, too. A reminder of what's out there, of what you're missing.

You've been cooped up in your rooms for too long. The walls are starting to close in on you, and you can feel your anxiety building, a low thrum in your chest. You need to get out, to go somewhere, to do something. Anything.

You stand, and a wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to grab hold of the back of the couch, steadying yourself. You're weak, and lightheaded, and exhausted. You've barely eaten, and you haven't slept, not really.

Not since.

Since.

The images flash through your mind, unbidden, unwanted, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You swallow, forcing down the nausea, and the tears well up, hot and burning.

You can't stop it, can't control it.

"Fuck," you hiss. You throw the lightsaber across the room, the hilt bouncing off the wall with a satisfying thud. It clatters to the floor, and you stare at it, breathing heavily, the anger and frustration boiling over. "Fuck. Fuck."

It's not enough. Nothing is.

Your hands ball into fists, and you clench your jaw, a surge of fury coursing through you. It's like a drug, and it's an instant rush, a brief respite from the pain, but it brings with it a shift in the Force. A tremor, a vibration, a change in pressure that's too intense to ignore.

You close your eyes, and you focus, reaching for the energy, letting it flow through you. But the more you focus, the more you grasp, the stronger the energy becomes. You're not controlling it. It's controlling you.

It's too much.

Your eyes fly open, and you cry out, your hands moving of their own accord to the sides of your head. The pain is intense, white-hot, blinding. It's as if someone has pressed an iron spike through your skull, and you scream, unable to hold it back. You can't move, can't think, can't breathe, can't see. All you can feel is the pain, the agony, the torture. And it's everywhere, consuming you, tearing you apart.

One of your hands pulls away from your head, and you watch it happen as if in slow motion, as if through a fog, as if through the eyes of another. The criss-crossing pattern of scars on your palm seem to pulse and glow, the flesh reddening, the skin rippling and bubbling. You stare, mesmerized, transfixed.

And then you turn and release it all. Directed outwards, away from yourself, the Force is a violent blast, a burst of raw energy. It rips through the room, shifting furniture, shattering a lamp, and knocking a shelf clean off the wall. The items go flying, and a vase explodes on impact, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor. You don't notice. You're too focused on the destruction, the release, the relief. It's like a high, and the euphoria is overwhelming, a heady rush of adrenaline and endorphins and power.

"Fuck," you gasp, the word coming out a strangled hiss. You take a step back and stumble, the pain finally subsiding, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your knees hit the couch, and you slump, falling onto the cushions, breathing heavily. The anger has ebbed, and the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness, the bone-deep exhaustion, and a new wave of guilt.

You've haven't lost control like that in years, and it frightens you. This…whatever it is, this thing that’s been building inside of you since Dooku attacked you a decade ago, it's getting worse. And you have no idea how to stop it. No idea how to contain it. If this is what's going to happen every time the pain becomes too much...you can't keep doing this.

You need to get out. You need fresh air.

You need help.

The thought makes your skin crawl, and you grimace, pushing it away, refusing to acknowledge it. You don't need help. You don't want help. You just want this all to stop. To go away. To be gone. But, the Force isn't listening.

"Get ahold of yourself," you mutter. "You're better than this."

But, you're not. Not anymore.

The words are a familiar mantra, something you've repeated over and over, day after day, since you were a child. Since you first began training. It's not enough. You're spiraling, and you know it, but there's no one to pull you back, to ground you, to keep you from falling.

You grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms, forcing yourself to breathe. In, out. In, out. You will yourself to picture a serene place, a calm place. Somewhere peaceful. A forest. A lake. A field. None of them work. The images are hazy and distorted, and the pain is still there, a low throbbing ache. You can't make it go away. Can't make any of it go away.

The golden field from your dreams is suddenly thrust to the forefront of your mind, and a strange warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, the pressure slowly easing, the tension ebbing away. You haven't had the dream since Saleucami, and you haven't thought about it since. Until now.

The sun is warm on your skin, and there's a breeze, and you can smell grass and flowers and dirt. The scent is familiar and calming, and it fills your senses. It's real. More real than it's ever been. There's the murmur of voices, children laughing, someone calling your name. You look around, searching for the source, but no one's there. Only the field, the sun, the breeze. And the sense that, somewhere, something is waiting. Someone who needs you.

You feel a hand settle on your shoulder, warm and gentle and strong, and you turn to face the figure beside you. But, the moment you do, the sun fades, and the warmth is gone, and the voices are muffled, the laughter muted. And, then, everything goes black.

You open your eyes, and you're met with chaos.

Your rooms are a mess. The broken lamp is lying on its side, the cord dangling. The shattered remains of the vase are strewn across the floor, the water from the flowers spreading, soaking into the carpet. The shelf is in pieces, and a datapad has joined the mess of objects that were previously displayed. There's a dent in the wall where the hilt of Yaddle's lightsaber struck it, and the door to the refresher is open, the lights on and flickering.

It's a disaster.

You slump, the exhaustion setting in. You're not even sure how long you've been cooped up here, alone. It's been days, at least. Maybe a week, maybe longer. It's hard to keep track. Time seems to lose all meaning when you're locked away like this.

