#could dark deception fandom be more alive so i have someone to talk to instead of yapping my friend's ear off

[shadessallow]

Helen Bierce the woman that you are

THESE CARDS MADE ME SO SOOOO HAPPY AND IM TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT HER

[bellarnyblakc]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar Characters: Jude Duarte, Cardan Greenbriar, Taryn Duarte, Locke (The Folk of the Air), The Bomb (The Folk of the Air), The Roach (The Folk of the Air) Additional Tags: Eventual Smut, This Whole Thing is due to One Scene I Wanted to Write, Don't Examine This Too Closely, the plot is background noise to set up a few specific scenes so just allow it fam, wish fulfillment bc who knows if QoN is gonna be kind to these dumb kids, no editing we die like men Summary:

“What happens now, then?” His voice was weary and thin.

“Why did you summon me? After all this time, why now?” she demanded.

“I need your help.”

“Yes, you said that in your damn letter. Maybe you shouldn't have sent me away in the first place! What’s going on?” she snapped.

-------------------------------------

It had taken her far longer than she liked to admit to figure out the trick woven into her banishment.

Maybe if she hadn’t been so blinded by fury and betrayal and the all-encompassing feeling of heartbreak, she would have remembered that the Fae should never be taken at face value. That, though they cannot lie, every word of theirs is a trick wrapped in a deception posing as the truth.

There was an unfamiliar ache in her chest that never let her forget how her walls had unknowingly been broken down bit by bit until only rubble lay in its place.

Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she could not stand the sight of the girl she had become. The girl who let feelings override her better judgement, who let herself be fooled into thinking that the boy who had only ever sworn his revenge and her destruction would deign to offer her wildest dreams on a silver platter. The teary-eyed fool who, despite her burning anger and hatred, in her weakest moments in the dead of night still missed his arms and lips and soft caresses and the way his eyes softened just for her.

So, yes. Maybe if she hadn’t been wallowing in her hurt feelings and bruised heart, she would have figured out the loophole sooner.

She had tested her theory, months ago, gingerly stepping one foot and then another over the border into Faerie. Nothing had happened, except a bird fleeing from a tree, squawking madly, startling her more than it should have.

She had breathed in the air, suddenly completely free of pollution and grime as if there was an invisible barrier between this world and the real one; like the junction of the river meeting the sea. It astonished her that it had actually worked, she knew Cardan wouldn’t have been so careless in his phrasing so he must have had an ulterior motive for allowing her return.

It troubled her that she couldn’t figure out why. That, in her absence, Cardan had learnt to weave schemes of his own and play the intricate game of politics so well that she no longer had the capacity to outmanoeuvre him.

She refused to let herself play into his hands so easily without a strategy of her own, so she didn’t linger, returning to Vivi’s house. Her planning should have started immediately, but instead when she got back in, she sat against the door of her unlit room feeling numb and hollow, relishing the dig of the doorframe into her spine. It hurt worse than being banished to know that she had lost something so fundamental to her existence; something she had prided herself on for years; something she relied upon to keep herself alive. After months of fast food and daytime TV and her mind-numbing part time job at the café, she had lost her ability to manipulate, scheme and strategise. The art of intrigue and conspiracy was beyond her reach now. The hours and hours of letting out her anger on a punching bag the gym only served to keep her body in shape, not her conniving mind as sharp as it once was.

It was moments like these, where she felt aged beyond her seventeen years where she missed the girl she could have been had she stayed in the mortal realm. The girl for whom a boy and a broken heart would have been the most important, tragic events in her life.

Tomorrow, she told herself sliding down with a sigh so that she was lying on the floor, lacking the effort to drag herself to her small, lumpy single bed who's sheets were well past needing to be changed. I’ll plan tomorrow, repeating it every day until before she knew it, weeks had passed in a haze of self-pity.

--

“Jude?” Viv’s voice filtered through the door, eliciting a muffled groan from where Jude’s head was burrowed into her pillow where she had flung herself after a gruelling eleven-hour shift. “You have a, um-“ Viv paused “a letter.”

Jude sat up curiously. She had never received a letter in her life. Not even boring bank statements or bills, since her dodgy boss paid her cash-in-hand. (She was becoming more and more convinced that the café was a drug front or a money laundering scheme.)

