#death - the tragedy of force

[weirdlookindog]

Alberto Martini (1876-1954) - Death - The tragedy of force, 1914

from the 'Misteri' series, published 1915

[fun-esta]

[evilminji]

Been Havin Thoughts™ >.>

About the Tragedy of SI-OC born too late to change anything...

About KNOWING. Exactly what's going to go wrong. Potentially how to fix it. Having a head crammed FULL of hundreds of authors of Fix-Its, Meta discussions, Tumblr posts. Uncertain that it truely WOULD change anything... but? Plans within plans. Possibilities. The options and ability to do SOMETHING. All there.

All useless.

Because... Because, you? You are a child.

Born too late too make a difference. The machinations of monsters are already well underway and it is far too late to stop that trolley, bearing down on you. No. No, now?

Now you get to make a CHOICE.

The needs of the many? The needs of the few? Yourself? Who do you try and save? Who CAN you save? From this sinking ship. This slow, painful, tragedy? No one's going to listen to a child. Not really. Not TRUELY. You are merely... a Witness.

There are SO MANY Scenarios!!!

But! For this? The one that currently haunts me?

Force Nexus~☆ under the Temple~☆! What COULD it do? I wonder?

Imagine it. You are a Youngling. A Temple Child. You KNOW what is coming. Order 66. The suffering. The Death. An empire built on the enslavement of good, loyal men. The genocide of Jedi. Every night you struggle to sleep. Toss and turn. Look at the tiny sleeping faces of children in you Creche... and you KNOW.

You KNOW.

Just as you KNOW... that no one will listen to you. You did try. Carefully. And you are glad you did. Your trust was betrayed. They did not listen. The end barrels closer and closer. The Force WEEPS in your mind, like a wound hidden in smoke. You... you have to decide.

Save yourself? Run? You could. You might survive.

Take the infants? Bundle them away in the night? You'd have to time it just right. Or they'd chase you to the ends of the galaxy.

Or... or do you do... THAT?

The thing that scares you. The one your not sure your brave enough to do. The one that... that would be JEDI of you? You are scared. Just a child. Thought... thought you would have longer...

In your heart... already know. Exactly what you're going to do.

So you sneak out. It's far too easy. With so many minders, away at War. Hang around the Senate. Well away from the Sith. You... you just need the inevitable to happen. Hate yourself, for preying on the Vode. Sure enough? Some asshole orders a good man to be "decommissioned" over imagined offense.

He is escorted away by his brothers.

You follow.

Let them grieve. Before quietly interjecting. You need his help. To save his brothers. Since he is to die either way... would he mind dying with you? You hate asking. What choice does he HAVE now, really? He is condemned. You feel like a monster.

When he asks if you are CERTAIN it will help his brothers, you think of the records you have read. Yes. Yes it will.

He does not look at you, like you are a monster. There is a grieving understanding between instead. You leave at once. Back to the barracks. Things left behind he will not be coming back for. Everytime you leave the temple, you are much the same.

Now you decend.

Down and down. Level by level. Past where the light no longer reaches, past breathable air. To the old temple. Long forgotten. Desecrated by the Sith. You are a youngling. You can not purify this place. But oh... oh you can try. Any spark of Light in this darkness. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, made of stars.

Down and towards the Nexus.

It rattles your bones. Aches in your teeth. Colors beyond color, time outside of time. Every step becomes a struggle. Until it is too much. You must be carried. Your trooper does not mind. Helps you stay present, attached to your skin. Luminous as you are.

You... You get there.

It Is BEAUTIFUL.

The Force is HERE. And Here flows the Force. Everything One. Your lines, simple matter, begin to break. How... how could you possibly care? It is... no. The hand in your's reminds you. Your reason for all of this. The Vode. Their fate. You look to the man who has become your friend. Would weep for him, if you could. But... but it is too late now.

For both of you.

You are One with the Force. And the Force is One with you.

In the starlight, the fracturing, of what's left of your brain... you PULL. The chip. The advanced aging. The shroud the Sith has pulled around himself. All... all things are possible, in the Force. ALL THINGS. Perhaps not all... with flesh and bone... but? With the Force? The... The Vode will be free.

What is distance, mere matter, to The Force?

We are everywhere and nowhere. Everything and nothing. Our power is infinte and killing us. And... and that is okay. It does not hurt. The Light... the Light is BEAUTIFUL. We did this on our own two feet.

We are one with the Force.

And that is okay.

[alexxuun]

Arcane really is the “they fail to do good” show, huh?

[hylialeia]

you don't get it. she loved him once. she didn't have a maester, she had a brother. he sold their mother's crown to keep them fed. he said Dany, please. she loved him, once.

[glitchedmagic]

@theminecraftbee ‘s ficlets about Decked Out eating Tango have been living in my head rent free so here’s a little post-do thing of my own.

-

“The server resets tonight.”

It’s been just over two months since Decked Out finished. Just over two months since anyone has seen or heard from Tango.

Zed knows what happened. Not the details. And he certainly couldn’t explain it to anyone else. But he knows.

And the gnawing feeling of guilt has kept him coming back to the dungeon. Every day.

Decked Out is asleep. Zed can walk through the citadel without a desperate need to throw himself to the ravengers. He can even wander below, into the redstone, without being electrocuted to death. Maybe it’s dead, but Zed doubts it. He knows it’s just sleeping. Eventually, it will wake up. It will be hungry and will lure whoever enters this world into its depths.

Maybe that’s when Tango will wake up too.

Zed won’t be here to see it.

“Who knows when you’ll be able to eat again?”

His voice is quiet but he knows the whole dungeon can hear him. He plays with the clasp on his gas mask. Tango’s storage room, where he lays on the dusty floor, has enough oxygen flowing through it still to allow him to breathe without the mask, though he’s already getting a bit of a headache. He’ll put the mask back on soon. Eventually.

“One last snack?”

He’s offered the dungeon himself hundreds of times these past few months. As a player, when it was live, hoping to spark a bit of his friend’s life back into him. Then after. Hoping for something. For a glimpse of flickering blue flame and wide eyes that had long since given up pretending to see.

There’s quiet.

There’s so much guilt in the quiet.

Don’t worry, Zed. Just a few months. Not too big of a project.