Your gaze lands on Yaddle's lightsaber, and you wince, guilt gnawing at your stomach. She'd be disappointed. She'd tell you to pick yourself up, to get back out there, to move forward. She'd remind you of the Jedi teachings, of the Code, and she'd tell you to embrace the Light.

But she'd also tried to leave. She'd tried to get away from the Order, from the Code, from the war. She'd wanted something else, something more.

Something better.

Your eyes narrow, and the decision settles in the pit of your stomach, sinking deep into your bones. Maybe it's time to do the same.

It's not like you have anything to lose. Obi-Wan will survive. He has Ahsoka and Anakin. And Rex...Rex will be okay. He'll be fine. He’ll be better off without you, anyway. He doesn't need the drama. He deserves better. You'll miss him. A part of you will always long for him. But, he's not yours. And he never will be.

It's a coward's move, and you know it. It's selfish. But, maybe that's what you are. Maybe that's all you've ever been. Maybe that's all you'll ever be.

Maybe it's time to accept it.

You've just finished packing when a knock sounds on the door. You frown, and your eyes narrow as the sound echoes in the room. You weren't expecting anyone. There's no way Rex could get inside the Temple without clearance, and you would've sensed Obi-Wan before he got close enough, even in your state. But the person behind the door is radiating concern, worry, fear. You know that signature, know the energy. It's one you'd recognize anywhere.

The door slides open without your prompting, and the light from the hall filters in, blinding you. You wince and squint as a figure appears in the doorway, a shadow against the light.

"I locked the door," you say flatly.

Anakin snorts. "And?"

He steps inside, the door sliding closed behind him. His gaze travels across your room, and his eyes widen, taking in the destruction. You've done what you could to right everything, but there's still evidence of your tantrum. There's water on the floor, a few pieces of glass, a dent in the wall, clothes discarded on the table. You grimace and run a hand through your hair, pulling at it.

Anakin’s eyes fall on Yaddle's lightsaber on the floor, and you quickly summon the weapon, the hilt flying into your palm. It clatters onto the desk in front of you, and you turn, avoiding his gaze.

"And, what are you doing here?" you mutter.

"What am I doing here?" Anakin repeats, and he walks forward, his eyes wide, his voice incredulous. "What are you doing here? You weren't answering my calls. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Ahsoka's. Or anyone's. I thought something might've happened."

"I'm fine," you say stiffly. "Nothing happened."

"Clearly," he deadpans. He reaches down and picks up a piece of glass, and you watch as he tosses it into a small trash bin. "Other than a complete breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown," you snap. You wince, and your voice softens, dropping to a whisper. "I didn't."

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes scan the room again, pausing on the dent in the wall, before moving back to you. The judgement is obvious, and you glare at him, daring him to speak. He doesn't. He just stares at you, his eyes boring into yours, the worry evident. After a moment, he sighs, and his shoulders sag, the concern radiating through the Force.

"I didn't," you repeat. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.

"Then, what happened? And why is Rex, of all people, asking me if you're okay?" Anakin asks. He gestures around him, his gaze landing on a pile of dirty dishes, an overflowing laundry basket, an open duffel bag on your bed. "Or, better yet, why are you packing a bag?"

The mention of Rex's name sends a sharp pang through your chest, and you flinch, trying to hide it.

"I'm not," you lie, and his expression turns to exasperation.

"Right," he says slowly. Anakin leans against your desk, his arms folded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Because we both know you're just standing here, in front of a packed bag, for fun."

"Shut up," you mutter as you return to packing. You shove a shirt into your bag, not bothering to fold it, and you turn away from him, heading for the refresher.

Anakin's eyes widen, a strangled sound escaping his throat as follows after you. He rushes to block the door before you can get any further, and his arms cross, his body a wall.

"Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this," he says.

"Anakin, move," you order.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Move," you repeat, and you raise a hand, shoving him aside with the Force. He stumbles, and he lets out a noise of surprise, his eyes wide, his mouth dropping open. You step into the refresher, and you grab the rest of your toiletries, tossing them onto the counter, your movements sharp and jerky.

"Okay," Anakin breathes. His eyes narrow, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the mess. He spots a broken perfume bottle on the floor, the contents dripping down the wall, and he winces. "That bad, huh?"

You're silent, ignore him and returning to packing. The bag is almost full, and you curse, realizing you'll have to take a second. You didn't think this through. You should've started packing yesterday. Or last week. Maybe last month.

"Where are you going?" Anakin asks. He's leaning against the door frame, watching you with an intensity that's unnerving. "Are you going somewhere? Where?"

"Leave me alone," you snap, and you turn, shoving him away, but he catches your arm, stopping you. His grip is firm, but gentle, and he holds you there, his brows knit together.

"Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to yell at you, or lecture you, or whatever it is you think I'm here to do," he says softly, his expression sincere. "I'm here because I care. I'm here because Ahsoka cares. And Obi-Wan—"

"Stop."

"—is worried sick about you," he finishes, ignoring your interruption. "Whatever's going on, whatever's happened, we can help. Just talk to us. Tell me what's going on. Please."

You look away toward your desk, your eyes falling on Yaddle's lightsaber. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you swallow, fighting back the tears.

"Come on," he urges. His hand moves, squeezing your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your defenses crumble. You're tired of holding everything in, tired of hiding, tired of pretending. The fight drains out of you, and you deflate, your shoulders slumping, your eyes falling to the ground.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice low. "You're not usually...this. At least, not lately."

