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ex_forcechoke292) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-06-07 07:52 pm
ex_forcechoke292) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-06-07 07:52 pm
[closed;] i won't, won't live like them
Who: Anakin Skywalker (forcechoke) & Obi-Wan Kenobi (jedimindtrick)
When: 6/12
Where: Personal lodging on CLF5.
What: VADERGATE, a drama in (like) 15 parts (or something), this being the third of those 15 parts.
Warnings: Violence, strong language, talk of self-harm, this shit might get heavy (I don't mean this hyperbolically, for once).
[To say that Anakin has had a rough day (and a half), would to be put this situation in such a crass lightness, the statement in and of itself would be an offense. Unfortunately, it seems, the trouble starts earlier, and it's his own damned fault for ignoring it. For getting involved.
For getting attached.
Kylo Ren--ugh, that cannot be his real name--his grandson has been trying to share this truth for months, months that he's spent in blissful ignorance, even as the galaxy started to unravel around them. Yes, Palpatine's betrayal is a truth. Yes, the Republic's privileged, hollow sickness had contributed to the downfall that has been heralded for years as the war stretches on. Yes, the Jedi Order had been blind to the threat facing them. All of these things, these tenets of the twilight of the Republic, are true.
But they all lack the one thing that informs every piece of them: that his fault, his complicity, his will is inexorably tied into all of it. The rise of the Sith to power is thanks to his apprenticeship, his belief, somehow, in Palpatine's desire for the greater Good. The fall of the Jedi Order is a slaughter that stains him more than any tribe of Tusken Raiders could ever amount to, a guilt so heavy that he can't even breathe. I killed them. All of them. Padmé's disappearance from the histories, his own, his children's separation all at his own deluded hand. Obi-Wan's death. Obi-Wan's death.
I do this. I kill him.
His distress shrieks so much louder than the songs of angels who mean to ensnare any pilot in their path; it is not an enticing thing, but a warning, a siren song that only heralds destruction, and death unfathomable. A billion people, Anakin. A billion people without a thought. A billion people while your daughter watched.
The first few hours are nothing but silence, spent with nothing but that horrified wail caught in his chest, hot, and wild, and desperate to burst free. The next is spent doing exactly that, expending that energy in the only way he currently knows how, the only thing that makes sense, the only way anyone seems to expect. (The room, afterward, is thoroughly trashed, furniture broken and overturned, and Anakin is curled up in its epicenter, as if Force has converged on this single spot and left nothing but ruin in its wake).
He curls in on himself and cries with loud and open sobs, with such force that he struggles to properly breathe, with such grief that he can't even begin to find its start and end. And in this struggle, there is only one single thought, one that frightens him to his core with such chill that he doesn't even dare acknowledge its clarity:
Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.]
forcechoke) & Obi-Wan Kenobi (jedimindtrick)When: 6/12
Where: Personal lodging on CLF5.
What: VADERGATE, a drama in (like) 15 parts (or something), this being the third of those 15 parts.
Warnings: Violence, strong language, talk of self-harm, this shit might get heavy (I don't mean this hyperbolically, for once).
[To say that Anakin has had a rough day (and a half), would to be put this situation in such a crass lightness, the statement in and of itself would be an offense. Unfortunately, it seems, the trouble starts earlier, and it's his own damned fault for ignoring it. For getting involved.
For getting attached.
Kylo Ren--ugh, that cannot be his real name--his grandson has been trying to share this truth for months, months that he's spent in blissful ignorance, even as the galaxy started to unravel around them. Yes, Palpatine's betrayal is a truth. Yes, the Republic's privileged, hollow sickness had contributed to the downfall that has been heralded for years as the war stretches on. Yes, the Jedi Order had been blind to the threat facing them. All of these things, these tenets of the twilight of the Republic, are true.
But they all lack the one thing that informs every piece of them: that his fault, his complicity, his will is inexorably tied into all of it. The rise of the Sith to power is thanks to his apprenticeship, his belief, somehow, in Palpatine's desire for the greater Good. The fall of the Jedi Order is a slaughter that stains him more than any tribe of Tusken Raiders could ever amount to, a guilt so heavy that he can't even breathe. I killed them. All of them. Padmé's disappearance from the histories, his own, his children's separation all at his own deluded hand. Obi-Wan's death. Obi-Wan's death.
I do this. I kill him.
