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“I will always come for you,” he tells Anakin, washing the blood off his face with gentle hands.
Anakin watches him between two strokes of a washcloth along his cheeks. He sees the silent worry hidden behind precise movements and the greying temples which come with the stress of being the Knight of the Chosen One.
Noticing he’s being watched, the corners of his lips start to turn up and a tired smile appears on his face. The sun chooses this moment to cast its golden light upon his face, and Anakin has to close his eyes.
He can’t bear how good Obi-Wan is sometimes, how caring, how dedicated, worthy of everything the galaxy has to offer. Love is too bright before him, and Anakin can’t accept it without wanting to cry or rage anymore. It doesn’t matter: even without seeing it, he can feel on his eyelids the warmth of his smile and can imagine the infinite tenderness hidden there.
It makes Anakin feel like he’s burning inside. He would welcome the flames with delight if it meant he could bask in Obi-Wan’s kindness for eternity.
But if Obi-Wan is good, Anakin is only getting worse.
He opens his eyes again.
Swallowing hard, he forces himself to steel his gaze, hands closing on Obi-Wan’s wrists to push him away. He leaves blood on Obi-Wan’s sleeves.
This is going to kill him, Anakin thinks.
“I don’t want you to,” he says, forcing the words to come out louder and angrier than necessary.
Obi-Wan’s confused expression almost breaks him.
No, he corrects himself, this is only going to kill me.
“I don’t want you to be my Knight anymore.”
Anakin is ten years old when an unknown Jedi with short reddish-blond hair and a determined gaze pledges himself to him in the high ceremonial chamber.
Head down and eyes low in front of the Jedi Council, he swears to protect, defend and give his life if need be to save the Chosen One.
Anakin's birthday is on the same day. He didn’t ask for such a gift, but Master Windu said it was protocol, and a great honour for a Jedi to dedicate his life to the Chosen One. Anakin thinks Master Windu doesn’t like him very much: he was the last master to recognise him as the Chosen One, and always has a peculiar look in his eyes when he sees him. But Master Windu doesn’t lie.
Still, his new Knight doesn’t look very approachable, standing solid and tall, his sense of duty written all over him.
But slowly, the first lights of the morning cling to him in a glorious halo, softening his silhouette and brightening his very soul.
The last words of the official acceptance of the allegiance hang in the air for a few seconds of silence before the Knight dares to look up. His eyes find Anakin’s right at the moment when the masters start applauding, and between two claps of hands and the rustling of ceremonial robes worn for the first time, Anakin sees him smile at him. He can’t help but smile back.
Then, the Knight becomes Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan becomes everything.
Anakin can barely remember a time when Obi-Wan wasn’t a step behind him. A polite, irreproachable Knight, a trusted sword and a reliable shield, ready to put himself between the Chosen One and potential threats at any given time.
But Obi-Wan is so much more to Anakin.
He’s a witty comment whispered in his ear in the middle of a dull meeting, a strong hand to show him the right way to hold a lightsaber and a steady gaze to rely on.
And always, always the brightest flame in the Force.
The Force is angry, the Jedi say. The Force has been angry for some time, now.
Anakin hears them, see them casting their eyes to the ground when they notice him.
He can still pretend to be a padawan in front of the rest of the galaxy, pretend that Obi-Wan is his master, but the Jedi know better.
He thinks he would have liked to call Obi-Wan his master. But calling him his Knight is good too. As long as he can call him his .
There is no braid in his hair, —there has never been a braid in his hair,— masters bow too low in front of him and padawans’ whispers are always louder when he’s close by.
The Force is angry and the war is at our door, but the Chosen One is here. The Chosen One will save us all.
It’s a mantra, hopeful words chanted in the dead of night when the Force clings to them too fiercely.
No one likes to talk about how the Force turns its back on them.
How the dark isn’t just a side anymore, but what’s waiting for them all, counting the minutes. Master Yoda always says that the temptation of the dark side is a battle of a lifetime, particularly in times of war, but it has never been truer now that the balance has been rigged, and the Force has chosen its side.