"No," you agree.

"So, what is it? Did you have a fight with Obi-Wan?"

"No," you say, and you wince. "Yes. Not exactly."

"Then, what is it? You can tell me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter how much of a pain in the ass you are."

You scoff, the noise muffled by your sleeve as you wipe your eyes, and a smile tugs at your lips. "Asshole."

"Brat," he replies, and his hand drops from your shoulder. "Now, talk."

"It's not that easy," you mumble. You sniff, and your gaze flickers to him, taking in his expectant expression. "There's just...a lot. I don't know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," he says. "Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll listen."

You walk away and settle back on the couch, and Anakin follows, sitting next to you. He watches you and waits, his silence urging you to speak.

You take a deep breath, and you begin.

You tell him everything. Starting from the moment you met him on Naboo, ending with the Council's decision, the entire story tumbling out of your mouth, the words flowing freely. The only thing you leave out is Rex. Your friendship with him, the attraction, the connection. It's too personal, too private, too intimate. That secret will stay between the two of you.

Anakin listens. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't speak. He doesn't offer advice or suggestions. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, letting you speak, listening to every word, hearing every syllable.

Somewhere along the way, you start to feel it again. The anger and the frustration rising up, threatening to break free. It's only when it's nearly pouring out that you realize it's not just your own feelings. Anakin's anger is mingling with yours, and his face is dark, his jaw clenched. The shadows in the room seem to lengthen the longer you talk, and he's breathing faster, his hands curling into fists, his muscles tensing.

By the time you're finished, you're both fuming. The energy in the room is thick, the anger almost tangible. You feel your skin crawl, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, and you shift, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Anakin's gaze is fixed on the floor, and he's staring, his eyes hard.

"This isn't the first time the Council's done this," he says quietly. "Taken credit. Made decisions behind our backs. Put their agenda ahead of ours."

"I know," you murmur, and you run a hand through your hair, a bitter laugh escaping. "It's not just me. They're always like this. Always."

"That's not how it's supposed to work," Anakin growls. His eyes are narrowed, and he shakes his head, his frustration seeping through the Force. “This is bullshit. All of it. I can't believe they did this to you."

"I shouldn't have expected any less," you sigh, and you shake your head, the tears starting again. You scrub at your face, and your hands fall to your lap, fingers twisting together. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I knew better. I know better.”

"Don't," he snaps. His head turns, his gaze finding yours, the intensity of his eyes almost startling. "Don't do that. This isn't your fault."

"I just...I thought that bringing evidence would make a difference. That it would mean something. That it would actually count," you mutter, and you look away, staring out at nothing. "I didn't want to give up. I didn't want to quit. But it's not my place. It's never been. I'm not..."

Your voice trails off, and Anakin scoffs.

"If you're about to say you're not good enough, I'm going to punch you," he threatens. "Hard."

You snort, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "You're so violent."

"I'm serious," he says, and his eyes narrow, his face turning solemn. "Don't let them do this. Don't let them push you around, or guilt trip you, or whatever it is they're doing. You're a Jedi. Just because they're not willing to fight for justice doesn't mean you can't."

"They're not going to change their minds," you say. You rub your eyes, and a shuddering breath escapes. "They won't."

"So what?" Anakin argues. He turns toward you and leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. "So what if they don't? Who cares? You said it yourself. She was a mentor to you. And now, her killer is out there. Free. And you're not going to do anything about it?"

"It's not my place," you repeat, avoiding his gaze. "She's dead. She's gone. Nothing I do is going to change that. What's the point?"

"The point is she was your Master, and she was murdered," he says sharply. "You can't let this go. You can't just walk away. You can't leave it like this."

"Why not?" you mutter. Your fingers twitch, and you clench your fists, trying to calm yourself. "It's not as if there's anything I can do."

"There's plenty you can do," he argues. He sits forward, his hands braced on his knees. His face is flushed, and his voice rises, his words growing more and more passionate. "They gave you a whole legion of troopers, ships, unlimited resources. They gave you everything. So, use it. Do something. Anything."

"They did it because they thought I needed a distraction," you say. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes. It's too much. "Because they were worried I'd do something stupid."

"Or, maybe they just finally realized that you're more than capable," Anakin counters as he sits back, his tone softening slightly. "They wouldn't have given you a position of power if they didn't think you were worthy of it."

"Worthy?" You scoff, and you shake your head, a humorless smile forming. "That's a first."

Anakin lets out a frustrated noise, and he slams his hand on the table, the noise reverberating through the room. You flinch, startled, and he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"You're being difficult," he complains.

"Yeah, well, that's me," you say. "Difficult."

"This is serious," he says firmly. His expression is grave, and his eyes find yours, holding your gaze. "Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But, I think it's a mistake if you don't."

"I know," you admit. "But, it's not as easy as you think. I can't just go after him. I have no idea where he is, or where to even start looking. Besides, I have a job to do. I'm a general. I'm supposed to be leading my troops into battle, not hunting down one man.”

"And, who said you can't do both?" Anakin asks. He arches an eyebrow, and a smirk spreads across his lips. "It's not like you haven't done it before. Besides, he's made it pretty clear that he wants to get your attention. You might not have to look very far."