His distress shrieks so much louder than the songs of angels who mean to ensnare any pilot in their path; it is not an enticing thing, but a warning, a siren song that only heralds destruction, and death unfathomable. A billion people, Anakin. A billion people without a thought. A billion people while your daughter watched.
The first few hours are nothing but silence, spent with nothing but that horrified wail caught in his chest, hot, and wild, and desperate to burst free. The next is spent doing exactly that, expending that energy in the only way he currently knows how, the only thing that makes sense, the only way anyone seems to expect. (The room, afterward, is thoroughly trashed, furniture broken and overturned, and Anakin is curled up in its epicenter, as if Force has converged on this single spot and left nothing but ruin in its wake).
He curls in on himself and cries with loud and open sobs, with such force that he struggles to properly breathe, with such grief that he can't even begin to find its start and end. And in this struggle, there is only one single thought, one that frightens him to his core with such chill that he doesn't even dare acknowledge its clarity:
Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.]
no subject
I'm here.
By way of the Force, Obi-Wan Kenobi can be there without setting foot in the same room as his friend. He can't see what's happening — although if Anakin showed him, he could — but feeling it is more than enough for the Jedi Master to understand that something is gruesomely amiss.
Everything ripples and shudders with Anakin's flaring energies. When the Chosen One speaks, the Force listens, and to his former master, there could be no missing it. If the rocks and trees and clouds could feel the Force, even they would quake with the implications.
He takes to closing the distance like a man on a mission, and he is that, indeed. Over the years Skywalker has been at his side every step of the way, and when it's time to return the favor, Kenobi has no hesitation, not even in the face of a very boldly written stripe of darkness marring the edges of his being.
When he finally arrives, the room is in pieces, thrashed in such a manner that Obi-Wan needs to pick through the remains to even get to Anakin.
He kneels, panicked but holding back his concern to keep himself from making things worse, hands reaching out but not quite settling on Skywalker until he knows that's not going to set off the Jedi. ]
Anakin! [ He feels desperation, but it's impossible to tell if it's his or his friend's. ] What's wrong?
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Why did it work? I need you. Go away. How is he supposed to warn for this? How is he supposed to deal with this?
He's still struggling to breathe through choked sobs when the door is forced open. He doesn't even try to look up. His voice cracks, all raw anguish, and all he can answer is with:]
Everything.
[I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I'm not safe. Go away. I'm sorry.]
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He no longer waits to see what Skywalker's reaction will be, laying one hand on his arm and the other moving to push Anakin's unruly hair out of his face before touching a hand to his cheek. He's not feverish in the the common way, but his thoughts nearly qualify with their own febrile output.
What's happened? He can't remember ever seeing Anakin this far gone, not even under the weight of their revelations about Chancellor Palpatine, not even after the confession about his mother. ]
Talk to me. Tell me what that means...
[ He's gentle now, careful as can be. There's a push in response — an obvious mental shove — that's telling him to leave, but everything he sees says he needs to stay. Everything he feels inside warns him now is not the time to walk away. The Force tells him he must not leave. ]
no subject
[Said again as if it's the only word he knows, and presently, it's the only one he can get past the sobs. He welcomes the touch, but even well-meant warmth eventually scalds. It hurts. It hurts so much, and he deserves this, knowing the shame of that heartfelt concern and how he deserves exactly none of it.
It's often said that Anakin is a firebrand, that he must be part dragon for all the fire he holds, but that's not quite true. Anakin is Tatooine's twin suns, harnessed in a body that cannot hold such heat. He is the embodiment of a fire that is bright and life-giving, and burns with such intensity that it's an agent of its own destruction. The same is said of the suns too, by some. Twin suns for a temperamental dual nature. Twin suns that would destroy everything in their path if knocked off course with some inexplicable shift in the cosmos.
This is the nature of Force itself: bright and life-giving, but so bright that every light casts a shadow, and the Force itself is no different. Its mere existence predicates that the dark exist alongside the light, twin energies for a temperamental dual nature. The difference is that where most Jedi only seek to come as close to the Light as possible before that life-giving fire proves self-destructive, Anakin is the closest thing the universe will ever come to the human embodiment of that dual nature, the balance necessary to keep those energies from converging. The twin suns that burn in him are the Force, its Will their flame.
As as he wails, the Force does through him. It's a horrifying thing, to feel the churn of that fire as it consumes from within.
But he deserves this.]
It's all my fault.