Her door opened and Viv frisbeed the letter over to her. The creamy paper was thick and rough, sealed with green wax. The loopy, spidery handwriting on the front was all too familiar to her, and she had the urge to destroy the letter, tear it up and eat it before bothering to read it. Almost unwillingly, she dug a finger under the seal so she could unfold the letter.

Darling,

Come back. I need you.

Expect an escort at midnight by the pier.

Yours, C.

She let out an incredulous huff.  A hurricane of unidentifiable feelings flared. How dare he command her, without so much as a 'please'? After he had banished her without a second thought, he now expected her to run back to his heel when it was convenient? She thought of that last, private smile he sent her after he proclaimed the punishment. The smile of someone for whom all the pieces were falling into place.

She scratched a fingernail over the first word, glaring as if he would feel it through the paper. The incorrigible cheek of him to address her that way after he had denied her in front of his whole court.

The bed dipped as Vivienne sat down, shoving Jude's legs into the peeling wall to make space as she did so

“Well?” she demanded, blunt as ever.

“He wants me to come back.” Vivienne snatched the letter out of her hands and scanned it in disbelief.

“Well,” she repeated, this time at a loss for words. There was a silence, and Jude idly played with the tassel of a decorative pillow. “What are you going to do? Does this mean he’s pardoned you?”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s pardoned me or not, I’ve already pardoned myself.” Viv eyed her sceptically. “I am the crown, right? We’re married.” She dug a nail into her palm, regretting every decision she had made that night. “Until the crown has passed from our hands.” she quoted.

“And you figured this out when?” the indignation of not being informed of her discovery sooner was evident on Vivienne’s face. She whacked Jude’s arm, and then again for good measure. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Ow!” Jude scooted away and glared. “It was a few weeks ago. I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter! I’m not going back on his terms.”

“But, something's wrong in Elfhame,” Vivi's voice was low and uncertain, like she was tending to a wounded feral animal who would startle at the slightest noise.

“What? How do you know?” Jude grabbed the letter back and turned it over, as if there was writing on the back that she had missed. Vivienne snorted.

“It’s obvious. As if Cardan would ever call someone ‘darling’. He didn't want to address you by name and he didn't sign off with his. He’s being as vague and secretive as possible. He’s worried it will be intercepted.” Jude’s mouth twisted into a sneer, even as she felt a stab of disappointment that his endearment wasn’t sincere, regardless of how patronising it was.

“Good. I hope something is so wrong he doesn’t have time to sleep or eat.”

“So you’re not going to help?”

“If he wanted my help, he shouldn’t have sent me away!” her voice was petulant, like Oak’s when he wanted dessert before dinner.

“What if he gets hurt, or killed? Could you live with yourself knowing you hadn't even tried to help?” The patient tone of Vivienne's voice vexed her. She didn't like being talked down to.

“Yes. In fact, I’d throw a party if it happens.” Her voice was peevish, but they both knew it wasn’t the truth. “Leave me alone, Viv.” She burrowed into the pile of pillows once more, head spinning.

She hated Cardan. If he died it would be the least he deserved. She would just regret that she wouldn't be there to see it. Even as he forced herself to think this, she knew deep down that she would be unable to ignore it. She had to just see what was happening. She was going to go back. She just needed to know. Jude had never been one for keeping herself in the dark.

But she would never give Cardan the satisfaction of following his orders. If she was going back, it wouldn’t be the way he wanted her to. When the escort arrived at midnight, they would be waiting for her for a very long time.

She left hours later, after stuffing a bag full of everything in sight that could potentially be of any use.

“How are you going back if you’re not using a horse?” Asked Oak in confusion when she explained that she wasn’t going to wait for her ride as she strapped a holster to her thigh.

“I’m walking.” Her voice was grim. She sheathed a newly sharpened knife. Viv raised one fluffy eyebrow.

“Have fun,” she said archly. Jude nodded and stepped out the door. “And Jude!” she turned back to face Vivienne, “Take care of yourself, won’t you.” Jude sent her a small smile and waved at Oak, who blew a kiss and turned back to his homework, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation.

She set off, feeling the heavy outline of the letter in the breast pocket of her jacket.

A summons! She had been summoned and she was doing as she was told, like a loyal puppy. She hated Cardan for putting her in this situation in the first place.