All good here. With level one done, the rest will go a lot quicker.

Yeah, level three got away from me a bit. Level four will be smaller, don’t worry.

Audio needed to be reworked, you know how it is. Soon.

Just tired, lost track of time last night.

Not too much longer now.

Don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal when the game’s done. Promise.

Did Tango know he was lying?

Zed is well aware that what he’s doing isn’t good for him. It’s ironic, how Tango pulled away from everyone, to eventually disappear in this cave. And now Zed’s doing the same thing.

It was always Tango pulling Zed out. Into the sun for a stupid game or a ridiculous project.  So it makes sense that without him, Zed can’t bring himself to leave the hole.

“I could break more redstone.” Zed offers the dungeon. “Really get you mad.”

He’d done that. About two weeks after Decked Out went dormant. He hadn’t gotten a reaction at the time. But the next day, everything was repaired.

That had spurred Zed into doing a stakeout. Break some stuff, sit and wait until the dungeon brought Tango out to fix it.

Zed had died down in the redstone, waiting. It hadn’t been a pleasant death.

That’s when Impulse had stepped in, staging his own intervention. But all it had done is make Zed feel more guilty.

An intervention for the guy who failed to do an intervention when Tango needed it most.

See? Ironic.

His head is starting to pound. He puts his mask back on.

“I want my friend back, you stupid castle,” He says through the mask. The dungeon understands him anyways.

He won’t be getting Tango back. He’s known that for much longer than he can admit.

Time passes. His phone dings a few times. It’s just the others. Making preparations. The server resets in just a few hours.

“Was it worth it?” Zed asks. “Not you, dumb dungeon. I’m asking Tango. Was it worth it? Did you make this choice? Did you know the consequences?”

Silence.

“Did you ever consider saying goodbye?”

The thing is? Tango was saying goodbye. In the only way he could. It was in the heartfelt artifacts crafted for each hermit. It was in his own voice, echoing words throughout the dungeon long after his own voice left him. It was in every ounce of the game.

None of them saw it until it was too late.

Zed stands. He has to be at spawn soon. He has stuff to pack. He has his own hole in the ground to say goodbye to.

He takes the long way out. Up into the main room of the citadel.

There’s a small part of him that hopes to see a glint of Tango. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? A little wisp of blue fire. A soft voice. A gust of wind blowing a loose piece of paper across the floor. Something he can look at and be comforted by.

Nothing happens.

Zed knows that Tango’s gone.

He stands at the door. It’s open just a crack, just like he left it.

The night is clear.

“Goodbye, Tango.”

[good-beanswrites]

If it's okay with you, could you write a drabble about the hypothetical aftermath of Amane getting attacked by Kotoko?

Welp thank you pal for making me absolutely insane with this request 👍 I ran through a few hypotheticals and realized I had to shift some things around since there were so many absolutely tragic outcomes. I worked something out but damn if it didn’t make me emotional to think about how uniquely rough Amane has it. Even making sure she's in a good place at the end, this got pretty serious, so warnings for child abuse and cult references. 

(So in canon, Kotoko goes in order and attacks Fuuta, but Kazui steps in. Then she attacks Mahiru while he’s distracted with his injuries. She’s about to attack Amane, but Mikoto gets in the way (my hc that he did it on purpose survives!). By the time they reach a draw, Kazui is back, and the two of them can prevent Kotoko from any further action against Amane. Sticking to this apparent system of three attacks and one rescue, I’m just shuffling around the injuries for this story. Fuuta’s attack went unnoticed, and he’s in the same state as canon Mahiru. Mikoto steps in before Kotoko can fight Mahiru, so Mappi’s the one who get out physically unscathed. While Mikoto checks on Mahiru, recovers himself, or discovers Fuuta, Kotoko is able to attack Amane next. Kazui comes to help, but not before she leaves Amane looking like canon Fuuta.)

Mahiru could practically feel her heart shatter into a million pieces when Amane finally cried in front of her. She hadn’t shed a single tear yesterday – it was the shock, Shidou said. Mahiru was skeptical. After all, she had been shocked, too, and cried plenty.

Amane woke as she came in with breakfast. She took a moment to survey herself, bandages peeking out from beneath her pajamas and an eyepatch securely over her right eye. As calmly as one might say “good morning,” she started to cry. Mahiru might have missed it, if Amane hadn’t wiped at her good eye with her sleeve.

“Oh, sweetheart…!” Mahiru rushed over to her. “It’s okay, I’m here.” She wanted nothing more than to wrap the girl in a secure embrace, but she remembered the mass of bandages that were around her chest. Shidou had mentioned broken ribs and bruises. It took everything in her not to cry along with Amane, at the thought.

“I can get you another ice pack, if you need. Or more medicine.” Her mind spun with ways to help with pain. Many of the first aid supplies had been used to keep Fuuta from the brink of death, but surely there were extras to spare for Amane. 

The girl just shook her head. 

She muttered, “I can’t… I…I’m going to be punished, I’m going to be punished…”

“No! You’re safe now.” Mahiru placed her hands gently on Amane’s arms. “Kotoko’s not coming back. We’re all watching over you. You’re safe. She’s not going to hurt you anymore.” 

“That’s not…” Amane pulled away. Her voice stayed level, despite hiccups interrupting her. A hand reached up to her eyepatch. “It’s this. It’s all of this. It’s sinful. I took it off last night, but he must have…” She started unwrapping it. “They’re going to punish me...” 

With a careful motion, Mahiru held it in place and took Amane’s hands into her own. She’d been picking up on the signs ever since they arrived here together, and a final wave of understanding washed over her. 

“I can’t let you do that.”

Amane’s expression twisted, though words came out far more frantic than fiery. “Let me go.” 

Mahiru didn’t. “I’m sorry. Amane, you need this treatment.”

“That is not your decision to make. That is not any human’s decision to make.”

Mahiru pressed her lips together. “I know. But I can’t watch as you… I can’t sit by again while someone…” She was careful not to apply any pressure, but she could no longer fight the urge to gather Amane up in her arms. “You don’t need to be afraid of those people, anymore.”

“I’m not afraid.” Amane hiccuped. “They love me, and I love them. I need to be good for them.”

