thank you ash for betaing, lyy
cross-posted to ao3
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He had no reason to move. No emotion needed to traverse through his entire system. His eyebrows were depressed into a pitiful curve and his eyes resembled that of a grey thundercloud. Within every cranny of his body, grains of the finest sugars infested like rodents squirming for cheese, their gold exterior scratchy and irritating to his skin. Melancholy fueled Obi-Wan to do nothing about it.
He could classify his emotions, acknowledge them, but the numbness and aching headaches wouldn't go away. This torpefying, demanding existence was a constant; physical reminders of his Padawan would never go away. The pair were brothers in everything but blood, their comradery unmatched and he had missed everything; all the signals that Anakin was growing dimmer and moodier. The arguments, the pressure... at the very end, Anakin couldn't look at his Master without narrowing his eyebrows and lighting blue eyes with a powerful blaze; crushing the air between them until Obi-Wan felt like he was suffocating.
Stuck onto his skin is the blood, the i hate you! echoing on his tunic and the blisters where there used to be a hilt. The age of infinite sadness was upon him, and there was no escape. He was stuck in a jail cell that he made himself, built from the past to hold the future at bay. He can hear the sobbed gasps as Padmé took her last breath, the way her eyes lost their spark and her head fell limp. Every single time he blinks. Screaming. It is one thing to hear of such undeserving misery, another to experience it.
The nights are long and cold and dull, filled with heavy eyelids and moping nightmares. The force is in shambles, balancing nothing but a former hope told to children of the past. He can still feel some bonds, laid over brick walls and ingrained into a part of him that he vows never to touch again. But that part is only disconnected by one sense, and four more are there through every passing breath. Although everyone may be gone, his eyes still remember them being there.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing to say. Everlasting time, bewitched sand chapping his lips and leaving behind crinkly cuts and scars. The last bruise of before, when the Jedi was fighting Grievous; now just about faded and left to rot underneath his mental injuries.
Thoughts in the deepest, most broody way, were so drifty, like jellyfish floating through a sea, soft emotions dwindling between chaining bullets and ocean-currents of his irises. He could still remember the last message on the holocrons. In-fact, he had a copy. Two copies, if you count the one permanently ringing in his ears. ...Do not return to the temple. That time has past, and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged. Our trust, our faith, our friendships... but we must persevere. And in time, a new hope will emerge.
His acrimonious thoughts could dissect every word for hours. The way his voice had cracked, and he had to choke back gutters of tears. That day was the worst of his life, muted screams like hurricanes through the force as his family was cut down and executed. And at the pits of it all was his Padawan. Responsible for all the deaths. Slashing each Jedi without remorse, slaughtering force-users who could do nothing but beg for mercy under his persecution.
"Oh, Anakin, why did you do it?" He whispered under his breath, a heart-clenching sigh escaping the lips of the one left behind.
It was so hard to smile now, to feel his creases in his mouth form the motion that would have once been created because of Anakin. A plagued desolation would do him no good, he declared to himself. He was drowning and he wanted to drain the water instead of escaping it, smashing the waves numbly though he were a toddler.
Hands clutched his chest as he breathed slowly. Muttering under his breath, he quoted, "focus on what you can do, instead of what you can't." The mantra was one of his favorites, passed down from his lineage. He had first learnt it as a young Padawan, with a glass of tea in his hands and glass naïveté extensively alive. Now, its remains a mug to hold Obi-Wan late at night.
Obi-Wan still hadn't moved anywhere. Sat on the ground, hugging himself and feeling his chest rise like dough into bread. Hands were calloused. Daggers threatened his heart, and the only thing that kept him going was the beautiful Force, whose spirits reminded him that yes, he still had a purpose. If he had wanted to drain the water a few minutes earlier, now he just wanted climb the pool ladder and leave.
In the doorway of his abode, he sat cross-legged with as much serene as he could muster. He forced himself into a meditation technique aged with pain like fine wine.
A loud clang disrupted his thoughts, and Obi-Wan turned around quickly to see shocked faces, (he was only a millimeter away from reaching for his lightsaber, the only thing stopping him nightmares of what happened last time the weapon was used), and a deadly silence.
Cups on the table were floating, jars melted into the ground as their crash echoed, Obi-Wan's mouth in an 'O' formation, bitter breaths coming sharp and quick and- why were there people in his hut? There was no time to think- He was a fool and he looked like a greater one than he felt.
Everyone was staring at him... all the pairs of eyes like mummies, judging and gossiping. He stopped his breathing temporarily, closed his eyes and blinked.
There was no one there.
There Was Noone There, Notoneperson... therewas- there was no one. no one there. noone. heisinhishome. Why won't the breathing stop... calmdowncalmdown. Theclangwas...nothing. Breathe. He can almost hear Qui-Gon yelling-pleading-sobbing, "Calm yourself Padawan!"
In. Out.
Jedi do not have panic attacks.
But Obi-Wan is only a shell of Jedi Master Kenobi, the formidable warrior who never slowed down; the mask shredded and left with the rest of his soul on Mustafar. He is not Ben; a name reserved for private occasions between him and his beloved. Nor is he Obi, the name reserved for Bant's smiling face now in a muddy grave, or Obi-Wan, the innocent childhood of a fever-dream.
