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ex_forcechoke292) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-04-21 07:08 pm
ex_forcechoke292) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-04-21 07:08 pm
[closed;] coming at you like a dark horse
Who: Anakin Skywalker (forcechoke) & Obi-Wan Kenobi (jedimindtrick).
When: Backdated to 4/18.
Where: Outside/MERO #6
What: Mail call calls for aheated discussion.
Warnings: Yelling, overdramatics, #ClassicSkywalker, probably swearing, #ANAKIN, etc.
[When mail first arrives, Anakin doesn't think anything of it. He's preoccupied in a million ways, between the girl with his lightsaber, Luke's declaration regarding his building droids, getting Padmé back out of that prison, and subsequently trying very hard not to think on the latter. His mailbox had been the last thing on his mind.
But when Not-R2 beeps a cheerless reminder, the sad mimicry is enough to prompt him to check it, if only to bar the droid from making that sound again. He's tentative, pulling out the box inside, an immediate reminder back to the unmarked box in Obi-Wan room, that thundering breathing still occasionally echoing in his ears.
The box doesn't feel quite as harrowing, it lacks the same dangerous, inexplicable, dark draw, and for that he's thankful enough. As he turns the bulky thing over in his hands, he notes a sloppy, if not somewhat recognizable scrawl in Aurebesh, awkwardly written into the metal surface: *For Luke*.
He has no question in that moment that this isn't meant for him by any other way than an awfully convenient mix-up. That what he finds inside may not be meant for his eyes at all. But, either having not learned anything from the previous incident (what this may look like on the surface), or because the memory of that mask still haunts and informs quite a lot, he can't help but open this box with its familiar scrawl, if only just to make sure he knows it's safe.
What he finds inside is innocuous enough, but curious. Written works, bound paper and ink, had fallen out of fashion long before even his time, the material cited as frail and non-economical, hardly something with the same ability of preservation as a recording or digital readout, which could be archived with virtually no thought toward in regards to it at all. He turns he book over too, and finds that same familiar hand, though the letters read much sharper on a surface meant to take ink and reflect the nuance and care in its use. *The Journals of Ben Kenobi*.
Kenobi.
He tells himself that can't be it. That in the whole galaxy, this has to be a coincidence. A similar name, a different Luke, familiar script by virtue of the rareness of its use or his slow-growing exhaustion. He tries to continue to tell himself this as he opens it, pages through it carefully, but with every passage, the assurance shrinks.
He doesn't finish with it before the book is placed back in the box and marched straight to Kenobi's door. He needs explanations, and he needs them now. For his own sake, (and maybe Luke's too).]
forcechoke) & Obi-Wan Kenobi (jedimindtrick).When: Backdated to 4/18.
Where: Outside/MERO #6
What: Mail call calls for a
Warnings: Yelling, overdramatics, #ClassicSkywalker, probably swearing, #ANAKIN, etc.
[When mail first arrives, Anakin doesn't think anything of it. He's preoccupied in a million ways, between the girl with his lightsaber, Luke's declaration regarding his building droids, getting Padmé back out of that prison, and subsequently trying very hard not to think on the latter. His mailbox had been the last thing on his mind.
But when Not-R2 beeps a cheerless reminder, the sad mimicry is enough to prompt him to check it, if only to bar the droid from making that sound again. He's tentative, pulling out the box inside, an immediate reminder back to the unmarked box in Obi-Wan room, that thundering breathing still occasionally echoing in his ears.
The box doesn't feel quite as harrowing, it lacks the same dangerous, inexplicable, dark draw, and for that he's thankful enough. As he turns the bulky thing over in his hands, he notes a sloppy, if not somewhat recognizable scrawl in Aurebesh, awkwardly written into the metal surface: *For Luke*.
He has no question in that moment that this isn't meant for him by any other way than an awfully convenient mix-up. That what he finds inside may not be meant for his eyes at all. But, either having not learned anything from the previous incident (what this may look like on the surface), or because the memory of that mask still haunts and informs quite a lot, he can't help but open this box with its familiar scrawl, if only just to make sure he knows it's safe.
What he finds inside is innocuous enough, but curious. Written works, bound paper and ink, had fallen out of fashion long before even his time, the material cited as frail and non-economical, hardly something with the same ability of preservation as a recording or digital readout, which could be archived with virtually no thought toward in regards to it at all. He turns he book over too, and finds that same familiar hand, though the letters read much sharper on a surface meant to take ink and reflect the nuance and care in its use. *The Journals of Ben Kenobi*.