“I love you, and I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“You just pity me because I’m young.”

“Why does your age matter? You are a lovely young woman – you are my friend – and I can’t bear to see you in pain.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Mahiru doubted she would take that as an answer; Amane had refused to call any of the others her friend. At least she didn’t argue. In fact, it seemed she was leaning into the embrace a bit more. She sighed a shaky breath into Mahiru’s uniform.

“Listen, Amane. Can you do me a favor? I’m trying to be a good girl, too. To make up for something awful, I need to make sure you’re alright. Can you help me? Can we be good together?”

A long pause followed. Amane’s voice spoke up, ever so gently.

“I suppose I can consider it.” She added quickly, “for the sake of your redemption. Of course.”

“Of course.”

[cienie-isengardu]

[tragedy-for-sale]

Left Me with You

Anakin hated when he took away Obi-Wan's happiness, even if it was just pretend.

Sad Obi-Wan is just my favorite thing to write. Apparently. This fic is kinda long and is already up on my Ao3.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

It wasn't often that Obi-Wan and Anakin got to go on meditative retreat together. But even then, as Obi-Wan sat in the field, eyes closed and legs crossed, he could feel it within him, Anakin would be happier if he wasn't here. Obi-Wan opened his eyes, brows furrowed and a concerned frown. He wished he could talk to Anakin about it, but talking wasn't something they did. Obi-Wan wondered of all Anakin would say, if he could speak openly of his love, Obi-Wan smiled at the thought of Anakin, the sparkle of love in his eyes. The sparkle of life. But that smile didn't last long, Anakin would never tell him all about his love, and Obi-Wan would never ask. He wouldn't ruin Anakin's happiness, it was such a rare thing, and Obi-Wan never wanted Anakin to go without it, not if he didn't have to.

Obi-Wan stood up, wrapping his robe around him as he started back to the small vacation home Padme had so graciously allowed them to stay in. He walked among the wildflowers, but he didn't stop to pick a few. They were beautiful, but the moment he touched them, the moment he plucked them from their home, they would die, the moment Obi-Wan touched those beautiful flowers, they would die. So he kept walking, he let them live, he would not touch them, and he would live because Obi-Wan didn't go anywhere near them.

Reaching the house, he took off his sandals and walked into the kitchen. He looked on the counter and saw a vase. Obi-Wan felt as if he'd been struck, those flowers, those beautiful flowers that Obi-Wan had been so tempted to kneel down beside, to take in the smell of spring, to pluck them from their home for his own selfish desires. Those beautiful flowers were impossible not to notice, and now they were on full display as they died- "Hey Obi-Wan," it was Anakin's voice, but Obi-Wan could not stop the ringing in his head long enough to focus, "-picked the flowers-" The sound of flickering embers. "-They're really nice, they smell really good-" he would've led such a meaningful life. "Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan looked up, he found Anakin, "Oh, Anakin," a familiar smile found its way to Obi-Wan's face as he walked over and smelled the flowers, 'I'm so sorry, Master-' he closed his eyes, the smell of spring, early morning rainfall and late night firefly catching. He opened his eyes, "How was the lake?"

Anakin's own smile flickered on his face, but if Obi-Wan didn't want to talk, they wouldn't. Talking wasn't something they did. "It was nice, Master." Anakin remembered fondly, "The water was cool but in the sun," Anakin chuckled, "Man, I almost fell asleep, that's why I came back," Anakin opened the fridge with the intention of finding a snack but he couldn't help his thoughts wandering and lingering on Obi-Wan. Even though they hadn't even been remotely close, Anakin could sense his Master's sorrow. He'd worried about this. He hadn't wanted Obi-Wan to come to Naboo, Anakin had asked Obi-Wan if he'd want to go somewhere else, anywhere else but here. Anakin could sense it since the moment they arrived, Obi-Wan would be happier if he wasn't here.

"Master," Anakin's voice seemed on edge, it certainly caught Obi-Wan's attention, for Anakin could sense Obi-Wan straightening up and crossing his arms. Prepared to ricochet any shots.

"Yes, Anakin?" But his voice was soft, giving nothing away, not his fear, not his anger, not his sorrow. Obi-Wan was always so good at pretending, but Anakin knew that for all of Obi-Wan's confidence, he didn't really mean it.

"We're still gonna be here in four days," Anakin could dance around the point, that was how it worked. Neither one of them dared to look the other in the eye, for both were far too afraid to address all the damage they'd done to the other.

"Yes, we are," Obi-Wan nodded, walking over to the cabinet and looking at the tea. He was so good at that. "Do you want a cup of tea?" He wasn't going to give in, he couldn't.

Anakin nodded, maybe he should drop it, but how could he ignore Obi-Wan's trembling hands? "Master," Anakin said again, Obi-Wan turned, that knowing smile on his face. "It'll be twelve years..."

Obi-Wan felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, the mug became impossibly heavy he could only put it down. His stomach twisted in knots as he struggled to turn to meet Anakin's gaze, "Yes," He mustered out, but his voice trembled. Every year, from the first year to today, Obi-Wan was never any better, he never missed Qui-Gon any less. Obi-Wan resigned, bowing his head, looking down at the counter, "Why do you bring it up?"

Anakin might as well of gut punched Obi-Wan then and there, that would hurt less. He looked at his master, hunched over, fists clenched Anakin could see the white of his knuckles, stray hairs hiding his face and his shoulders tense. He shouldn't have said anything. They didn't talk about things like this, this was why, Anakin. "-When I lost my mother," Anakin's throat went dry, he found it so hard to speak. "When she died-" he looked away, "I can't remember what she sounds like," Anakin wanted to laugh, if only to show Obi-Wan he was okay. "I don't remember her laugh or that song she'd sing while doing laundry, even though she sang it every time she did the-" Anakin hung his head, oh- Oh. What had he done?

Obi-Wan looked up through his hair, he looked terribly alone. "Anakin..." Obi-Wan walked over to Anakin, reaching out his hand, but Anakin remembered the point of all this pain.

"-I still think about my mother, so I know you still think of Qui-Gon." Anakin's voice was quiet, but Obi-Wan heard, like blaster fire, it was all he could hear, it was deafening.