You frown, and you bite your lip, mulling over his words. It's true, and you both know it. Dooku's not trying to hide. He's practically taunting you, his presence lingering in the background of every encounter. It's only a matter of time before he crosses your path again, whether you like it or not.

"I can't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"You can," he insists. He's leaning forward again, his elbows on his knees, his face close to yours. "You can, and you should. You have a choice. You can do something, or you can run away. Which is it going to be?"

"Anakin," you say, but you can't manage more than his name, and it falls flat.

"I'm serious," he says. "Make a decision. Right now. Stop sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, and do something."

Your hands ball into fists, your nails digging into your palms. You stare at him, your gaze darting over his face, taking in his determined expression. He's right. He's absolutely right.

"Do something that matters. If not for you, then for her," Anakin presses, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on yours. "She deserves that much."

"Anakin—"

"What would she want?" he asks, cutting you off. "If she were here, right now, what would she tell you to do?"

You're silent, your mouth opening and closing. Your eyes fall back to Yaddle's lightsaber, and a knot forms in your stomach. You don't have to think about it. You already know. You've known for years. She would've done whatever she could, no matter what.

As much as you'd like to believe she would've walked away from this, you know that's not true. She wouldn't have turned a blind eye, wouldn't have ignored her duty. She would've fought, tooth and nail, until she couldn't fight anymore. Until she couldn't draw another breath.

And she did. She died fighting. You know that much.

Anakin is watching you, waiting for your answer, and your throat tightens, your eyes burning. You swallow hard take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You're still angry, still hurt, but you can't deny his words. Can't ignore them.

"You're right," you whisper. You close your eyes, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself. "I want to help. I have to."

"Then, do it," he says, his tone resolute.

You open your eyes and find him smiling, a gleam in his eyes. You can't help but grin, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. He's right. You can do this. You have to try. You owe it to her to keep going.

"Thank you," you murmur, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Anakin stiffens, and he awkwardly pats your shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably go crazy," he jokes, and he pauses, adding, "Crazier. If that's possible."

You laugh and pull back, shaking your head. "I'm serious."

"I know," he chuckles. He slaps his hands on his knees and stands, a grin lighting up his face. "So, do you need a ride to Kamino?”

"Yeah,” you sigh. “I'd appreciate that."

"Consider it done.” He looks around the room and nods. "We're heading back out tomorrow anyway. Gotta pick up some more men before we head out to Bothawui. You can come, meet your troops." He smirks, his gaze dropping to the saber. "See how they measure up to the 501st."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do just fine," you say dryly. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

Anakin gives a nod and heads towards the door, his movements smooth and quick. He reaches for the pad, but the door slides open before he can touch it. You sense him at the same time Anakin does, and both of your heads snap to the left, toward the hall.

Obi-Wan freezes, and he takes a step back, his eyes widening as his gaze falls on the two of you. You hold your breath as he scans the room, taking in the bags on your bed, your disheveled appearance, and the broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor.

His face turns white, his expression stricken, and the bond between the two of you begins to hum, the energy buzzing. It's overwhelming, and it makes your stomach lurch, a lump forming in your throat.

"Ah," he says, his voice tight. "Am I interrupting something?"

Anakin glances at you, and his eyebrows raise.

"No, no. Just leaving," he says quickly, his voice bright and cheerful. He moves forward and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder, and he glances back at you, giving you a quick nod. "See you tomorrow, Goldie. Bright and early. And, uh, sorry about the lock. I...I'll pay for it."

"Uh-huh," you mumble. Your gaze never leaves Obi-Wan, and his doesn't move from yours. You can feel his anxiety, his tension, and it's a weight in your chest, a physical pressure. Anakin's voice filters through, but his words are lost, and you don't bother to listen. He's moving past Obi-Wan, heading down the hall, and the sound of his footsteps fades until all that's left is silence.

You stand, and Obi-Wan inhales sharply, his eyes flickering around the room, finally landing on Yaddle's lightsaber. You're suddenly hyperaware of the mess, the state of your clothes, the darkness under your eyes, and you cringe, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He walks into your rooms, his steps slow and cautious, and he stops, a few feet away.

"I..." Obi-Wan starts, and his voice trails off, his mouth open. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowing, and he takes a deep breath, collecting himself. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. For a week."

"I noticed," you mutter.

"I came by, a few times," he continues. His hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and his eyes flicker around the room, looking anywhere but at you. "I wanted to talk. About...about what happened. What I said."

"Nothing to talk about," you say, and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of anger in them.

"Nothing?" he asks, and his tone is incredulous. "We haven't spoken since—since it happened. The Council's decision, everything, and now, I find you packing a bag? I would think there's plenty to discuss."

"I'm not—" you start, and you bite your lip, stopping yourself.

"You're not what?" he snaps. He gestures around him, his hand waving at your bags, his gaze darting from your desk, to your bed, to your wardrobe, and back. "Packing? Leaving? Running away? Which one is it?"

"I'm not running away," you say, and you can't hide your annoyance. Your shoulders straighten, and you square off, facing him, your hands falling to your sides. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Not my business?" he repeats. Obi-Wan's eyebrows rise, and he scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course, it's my business. You're my friend. You're my—" He cuts himself off, and he winces, his mouth twisting. "I have a right to know what's going on. What happened."