It curls fiercely around them now, when they hold their lightsaber above their enemies or before making a crucial decision. Its fingers lingering for too long, prodding their skin to find a way to sneak inside and creep in the weakest corners of their mind. It whispers promises of power and freedom in their ears, buzzes with the excitement to see them giving in. Waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in them is a game the Force excels at, biding its time with endless patience.
It’s a parasite feeding on their minds, a tumour growing inside their ranks.
Some Jedi have done horrible things after being infected and tried to repent, cried for forgiveness and begged to be saved. Others have embraced the malignant thoughts growing inside of them and joined the enemy without looking back. A few have killed themselves before it was too late.
Anakin sometimes wonders if cut open, teeth marks would be visible on their bones.
He wonders if they are already visible on his own.
The Force is angry, the Jedi say, and Anakin wants to laugh in their face. The Force isn’t angry.
The Force is hungry and screaming to be fed.
The Force is calling for him, and it’s getting harder to resist.
Anakin is nineteen years old the first time Obi-Wan almost finds him furiously scrubbing blood off his clothes.
He only wanted one night for himself, away from the scrutiny of the Order and the weight of their expectation hovering in the air, Obi-Wan’s reproaching eyes and the constant criticisms of the Council. A few hours away from everyone who knows him as the Chosen One, and be Anakin. Anakin who knows which promising pod-racers to bet on and welcomes any conversation that isn’t about the Jedi or the impending war looming over them. Without thinking about why his new friends have more than one blaster on their belts, or their insistence upon offering him a drink. Until they brought him to a private room and tried to put the Chosen One in a collar and manacles.
Tears of shame and anger roll on his face.
How loud the Force seemed then, how easy it was to let it unfurl inside him, seeping through his bones, rolling under his skin.
The Force had consumed him, and he had liked it.
So much that his exhilaration had been the only thing he could think about. That, the intense rush of power, and the avidity of wanting more, always more.
Then he had come to his senses in the middle of the carnage, and all he could think about was Obi-Wan’s face.
It's still the only thing he can think about.
It’s frighteningly easy to imagine the heaviness of his gaze on him if he knew about the mangled bodies Anakin left behind him at the cantina. He can almost see it right now before his eyes, the gravity of his task falling back upon his brows and etching lines around his eyes, before speaking the dreaded words.
That this is how it starts.
That Anakin has been weak, has let himself go too far, and there is no coming back now.
He can’t be the one to restore the balance anymore, because he has been tainted. Marked. That the Force will be waiting for him to fall.
Anakin scrubs harder. He can’t tell if his hands are bleeding or if all this red just won’t come off.
This is how it starts.
“Anakin?” A voice calls from behind the door, and Anakin’s entire body freezes, horrified. Obi-Wan isn’t supposed to be here. He is supposed to be mad at him and give him enough time to reflect on his actions on his own until Anakin comes to apologise. He can’t be here. “Are you almost done? I brought your favourite pastries. I thought we could have breakfast together, I—I don’t like how we left things yesterday. Please come join me when you’re ready, dear.”
Anakin barely manages to contain a hysterical laugh.
No.
It can’t be the end.
Not when Obi-Wan sounds so indulgent and warm, and everything Anakin has ever wished for.
The dark side is supposed to be the downfall of all the Jedi, but Anakin isn’t like any other Jedi.
He is the Chosen One. He is better than this. He can be better than all of them.
The shakiness of his hands and the tremor in his voice are hard to overcome, but miraculously, Anakin manages to will them away. He breathes loudly, shoves his bloody tunic behind closed doors, locks the past eight hours in a corner of his mind, and opens the door to face Obi-Wan, who smiles at him and gently fusses about the shadow under his eyes.
Their breakfast is a lovely moment. Obi-Wan looks relieved that Anakin acts like he has almost forgotten their argument and jumps on the occasion to talk about frivolous things that only require light nods and soft hums. Anakin doesn’t break down even once.