It might've taken Anakin losing his own mother to realize the root of all those tears Obi-Wan cried. He remembered those first few weeks, Obi-Wan was sad all the time, he'd cry after he'd put Anakin to bed, he'd cry after meetings with the council, he'd cry, hand covering his mouth as he realized he was really pathetic. To still not be alright, to still be crying months after. To always be sad. Anakin knew now, Obi-Wan felt like a scared little kid, so he'd cry, he'd cry and cry hoping Qui-Gon would come to tell him not to be afraid, to sing a lullaby and silly songs while doing laundry. But he never came and one day Obi-Wan stopped crying, he didn't cry after a hard mission, not a tear after remembrance ceremonies, not even watery eyes after being told 'you're so much like your master.' Obi-Wan didn't cry, but he cut his hair, meditated on sleepless nights, held his lightsaber to stop his shaking hands. But he did not cry, he did not cry. He would not cry, not in front of Anakin, not in front of anyone. Not anymore.

The tears stopped but the pain never did. It was only a few short years ago Obi-Wan decided he would never cry in front of Anakin and up until now Obi-Wan stood by his vow. But here, right now, Anakin knew him completely, all his pathetic pain and sorrow. His infinite sadness and self-effacing jokes. He'd never let anyone know how sad he would always be, certainly not. But he couldn't hide his water-colored eyes from Anakin, even though they didn't talk, of course he knew. Obi-Wan's voice trembled and all the strength and poise he'd so carefully crafted fell apart. Obi-Wan felt his eyes water, "Oh, Anakin," his voice cracked, "I'm so sorry-" Obi-Wan shook his head, he couldn't look at Anakin, not after the face he made. Oh, Anakin's face. All of Obi-Wan's pain fell into embarrassment, he couldn't pull himself together, and he was so sorry that he couldn't. "I'm sorry, Anakin, for all of this-" for all of me-

Anakin felt everything within him stop, he couldn't think, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, Obi-Wan hadn't cried in so long- and all it took was Anakin to open his damned mouth to change that. "Please don't cry, Master, please Obi-Wan-" Anakin looked down, voice trembling, all he could do was beg, "I hate it when you cry-" He really did, he hated not being listened to, being talked over and feeling powerless, but what he hated most, more than his own pain and frustration, what seeing that frustration in those he loved. He hated when Padme worked really hard on a speech to not be heard at all, when Ahsoka cried because she missed her friends, when Rex lost a brother. Anakin hated that he couldn't take their pain away, and most of all, he hated that Obi-Wan was sad, he hated that nothing would ever make him truly happy, Anakin hated he couldn't do anything to ease his pain, he hated when Obi-Wan cried because he became powerless, Anakin was a little kid all over again, unable to think because, like his mother, there was nothing he could do to make her tears stop, there was nothing he could do to make Obi-Wan's tears stop.

Obi-Wan wiped his eyes, his forced smile was so similar to his real one, if Anakin didn't know Obi-Wan, he wouldn't know the difference. How many people didn't know the difference? "Anakin, I do apologize," Obi-Wan took a deep breath, pulling himself back in, shoving all this pain down. He came over to Anakin and pulled his former padawan into a hug, "I'm alright, we'll be alright." His voice was so assuring, so knowing, so void of all his suffering. There it was, that holy resignation. Obi-Wan forgetting himself for the sake of others around him, there it was, his unrequiting selflessness.

Anakin held him tightly, just for a moment as he was safe in his master's arms, he felt a wave of grief sweep him out to sea, his feet swept out beneath him; Anakin was so afraid to let go of Obi-Wan, for he'd surely drown, "I miss my mom-" he'd never admit this, not now anyway, but he'd let himself remember his mother's smile, that soft glow in her eyes, the lines of age framing her eternal beauty, he could almost hear her now, "I still feel like a little kid without her-"

Obi-Wan would not let go until Anakin was ready, and when he was, Anakin wiped his eyes, stepping back into the man he'd grown into, a man without a mother. He looked down at Obi-Wan and he didn't see his Master, he saw a man without a father. It was just the two of them as they were, true Jedi: without a mother, without a father. Their family was the Jedi, but to consider the Jedi their family would be forming an attachment, would it not? Obi-Wan had long pondered that, late into sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling. If he was supposed to be ever compassionate, ever loving; if he was raised to love through love, it was rather hard to not become lost in feelings of attachment. "... That never really goes away." Obi-Wan whispered, he still felt like a padawan, he always wished Qui-Gon was still here, that Obi-Wan was still a son. But he wasn't, and Obi-Wan wasn't.

Anakin held his master tight, but not out of his own sorrow, what about Obi-Wan? Anakin remembered council meetings, the two watched by all of their ever-caring stares, all debating Anakin's future with the Jedi, but what about Obi-Wan? If they ever asked about his well-being, Anakin would never know if, in those early days, they made Obi-Wan feel worse by questioning his ability to do this on his own. "Master," Anakin pulled out of their hug, Obi-Wan was all put back together again, with tape and glue, "You don't have to pretend you're alright, not with me."

Obi-Wan's smile flickered, that sadness flooding back into his eyes, "Anakin," Obi-Wan looked down, he almost wanted to laugh, "Oh, you've grown up, haven't you?" He saw Anakin's smile, too bad it was born from sorrow, "You've become the Jedi I always dreamed you would be."

"-And you've become the Jedi Qui-Gon always dreamed you would be-" Anakin put his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder, he didn't need to be told, but perhaps it was a nice reminder, "Qui-Gon would be proud of the man you've grown into, Master, you are an honorable Jedi, and a good master, even if at times I didn't think so." This time Anakin laughed, and Obi-Wan almost did too. There was a moment, Obi-Wan had fallen into his thoughts but Anakin's voice brought him back, "What I'm saying, is that it's okay to tell me that you miss him," It's okay if you tell me that you cut your hair after I told you that you looked like him; It's alright if you tell me you hold onto your lightsaber because it makes you feel safe; It's okay if you tell me you meditate instead of sleeping because you only have nightmares of that day; It's okay if you tell me you cry when there's no one around because you want everyone to think you're okay now. "It's okay for you to miss him, Obi-Wan, I know how much you loved him-"

Anakin watched Obi-Wan's eyes flicker, perhaps with surprise, perhaps embarrassment, as if loving the man who raised you as his own was something to be ashamed of. As if mourning Qui-Gon like Anakin mourned his mother was wrong. Anakin put a reassuring hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder, sensing the cracks in his master's facade, "It's alright.... If you tell me that you loved him-" Anakin whispered.