The dune sea outside roared and bucked, as it threw a rage of an eternal ocean. Obi-Wan feels the emotions conveyed through the Force, the wrongness and acceptance thrown into a paper ball and thrown at the bin like a basketball. He knew exactly what his old friend wanted. "Me too..." he said quietly, "but he couldn't give it to us. The seesaw has tipped, and the light extinguished."
A sad smile played on star-defying lips, crushed by the stones of evermore sorrow. His wording style was similar to his Master before him, speaking without directly saying, exactly as he would've done. Obi-Wan was intimately connected to the Force, his only friend in the acetous dunes.
A high sky was above him, two suns cooking him alive like he was a fried egg, roasting his skin into a darker color. His hands ran under his scrappy chin. Sighing with exertion and a numbing pain, he sat down next to a writing pad – traditional, but it would serve his purpose. He closed his eyes, guiding the pen with the Force and letting loose of all the pain he was holding with markings mostly positive. There was no grammar, painful standards too much to consider.
i don't have depression, nor anxiety. i am just experiencing a day where i'm looking down a long tunnel and there is no light. but tomorrow, i will walk closer to the light. and after that, a bit more, until the tunnel is gone and i am happy again.
A standard technique, during what brief visits he went to a mind healer for. He furrowed his eyebrows, stretching his capabilities. It was during the first few months without Qui-Gon. Then, he dropped the idea and never went back.
Gnawing emptiness growled at him, shrieking, and yelling that this was a waste of time. Sighing, underneath that, he wrote one final bit. Scribbled, in a messy, strangled cursive - the force sensing a gnawing, nail-biting vexation.
that was a lie. the tunnel is too dark, and i, too far within its shifting, shape-turning walls.
Obi-Wan realized just how close to meditation he was, and settled down on the barren floor, feet scattered with the cinnamon of Tatooine, ignoring the cries of his mind; they had been there too long as was. Silent screams that nothing would be the same, that he was being unproductive, that- No. Obi-Wan refused to continue that train of thought, slapping himself mentally.
He delved deeper into meditation. Imagined himself as a faucet, letting emotions turn into droplets and obliterate into willing raindrops that deposited into the sink. His breathing slowed to an almost halt, the rushing wind around him falling silent. Icy tremors of nausea down his back disappeared, replaced with the Force.
There was nothing stopping him from going even deeper, to fall into the Force where everything was peaceful, time an illusion. He would see Qui-Gon again, his wisdom would guide him into trusting himself enough to smile. That was a lie. There was one thing stopping him from joining the Force.
He didn't deserve to.
Obi-Wan deserved to drown in the vengeful, hate-filled desert for all of eternity; his soul punishment for failing the galaxy and training one of the deadliest people in history. Because of him, people were dead. The blood was stained on his fingers. It is the Master who guides the Padawan, not the other way around.
His Master would've argued, "but wasn't he no longer your Padawan? He had a seat on the council."
But Obi-Wan failed. He had gone evil, and he didn't do that overnight. If only Obi-Wan had said something- confronted him. Pulled the reigns of freedom just a bit tighter, sent Anakin to mind-healers more often- Anything. He could've done so much more...
He accepted the feelings. What his mind had to offer, then kindly told it to go away as he ploughed deeper. His consciousness only staying above the Force through determination, the lingering feelings- No. There is no emotion - there is peace. (But how many times had he taught Anakin to feel his emotions before accepting them, instead of submerging them?) The Jedi Code had stood faithfully by his side, so it was only fair that he returned its unwavering loyalty.
Doused in arsenic doubt, Obi-Wan's eyesight becomes slightly blurring, obscured by tears that he wants gone. Tears long overdue, a suffrage of weeks of torment, of knowing what he had done. He loathed himself for reacting, for not doing more- for feeling.
There was no point ignoring his feelings. They would just come back stronger, with a sinning grin and thin, spider-like fingers that would rest on his shoulder like a mentor would. One of many painful lessons learnt in a time ever distant, an island in the past that would never join the present.
Obi-Wan was tired. Tired of thinking, fatigued and damaged from fighting, an enormous headache stuffed into his body that just sat there; casual, repetitive thumps against the core of his brain.
The last few days had made him want to stop thinking entirely.
To forget everything that had happened, or that ever would, to just pretend Luke Skywalker was a Lars, and to forget about the Jedi. Forget about the war that happened, the aches in his veins, and whatever else that made him feel like an overused toy, or a stuffed bantha that sat on someone else's wall.
A familiar mantra welcomed him into a level of meditation beyond the sky, into the stars. Do or do not, there is no try. Why shouldn't he just block his memories off? Pretend he was a Jedi Master again on an extended mission to protect Luke Lars, his Master still at the temple and awaiting his return.
Luke would still be protected. Anak- His name would be forgotten. Blocked by his memories into a tale, a vision long forgotten. No more panic attacks because he couldn't sleep, moody sadness would turn into a resolve that was unformidable. But, at the same time, he didn't want to forget his brother.