This isn’t the end.
Not yet, the Force whispers. But soon.
“Do you regret it sometimes?”
Anakin waves the blade of grass above his face, tickling his cheeks, and smirks when Obi-Wan frowns and tries to bats it away without opening his eyes.
They have been on Iseult-6 for eight days now, enduring meetings after meetings, sometimes interspersed with interminable banquets where, Obi-Wan, duty-bound to follow the Chosen One wherever he goes, had to discreetly pinch his side to keep him awake.
From the smirk on his lips when Anakin yelped every single time, Anakin thinks his Knight was enjoying it a bit too much.
That is why, the second he can squeeze a few hours of spare time in his schedule, he finds no qualms about dragging Obi-Wan outside the palace to gallivant around the countryside, free of social obligations and tiresome politics, to find a quiet patch of grass where to nap under the shade of a large tree. Obi-Wan complains at first, worried about the protection of the Chosen One on an Outer Rim planet all by himself, but settles down once Anakin pulls him down to lie beside him and points at the palace still in sight.
“Regret what?” Obi-Wan grumbles. “Having to watch you make an embarrassment of yourself because you can’t do small talks to save your life? No, this is greatly entertaining to me.”
Anakin huffs, before turning around and letting the back of his head falls on Obi-Wan’s belly in a sharp “ oof!”
“Shut up, you could have helped instead of standing next to me like a statue and ignoring all my distress signals.”
“I would never dare to interrupt the Chosen One,” Obi-Wan says sweetly, and Anakin grins to stop himself from snorting.
This is his Obi-Wan. Witty and sarcastic, unimpressed by grand titles, and the only person who dares to yell at him for leaving droid parts and oil prints everywhere in their apartments.
“Do you ever regret becoming my Knight?” Anakin asks again, quieter after a few minutes of birds chirping and wind rustling the leaves above their heads. “Not being a normal Jedi. Having to be on bodyguard duty every single day. Not being able to take a padawan.”
“I have you,” Obi-Wan blurts out, and Anakin’s heart stops for a second, before he adds after a late beat, “This isn’t what I meant. You’re not my padawan, of course, and I didn’t mean that I consider you—“
“No. You’re right. You have me.”
He’s so certain that Obi-Wan will protest and tries to remind him that the Chosen One can’t say this kind of thing, that the silence that follows makes him turn his head towards Obi-Wan, stunned. His Knight doesn’t look back at him, eyes stubbornly closed. The absence of reaction echoes like the loudest acknowledgement possible, and Anakin can feel the smile on his face turning wide and unbidden.
“We should go somewhere,” he says, emboldened by his great achievement. “We should go somewhere where no one knows us, no one will ask anything of us, and we can do what we want. Where there is no war, and no responsibilities. Where I’m not the Chosen One, and you’re not my Knight. Just Anakin and Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan hums, as if thinking about it. His hand comes up, finds Anakin’s head and starts scratching lightly, just the way he knows Anakin likes. “You know I will be your Knight until you fulfil the prophecy, my dear,” Obi-Wan says gently, and the endearment would have mollified him if he didn’t know what Obi-Wan was trying to say. “Or if you repudiate me, I suppose.”
“Would you come if I repudiate you right now, then?”
Obi-Wan opens half an eye to send him an impassive look. “I think I would prefer if you wait until you bring balance to the Force. And the end of the war, too.”
He knows Obi-Wan can see his smile disappear, but he can’t help it. He buries his face in Obi-Wan’s tunic to hide it.
“I don’t want to wait. I can’t wait.”
“Really?” Obi-Wan asks innocently, stroking his curls back. “Even if I say that there is a very nice little cabin, in the Lake Country of Naboo, that Senator Amidala highly recommended for a quiet retreat from civilization for any Jedi who wish it after the war?”
Anakin’s head snaps up. “You— you’ve already looked into it?”