Obi-Wan looked up, taking a deep breath, he looked up at his padawan, oh, when did he grow up? He was far beyond that little boy on Tatooine, Anakin had grown up into a Jedi Knight, and now they served together not as master and apprentice, but side by side as Jedi Knights. Obi-Wan blinked and Anakin wasn't scared to let go of Obi-Wan's hand, he wasn't heading to the padawan dining hall, he wasn't practicing his form. No, Obi-Wan blinked and Anakin was putting himself in the line of fire to protect others, bringing meals to Obi-Wan's chambers so they can eat together, making form videos for Ahsoka, Obi-Wan had trained him as best as he was able, and somewhere in the last twelve years, Anakin grew up. Obi-Wan had a sorrowful realization from such a miraculous thing, Anakin had grown up. They worked alongside each other as Jedi Knights, and now Obi-Wan had what he dreamed of, he had what he always wanted, what Qui-Gon always wanted.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

The problem is that you're not the Jedi you should be, you're not the Jedi your master wanted and trained you to be, you're a Jedi Master, member of the Jedi Council, but really, you're still just a padawan whose master died, and you never got over it.

[supernova049]

The worst part about how far The 12th Doctor went to save Clara during Hell Bent is that he did actually manage to save her in a way.

Yes, Clara will always be fated to face the raven, but she got turned into an immortal that can live for 4.5 billion years before having to do it.

And for what? She will now live just like Lady Me. Experiencing loss after loss, tragedy after tragedy, not being able to remember all the beautiful people and experiences she had as she watches every planet and star slowly turn to dust.

She having to face the raven is tragic, there's no doubt about it, but at least she could have died with the memories of her loved ones and the security that The Doctor will be a good man and won't hurt anybody.

Now she will die with a library worth of books saying there were thousands of people she used to cherish and care for when she can't remember a single one them, with one of those books saying The Doctor is the reason as to why she is in this situation because he was so incapable of living without her that he nearly tore the universe apart.

[coldalbion]

Empathising too hard with Jod again.

[merevide]

pls in my theatre class we have to compare a modern character in tv/film to a greek tragedy and then explain how they fit into the greek tragedy narrative…and ofc i thought of yellowjackets the problem is IDK WHICH CHARACTER TO PICK LMAO

[turtlespancake]

me when i write a character who is prone to dooming themself and then they run off and doom themself. core traits are stubbornness and a willingness to disregard their own humanity gET BACK HERE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU

[corellianhounds]

Amidala the Resilient

Media: Revenge of the Sith

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,942

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, pregnancy, Force-choking, blood and injuries, traumatic labor and delivery, death in childbirth, no happy ending.

Art Credit: Iain McCaig, The Art of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

Summary: In a universe where Anakin gradually descended into the Dark side of his own volition from the beginning— where his ambition and love were genuine and admirable, but the temptation of power too much— his turn is something much more destructive and purposeful. Amidala’s plan for retaliation is just as much so.

Padmé Amidala can feel tension twinging in her back and thighs. The pit in her stomach has coalesced into a tight knot as she steels herself for what she must do, bringing a mattock and salt to the ground where pruning shears should have been used long ago.

Anakin had been too far gone for a long time, and the fault lay in her and everyone in his life willingly turning a blind eye too often to his myriad of faults. In the past two hours she has seen actions the result of which came from an upbringing where his temper, jealousy, and ambition were allowed to slide because those who thought him destined for some great cosmic good were willing to overlook occasional— and often objectively justified— acts of wrath and ruthlessness. He had always been so good at justifying his reasons and putting his actions in a more favorable light, showing enough willingness for correction over the years people thought he was receptive to guidance and change.

What she’d come to realize with dawning horror was that the seeds of destruction had been sown long ago, and though the vines had borne occasional good fruit, they had always grown with selfish intent, inevitably choking out everything around them in an effort to keep his own desires hidden behind the barrier of thorns.

In the next hour, she will come face to face with the monster of a man he’s become.

The Jedi master doesn’t know. Kenobi knows she has some plan but wrongfully assumes it is to appeal to whatever mistaken shred of humanity might remain in Anakin. Obi-Wan— even now, even after what they saw— cares for him as a brother and would sooner cut off his own hand than see Anakin completely lost to the Dark. Padmé however has finally seen clarity of purpose.

For Anakin to be stopped, he must be killed.

The ship arrives on Mustafar. Padmé wrenches herself away from the viewport as Obi-Wan lands and she gingerly lowers herself to the cargo hold, donning a cloak. Obi-Wan hurriedly finishes the landing cycle, calling her name as she gathers her strength, but she’s hardly listening to him at this point and she knows she must conceal herself from him so he has no chance of stopping her.

A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, and the Jedi lets go almost in surprise. “Padmé, you don’t have to do this. I will talk to him.”

“No,” she says, keeping her left hand secured across her waist beneath the voluminous sleeve as she cleared a path to the lowering gangway. “He’s made it very clear he’s past the point of reasoning with the Jedi. I will speak with him, and if I cannot convince him to come with us calmly, or I cannot ascertain his next move, I expect you to do what’s necessary to end this treason. That is an order.”

It was all false diplomacy, of course, for his sake. Anakin was nowhere near the realm of negotiation. They were far past that.

But she needed assurance that she could get close enough to Anakin to act decisively. She couldn’t have Kenobi interfering, not at this juncture.

Oppressive heat surrounded her as she swept down the ramp to the barren ground. Magma roiled and churned, flames flickering at the edge of the peninsula as Padmé approached the figure so cloaked in darkness an aura of blackened energy almost seemed to emanate from his form. The grip of the hidden dagger dug into her hand, grounding her as she approached.

Padmé’s eyes burned with a ferocity to match her husband’s. It was time for this to end.

When Obi-Wan had seen her determination in the hold of the ship he had never for a moment anticipated what it would lead to.