[It comes out as no more than a whisper, the words frightened and edged with a trepidation that is so unlike Anakin's cocksure front. He knows this to be true, this fault, this weight he can't share. It's so much, it's too much, and all he wants to do, all he deserves to do, is suffocate underneath it, like choking on so much burning smoke.]
The--the galaxy is broken, and it's my fault. I did this. Do this. I'M NOT SAFE.
no subject
It's all my fault.
These words he's heard uttered before, by Anakin, no less, have little effect on him. Fault and blame are both concepts that cannot be boiled down into any simple part and therefore need to be looked past.
What's left — I'm not safe — isn't as easy to pass away. The life breathed into it means that Anakin believes this, Obi-Wan decides, and that is the most terrifying revelation he's felt since he lost Qui-Gon on Naboo.
Whether Anakin actually means it or not, when he proclaims he's not safe, Kenobi is certain he's in peril. Those words work more than one way. And so might they all be unsafe if this anguish is any indication. ]
I'm not going anywhere.
[ Applied firmly, he expects Skywalker to understand he's disregarding any talk of being unsafe as he doesn't feel like he's in danger. ]
Now tell me why, Anakin. Why are you saying these things?
[ Why this sudden change? What could have possibly happened to inflict such terrible anguish on the galaxy's greatest guardian. ]
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[He finally looks up, only to impart the words to Obi-Wan, a desperate, pleading gesture where he can't even see clearly through the tears. In a quick, unthinking movement, a small box is shoved into Obi-Wan's chest. Take it. Please take it before I ruin everything.]
I'm not safe for her. Not for you. Not for Ahsoka, not anyone. Please.
[It's mine, he wants to say. The mask is mine and everything that comes with it.]
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I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.
[ He's tone is strong and steady, but inside is a hearty panic that's mounting by the second, conspiring to take away the older man's calm completely. Swallowing down the first signs of despair, he grips Skywalker's arm and urges him upright. ]
Come here. Sit up. Give me answers. Please, Anakin...
What's happened? What have you been told?
[ Because that's the only logical conclusion Obi-Wan can come to at this point. ]
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What has he been told? Enough, it seems, that those once washed memories from Mortis flood back from behind his eyes: the terrible things he's done, the things he will do, and oh how he doesn't want them. What kind of fate is that of a savior if he's only meant to kill again and again, shoving the weight of those actions firmly on everyone else's shoulders?
Anakin only has the energy to let Obi-Wan pull him around like a rag doll, the concept of sitting up, of keeping his chin up, of meeting his gaze for too long is too much. The warmth is still searing on his arm, kindness and worry he doesn't deserve, and Obi-Wan's concerned gaze seems to bore holes right into him.
He welcomes the pain. This isn't a future they've changed for the better: this is so much worse.
And there's no way he can apologize for this, something so unreal, so uncertain when that surreal uncertainty is the framework for the world he's left his children, the only world they know. The hurt that shapes them. This is his legacy, written in the scars on his daughter's soul, the physical ones Luke carries, and too, it seems, in the temper of a man wounded so deeply by this wretched, horrible world, that he carries it with an insane sense of pride.
He can't apologize for what he hasn't done. But he can't do anything but apologize for what destiny, it seems, has written.
This is all his fault.]
You can't. You can't. It's not safe. You have to go.
[Don't leave me.]
I can't lose you, and I-- I will, and it's my fault. The temple, the--Empire...you.
no subject
Anakin has always been severe, his temperament an issue from the start. When he was still a boy he would seethe at times in the most distressing manner, like torrents of emotion fighting to break free of a flimsy dam. It had been something of a fight from the start, and Kenobi's fairly certain it's a fight he gave up on a long time ago.
In so many ways, he'd given ground. In so many ways, he'd given in. Quarreling against a headstrong Padawan with an arguably self-fulfilling complex was exhausting at best, insufferable at its worst. Kenobi can remember more than a few times when he'd thrown his arms up at the whole ordeal — and that's what he'd called it, too, an ordeal — and considered giving up altogether. He can remember all of the dispassionate lessons and stern lectures and how frustrated he would become when it felt as if nothing actually sank in.
And yet, to say Skywalker has gotten his way would be grossly inaccurate. He has sacrificed more than anyone, more often than anyone, and so freely at times that it seems impossible to think there is any part of him that could be touched by darkness.
But Kenobi has seen the shadows, has discovered the places within his friend that so rarely sees the light. He knows of Anakin Skywalker's pain and he's felt what that's done to him. And now, in retrospect, he can see how that was used against him, too, not just by the Chancellor, but by the Jedi Council as well. ]
No...