Kenobi.
He tells himself that can't be it. That in the whole galaxy, this has to be a coincidence. A similar name, a different Luke, familiar script by virtue of the rareness of its use or his slow-growing exhaustion. He tries to continue to tell himself this as he opens it, pages through it carefully, but with every passage, the assurance shrinks.
He doesn't finish with it before the book is placed back in the box and marched straight to Kenobi's door. He needs explanations, and he needs them now. For his own sake, (and maybe Luke's too).]
no subject
From across the room, Obi-Wan can see Zatanna's empty bed and Ava's sleeping form. It's rare for him to share any hours with his roommates, but it occasionally happens. She doesn't stir, and since he's already awake, Obi-Wan figures he might as well answer the door. He crawls groggily to the edge of the pod bed and gets to his feet, his senses properly snapping into place, spreading out into the Force like a great yawning stretch, a bit lagged, a bit lazy. And then—
Anakin.
The young man's agitation is immediate and strong, practically passing through the door on its own to reach Kenobi. It's demanding, too, Obi-Wan notes rather unpleasantly. And there's more than that, too, which certainly doesn't bode well. He checks the time on his MID and opens the door to find his friend.
He nods Skywalker toward the hallway and rolls around the doorframe, the door hissing closed behind him. Back against the wall, the Jedi Master stares down at his socked feet for a moment, eyes a bit bleary, the lightest layers of his typical attire still a bit rumpled. ]
What's happened?
[ So much for a hello. This might as well be his opener every time they meet for as often as he's needed to ask.
Kenobi cradles his elbows, eyes fluttering for a second as his gaze shifts to Anakin. All in one piece? It's a start. But doesn't he look tired? he asks himself, no stranger to this low-level worry he constantly feels for his friend's well-being. It seems this brief reprieve from their war-torn lives comes at the price of their collective sanity if the amount of discord thrown into their laps is any indication. ]
no subject
In that, at least, it seems the tables have turned.]
The name Ben mean anything to you?
[Once again, as seems almost customary by now, the undercurrent of anger in his voice--more indignation here than proper rage--comes out harsher than intended, more difficult to rein in around that constant headache he's acquired from abusing what he can to keep himself awake until the exhaustion has piled up enough that the dreams no longer register. He sounds rattled, verging on unhinged, desperate, and he doesn't notice. There's no sigh, nor any softening apology to follow. Just that single demanding question that means more than he can possibly fathom, a prod at pain he's only vaguely aware of.]
no subject
If the question bothers him, he's hiding it well. His expectation would be that this would then be about Satine — she had favored the name, after all — but something about the other Jedi's demeanor thoroughly suggested otherwise.
He looks away again, gaze pinned across from him to the junction between the floor and the wall. ]
I've... gone by that name before, but infrequently.
[ It's almost a sigh. Obi-Wan can't imagine what this has to do with anything, although now that he's beginning to fully regain his awareness, he does take late notice of the one thing out of place in this situation: the box. Mail call has come and gone for him, but apparently that isn't true for Skywalker. ]
Could you tell me what this is about, Anakin?
no subject
[This only tells him one thing: that the future looks much more grim than he'd let himself consider. Only one line sticks with him through all of it, and it chills him more than that dreadful twisted mask ever could.
"Haven't you murdered enough Skywalkers already, Kenobi?"
Anakin can't even fathom a world in which that happens, in which it's necessary, in which one of them fails so catastrophically that it leaves everything to question. Padmé, his children, his step-family...and Obi-Wan in specific.
The box he hands over is clearly not meant for either of them. It would have been safer--always safer--to not open it at all. It explains so much and so little and Anakin is left so adrift, he's not even sure where to start. But with Ben's name here, it's the only place that still feels safe.
Even if the future says it shouldn't.
Is this why Luke always looks at him with such fear? Because he's a GODDAMNED GHOST?]
no subject
The inscription gives him pause — whatever its purpose, it's clearly not meant for anyone but Luke — but as with the helmet, the call proves to be too much to prevent Kenobi from moving forward. But if he didn't somehow already understand this was his, that wouldn't be the case. Not after last time.
He glances sidelong at Skywalker, a dubious expression remaining, uncertainty written all over his features as he turns to the first page and begins reading. Haltingly, at first.