"Why? So you can run and tell everyone else?" you shoot back, and his eyes widen. "So, you can report back to the Council and let them know how unstable I am?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he hisses.

"Then, stop making it so easy," you snap.

The two of you stare at each other, neither of you saying anything, and the anger builds, the tension rising. You can't tell who's more upset, him or you, and the bond between the two of you is humming, a steady vibration, the energy almost tangible. It's making your head hurt, and you wince, rubbing your temple. His gaze softens, and he takes a step toward you, but stops.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, his tone low and concerned. "What are you doing? Packing a bag, shutting yourself in here, not answering my calls, not speaking to anyone? Have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe I have," you growl, and his eyes narrow, his mouth falling open, as if to argue. You cut him off before he can. "But, maybe it's none of your business. Maybe I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he says, and his eyes move over the room, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes, you seem to be doing quite well on your own."

"Obi-Wan," you groan. Your fingers press into the side of your head, and you close your eyes, breathing deeply. You can't do this. You can't. You don't have the strength, the energy. You're exhausted, and you just want him to go away. To leave you alone. "Just leave."

"Not until you explain yourself," he argues. Obi-Wan moves closer, his arm reaching out, his fingers brushing against yours. "This isn't like you. I know things haven't been easy, and I'm sorry, I really am. But, this isn't you. I thought you were getting better."

"Better?" you scoff, and his jaw tightens, a muscle twitching.

"You know what I mean," he says stiffly. "The nightmares have been less frequent, the visions. You've seemed more stable. Less volatile. Or, at least, not as bad. You haven't had an episode in months." He pauses, his gaze searching yours, and his fingers tighten around yours, squeezing. "What happened? Tell me."

"Maybe I'm not getting better," you say quietly. You shrug, and your gaze moves past him, staring out the viewport. "Maybe I was just hiding it. Pretending."

"You're not," he says firmly. His voice is steady and sure. "I would've noticed."

"You've noticed a lot of things lately," you mutter, and your eyes find his again, the pain flaring. He winces, his shoulders sagging. "And you've done a great job keeping them to yourself."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Isn't it?"

"It wasn't my decision to give you your own command," he replies, shaking his head. “I know you think it was, but it wasn't." His eyes move over your face, and his voice lowers, a note of regret coloring his tone. “For months, I tried to change their minds. For months, I argued, pleaded, fought, everything. But, nothing I said or did worked. The decision was made. I’d only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.”

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice breaking, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says softly, and his eyes close, his face turning away from you. "You'd just started feeling better, and I didn't want to upset you, or set you back." His jaw clenches, and his eyes open, his gaze finding yours, the pain visible in his expression. "And, I was worried you'd do exactly this."

You let out a humorless laugh, and you step away, his hand dropping from yours.

"So, what? You thought ignoring the issue would fix it?" you say, your voice rising, and his eyes widen, his brows furrowing, confusion written across his features. "Keeping me in the dark was going to help? What did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," he sighs. He runs a hand over his hair, and his hand falls, gesturing weakly. "I was hoping...that maybe if I could stall long enough...maybe they'd change their minds. Maybe the war would end, or you would find the closure you needed."

His eyes meet yours again, and the regret is plain on his face, his words coming out a whisper. "I was trying to give you a chance."

"And look how well that turned out," you mutter bitterly, and you can't hold his gaze, your eyes dropping to the floor. You turn and walk toward the window, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield yourself from the cold.

“It was a mistake," Obi-Wan admits quietly. He lets out a frustrated noise, and the room falls silent. After a moment, his footsteps approach, and he appears next to you. “But you can’t leave. Not now. There's a war going on, in case you haven't noticed. There's too much at stake."

"I'm not leaving," you insist, and his expression turns skeptical, his eyes narrowing. You roll your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping you. "Not that I hadn’t thought about it."

"You can't," he says firmly. "Whatever it is, we can work through it. We'll figure something out. I promise."

"There's nothing to work through," you say. You run a hand over your hair and glance at him, avoiding his gaze. "Anakin talked some sense into me. He...he helped."

"What do you mean?" he asks, and his brow furrows. He looks confused, his expression bewildered, and he shifts, crossing his arms. "What did he say?"

"Just...that I can't leave it like this," you mumble. You look away from him and out the viewport. You can see the sun beginning to set, and the sky is painted with hues of orange and red. "I have to do something."

"Something," Obi-Wan repeats, his tone wary, and you nod, avoiding his eyes. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet," you admit. “But for now, I’m going to Kamino. I’m picking up my troops. I’m doing what you wanted. I'm getting back out there. Back in the field. That's something."

"Is it?"

"Yes," you say, and the word comes out sharper than intended.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to reply, but his voice catches, and he shakes his head. His gaze drifts to the floor, and his eyes narrow, his forehead creasing, his expression conflicted. You wait, watching him, and you can feel his emotions warring with each other, the battle playing out on his face. It's a whirlwind, and you can't tell which one is winning. Anger. Frustration. Worry. Fear. Guilt.

After a long moment, his face falls, and he nods, his shoulders slumping, his muscles relaxing.

"Fine," he relents, and his voice is low, resigned. "Fine."

“Is that what you wanted to hear?" you ask sarcastically, and his jaw tightens, a flash of anger flickering in his eyes.

"What I want is for you to be safe," he snaps, and he turns, glaring at you. "What I want is for you to be okay."