Padmé steadily approached Anakin, cloak and hood protecting her from the blaze. He could see her speaking forcefully with him, her face hidden from view but Anakin’s darkening by the moment in response. His right hand, devoid of glove, clenched the hilt of an already ignited saber, the bloodshine blade standing in stark contrast to his own cloak. Its presence alone was alarming, but Obi-Wan had been subject to so many tragedies that night already, he merely assumed Anakin had readied it in the expectation of facing himself.

What Obi-Wan hadn’t known was what Padmé concealed until she tried to close the distance between them, her own blade in hand. What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Anakin’s saber blocked it on instinct, easily halting the approach of Padmé’s dagger, his eyes widening in surprise. In the following moment his left hand raised and with it, so did Padmé.

Obi-Wan’s astonishment lasted only a fraction of a second as he yelled “NO!” Padmé’s feet left the ground as an invisible force clutched her neck in a crushing, intangible grip, and in the breadth of time Padmé scrabbled at her throat, Obi-Wan acted.

Anakin stumbled back from the force of the bolt hitting his shoulder, releasing his hold on Padmé. Padmé crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Anakin’s sights zeroed in on Kenobi, standing at the mouth of the ship with both blaster and lightsaber in hand. Snarling, Anakin stalked towards his old master and brought his lightsaber down, red clashing against blue.

Padmé Amidala, heartbroken and dying, drags herself bleeding to the communication console.

Kenobi can hear her movement in the bay and yells her name, telling her not to move, that he’ll come to help her as soon as the ship breaches the atmosphere, and she stalwartly ignores him, cradling the underside of her belly with one hand and using the other to support herself on the railing around the sparse artillery deck. Her broken ankle protests at every movement, sending lightning arcing up the leg where she puts her unsteady weight. The cramps in her abdomen spread like bone-coral, sharp and hot and agonizing in her pelvis, sides, back— Every tendon and muscle in her body screams at its owner to relent, to succumb to the creeping darkness pressing around her vision, but she cannot allow herself peace until she finishes what she started.

Padmé staggers at the ship’s turbulent acceleration, her forearm slamming out against the bulkhead as the lights flicker, and she curses the unsteady pilot she thought was her friend. Perhaps if she’d been accompanied by someone more decisive, someone whose fatal flaw wasn’t a love too great for a brother that no longer existed, Anakin would have been dealt with and she’d have the wherewithal to fight against the added pain of a labor she was sure would tear her in two.

Sweat pours from her brow and forces her already shaking, slippery hands to scrabble for purchase on the blasted polished finery of a spoiled noble’s ship. Her muscles spasm and she gasps in abject terror as she feels something inside her snap; the membrane within her had ruptured.

Gravity pulls on her bones as her muscles betray her, and she collapses against the bench. Fingernails scrape vinyl and she chokes out a guttural, rending cry of pain in the effort it takes to haul herself upward into the seat.

Obi-Wan is yelling again. Traitorous coward.

Padmé punches in the covert frequency on the transmitter. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her infants moving restlessly under her touch. She forces the hot flashes of pain back, shoving down every instinctive response to curl in on herself.

“Sabé—,” she says into the comm, gritting her teeth and tasting blood once more; the contractions were stronger and with a strangled grunt she yanks the comm closer, ignoring the frantic waves of worry rolling off of the useless Jedi in the pilot’s seat.

“Sabé, if you find the man who was my husband,” she chokes, the creeping black at the edges of her vision beginning to overtake her.

“Kill him.”

Obi-Wan sat listlessly on a bench in the hold, what bloodied clothing he still wore sticking to him like a second skin. His hand rested on the makeshift bassinet, a gun locker repurposed into a cradle.

He could only imagine what directive she’d felt necessary enough to strain herself to get across the sublight waves; he could only imagine because the message was encrypted and the recipient unknown, and her mind had been shielded from his probing. He didn’t know whether to blame his failed use of the Force on the heartbroken, distracted nature of his psyche being pulled in a thousand directions as he’d manually flown from Mustafar’s orbital pull in order to make the jump to lightspeed, or to blame some unknown energy stalwartly blocking him from Padmé’s mind. Reaching out to her had felt like hitting a steel wall.

The tumult of their departure had preoccupied him until he was sure he’d escaped whatever enemy fighters Anakin’s new master had sent after them, the maneuvering less of a dogfight and more of a half-cocked evasive prayer for the hull to remain intact long enough for them to break atmo. Klaxons blared and the astronav’s interface barked orders, warning him of too many systems he already knew were damaged enough that if they took even one more hit to the hull they would be obliterated; shields were failing, exterior panelling being shorn off, the pursuing fighters gaining on them— Until by some stroke of luck he’d found a slip in space to pull through and immediately jump to lightspeed.

Lightspeed jumps themselves were already hazardous to expecting parents’ health. He was terrified of the condition she had been in when he’d finally gotten her onboard, and the fact he could sense her moving with purpose somewhere below decks while he tried to shake the fighters had sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

Piloting had never been his forte. As soon as they’d hit hyperspace he’d slammed a hand against the autopilot controls and bolted from the dash, scrambling down to the hold below.

He swore under his breath, calling her name and skidding to a halt beside her. Her face twisted in agony, her hands clutching the underside of her abdomen. Obi-Wan knelt beside her, hesitant to move her and instead ran a quick check over her vitals, astonished at what he found.

Broken bones in her leg, fractured ribs, internal bleeding, damaged trachea— how had she even moved?! By all rights she should be dead and yet something had propped her up long enough for her to drag herself to the terminal and send a message.

And now she was in labor.

“Kenobi—” she spat derisively, grabbing his tunic. “Get— up—”

“Padmé, hold still, let me—”

He was cut off as a violent shudder wracked her body, her limbs curling in on herself with a gurgling cry. Panicked desperation lanced through him as he reached out and grasped tendrils of the Force, gingerly cradling her neck and attempting to delicately, swiftly mend ligaments he couldn’t see. If he was even a millimeter incorrect, she would die.

A misaligned vertebrae shifted back into place, and Padmé screamed.