As if the Force commands it, the color drains from his face. It's undoubtedly his scrawl and his phrasing. Obi-Wan reads on quickly, his heart sinking more and more with every word, his hands uncharacteristically tremulous as he turns a page.
Tatooine. Luke. Trouble. It's all written here in front of him and Kenobi can hardly believe it. The book feels too heavy in his hands. He flinches as his own warning system suddenly begins screaming, its shrillness going off in his head like a siren.
He stops, closes the journal over his finger. And he coughs, a parched and arid cough that feels like it should come with a puff of dust. It feels like all he can do to re-start his heart. He doesn't remember feeling it stop. ]
I shouldn't be reading this...
[ There's more. It gets worse. He can tell that's the truth as written by his hand, and he can't bear that truth if it means such terrible things. Obi-Wan's eyes are begging as he looks at Anakin, even if he's not.
I don't think I can do this. ]
no subject
It's not the reaction he'd expected. He isn't even sure what he'd expected. A flash of recognition, perhaps? Some feeling tied intrinsically into the journal that Obi-Wan would pick up on and just know?
His shoulders slump as he lets out a heavy sigh, and shakes his head. No, maybe neither of them should be. Maybe he should have left this to Luke and been done with it. But his instincts pushed, just as they pull Obi-Wan now, and the projection in the air between them is nothing but heavy, inexplicable sorrow.
The more this happens, the more Anakin wonders if he shouldn't just let it bury him.]
They don't know me, Obi-Wan. Neither of them even knew Padmé's name. And I think I'm--
[Dead? It's preferable to the alternative, if that alternative is his friend here or his wife, but how is this fair? How is any of this fair? He's fought to keep the memory of his family alive since he was torn away, fought to forge his own against a culture that disallows the mere notion. And he gets to know none of it?
Worse still: What if Owen's angry defense is right? What can that even mean?]
Something happens. [His plea is quiet, formed in the sort of dramatic desperation that could only come from Anakin Skywalker. He pauses only to swallow around the dry lump in his throat.] I need to know what.
no subject
He feels tired. He feels his friend's exhaustion more keenly. The pressure is beginning to mount, and he's starting to wonder if it's because they don't have a war arresting their development. Now there's time for questions long held back. ]
All right... We'll figure it out together.
[ He doesn't particularly want to read on. Already his stomach churns at the thought, his toes curling in his socks, his whole being tightening in anticipation.
The tale is grim, through and through. So unlike Obi-Wan, whose life had been dedicated to the Order, to the way of the Jedi. He could very well be sick over it as the more obvious points come into sharp clarity. The Order gone, his place within the Order a mere memory, his close proximity to Luke assured almost as obvious as his distance from Anakin.
And it only gets worse. A solitary life unlike those he'd previously yearned for. Was it irony that he'd so recently hoped to go somewhere quiet and secluded to live out the rest of his days? This hadn't been what he'd meant. Alone, yes, but not alone. The mere thought of it has a hand moving over his heart. But he reads on, not willing to allow Skywalker to bear this burden alone.
The last of the Order, Luke's poor protector, an obvious menace. How could his future come to this?
By the time he reaches the recounting of the confrontation with Owen Lars, he wants to shove away the journal in the same way he shoved away the helmet. It holds him hostage to his own words, his own damning catalog of the mistakes he hasn't yet made (or mistakes that have yet to wrought consequence, at least), but each word sears painfully into him, scorching his being, as if changing him irrevocably.His mind sears, white-hot with this unbidden pain, and his unbridled fear hammers his heart against his ribs. He very nearly drops the journal, his hand reaching out, desperately grabbing for Anakin's shoulder, a steadying point needed against this terrible assault of vertigo and anguish and crippling terror.
No. No, he can't believe any of this. Not a word. He can't stomach the thought of—
It's absolutely unthinkable that Obi-Wan Kenobi would betray Anakin Skywalker, his best friend, his confidant, his other half. It's absolutely impossible that Anakin Skywalker would betray Obi-Wan Kenobi, his best friend, his confidant, his other half. And yet... ]
I couldn't... Anakin, I—
no subject
[It's a quiet assurance perhaps, given its gravity, but no less forceful, decided in that all-or-nothing lens that Anakin shouldn't still be thinking through, but does regardless. Obi-Wan may be a lot of things, and their relationship may have gone through more than its share of strain, but in this he has no doubt.