It took her the evening and the better part of the night to arrive. Her anger and indignation fuelled her until the palace came into view and she was suddenly plagued with doubts. Coming back to Faerie was what Cardan wanted. Frustration welled up inside her as, for the first time in years, not only was she several moves behind, but she wasn’t even sure what game they were playing. The last thing she wanted to do was play into his hands. She had come running back without the barest hint of a plan.

That was how she found herself back in her old quarters having snuck into the palace through an old hidden passage, rifling through her old things for inspiration. Her room wasn’t dusty and untouched like she had been expecting. Instead, the sheets were rumpled and slept in; clothes that looked distinctly like Cardan’s lay strewn over the desk and a little pot of glittering silver paint lay open on the dresser.

“You’re rusty,” came a soft, amused voice from behind her. Immediately, she unsheathed her knife from her thigh and whipped round, digging the blade into the figure’s exposed throat. A flare of irritation surged as she couldn't deny the truth of his words. He had been able to sneak up on her without her being any the wiser.

Cardan smiled in the milky blue dawn light, seemingly unsurprised at the blade to his throat. He looked overtired and drained, the smudged gold around his eyes doing little to conceal the purple beneath his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, Jude couldn't deny that he still looked good. She hated it. She hated that he could still have this effect on her.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right here.” She growled.

“Now where would be the fun in that?”

“You banished me from my home. You tricked me and sent me away like I was nothing but another piece in your games. And then you commanded I return.” She dug the knife in deeper, a sharp stab of malicious delight at the sight of blood. She wanted to dig the knife in deeper until she severed his artery and watch him bleed out on the floor. She wanted to drop the knife and pin him to the wall and lick the droplets of blood from his neck.

His smile became brittle at the edges. “I didn’t have a choice. There wasn’t any other way.” His hand reached out tentatively, fingers winding around her wrist so he could feel the angry beat of her pulse, lowering the blade slowly. “You killed my brother. If I had shown weakness, if I had allowed that offence to slide, the court would have turned against me. I couldn’t let my…” he trailed off and swallowed thickly, “personal feelings get in the way.” There was a brief pause, “Jude,” he breathed. “You know it was the only choice, you’re better at politics, a smarter strategist than me.”

The compliment only served to incense her. “Don’t condescend to me, Cardan,” she snapped. “You’re not telling the whole truth, are you? Of all the penalties you could have come up with, the only choice was to send me away?” she scoffed. “You wanted to punish me, didn’t you?”

He’d lowered her hand so the tip of the knife was hovering dangerously close to his liver. She pressed it into the soft velvet of his doublet. He shivered involuntarily, pupils blown wide.

“I should gut you right here. I just want the truth. Why send me away? Why leave me the opportunity to come back? Why send for me all of a sudden?” She stepped closer to him, so their bodies were flush. She could feel the heat of him, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed faster than normal, whether due to arousal or fear, she could not tell.

His hand wrapped around her waist, to push her away, or pull her closer, he wasn’t sure. “Fine,” he confessed in a whisper, “Yes, I was angry and I wanted to hurt you, but it wasn't... You killed my brother and you kept it from me, Jude-“

“He was terrible to you!”

“And you would be completely free of remorse were something to happen to Madoc?” he asked smoothly. “He was my tormentor, but he was also my brother.”

She hesitated, examining the burning embers of hatred towards her step-father. And yet, she had loved him in a fashion, craved his admiration and respect, even after watching him murder her parents. She knew enough about complicated family relationships to see where Cardan’s pain had come from.

She deflated, grip loosening on the knife so it clattered to the ground, suddenly more unsure of herself than she had been for a long time. Her head hurt. She was tired of these games, of second guessing herself and everyone around her, of having to be on her guard at all times, even around Cardan. Especially around Cardan. He slowly sank to his knees and picked the blade up, then looked at her with his dark eyes.

“But that’s still not the whole truth,” he admitted softly. A hand cupped the back of her knee, rubbing softly. “I wanted to keep you safe. I'd rather you be angry than dead. You were already so weak after Orlagh took you and it was so dangerous here-“

Jude’s heart hardened once again. “However did you get the impression that I needed, or wanted your protection?” she spat. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. God knows I’ve had more than enough practice after being tormented by you for my whole life.” Her words were a perfectly aimed arrow, and they landed precisely where she intended for them to cause the most hurt.

He stilled, and dropped his gaze. There was nothing he could say to that, they both knew.

Jude stepped away and surveyed the clearly inhabited room once more.

