[ The sting of Anakin's disappointment is far stronger than Obi-Wan ever remembers feeling, its heat prickling shamefully at his cheeks even as his friend moves on to other conclusions. It's not a dismissal — he'd meditate of this shortsightedness later — but it isn't exactly the most important point of contention at the moment, either. ]
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. ]
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.