Such an idea being literal--and it can't be, it's ridiculous, Owen has to be blaming him for something else, something done by someone else's hand--is untenable. Even in situations where such an outcome is logical, Obi-Wan aims to subdue, not kill. Murder is unthinkable.]
I know.
[Softer still. It means something else, but that something is still connected, and Obi-Wan has arrived at the same unfortunate conclusion he has. Again, not what he expected, and the horror he's unthinkingly inflicted reinforces the cracks along his heart that make it harder to breathe, but in this, at least, he isn't reading into it wrong.
Of course, what else is there to read into it?]
Whatever it is, I'm sure it's--I'm sure it's not your fault.
[But he's running on borrowed time. He can't ignore that, however much he wants to. He doesn't get to see his son taking that skyhopper on its first run, he doesn't get to see his daughter follow, however unwittingly, in her mother's footsteps. He's gone. But even in that, it still explains nothing about Leia knowing nothing of her heritage at all, or why he's been erased from the history he helped write. It's the separation that worries him.
That gives him a bad feeling. He tsks, softly, a steadying arm on Obi-Wan's shoulder, a reversal of roles for not the first time. Or the last. (He hopes.)]
It also sounds like a pretty lousy destiny. For everybody.
[The sudden levity is jarring, but it's almost too much to consider. So what is the alternative? Do they stay the course? "Fix it?" And if they do change the Council, if they manage it together, does this change too? Can they find the source of this? Stall it?]
no subject
I have a very bad feeling about this.
[ A familiar phrase, one he knows is shared in sentiment, but this time its twisted inhumanly, ballooned into unimaginable proportions as it tears free of his lips. The conflicting comments hardly matter because it's already a sickening thought that it could be Obi-Wan's fault. Now that the seed have been sown — by Kenobi's own hand, no less — he doubts he'll ever be able to till over what grows in its place.
It is, perhaps, his worst fear that he might ultimately fail Anakin. That he won't do all that he needs to do to prepare this person — this extraordinary gift from the Force and of the Force — for a very hard and unyielding future that's already a pretty lousy destiny when you think of it from Skywalker's perspective.
He could no sooner kill Anakin as he could kill himself. And it would be just that, Kenobi realizes darkly. If he was to be responsible for Skywalker's life, as he has been since the day he pledged himself to that role, then it follows to reason that he's also responsible in the event of his death.
He's never been good at interpreting the future, but even through the anxiety that has him reeling, his logic follows a path: The departure of Anakin Skywalker would also mean the departure of Obi-Wan Kenobi, which would, in turn, leave room for Ben Kenobi.
It's too terrible to mention, especially for how right he thinks he feels. He refuses to share the thought, refuses to speak it into existence. ]
Is it— possible this isn't real? [ Obi-Wan's a fool to ask when he already knows the answer. ] I can't accept this. I-I won't.
no subject
But considering isn't necessarily acceptance, is it?]
You tell me. You wrote it.
[Rare, perhaps, but he'd recognize that scrawl anywhere when it had taught him how to read. Which is a far more comfortable memory than this. Any of this. The hurt is palpable, almost tantamount to his own, and for not even close to the first time since ending up on this horrorshow of a ship, he finds himself responsible for hurting those he doesn't want to.
Anakin sighs, his free hand, durasteel and manufactured nerves, comes to rest on the hand that still holds the journal upright.]
You know I can't...blame you for something you haven't done. That I won't accept. You're my--
[Brother? Friend? Teacher? All true, perhaps, but all of these words also seem to fall so drastically short of the faith he has that Obi-Wan wouldn't wrong him, and that there has to be something else at work here. Something they still can't see.
I love you is also caught in here somewhere. Untold in every aspect it should be. But now, as always, doesn't seem like the right time.]
Look. Maybe it's true. But we said we'd fix this...right?
[Hopeful, in every way it shouldn't be. Scared, too, in every way Anakin will never admit. But knowing everything they do, it seems...all of this seems so incredibly unfair. A cruel joke not even the Force would inflict. I can't die like this.]
no subject
Obi-Wan would sooner sacrifice himself than allow Anakin to be lost to— to whatever it is Owen seems to be referring to. And what damnable poor sense does he have to not include everything? Writing by his own hand, yes, but the lack of credible and worthwhile detail inspires a unique brand of self-hatred he's yet to experience (for experiences yet to come).
We can't do this without you.