“Who’s your new Seneschal?” she asked .

“What makes you think I have one?” he rose and took several steps until he was leaning against the carved wooden bedpost.

“Who’s using my rooms then?” she said archly. Cardan darted his eyes to the pot of paint and shrugged. They stood in awkward silence for several moments.

“My rider returned empty hours ago. Did you walk? All the way from the mortal realm?" When she replied with nothing but a stony glare, his lips curved into a half-smile. "Why do you always insist on making things so difficult, you impossible girl."

"You don't get to act like I'm being melodramatic for refusing to take orders from you!" she shoved him in the chest unexpectedly and he tumbled onto the bed with a whoosh of air. He merely smiled indulgently and stretched out on the bed, cat-like, making himself comfortable. She sneered at him in disgust, frustrated that he appeared so collected and calm. She wanted to unhinge him, unravel him. Idly, she wondered how fast she could make him lose control if she pinned him down and kissed him. Or if she took her blade to his chest.

Why did you take so long to come back?” he asked tentatively, oblivious to her violent, lustful thoughts. “I know you figured it out weeks ago.” She scowled at him.

“You’ve had spies on me?” she asked indignantly.

“No, I felt you. In my kingdom.”

“Maybe I decided that I’m happier in the mortal world. Maybe I have a life now and I don’t care about-“ she stopped short as she realised she was going to say ‘you’. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reaffirming those feelings, especially since she was now so unsure of them herself, “this place anymore.” She improvised.

“What happens now, then?” His voice was weary and thin.

“Why did you summon me? After all this time, why now?” she demanded.

“I need your help.”

“Yes, you said that in your damn letter. Maybe you shouldn't have sent me away in the first place! What’s going on?” she snapped. He rose to his elbows, expression serious and worn.

“Madoc’s made his move, and now I’m going to make mine. We’ve been laying low and waiting him out, but I’ve had spies on Taryn since the beginning. We can take him down from the inside, but only if you play along. Jude, you’re my secret weapon.”

[thinkingheron]

SW 1 - Divided We Fall

Fandom : Star Wars Prequel era (Clone Wars)

Title : Divided We Fall

Author : StardustJinn (ThinkingHeron)

Type : hurt/comfort (or no comfort)

Characters : Anakin Skywalker, Obi-wan Kenobi

Summary : Sometimes, cracks can never be mended. Sometimes, cracks are never even seen until it is too late. (Deception arc aftermath)

Notes : This may get mind screwy in the middle, which is what I was sort of aiming for. Dreams, after all, never makes sense even when you thought they did while in it.

Warning : None. Though possible child neglect if you squint very hard? Depends on your point of view.

(Also on fanfiction.net and AO3. In fact, better just go there. There’s Author’s Notes and everything. I don’t think this is a good place to post fics longer than 2k words.)

The corridor to the knight's quarters was dark and empty, which was not all that unusual considering it was well past midnight. There should have been a little more artificial lights, but that barely registered as important to Obi-Wan as he stumbled wearily through, eyes only for the door with his name at the right. He had been on a solo mission off-planet. It was a diplomatic one, and was not supposed to take more than a couple days. However, unforeseen circumstances had caused it to draw out far longer than he had expected.

In the end, though, it had gone reasonably well. Obi-Wan had been able to tie up all loose ends to his, — and the Council's, — satisfaction, and that was all that mattered. He could have wrapped things up faster, leave the pettier aspects of the planet's leaders to sort it out themselves, but he liked being thorough. He had given a brief report for Master Windu on the way back, and now he wanted nothing more than to crash in his bed until morning. Given how tired he was, with any luck he might be able to sleep through the night without haunting memories disguised as nightmares.

Reaching his Temple quarters, he palmed the door opened and stepped in.

The Force hit him with enormous waves of negative energy, dark and pained. There were grief, loneliness, feelings of abandonment and loss spiked with fear and anger. All trace of tiredness fled Obi-Wan as he snapped his head towards the door to the spare room of his quarters.

Anakin...

His first, immediate reaction was annoyance. Because a nine-year old padawan should know better than to project his emotions so strongly like that. They had talked about this, countless times. Really, wasn't two and a half months more than enough time to get over simple homesickness?

Then came the shame. Because this was a nine-year old boy who had never even heard of the Force until two and a half months ago. This was a child who had been ripped from everything he had known and dropped on an unfamiliar planet, all alone, surrounded by unfamiliar people. And Obi-Wan himself had...