It didn't matter, anyway. It was only hypothetical. He had to learn to live with this, no forgetting or second chances. But the unknown would always bother him.
And so, the days drifted into each other, shifting ever-so-slightly like the stars in the universe. Most days were spent moping in his homes. Everyday, whenever his eyes shut and the weariness took over, he would see his other half. The brother. He would do anything to get him back.
Sometimes, Obi-Wan walked into the town of Mos Eisley, and brooded. Tried not to have a panic attack while communicating, even though he avoided dearly the path backwards where once upon a ship would've been waiting for his Masters. He swept streets Anakin used to own, as his smiles gave the young boy of the past hope.
Other days were spent watching over Luke Skywalker. Never Lars. Because he could never forget the boy's charming eyes, the closest thing to an ocean possible. As he helped rotations and harvests, repairing machinery just like his father had. The parallels were endless and continuous, torturing Obi-Wan to nothing else.
At the start, Obi-Wan was completely against Ben. Too private, his old self had thought. But, alas, his bones had started aching more, and the aging man realized that maybe, just maybe, his private life was his only life. Dubbed himself Ben, ignored the invisible sobs in his eyes as he thought of the fate of her. There was no need to say her name anymore. It was accepted. Or buried. It didn't really matter. Here and now.
This chapter in his life was dragging on, machinery against wheat as it was bundled into hay. Order 66, an order named only by visions that he was now prone to receive. Nightmares were more common than dreams, wispy ash breaking new dawns. Rolling hills were in the distance of his humble abode, sand drooling into the door, scattering a fine emulsion of the dreaded golden sugar.
Sometimes, Ben would hallucinate, see his Padawan. The way his hair was curled, a swish in the front. A guilty face from his youth, one where he knew he had done something wrong. And then, usually, a mask would be placed upon his face and his Padawan never referred to by his name. Too much pain was held within those three syllables. would gasp, eyes filled with betrayal as his breathing became mechanical, limbs merged with a cruel, black veins and turned to metal. All within a single breath. Then, Ben would wake up in swallows of choking sweat. Alone.
Almost a year had passed since that first week on Tatooine. An empty, gutting feeling followed Ben wherever he would go, walking the narrow valleys of the desert with a ripped, flailing cloak that squealed in the wind. His beard was windy, like a pathway down to the long-forgotten oceans, and sand had settled within his wrinkly fingers.
A sigh escaped his barren mouth, fingers curling around his beard as he encompassed himself in a thought. Navigating the lands was tough, but doable – Ben was living proof of that. As he walked, the force hummed mutely and swam through the air around him, wading and calling invisible echoes to him. Oblivious to these calls, Ben's stormy eyes caught sight of the Lars homestead, and his shoulders lowered ever so slightly.
He was an expert in giving nothing away, hair clipped short and greying with a misty aura, like water falling from a great feat. A still statue in feeling numb, nothing truly mattered to him anymore. Luke was still breathing; nothing soon was going to harm him – tendrils of the Force told him such.
Quite honestly, how to commune with him, i will teach you, was fiddling in the back of his brain. The one piece of information Ben was never able to decipher. Training from the man was set to collide with his present, creating the future. The Jedi Master wasn't sure how to feel about that. He had faith; he wanted to see his old Master again in his final resting place. But he wouldn't come – and the tinge of frustration boiled within him at that; what was he missing?
Ben sighs again, seeing a baby Luke crawl outside, hands covered in the delicate sand and a babbling, screaming voice of innocence. The Force loved him too, showering him in unrequited cuddles. Unnerving amounts of emotion had soared through Ben when he realized just how high his midichlorians count would have to be – and for the child to remain blissfully unaware of it. Younglings truly grounded the aged.
Looking up, Ben jumps just a tiny bit – an Anakin-like figure in the clouds. His head shakes and fingers start to tremble, but he holds his hands close. Breaths had a massive spike, leaning forward before surging back to a some-what normal level. Ben saw nothing.
Absolutely nothing. only a sith deals in absolutes!
"Another one." He mumbles under his breath, coherent words. Panic attacks had come and gone with the spry wanderer, beneath fallen skin is scars of a delicate transparency.
The day passes like a spider stringing a web, soon the night is dawning upon him. Not even the slightest bit of surprise is on his face. As he undresses and settles for another wasted opportunity, he broods. The day will always end, with the same truths.
Obi-Wan, Ben, whoever he is, is not okay.
He never will be.
Because the ending is always abrupt, the cruelty and desperation to want more forever leaning into you. This is the bitter truth Obi-Wan has come to accept.
Everything has to end. for time to move forward, to allow the ocean to pull waves back and forth. Even the once considered immortal Jedi ended.
But he will continue to live by their teachings;
And the Empire will end with Luke Skywalker.
The galaxy's only hope.
But Obi-Wan without Anakin was a beach without water; a universe without stars. There was no repairing what was lost.
And for once, Obi-Wan could think that without pain. His brother had destroyed all his dreams, but Obi-Wan was reunited in solitude.
A ghostly mercury highlighted his features. And Obi-Wan smiled.
FIN.
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