Obi-Wan bit back a sob, carefully tracing his fingers on either side of the back of her neck with as much force as he dared in an attempt to still her and provide what pain relief he could as his own energy was leached from him. Padmé gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression stricken as she looked up at the ceiling. Her iron grip loosened as the tension dissipated, if only in one area. She gulped air as if coming up from the bottom of a lake, and Obi-Wan settled as he felt his strength wane. A concrete task was better than guesswork at unknown variables.

The reprieve didn’t last long; Padmé grunted in pain, convulsing as a contraction rippled through her torso again. Further assessment revealed her leggings and the floor beneath her to be drenched, and Obi-Wan’s panic flared again.

“I have to get you up—”

“If you move me I will kill you,” she spat harshly. She trembled despite the ferocity of her glare, her hand still twisted in his robe. “There is no time— Here and now, Kenobi. Make do.”

“Padmé—”

“Look around you,” she seethed. “There’s no level surface in this blasted ship big enough to work. There are no other choices. There is no one else to help. Sleeves up. Now.”

Kenobi’s brow remained twisted as he stripped off his outer tunic, knowing it was laden with silicate and volcanic dust. Padmé propped herself up on her elbows as he raced to scour his hands and forearms, coming back to remove her boots so he could work her outer garments free. Whether the blood seeping between her teeth was due to the injuries she’d sustained or because she was gritting them hard enough one had cracked, he didn’t know.

Padmé gasped again as the fracture in her shin shifted— He wanted to settle her, to fix this, but the contractions were coming more quickly and closer together. They were running out of time.

He finally seated himself before her, kneeling and shaking in just his undershirt and trousers, feeling acutely unprepared for what was to come. Battlefield triage and casualty care were the extent of his healing knowledge, and though he was adept at relieving or numbing acute nociceptive responses, it was usually with soldiers whose minds were open for him to assess areas of injury. A commander with a blaster burn would be focused on the point where his plastoid hadn’t covered. A civilian’s attention after suffering a fall would be turned to the joints and bones that took the brunt of the effects of gravity.

Labor and delivery were far too different from his experience in the medical field.

And Padmé was still blocking him out.

Her knuckles gripped bone-white to a ridge of floor plating, one knee bent and her foot planted flat. The other lay weakly to the side, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth as he raised it up to rest over his thigh despite the lancing pain he felt radiating from her, tucking a blanket beneath her and readying his hands for whatever instruction he prayed she could give. With him gathering his wits and her gathering her strength, they set to work.

The whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than ten minutes, and it was the longest and most arduous process of their lives. Between her strangled cries, his intuition, and the muscle spasms that told him everything about this was wrong, Kenobi’s concern grew with the pool of blood beneath her, and she forced him to focus on the children, refusing to allow him any modicum of time spent healing her injuries between her screams. Untended bone cracked further as she thrashed, her screams echoing back in the cargo hold.

By the time Kenobi had swaddled the two squalling— living!— infants in what sterile dressing he could find from the field kit, Padmé had gone a sickly pale. Her skin was waxy under the recessed halogen lighting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and different muscle groups continued twitching of their own accord as if sparked by electricity. Obi-Wan was torn between ensuring the infants had been properly cared for, and wanting to drag Padmé to the captain’s berth to fully assess her wounds and heal her: Padmé kept stubbornly shoving him away, tears tracking unnoticed down her face as she continued to choke out instructions for the care and keeping of her children.

He’d finally been forced to stop when that iron grip returned in full force— Padmé grabbed his arm and yanked him down to where she had propped herself up against the wall. Kenobi lurched forward, her ashen face now level with his. She forced her voice to obey despite the strain in her throat, rasping the words she needed to say.

“Keep them away from him.” The venom in her tone was undeniable. “You keep them safe, Kenobi, get— get them as far away as you can—”

Kenobi grunted, refusing to let her continue her orders. He pressed a palm to her chest, willing those wisps of energy to sustain her just a few moments longer as he tried to haul her up into his lap, coax her arm around him so he could lift her— If he could just get her somewhere comfortable, somewhere clean, if he could focus—

Padmé shrieked in pain, clawing at his chest and arms, and the sum of their separate fights came crashing down on him as the Force dissipated from his mind’s grasp. His knees gave out, his strength sapped from the energy he had poured into her, and they lay heavily back against the terminal yet again. The children cried distantly behind them.

“Padmé, please…” Obi-Wan pleaded, tears streaking down his face, but she shook her head yet again.

“Keep them safe,” she coughed, begging for the first time. “Get them away f-from—”

“He’s gone, Padmé, Anakin is gone—”

She shook her head fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. He’s there. I can feel him.”

“Listen to me— Anakin is dead, I saw him—”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said. Her breath rattled. Tears dripped from her chin. “If— If you won’t k-kill him then t-take care o-of them. Wh-Whatever it takes.”

Her chest hitched as she gasped around the liquid filling her lungs. Her bloody hand trembled against his neck. She hiccuped, her eyes went glassy, and her hand fell away.

And in the stillness of hyperspace, Padmé Amidala Naberrie passed from one life to the next.

It had been an hour since then. Only an hour since Obi-Wan had had to keep himself from buckling under the weight of his grief, an hour since he’d sobbed on the floor of a ship as one of his oldest and dearest friends died in his arms. The former queen of Naboo, dying in the bloody cargo hold of a stolen ship, her own life stolen from her by the one person the two of them had trusted beyond measure while her infant children cried out for comfort he felt wholly incapable of providing. Obi-Wan wept alongside them, digging his fingers into the cold, unfeeling floor, wanting to scream as the agony of heartbreak threatened to overwhelm him.

So many dead, or lost. There was no solace even in the Force.

But as Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself doing so often in his life, he shoved his feelings down into the furthest recesses of his broken heart, let go of another loved one returned to the Force, and turned himself back to the task at hand.

The infants were asleep now. He’d shakily scrubbed at his face and arms with cold water and spared only enough time under the sanisteam to ensure he was clean enough to handle them before finding a spare undershirt for himself. He fed them, cleaned them up, and held both of them together against his chest as they squirmed, dissatisfied at their situation before accepting their present accommodations and falling asleep. By the ship’s chrono he had roughly two standard hours before the ship was due to drop out of hyperspace.

He sat unseeing in the captain’s berth with the ad hoc bassinet nearby. Padmé was still in the hold; he couldn’t be two places at once, and he couldn’t stay down there with the children.