[ No. It's so soft, barely more than a whisper in reality, but it feels like it's ripping out of his rib cage, the force of it clawing at his insides like caged animal desperate to escape. If it had nails, he's be gutted.
He has seen the good Anakin does. He's seen so much of it, he can count billions of lives saved, the hundreds of battles won in the name of the innocent. He can feel the good accomplished jointly, but so often through the wisdom and power of the one person who now trembles here, convinced of some ghastly fate, trying to convince him of a impossibly gruesome fate.
Obi-Wan doesn't believe it. He can't believe it, not knowing what he knows. Not feeling what he feels. He hadn't lied when he'd said he loves Anakin, and even in this moment it's so clear he could never lie about such a thing. When he'd finally opened his eyes to who that young man really was, it was impossible not to love Anakin.
His anger flares, grotesque but not unbidden, and without truly considering the implication, he wishes just once to lash out at his family — at the only family he's known until very recently. He would argue each and every one into submission with righteous words, and if that wouldn't work, he'd fight to prove this is not the truth of Anakin Skywalker.
Fingers digging in, he puts fierce eyes on the other man and shakes his head. ]
No, you're wrong.
[ He won't accept any other answer. Anakin is wrong, and whoever has convinced him of this is wrong, too. His jaw tightens and he clasps Anakin's face between his trembling hands to make their eyes meet. ]
That's not you. You're wrong. I know you, and that's not you.
no subject
Knowing instead that it isn't just grief that keeps its hold, but guilt too, that the lightsaber had been kept in that hideous chamber as some sort of--what, trophy? a lost sentiment?--isn't quite chilling. It's consuming. He burns with the shame of it, regret over a strike he's still yet to take.
It all makes sense. His battallion of clones doing sweeps in the temple after he's moved through in some sick, inexplicable rage, and killed anything in his way. It wouldn't be--it wouldn't be the first time.]
Yes, it is.
[The words are quiet and choked, but insistent.]
I killed them. All of them.
[Two months later, and that self-same confession is still just as panicked.] I couldn't stop. I couldn't see, I couldn't--breathe, I couldn't think. I just...did.
[He pushes away, the shove too soft--resigned--to really be called one.]
You don't get it. [Another sob gives way to being unable breathe in another unsuccessful heaving inhale.] I am Vader. What if I always have been?
[Anakin turns back away, so thoroughly shoving himself into that self-destructive flame that he doesn't even feel the fingers digging into his arm. He needs Obi-Wan here, a small piece of him still knows this, still cries out to the Force in desperation, still clings to that connection.
But he wants Obi-Wan safe. And denying this? It isn't. He isn't. Obi-Wan is wrong: this is his fault.
And he can't be forgiven for this.]
The boy is dangerous [he starts, in eerily flawless recitation, given the circumstance], they all sense it, why can't you?
[It's a thirteen year old hurt. One he'd only ever aimed at Obi-Wan once, and buried when he'd watched the horrible grief he'd inflicted. It's one he forgets is there, easier when Obi-Wan has given him no reason to feel doubt. One that is all too easy to aim when he needs Obi-Wan to understand how right he'd been.]
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His eyes narrow and he gives Skywalker one sharp shake as if it might rattle some sense loose within him. ]
I was wrong. [ He feels terror rake across his skin and a fire burns hot from beneath, from inside of him. He curses himself and no other for this failing. ] And so are you.
[ The urge to yell and rail against these circumstances is so powerful that it takes biting the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from losing his temper. The urge to cry is so much more powerful that he can't help but give in to it.
He lets go, but only to take the young man and pull him in, the hug so tight it could probably crush someone else. ]
You're not him. You're not Vader...
[ Please, please believe me, please, he silently begs, desperate for this answer while knowing Anakin doesn't feel he can give it. ]
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His own heart beats in steady, rapid fire opposition: I am, I am, I am, a confirmation with every pulse.
I can't, he thinks, the burning, acidic panic inlaid into those two words is so clear, perhaps the only thing in this moment that is.
Anakin sobs into Obi-Wan's shoulder, a comfort he hardly deserves, even as it offers little relief. This is selfish--garishly so--when he should be shoving the other man away, protecting him. The only fixing in this that he sees is to keep himself away from anyone he can hurt.
And yet, his fingers ensnare themselves in his mentor's robes, and he clings.
Go away. Help me. Please.