"Well, tough," you mutter. You move away from the window and cross your arms over your chest, your fingers digging into your arms. "Because neither of those things is likely to happen."

"You have no idea how much I wish things were different," he says quietly, and his face falls, his expression solemn. "That none of this had ever happened. Despite what you might think, I do care about you. Very much. I want what's best for you."

"What's best for me?" you repeat. Your lips twist into a sneer, and a harsh laugh escapes. "I'm not sure that exists anymore."

"You don't believe that," Obi-Wan chides gently. He's staring at you, and his voice is calm and even. "You know better than anyone that the Light is always there, no matter how far you fall."

"I used to," you say bitterly. Your throat tightens, and a lump forms, tears burning your eyes. You can't look at him, can't stand the concern in his gaze. "It's not like it matters, anyway. The Council's made its decision. Yaddle's killer is still out there, and we're just going to pretend like nothing happened. Just like we've been doing for years."

"That's not true," he says softly.

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be like this," he argues. His voice is quiet, and he steps forward, closing some of the distance between the two of you. His hand reaches out, and he gently touches your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin. You stiffen at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and his fingers move, trailing up to your shoulder, coming to rest there.

"The Senate is building a case," he murmurs. "They're gathering testimony, evidence, anything they can find. Once Dooku is captured, they'll bring him before a tribunal. There will be no denying what he's done. No escaping justice. It may take time, but it will happen. And, when it does, Dooku will pay for his crimes."

Your eyes narrow, and a part of you knows that he's telling the truth. But, it's not enough. You can't just sit back and do nothing, and a dark, selfish part of you wants him to suffer. To pay for what he's done. To hurt as much as he's hurt you. And, a larger, angrier, more violent part of you wants him dead. It doesn't matter if it's justice. Doesn't matter if he's brought to trial. Doesn't matter if he confesses. You want him dead. And if that makes you a bad person, so be it.

"He's a traitor," Obi-Wan adds. His expression hardens, his mouth thinning, his grip tightening. "He betrayed everything we stand for, and he deserves whatever punishment they deem fit. He'll pay."

"Will he?" you ask. You shrug off his touch, stepping back, and his hand falls to his side.

"You don't believe me," he states.

“I believe that it's what you want to happen," you respond, your voice quiet. You move around him, going to your desk and grabbing your lightsaber. You hook it onto your belt, and you reach for Yaddle's saber, your fingers curling around the hilt. The cool metal is comforting, and a feeling of calm washes over you. You take a deep breath, centering yourself, and turn, finding Obi-Wan staring at you.

"You want justice," you continue, and you pause, swallowing, pushing down your doubts. "So, do I. But, we both know how these things end. We've seen it happen, again and again. Dooku will escape, or he'll be released, or he'll plead innocent, or he'll disappear, or—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "It doesn't matter. The result will always be the same. He'll walk free. It's how these things work."

"You're wrong," he says, his voice hard. "Things are changing. The Separatists are growing bolder. The Senate is more unified than ever before. Even the Chancellor has taken a stronger stand against them."

"Forgive me if I'm not reassured," you snort, and his mouth twitches, irritation flashing across his face. "Chancellor Palpatine is a politician. A career politician. And politicians aren't known for their honesty or their integrity. Or their ability to put others first."

"Master Yoda believes it," he points out.

"Well, then, I suppose that settles it," you deadpan, and you can't hide your sarcasm. "If Master Yoda believes in it, then, it must be true. Because he's never been wrong about anything. Ever. In his entire life. Certainly not his Padawan. Right?"

Obi-Wan's expression hardens, and he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "Now, you're just being difficult."

"Maybe," you concede. "Or, maybe I'm being realistic. Maybe, just this once, I'm seeing things for how they are, instead of how I wish they were. Is that such a crime?"

"No, it's not," he says. His stance relaxes, and his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders slumping. "It's not. I understand why you're frustrated. You're allowed to be. But, this isn't like you. You're not usually this...this..."

"This what?" you ask, and his brows draw together, a crease forming on his forehead. "Say it. You'll feel better."

"Selfish," he snaps, and his gaze holds yours, his eyes searching yours, trying to understand. "Is that what this is? Are you angry because the Council decided not to pursue the killer of your Master? Because you didn't get to hunt down and kill him yourself?"

"What if I am?"

"Then, it's a good thing we stopped you from running away," he mutters, and you scoff, turning away from him. You pace around the room, trying to quell your anger, and his eyes follow, watching as you move, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "It's a good thing Anakin was able to talk sense into you."

"Sense?" you snort, and you stop, facing him. Your hands fall to your hips, and you lean forward, your gaze hardening. "How is this making any sense? How is letting a murderer go free make sense? How is sitting around and waiting for justice make any sense? How is any of this making any sense?"

"It's not," he agrees. "None of this is making sense. None of this is right. But we're doing the best we can with what we have."

"And, what if that's not good enough?"

"It's going to have to be," he says softly, and his head shakes, his gaze drifting to the ground, his expression weary. "That's all we have. All any of us has. It's the best we can do.

"I know," you mutter.

"Do you?"

"Yes," you sigh. You rub a hand over your face and run a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands. "I'm just...frustrated."

"I can see that," he says dryly.