There had been incidents like this before, especially during the first two weeks. Each time, Obi-Wan had tried to comfort Anakin as best he could, then lecture him about letting go of the past, as hollow as the words felt with his own sense of loss still too raw. He suspected that Anakin could pick up on it. The boy was too perceptive, and understood grief and pain from loss better than anyone his age had any right to be. It was probably at least part of why the lessons never really stuck. However, eventually the incidents grew far and few between, before disappearing altogether. Obi-Wan had assumed that Anakin had learned the lesson, — he was a quick learner most of the time, — and had adjusted well into Temple life.

Clearly, he was wrong.

The tides were receding, scrambling back to the source as if in response to that initial annoyed reaction. Obi-Wan bowed his head, fighting back a sudden guilt. He had been away for too long, too focused on his mission, that he had all but forgotten about his new responsibility waiting back at the Temple. Hell, he clearly hadn't been spending nearly enough time with Anakin if the boy had already learned to shield from his own master and Obi-Wan hadn't even noticed.

He closed his eyes, vowing to do better. He had to from now on, if the two of them were to overcome this. They would need each other to make it through.

Obi-Wan dragged in a deep breath to compose himself before reaching up to open the door. Some part of him was fully aware that it was too late, — he could practically hear the shields slamming back up in his padawan's end.

The room was cold. He hadn't even had the heat regulator on.

"Anakin?" Obi-Wan called to the tiny figure huddled in a dark corner, obscured by blankets and the shadows. The Force went deadly quiet.

Anakin didn't move.

He was not asleep, Obi-Wan could tell. The boy was holding himself too tightly, his breaths uneven with suppressed hiccups. Despite his best efforts, his pain and distress was still leaking through the shields, too great to contain in such a small body.

Obi-Wan sat down beside him. "Oh, padawan, I'm so sorry, I..."

He didn't know what to say. Words that had served him so well in the mission utterly failed. Two and a half months and he was still unsure how to comfort small children, let alone one like Anakin.

Instead of trying to talk, Obi-Wan slowly wrapped an arm around Anakin's shoulders and drew him close, patting his back, grimacing at how cold he was. Anakin remained a tightly wound ball, but his breaths quickened into shuddering gasps. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and saw the crack that had formed between them. He tightened his hold on the balled form, desperate to mend that gap.

I should have known. I haven't been paying enough attention to you.

It was ironic, perhaps, that in mourning for his deceased master, Obi-Wan had in fact been failing at the promise he gave the man.

Thankfully, the ball soon relaxed, extending a pair of tiny hands to clutch on to his tunics as if they would never let go. Obi-Wan kept his hold, trying to share his warmth, trying to send reassurances and wordless apology through their still too fragile bond.

He wasn't sure how much of that was filtering through, but at least some of it seemed to have.

"T's alright," Anakin said, voice muffled and still shaky. "Duty comes first, I know."

Something about those words, the way they were spoken, was alarming. Those were not the words of a nine-year old.

Never, Obi-Wan thought, tightening his grip. Never before you, I promise.

It was not the Jedi way, he knew, therefore he would never be able to express it out loud. Especially not when these concepts of the Code were still too foreign for Anakin and he was already having trouble letting go. But Obi-Wan hoped that Anakin could feel it the same way he felt everything else so strongly, and that that might be enough for now.

After a long while, Anakin's shoulders stopped their sporadic shudders, but now he was trembling.

Cold, Obi-Wan realized. The room must have been freezing for someone who grew up in a desert planet. The heat regulator for this spare room was less efficient compared to the one in the main room. It would take too long to try to start the heat now. Another oversight that he resolved to correct as soon as possible.

"Let's go to my room," Obi-Wan said. He took Anakin's hand, gently smiling as the tiny ball uncurled himself from the floor, and stood up. "Dawn is breaking, and it will be warmer outside."

The door opened as they approached it, letting in the soft red light of early dawn shining through the windows outside, warm with the promise of a new day. Obi-Wan moved further towards the door. He expected Anakin to follow, clinging to his hand tightly, never letting go. That was how it should have happened... how it had happened.

But the small hand was gone.

Surprised, Obi-Wan turned around, and suddenly they were no longer in his quarters at the Temple anymore; and he was not the 25-year-old, freshly minted Jedi Knight still raw with grief anymore; and the child whose hand had slipped away from his so easily was no longer a child anymore.