The grief is insurmountable, a guilt that far outweighs the half-justification he'd had on his mother's behalf. The entirety of their Order (Obi-Wan's family, if not his own begrudging one). A planet and a billion people. All at...what? The Chancell--Emperor's behest?]
I didn't want this. [The quantification is breathed, muffled into the other man's neck.] I didn't want anyone dead.
["Didn't." The shame of this eats at him too, because in light of all this death he doesn't want, and can't fathom, there is still a part of him that very much wants someone dead. The target simply differs. He wants Vader dead. Whatever that means for him. Especially in what that means for him.
In that realization, hot dread burns in his gut. This is justice. He deserves this.
I failed you. I'm sorry. I failed everyone. Leave. How could I ever ask you to stay?]
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He does all he can not to sniffle, to betray what's already obvious, but there's really no denying they've both been drawn toward this great maw of darkness that threatens to sweep them both away — both because Obi-Wan knows without a doubt he will never leave Skywalker to suffer this alone. ]
We're fixing it, remember? [ As if the realization is just hitting him now, he pulls back abruptly, suddenly not quite so concerned about whether he's teary or not. He flattens down Skywalker's hair, straightens his clothes, fusses like it's ultimately going to make some kind of difference. ] We're fixing it and— and you haven't done any of that because you couldn't.
[ Pulling back into the hug, he shudders out a breath. ] I know you couldn't....
[ That's what he'll maintain despite knowing that Anakin had just confessed a second time to losing control of himself. Because being a Jedi isn't about being perfect, it's about being better every day, and of all the people he's come to know, Anakin has presented himself as the epitome of that sentiment. He's an unstoppable force for whichever side he serves, but in Obi-Wan Kenobi's mind, the light in him shines brighter than the stars. The dark can't compete with that as long as Anakin doesn't believe it can. ]
You know I'm not wrong. [ He swallows thickly, his mind beginning to slow down, to ease into something closer to a steady calm. ] Not this time.
no subject
But in terms of destiny--in terms of this--it suddenly makes sense. That old adage he'd never thought much of, that the brightest flame burns out fastest, Force, he feels every centimeter of it now. He's so shamed, so frightened, so angry that it all comes together to simply settle on exhausted.
He no longer feels much impetus to push Obi-Wan away, even with the fretting when his friend clearly doesn't know what to do with himself in this any more than he does. The stars around him have already started to dim and implode, gone out with little fanfare and as much remembrance.]
How are we supposed to fix this? Any of it? [He slumps against Obi-Wan into the second embrace, too scared to insist that it can't be done.] I'm not fixable.
[Anakin finally does shove away then, frustrated that none of his warning is sinking in. Do you want to die? With a frown, he pulls up Leia's message and lets those words stand in the silence where his own insistence can't. The words sting just as much the second time, and as his human hand curls into a fist, he has to focus on the bite of his short, dull nails cutting into his palm, lest he get swept up in the accusation all over again.
How many different ways does he have to say this isn't right? That for someone--even if not them--this is still very real? That this is all still his fault?]
no subject
For Leia's part in this, he feels grief. He knows of Alderaan, of her obvious pain, and he knows of Kylo, her hidden pain, and he can't believe that even through all of that she would be so efficient at striking back. But she's so much like her father- both of them - at times, he shouldn't be surprised. Even now they have similarities as Anakin tries to employ whatever tactics are necessary to be alone in his unique pain.
But this burden belongs to all of them, each and every one. That, from what he's come to understand, is the point of a family. ]
Is this what you want? To simply allow this to happen? Am I to believe you would take orders from the Chancellor knowing now what you know?
[ He realizes how mortifying that assumption happens to be, but even a punch in the gut won't compare to the heartache he'd expect to endure by losing his best friend.
Expression changing, Kenobi dips his head into an intense stare, his eyes dry naow that they're burning with dismay. ]
I've taught you better than that, Anakin. Think. You did not do these things, and you have no intention of hurting these people. Why would you accept that guilt?
Your pain won't negate hers.
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[His logic, he thinks, is perfectly sound. Palpatine has wanted his attention since the blockade on Naboo for a reason. The Council has been wary of him for almost as long for a reason. Luke has been wary of him from the get-go for a reason. Multiple people can verify this accusation for a reason.
Anakin scowls darkly, the anger finally rearing its head through the fire in him, like the resurgence in a house fire as the roof collapses in and the flame jumps higher. It's petulant, that scowl, far too young for him and far too burdened all at once.]