The grim determination is there, but it's still shot through with that same unmistakable fear. What of Padmé? And of Luke and Leia? Obi-Wan has seen such a glimmer of hope in the eyes of these children — these unique and beautiful children, remarkably grown and yet so young — but how much more would they shine if Anakin hadn't been written out?
I can't do this alone.
And that's where it stops. The desperate grab for the next suitable hold is miraculously successful. Skywalker's strength, strong and pillar-like, stands with its back to the wind, shielding Obi-Wan from the onslaught. He finds shelter there, if only long enough to gather himself before rallying again. He isn't alone. Not yet. ]
We must fix this.
I'll— I'll bring it to Luke once I've had a little time to study it. He might have answers. He'll know something we don't.
no subject
[His hands both drop then with another soft sigh--ever melodramatic--now that they've gotten whatever this half-confession even is out of the way. He's not sure if he should hold this against Obi-Wan when there's nothing seeming to even hold up, and he can't even point the blame in a direction when the blame only seems to come from one person who is distinctly not present.
He can't, maybe couldn't even if this story were clearer. The only benefit to the Moira is that his former-master seems to understand him a bit better, but for every inch they take closer to one another, there's yet another unforseen obstacle that, by all rights, probably shouldn't even exist.]
He's been...distant. I'm not sure what's wrong. But I get the feeling he'd trust it more from you.
[It's not a concession he likes making. He would take any excuse to find time to talk to Luke, to get to know him, to share, to catch up for all of the time they shouldn't have...likely won't, ever. But he also gets the feeling that for as civil as his son is during any encounter, he'd always rather be anywhere else.
The discomfort, it seems, is starting to wear off.]
no subject
Putting aside the worst of his despair, he cradles the journal against his chest, his arms wrapped around it as if it needs protecting from some harsh environment. It feels like him, for all its awful predictions, and he can't help but give in to its draw. ]
I've sensed it — Luke's concern.
[ He had hoped it stemmed from a lack of familiarity, but as more and more information comes available, the idea of that being the case becomes more and more absurd. Luke had proven to be enthusiastic and trusting, most of all, and for that to not extend to Anakin leaves something out of the equation. ]
From what I'm reading here, it almost seems misplaced now. [ He looks down at the journal, pulling it away from him to eye the inscription. The longer he holds it, the more morose he feels. ] If this is the man he looks up to... Well, I couldn't see why.
no subject
And for once, he's not trying to push. He doesn't know what pushing will lead to. Luke's emotional conflict, however unspoken and unclear it remains is a constant he would be remiss to ignore.
But even worse than the confusing consideration of Luke's hesitance is the onus of guilt the entire conversation has placed on Obi-Wan, and how wrong it feels. Anakin had come for answers, something to asuage or justify this creeping fear, and yet, all this has done is exacerbate the growth of that sick crawl up his stomach and into his throat and heap yet more sorrow onto the shoulders of a man Anakin can't bear to hurt and aches all the more for.
There is an endless litany of I'm so sorry written soundlessly into how he pulls the book from Obi-Wan's hand and sets it back aside with the box it belongs--should have remained--in. The knowledge hasn't brought them closer to anything but doubt and more sorrow, and every minute here, Anakin finds himself longing for the battlefield where things still make sense.]
I do. [His concerned, wary expression softens.] I seem to recall someone I trusted telling me more than once that I'm a harsher critic of myself than anyone else could be. Maybe that someone--even in his clear senility--should listen to his own advice?
no subject
The future is clouded. The thick fog is black and creeping and surrounds them, though doesn't dare come between them, try as it might. On the periphery is an undeniable sense of disaster, lurking in discord and fraught with unmade mistakes, threatening, ever threatening.
Obi-Wan drinks heavily of his friend's words, trusting that connection as much as his parched senses will allows: not complete — the guard about his innermost is always in place, his last secret battlegrounds — but as close as any living being can come. He needs that anchor in this moment. ]
I'm sorry, too. [ He must have caught the sentiment floating out there in the Force. ] This doesn't— fit. I don't understand why I wouldn't— [ Obi-Wan folds in on himself and edges away from the box. ] Why I wouldn't include everything. [ Except, perhaps, to spare Luke, he thought morbidly. But that wouldn't be. It couldn't be. ]
Senility would explain it. There's no mention of any credible details, no mention of the Empire—
no subject
Senility has to explain it. What Empire, what are you talking about?