"I want him dead," you confess. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes, can't face his judgment. "I know that's not right. I know that's not how it should be. I know that I should want him brought to justice. But, I don't. I just want him gone."

"I know," he murmurs.

"But it's not going to happen," you continue. Your eyes find his, and his face softens, his gaze gentle. "Is it?"

"No," he admits. "It's not."

You nod and avert your gaze, your eyes falling to the floor. You can't keep looking at him. Can't stand the disappointment, the sorrow, the guilt. You’re exhausted, the conversation draining what little energy you have left, and your shoulders slump.

“You should go," you whisper. "I'm not good company right now. And I have a long day tomorrow."

"You need to eat," Obi-Wan says softly. His footsteps echo on the floor as he walks towards you. His hand brushes against your cheek, his palm cupping the side of your face, and he tilts your head, forcing you to look at him. "And sleep. Please."

"Not hungry," you mumble, and you step back, breaking the contact. "Not tired either."

"That's not the point," he argues, and he takes a step toward you, reaching for your hand. "You need to take care of yourself."

"Don't," you snap. You move away, and his hand drops, his expression stricken. "Don't try to pretend like you care. Don't try to act like you know what's best for me. Because you don't."

"I..." Obi-Wan trails off, and he frowns, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing, his gaze darkening. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you, and he stares down at you, his face inches from yours.

"I do know," he hisses. "You're the most important person in my life. I've cared about you since the day I met you. I've fought for you. Loved you. Supported you."

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he cuts you off, his eyes blazing, his face turning red, his tone sharp.

"No. You don't get to pretend like I haven't been here, every step of the way. You don't get to act like this is all on me," he says fiercely. "Because it's not. This is both of us. This is our fault."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to," he snaps. He's shaking his head, his voice rising, and his hand lifts, gesturing wildly. "You've made your opinion quite clear. You blame me. Fine. I can take the blame. But, you have to admit, this is partly your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he says. He's moving, pacing, his voice rising with each step. "We've been doing this dance for years. Going in circles. You and I. We've been playing this game since we were kids. Since the day we met."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he cuts you off, and he stops, turning toward you, his eyes flashing. "You've been doing this, using me, for as long as I've known you. You know that."

"Using you?" you repeat incredulously. "I'm not the one who used our friendship as a tool."

"I never—"

“You mean you haven’t kept tabs on me? Or monitored my activities? Or reported them to the Council?" you snap. "Or tried to control every aspect of my life?"

"I have only ever wanted to help you," he insists.

"And, that's all this is, isn't it?" you mutter. Your hands fall to your hips, and your eyes narrow, your gaze fixed on his. "You're trying to fix me. You've always been trying to fix me."

"Of course I am!" Obi-Wan snaps, and his eyebrows rise, his expression incredulous, as if you've said something ridiculous. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not your responsibility," you say through gritted teeth. "You can't fix me. And you certainly can't save me. No matter how much you might want to."

"Maybe not," he agrees quietly. His eyes find yours, and his shoulders sag, the anger fading from his expression. "But, that doesn't change the fact that I care about you."

"You say that," you mumble.

"And, I mean it," he replies. “You're one of my closest friends. My only friend, really. And if you're hurting, I want to be there for you. I want to help. I can't do that if you won't let me."

"You can't help me," you say, and his expression shifts, hurt and confusion crossing his face. You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's not your fault alone. I know that. And you’re right. We’ve been playing this game for years. I've relied on you too much. But that has to stop. I can't let myself depend on you anymore. I have to...to fix myself. If I don't...if I don't..."

"What?" he presses.

"I'm going to lose myself," you finish. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at you, a sad look in his eyes. “I think you know that already. That's what scares you."

"Of course it does," he sighs. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, fixing you with a firm stare. "I've seen what you're capable of. What you can become. What you're still capable of. I've felt it, and I'm not going to lie, it’s frightening. The things I've felt...from you...from within you."

"You're scared of me," you state, and it's not a question.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes," you answer honestly.

"And, yet, here we are," Obi-Wan says softly. His eyes are locked on yours, and he shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Neither of us can walk away."

"I tried," you murmur. "You can't imagine how much."

"I have a fair idea." His hands fall to his sides, and his shoulders sag. He lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head, his mouth turning down, his brows drawing together, a troubled look on his face. "This isn't...what I wanted. It's not what either of us wanted."

"What did you want?" you ask. Your voice is soft and low. "When we were kids. When we first met. What did you want?"

"You know the answer to that," he says.

"Tell me," you press.

"I wanted...more," he answers, his tone careful, measured. "I wanted us to be more than friends. More than...this."

"So did I," you admit.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I hoped," he confesses. His eyes meet yours, and his mouth twitches, his lips pulling into a grim smile. "I hoped for a lot of things."

"Me too," you whisper.

"Things have changed," he continues. "I know that. I understand that. You're not the same person. And neither am I."

"No, we're not," you agree, and a part of you is sad, a bittersweet ache forming in your chest. "We're not the same. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise."

"I suppose it is," he concedes quietly.

The two of you are silent, neither of you speaking, neither of you wanting to break the spell, the fragile moment. The bond between the two of you hums, the energy vibrating, and you can feel his emotions, the conflicting feelings, the war raging within him. You wonder if he can sense yours. If he can feel the pain and sorrow and longing that's swirling through you.