The hand in his hair slides to his cheek and he can’t help but nuzzle against the warm palm, hold it closer to him just to make sure that it will stay there.
“This isn’t the first time you talk about wanting to run away. I thought it could be a surprise, my gift to you, once the war is over and you’ve done your part as the Chosen One. To let you escape, alone for once. Away from Coruscant and the Temple.”
It’s Anakin’s turn to close his eyes now, and force his voice not to waver.
He should never know.
“And you promise to come with me?”
“I won’t be your Knight anymore," Obi-Wan reminds him. "You won’t have to endure my presence again if you don’t want to.”
Anakin laughs, tightening his hold on Obi-Wan’s wrist.
Always so unassuming. What an idiot.
“Yes, alone sounds great. But alone with you sounds better.”
He dares to open his eyes again, even if he knows that what he fears to see will be right in front of him: Obi-Wan is beaming. His smile is like the sun on his handsome face, gentle, but radiant and powerful, all of its glory directed right at Anakin, finding their way into his heart. The light side of the Force itself couldn’t be more brilliant.
There is no better feeling in the galaxy than witnessing Obi-Wan’s joy.
It’s quiet and warm under the tree on Iseult-6, and Anakin watches Obi-Wan’s happiness lightening up his very being, thinking that he could let the galaxy burn because he loves his Knight too much to care about anything else.
Anakin is twenty-one years old the second time he feels the Force consuming him from the inside.
And twenty-two.
And twenty-three.
And twenty-three again.
There’s too much rage in him, too much arrogance and hunger that can only be soothed by embracing the ruthless will of the Force. Most of the time it’s on the battlefield, sometimes against outlaws, bounty hunters, people who deserved it anyway.
It doesn’t matter: they all end up dead.
He can feel the Force guiding his bloodied hand, pulling him down down down. The Force sings to him, croons and cajoles him to stay a bit longer every time. To indulge and give in. Miasma makes itself at home between his ribs, embracing his heart tighter each day.
The Force feels perfect when it is at its cruellest. It’s no wonder no one has managed to resist it.
Anakin would have been lost a long time ago if it wasn’t for Obi-Wan.
His Knight is so good that he doesn’t even have to be here to save him; Anakin only has to think about Obi-Wan reaching out for him and suddenly Anakin remembers how it felt when he still believed the Force was kind.
Anakin is the Chosen One, the hope of the Jedi Order, the symbol of salvation, the favourite of the Force itself.
And yet, being chosen by Obi-Wan is the only thing that matters.
But more and more, when he’s hidden from the rest of the galaxy in his arms, safe and warmer than ever, Anakin can’t help but imagine how repulsed Obi-Wan would be if he knew. How sickened. How hard he would push him away, how cold his eyes would be.
His skin feels too hot and clammy suddenly and he has to tear himself away from Obi-Wan, frantically checking that he didn’t leave a permanent stain on him already.
Obi-Wan blinks at him, confused by the sudden loss in his arms, and Anakin wants to tell him that he shouldn’t care for him, shouldn’t promise to always come for him anymore, that he’s not worth it.
That he might not be dead yet, but already rotting from the inside.
That he can’t bear the idea of soiling Obi-Wan by his blasphemous touch and would gladly never let Obi-Wan approach him if it meant he could keep him safe.
But he must be a liar, because Obi-Wan looks at him with worried eyes as he reaches out for him and words of protest die on his burning tongue.
“I don’t want you to be my Knight anymore,” Anakin says.
Obi-Wan’s expression almost brings him to his knees, but at least he knows he’s finally doing what is right.
It's his turn to protect Obi-Wan now, after thirteen years of Obi-Wan protecting him.
“It’s time,” he announces to the High Council the same day, making the Jedi masters stand from their seats.
The night is just starting to fall when he makes his way to the underground ceremonial chamber, down to the lowest level he has ever been.