[It brings back that nagging feeling of dread that creeps in every time he asks more about the future than he's really supposed to know. When his children withhold information right before they say anything of consequence.
It's the same tight coil of anxiety that settled into his stomach when Obi-Wan had first presented him with a box that breathed.
It's too late to say he doesn't want to know, but Force he's got a bad feeling about this.]
no subject
He eyes Anakin, confused, mind elsewhere for a second, and then he blinks back into this moment with a deep inhale. ]
Apparently the Republic becomes an Empire. [ Not the best delivery, he realizes with a slight wince.
How is it that this information's never been featured in a conversation between them? Obi-Wan feels a lingering suspicion creeping in, too, unwanted and quickly banished away. The older man runs a hand through his hair, distressed and that much edgier for this glaring oversight, but not willing to be so swept away by it.
He swears softly. ] It's come up so frequently, I— I never imagined you didn't know.
no subject
[He's not angry, Obi-Wan, just disappointed. Moreover, it's a barb that doesn't have much direction and falls flat in its lack of true aim when in the same breath it finally hits him with what that means.
They lose. In whatever capacity, the war comes to nothing. It has to be that. Sure, the Republic is slowly crumbling, held aloft by more senators on corporate payroll than those who truly care about their jobs, and sure, he'd been largely joking with Padmé in his frustration that none of those same senators could ever come to a useful consensus, but...to lose that entirely?]
How? How could that--?
[--even happen? He barely registers that he's voiced the concern aloud in his musing. The question at hand is a dark one, clouded when he tries to pry into it, and every consideration, every half answer, is darker still. It nags, dangerously, a yawning endless pit of consideration that wants answers.]
Padmé would never let that happen. The Chancellor would never--
[And yet he trails off, his once stalwart faith in that statement severely depleted. Would Palpatine truly "never" give into this? Serving his own ends is one thing, an idea that still unsettles every nerve ending in his body, but to this degree? It's so...absurd. He might be a politician, dubiously trustworthy, but he's still a good man, isn't he? Was he really capable of treason?
There are worse options, options that start to make an alarming amount of sense in context. Being written out of the story, all knowledge of Padmé damn near disappearing, the Jedi gone.
It all only points to one thing.]
We lose, don't we? They send you off to fight Grievous alone and we lose.
[I die. What other conclusion is there?]
no subject
Well, I hardly think that's what does it.
[ Defensive, perhaps, but even as pointed as this line of conversation happens to be, Kenobi can't believe that such a tipping point would hinge entirely on the four monstrous shoulders of General Grievous, and Obi-Wan's personal offense against said beast. Yes, defeating Grievous would effectively sever the brute annihilation for a time, but it did nothing to address the Sith presence, it's unseen hand still closed tightly around the Republic's future.
He scrubs at his beard and when his eyes land back on his friend, they're dark with purpose, the blue almost entirely wiped out by widely flared pupils. ]
Even a loss isn't an end — you know that just as I do. We fight, Anakin. We don't stop. [ You fight, he urges, verging on desperate in his own way. His friend is dead — the evidence suggests few other options — and yet he's still certain he'll never give up on Anakin Skywalker. If they can change this, they will. If they can't— Well, Obi-Wan would deal with that (or not) another time. It's better to remain present, anyway, he silently reflects, no real stranger to delusion. ]
And for now...
[Obi-Wan straightens his back, ever uncertain in this new landscape between what he knew and what he now knows. The courage necessary to allow for a life like Anakin's — as free to love as to aid — is not wholly his, but he can see the light of it, the brilliant and freeing luminosity that builds insurmountable bravado.
He thinks of Padmé, of Leia and of Luke, of their collection of acquaintances, all gifts of an unknown future. He thinks of Satine, blessedly returned from the clutches of an unspeakable death, a gift of the unsteady present. And Anakin, a gift of the too finite past, carefully entrusted to his fumbling hands.
A hitch, a chip, a beautiful imperfection — somehow it's become a part of Kenobi. He's not sure how long he'll hold out against it, or even if he wants to. Or whether he'll eventually fill it in and smooth it over, as he's accustomed to doing with those less acceptable parts. But for now it's there and he can't quite ignore it, like a cut you fret just to make sure it's healing, or perhaps so you don't forget.
Obi-Wan takes a breath and feels that the Force doesn't really disapprove, and so he ventures forth. ]
For now, we live.