After a moment, Obi-Wan clears his throat and runs a hand over his hair, straightening himself. He steps back, putting some space between the two of you, and he crosses his arms, his eyes meeting yours.

"You'll be careful," he states.

"I will," you promise.

"And if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first person I call," you finish.

He nods and looks away from you, his eyes finding the ground. His gaze falls to Yaddle's saber, his forehead creasing, a hint of worry flitting across his face. He stares at it for a long moment, lost in thought, and when he looks up again, his expression is resigned.

“Have you heard from Rex?" he asks, and his voice is light, his tone casual. It does nothing to assuage the sudden spike of anxiety in your chest.

"What?"

"Rex," Obi-Wan repeats. He turns slightly, facing you. "He cornered me after a briefing yesterday. Asked if I'd heard from you. He seemed very concerned. About you.”

"Oh," you mumble, and you glance down, your cheeks burning. You fiddle with your lightsaber, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, um, no. I haven't talked to him. Not since the diner."

"Really?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, and your stomach flips, a lump forming in your throat. "That's surprising. You seemed quite...cozy, when I called on you."

"We were just talking," you say, and it's not a lie, not really, but the words sound weak, even to your own ears. "He...he knows about Yaddle.”

"I'm not surprised," he murmurs. "He was quite upset. It was almost amusing, watching him try to act professional and hide his concern." He pauses and gives you a pointed look, his eyebrow arching, his tone teasing. "You're lucky I didn't tell him about your propensity for running away."

"Lucky," you repeat weakly. "What did you tell him? About me. About what happened."

"Nothing," he replies. His eyebrows rise, and he shrugs, letting out a small laugh. “I told him you would speak with him when you were ready. Why? Did you want me to say something else?"

"No," you say quickly, and his smile widens, a knowing glint in his eye. You bite your lip, a sigh escaping you. "I mean, it's not that I don't...it's not that I wouldn't want..." You trail off, frustrated, and your shoulders slump. “He's worried about me. I get it. It's just...not necessary. That's all."

Obi-Wan stares at you for a long moment, studying you, his eyes narrowed. After a minute, his face softens, and he gives you a wry smile and shakes his head.

"You're an idiot," he declares, and you scowl, your mouth opening to argue, but he waves a hand, cutting you off before you can start. "Don't even bother. It's pointless. You know I'm right."

"I'm not—"

"If there's anything I've learned in all the years I've known you, it's that you are the most stubborn, single-minded, foolish individual I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," he says flatly. "It's exhausting, being around you sometimes."

"Gee, thanks," you mumble.

"And, yet, despite your many, many flaws, you have the uncanny ability to draw people to you," he continues. His gaze meets yours, his expression serious, and his tone turns thoughtful. "You've always had that. Even as a youngling, before the incident, you were charismatic, charming, and people gravitated toward you. You could make anyone like you. And I think it's the reason you have so many people that care about you. Including me."

"Obi-Wan—"

"What I'm trying to say," he interrupts, his voice rising, "is that I know Rex cares about you. Very much. That man is completely enamored by you, and has been for a long time. Anyone can see it. Anyone except you."

"That's not true," you argue weakly, but it's a lie, and the both of you know it.

"It is," Obi-Wan retorts. He shrugs, and he glances over his shoulder, checking the hall. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered. "You should talk to him. Before you leave. You might not get another chance."

"Why would I...I don't..." you stammer, and your hands fidget, twisting in front of you. “You know why I can’t—why it can't...why I can't do that. You know."

"I do. But, maybe that doesn't matter," he says. His eyes meet yours, and a sad smile forms. "Don't forget, we're in a war. Anything could happen. You should be happy while you can."

"Obi-Wan," you mutter, your tone scolding.

"You should talk to him," he repeats. His gaze moves, scanning your rooms, and he nods toward your bags, his voice becoming softer. "While you still have a chance. Take it. While you can."

"You're a romantic," you joke, and he laughs.

"So, they say," he replies. He sighs, and his expression shifts, growing serious. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, I'm set," you nod.

"Then, may the Force be with you," he murmurs. He looks at you one last time, and then turns, heading for the door.

You watch him walk away, a heavy feeling settling in your chest, and you open your mouth, about to call after him. To tell him that you'll miss him. That he's been the best friend you've ever had. That you don't know what you'll do without him. That you wish things could be different.

But, you don't.

The door opens, and he walks through it, disappearing down the hall. The bond between the two of you flickers, and a dull ache forms in your stomach, spreading outward. It feels strange, like an emptiness. A hollowness. You take a deep breath and exhale, pushing the feelings aside, and the ache dissipates, the pain fading.

You're not sure what you expected. This is how things are between the two of you. Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe this is what's best.

You're not sure. But, a part of you knows it's better this way. That, as much as you care about him, as much as he cares about you, the two of you have come to an impasse. He can't help you. You can't help him. And trying is only going to hurt the both of you.

You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Your eyes fall on Yaddle’s lightsaber, the metal glinting in the dim light.

Tomorrow, you'll pick it up, and you'll leave. You'll go back out into the field. Into battle. To save lives. To win the war. It's a noble goal. Something worth fighting for.

Maybe the Council was right. Maybe this is what's best. What's right. Maybe this is what's needed. What the Republic needs.

Maybe.

You can only hope.

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