Instead, they were in a disturbingly familiar place full of lava and death, spitting up ashes and crackles of flames. And Anakin was all grown up with even more pain and darkness coloring his Force signature. And Obi-Wan could somehow still feel the warm light of the coming dawn on his back, while there was a giant pitch black abyss looming behind Anakin. And Anakin was staring at it, his body half-turned away from Obi-Wan, either unaware or unconcerned as the crackling ashes singe his hair and burn holes in his tunic.

And there it was: the crack, now visible on the ground between them, no longer just a crack, but a rift.

Instinctively, Obi-Wan reached out for Anakin's hand. He could still reach him, still save him. He could still fix this—

The ground between them burst apart.

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan yelled as he stumbled backwards at the shaking ground, trying to keep his balance as the Force surged wildly around him, screaming in agony.

Anakin looked back, and Obi-Wan's heart almost stopped. This was the exact same man Obi-Wan had fought, laughed and cried with for so long, and yet he didn't recognize him at all. His eyes were dull, resigned with none of the determined spark they always held. His face was shadowed even with all the flames and fire surrounding him, swallowing him up. His presence, which had always been the brightest star in the galaxy, was now covered in cold, black spots, mutilated beyond recognition even as it continued to rapidly burn up into a supernova, struggling to keep its flickering light alive in the maelstrom of darkness.

The abyss continued to inch closer and closer, threatening to devour everything in its path until it reached its target, — a target that showed no intention of saving himself. Already there were black tendrils wrapped around him, pulling him towards the abyss. The flames continued to lick and spit at Anakin, burning away and leaving chunks of gaping black holes wherever they touched.

And between them, a chasm now, growing only deeper and wider with each second.

"Jump, Anakin!" Obi-Wan called out, spreading his arms. "You have to trust me!"

The words felt sour as soon as they left his mouth. Trust? a treacherous voice spoke in his mind. After what you did?

Anakin shook his head. His posture was all wrong.

I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I have to do this.

No...

Obi-Wan made to move forward, ready to cross the chasm himself if he had to. But Anakin raised his hand, and the force that pushed Obi-Wan back came from more than just his former apprentice.

No!

"Obi-Wan," he spoke, and his voice was low, almost — monotonic. A warning. "Don't follow me."

And Anakin turned and walked straight into the yawning abyss behind; the brightest star in the galaxy collapsing into a black, black hole, cold and unfeeling.

"ANAKIN!"

With a jerk, Obi-Wan woke up to a familiar grey ceiling, catching his breath.

It was just a dream.

He took deep breaths to calm himself and rubbed his face tiredly, wincing at the distinct lack of hair. It had been a while since he'd had such a vivid dream. Having been unable to meditate properly during his stint as Rako Hardeen, it was unsurprising to find his psyche so unbalanced and troubled.

Or perhaps they were justified worries, just rushing back all at once now that he was back at the Temple and could afford to start feeling.

He had not allowed himself to think about it — too much was at stake, and once he took that blasted shot, fell off that roof, took the vital suppressors, there was no turning back. Obi-Wan knew that the deception would hurt Anakin. It was what they were counting on in the first place. Master Yoda had left it on Obi-Wan's decision whether to let Anakin in on the loop or not, and Obi-Wan had chosen what seemed like the logical choice, what would have ensured their success. Because Anakin was good at a lot of things; acting was not one of them. Obi-Wan had expected it would all be worth it in the end. That Anakin would be able to overcome this on his own, and once they had saved the Chancellor, he would understand the necessity.

Perhaps he had overestimated his former apprentice, or maybe he had underestimated the sheer amount of pain that would be involved.

Obi-Wan shook his head with a sigh, — ten years and sometimes they still didn't know each other.

The commlink chimed with a message from the Council, signaling that it was really time to get up. Pushing away the lingering images of his dream — the fire, the darkness, the chasm, — he stood up and prepared to face the day.

He found them bantering in the hallway, as always. Ahsoka's arms flailed a little as she argued her case, while Anakin's hand hovered by her back in a protective gesture. Obi-Wan was able to catch the tail end of the conversation as he neared closer.

"...three power converters," Anakin was saying. "And no asking for help from Madame Jocasta this time, Snips. I'll make sure of that."