Only a few members of the Council are present, all dressed in ceremonial white robes. They look small in such an immense room. It is more like a vast hall, with colonnades holding a high ceiling running as far as the eye can see, and Anakin wonders if the whole Temple is built on it.
“Are you sure that it is the right time, Chosen One? It doesn’t need to be so soon.”
It’s so very rare to see Master Windu hesitant enough to repeat himself. To see him lie, too.
They both know that it should have been done years ago, at the very beginning of the war. Even before the Force betrayed them.
“It’s the right time,” Anakin assures. “It should be done now. Before… before it’s too late.”
Before I become an aberration.
His eyes have been wandering around the room for a while, following the long lines of the fluted columns and ancient paintbrushes of the frescoes, before he realises he’s looking for something. For someone.
There is a gaping hole a step behind him, a deafening emptiness that shouldn’t exist.
The urge to open his mouth and call for him, demand to go home, to go with him, anywhere except for here, is sudden and unexpected. I will always come for you, he always says, and a selfish child inside of Anakin wants to say please, come. My hand feels cold without you holding it.
But he’s not a child anymore. He doesn’t need a hand to cling to. He doesn’t need his hand.
He swallows his silly reveries with difficulty, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The cold lingers in his bones.
Master Windu takes a deep breath. “Very well. We will start when the Knight arrives.”
“There will be no Knight.”
“It’s protocol—“ Ki-Adi Mundi tries to interject.
“There will be no Knight,” Anakin repeats, serein. If he’s certain of one thing, it is that Obi-Wan can’t be there.
Master Windu looks at him for a few seconds while Ki-Adi Mundi shakes his head, resigned, and joins the rest of the Jedi gathered in a semi-circle around Anakin.
“You never told him,” Windu whispers, expression bordering on pity.
“It seemed cruel.”
“All of this is cruel.”
Anakin hums, almost surprised by the unexpected harshness in the Jedi’s tone.
But then he thinks about the people he killed in a fit of rage. How right the Force felt, raw and mad and wrathful, flowing through him. How his fear and guilt only concerned Obi-Wan’s reaction, and never the act itself.
Perhaps it isn’t cruel, after all. Perhaps there is some sort of divine justice.
“I have one last request.”
Master Windu looks back at him. “Of course.”
“Once this is over, I want you to grant him the highest honour possible. I want him to be recognised as the most exceptional Knight in history. I want the whole galaxy to know, how lucky they are to have him.” Anakin closes his eyes, smiling at the thought of his level-headed and practical Knight who always complains grumpily anytime he’s forced to be in the spotlight. “He will hate it.”
Solemn, Master Windu nods. “It will be done.”
There is only one thing left to do.
Anakin unclips his lightsaber from his belt. He’s not a Jedi knight, not really, so he never had to carry one, but he wanted to. Obi-Wan has been his unformal teacher, reminding him regularly that he was his sword and shield, always, but knowing how to defend himself couldn’t hurt either.
He holds it towards Master Windu without a word. It seems enough for him: the Jedi takes it and clips it to his belt, hidden behind his robe.
“You’re restoring the balance. You’re saving us,” he reminds him, and Anakin doesn’t bother correcting him, because surely, he must know by now who Anakin is saving.
Finally, Master Windu comes to stand in the semi-circle of Jedi. He ignites his own lightsaber, raising it in front of him, and the rest of the Council mimics him.
“Anakin Skywalker,” he says, voice resonating in the empty hall, “Chosen One. The Jedi will remember your name for centuries to come.”
Being remembered for centuries sounds lonely. He hopes that someone, anyone, will speak about the Knight of the Chosen One too. Even if it’s only on an old datapad lost in a corner of the archives, he prays that their names will be mentioned next to each other again.
Anakin and Obi-Wan.
Together. As it should be.
The memory of kind eyes and steady hands that have warmed his heart for thirteen years is all he has left now.
That, and a promise broken the second it was made, under a tree on Iseult-6.
It’s enough.
Anakin takes his last step towards the altar of sacrifice.