Something bothered him about the infants in his arms, though. Once the girl had passed from Padmé’s body, it almost seemed like the barrier keeping him from sensing Padmé’s thoughts had broken. He was too drained and scattered to dwell on it as his last moments with her had been focused on her well-being, but despite his utter exhaustion he had a suspicion that had already begun to crystallize under the sheer openness of the twins’ young presences within hyperspace.

It troubled him.

Whatever message she’d sent was evidently received by the people she’d needed it to. Bail Organa met him at the hastily assembled but covert rendezvous, his ensuing shock and horror upon entering the ship’s docking ramp turning to commanding resolve as he followed the trail of destruction to Kenobi’s station. Organa had to shake him from his stupor before Obi-Wan could tell him of Mustafar, of the newly appointed Sith and Padmé’s scheme, and of Padmé’s last words. The senator’s brow furrowed. He knelt next to the Jedi, looking over the sleeping children.

“What of Anakin?”

Obi-Wan shook his head tiredly. “I cannot sense him. I don’t believe Anakin is alive.”

“… Who else did she contact?” Bail asked.

Tears dripped onto Obi-Wan’s shirt. “I don’t know.”

Bail sighed, bringing one hand up to rest on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, Obi-Wan. For everything.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t respond.

Bail’s team, handpicked and vetted by the senator himself, worked below decks as the men weighed their options. The aftermath of the despotic coup was rippling out and changing by the minute; the Jedi had been slaughtered and scattered, the clones had broken all communication, and the Senate had reached a fever pitch of chaos. Anything that needed to be done had to be done now.

The feeling of loss that bordered on consuming him was one he’d rarely felt in his lifetime as acutely as he did now. The comfort he found in the Force was absent. He’d felt like a ship unmoored when his master was killed. Now it was as though he’d been dropped into the middle of a hurricane.

Bail’s hands were clasped loosely together against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head in thought. Kenobi could have been a corpse for how still and gaunt he was.

“Obi-Wan…” Bail began. “Are you certain Skywalker is dead?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot sense him at all.”

Bail was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “… But you, of all people, couldn’t sense what must have been growing within him. Is it at all possible the body of Anakin remains, but the reason you cannot find him is because the man we knew is entirely lost to the Dark?”

A chilling fissure of clarity cut through Obi-Wan’s senses. His reaction told Bail everything he needed to know.

Even if it was only a suspicion, they could not afford to waste time figuring out the emperor’s next move. Anything that could be used to motivate Vader had to be hidden from public knowledge. They couldn’t leave a trace of his past behind.

Bail mulled over his thoughts, then stood, gesturing for Kenobi as his resolve hardened to steel. “Come. We have work to do. We will mourn when we are done.”

Sabé trembled with the effort it took to control her breathing. She stowed her bag behind the seat of the starship and brought the engine to life, moving with purpose as tears streamed unbidden down her face.

The ship rose, coordinates locked in place to meet the others of her gathering retinue. These weren’t the orders of former nobility, of a governing senator— This was the last request of a dying friend, someone whose very existence was woven into her bones. Padmé Amidala’s death would not be in vain.

Sabé looked out beyond the stars, her breathing finding stasis despite the ocean of grief beneath it.

“My hands are yours, Padmé,” she said to herself. “For as long duty compels them.”

She wasn’t going to kill Anakin. Not until he felt every bit of the pain and suffering he deserved.

Notes:

The line “clarity of purpose” comes from Saw Gerrera in the Andor TV show

I wrote Sabé’s line before seeing that one similar was used in one of the books. Good to know I was on the right track with a character I know very little about lol

[larrythefloridaman]

Folk is interesting. Hes this talented competent stealth operation super spy psychology casanova (and also a funy dogy) but he has these three major points of weakness that play into eachother in messy ways:

He's a fish out of temporal water- hes from the future and the people he knows dont know him, they know Thera, and the only bond he really seems to have thats still his and only his is chartreuse, and either hes struggling to change this or hes not interested- he apparently hasnt even tried to explain to plum, whom he had considered his best friend before his death in his timeline, who he is, to plum hes still just 'that guy who saved my life.' Having this weird relationship to time in common with treusy and (almost. larry exists but his opinion on him is mixed for understandable reasons) noone else leaves him prone to centering treusy above all else, even his own health, and even acting like they know eachother better than they really do- im sorry folk but 'i spent more time with you than anyone else in my life' can literally only be true Maybe if youre not counting the dead or basing that off screentime (not that you knew about that at that point) brother but the sentiment is sweet- reflecting a deep loneliness born out of grief and alienation and clinging to a lifeline, an oasis.

He is used to being a caretaker, and to using his training as a therapist and his degree in psychology for strategic advance, not being taken care OF, and has a very difficult time living with the idea of shifting the burden of himself onto others- he refuses to be carried. Folk can will and has limped around on death's door pretending not to be in that dire of a state because he was far more concerned with how his continued existence would put a strain on his past self or was putting a strain on treusy (or even on his opponents, because he didn't even want to put up enough of a fuss to drop out of the tournament- was very ready to pretend he wasnt actively dying to zapmouse and the grunk and go out on stage quote unquote 'medically cleared to fight' when larry was missing, saying that squid jenny gave him the go ahead. very irresponsible of iggy to put his assistant with basic scouts level first aid training on bloodsports medic duty btw)

And the third one is real weird for the sort of character that he is- Nostalgia.

'Back' no longer exists, and Folk is always looking back.

(Which is actually usually technically forward to other people but like relative to him its the past and gone.)

Folk spends half his fight quotes in the nccts talking about the future he comes from, different characters fates in them, what he remembers of their legacy and what they contributed to keeping the spirit of the rebellion alive, Folk openly projects his relationship with other characters' future selves onto their present ones sometimes even though they dont know who he is and talks about 'spoilers' as though all their fates havent been altered dramatically by the very actions folk went back to take, see 23. While thera is making some kind of peace with the fact she was made from terra and the new memories of 'losing' Eric being a strange and new traumatic sore spot for her, Folk... wants to look back...

[arorabbit]

enemies to lovers this, corruption arcs that, NOTHING will beat siblings either literally or metaphorically killing each other. peak tragedy to me you cannot go wrong w/ it