What am I supposed to do, ignore it? Ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist because it doesn't affect us? Me? Who am I supposed to lose next, Obi-Wan? Padmé? You?
[Ignoring it means someone dies. It always means someone dies.]
no subject
[ He can feel the frustration threatening to creep in again, debilitating in its own way. Where anger gives him fire to draw upon, frustration snuffs out the flames, threatens to douse him with cold paralysis.
It would difficult to understand how Skywalker might damn himself so thoroughly if Kenobi didn't know him so well. For all the potential for darkness — and clearly there's plenty, as is true of all powerful beings — Anakin's capacity for light is what drives him to take on everything, not just the easy stuff.
Obi-Wan is pragmatic, but even he fell into this very same trap once before when he'd been presented with his own journal. ]
We don't ignore it, no. We can't. But there's more between rejecting this fate and accepting it and you know it.
[ Very seriously, he pins his determined expression on Anakin, taking his hands — both of them — into his own and squeezing them tightly. ]
I promise you, we will rise to this as we've risen to every other challenge. Nothing will take this family from you. [ He won't allow it. Anakin deserves his family, and a chance to save them is implicit, too. Strangely enough, he's beginning to accept his part in this, too. ] From us.
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What if we can't fix this? It runs circles in his head, the anxiety mixing with the dread churning in his stomach, and he feels ill and lightheaded. This is all too much, and all he can do now is nod an assent. He doesn't trust himself in this at all: his best clearly hasn't been good enough, it's his worst fear realized.
But he has to be worthy of this. Of Obi-Wan's care. He has to be, because anything else is a failure where the only worthy outcome is death. Anakin can be hurt in this, over and over. The blame, fear, trepidation, and everything that comes with this revelation is his to shoulder.
Alone.
If he can just get Obi-Wan somewhere safe, if he can just be left alone...it can't happen if everyone he knows--everyone he loves--is already gone.
You should be leaving, he thinks, putting all energy he has left into the projection of it, a last resort when his other warnings aren't being accepted. I'm not worth this.]
If you say so.
[It's as close as he's going to get to agreement. It's already too much leeway.]
no subject
He nearly flinches like it's twisting around his vitality, when in reality, it's Anakin's words cutting off his thoughts. I can hear you, he cries back through that invisible connection, his consciousness grabbing for any threadbare grip he can reach. ]
You are worth everything to me. [ He knows that's the problem, and maybe if he says it enough, Skywalker will believe it. ] Everything. Do you understand?
[ He hasn't shown this to be true, not nearly enough, but he's trying. Force help them all, Obi-Wan has a lot of ground to make up, but he's never going to give up. ]
Vader can't take you from us. And as long as we have you, Anakin, there is hope...
[ Please hear me. Please listen... ]
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[It's a hopeless question, something a child might ask in the face of grief they haven't learned to comprehend the meaning of. In truth, the scope of this grief is not something he can fathom, it's so much, he can't bear it and cannot understand how Leia has lived with this silently for as long as she must have.
The weight of it is suffocating, as if the whole of the force of gravity in the galaxy has settled right on top of his lungs and pushed.
He wishes he could feel helpless under this. Small, insignificant, normal. Instead, there's that force of destiny to push back against the gravity, the weight still lingering like a phantom pain. The helplessness stays, but he's hardly insignificant. He's instrumental. This destiny is monstrous. How could anyone--anything--ask this of him?
He's twice the Jedi you'll ever be. The words linger; they stick and sting more than his daughter might ever understand. The Order always had its doubts, and as a result, he's always harbored his own. He can't help but consider that she's right. More right than she'd meant it. Maybe he's never been one to start with.
Anakin slumps, exhausted, once again not able to look Obi-Wan in the eye. Despite the protest, he doesn't feel worthy of this at all. This feels like abject failure. I don't know what hope feels like anymore, he wants to say. All that comes out is:]
I don't know what to do.
no subject
He doesn't know how to fix any of this, only that they must. The lack of credible solutions in this moment does not necessitate a lack of credible solutions entirely, only suggest neither of them are in a place where they can come up with ideas beyond those connected to their own grief. ]
We have time.
[ That's the one true light in this otherwise dark situation. Back home they'd been hurtling toward the precipice, on a collision coarse with an unkind destiny. Here, together, they have time. They can think and strategize, they can probe for more answers because so little of this makes sense.
Obi-Wan can't think of a single reason the man before him would turn on his own. It's just not Anakin Skywalker's way. ]
We'll think of something. We always do.