"Deal," Ahsoka replied eagerly. "But if I win, Fives was talking about this new menu at 79's that I've been dying to try out. They just acquired a stock of live Volaska livers but they only serve them in early mornings."

Anakin blew out a sigh. "I do hope he hasn't been taking you there behind my back. You're not legally old enough yet."

"Technically, it's the drinking that's the problem. It's why we'd have to go early. Fives said you needed to be there by, oh I think about 0700?" She flashed a wide smile.

"Fine, 79's it is. But that won't be happening."

"We'll see."

"You want a head start?"

"Your mistake," Ahsoka laughed before taking off running immediately.

Anakin waited until she disappeared around a corner before looking back. He jumped a little at seeing Obi-Wan.

"Ah! Obi-Wan! I... I didn't see you there."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "Good morning, Anakin. What was that about?" he asked, despite himself.

Anakin shrugged. "Just a little bet Ahsoka and I are having. Nothing serious."

The warm, fuzzy fondness that had been exuding in Ahsoka's presence was already being replaced by guarded wariness as if expecting a reproach. Obi-Wan stifled a sigh himself. "If you say so."

He studied his former apprentice carefully. Anakin looked, well, he looked worlds better than before, particularly that time back at Orondia, where everything had flown rapidly out of control and their encounter could have gone so horribly wrong so easily. However, he didn't look as well as he should have. There was that look that Obi-Wan had learned to recognize in his padawan, — the look of someone who wasn't getting enough food or sleep, and was mostly running by his own sheer stubbornness not to fall. Obi-Wan had caught a glimpse of it in Naboo, but he had been distracted, and their interactions had been minimal since then. He would have to talk to Ahsoka or Padme, or Rex, even. Given the circumstances, any attempt on Obi-Wan's part would only result in a backlash.

"Are you alright?" Anakin asked, pulling Obi-Wan out of his thoughts and back to the present.

Of course he had to be the one to ask.

"Of course I am," he replied dryly.

"Well, I had to ask," Anakin muttered.

"Aside from being a little cold on the head," Obi-Wan said. "I am fine, Anakin."

It was a half-hearted attempt at joke, and a half-hearted attempt at smile. Both fell flat. There was no amusement in Anakin's voice as he retorted.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it'd still be warmer than being a pile of ash on a stone slab."

Obi-Wan's own lips thinned at the barb. A part of him — a big part — wanted to take the bait, perhaps use this opportunity to just lay out all their previously unresolved issues and come clean, right here, right now. For a long time, before either of them realized, deception and secrets had become a part of their relationship. Obi-Wan knew that, especially in light of that dream, he hadn't always been exactly approachable. Perhaps he still wasn't.

"Anakin I..." Obi-Wan started, but like in that dream, he was quickly at loss for words. What would he say? That he was sorry? Sorry for what? For doing his duty but it had to be done anyway? For not realizing just how much it would hurt?

How couldn't you? You've known him for years.

He couldn't even tell whose thoughts they belonged to.

For the longest, briefest moment, their eyes met, communicating in more words than they ever would out loud. Communicating, without ever knowing for sure if they had read each other correctly, — if they hadn't completely misinterpreted their supposed mutual understanding.

Anakin bowed his head, fists clenched, the Force rolling around him in tumultuous waves, before exhaling sharply.

"It's alright," he sighed, sounding more dismissive now, his expression resigned. "I know... Duty comes first, especially in war time."

Obi-Wan froze. He opened his mouth, but still no words came. The image of the dark room came rushing back in to his mind, superimposing with reality in his vision, before turning into that other place, with lava and death and the unknown shadow of abyss looming over them. The damning crack was right there, — already a rift now, rapidly expanding in depth and width.

And Obi-Wan wanted nothing more than to reach out for his now former apprentice's shoulders; draw him close and hold him tight as he did in that dream, as he should have all those years ago; hoping, pretending, that there was still enough time to bridge that crack, to fix what went wrong. That they could somehow undo all the damage inflicted upon each other throughout the years, and become stronger together as one.

But that was a past long gone, and neither of them were so young anymore.

Before Obi-Wan could say or do anything, Anakin nodded curtly. "I'll be seeing you, Master."

Then he turned and strode down the corridor, the end of which suddenly seemed so cold and dark despite all the artificial lights.

While, somehow, Obi-Wan could still feel the phantom light of new dawn on his back, mockingly warm and hopeful.