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old but unfamiliar faces
"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once."
The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and nothing is familiar. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay.
Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and offered a contract to sign that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. Any questions you might have would be answered in a straightforward manner as well as an explanation about how the Ingress, the thing that has pulled you onto the Moira, is broken and bringing people here unintentionally. This process also consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand or wrist with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and to your living quarters.
At first, this month seems no more unusual than the previous one for those who have been aboard the Moira for any amount of time. The crew who had landed on the slaver outpost were rescued, and with everyone aboard, the ship has pushed forward into the darker parts of the Runoff. Anyone arriving through the Ingress follows the same routine—moving from the Ingress room into the Medbay for their physical and contract before being assisted by seasoned crew members and helped to their assigned decks. But all familiar things must eventually come to an end: two final travelers come through the Ingress. The first, and most noticeable difference between them and all the others, is their clothing. Both are dressed in standard Moira uniforms, though they bear the insignia of one sharing the same rank as Captains Cúrre and Thán. After a moment to take in all the people on the platform ahead of them, one of the two latest arrivals approaches one of the Ingress panels and begins to manipulate the controls. The Ingress completely shuts down. Unlike before, however, there isn’t an imbalance felt across the ship; everything remains normal and stable.
Utilizing the computer systems located in the Ingress room, they send out the following message to the crew via the MID:To all those aboard this vessel: I am Ira Phirun, assigned captain of the Moira. First Mate Egan and I will be commandeering all rights to the ship as soon as word is sent to those currently in charge. Expect a more detailed report as soon as all records and logs in Navigation have been reviewed by myself and the First Mate. All questions will be answered in a timely matter. For now, there will be no interruption of daily routine or reprimand if conduct among ranks is broken. Thanks for your time. Heading to Navigation, the Captain and First Mate, for seemingly unknown reasons, approach Navigator Manasseh and have her show them all records and logs of the Moira. Those working in Navigation when the Captain and First Mate arrive will see Mana greet them in a professional manner. Oddly, the Captain and First Mate act very familiar with the Navigator. They review all documents, but when they come upon news that the Ploiatos is on board, their mostly friendly demeanor shifts quickly. The Captain issues a sharp order, unintelligible to those who are close enough to overhear parts of their conversation, and without any warning at all, Mana loses consciousness and collapses right there on the bridge. Within minutes of this happening, the ship as a whole falls into a low power state with basic functions only. Mana’s MID alerts Medbay, and without hesitation, Captain Cúrre places her in cryo with strict orders to those who work there not to disturb the unit.
As promised, the Captain and First Mate soon address the crew.☄ lights down low The lighting has dimmed in all the rooms and halls, the normally crisp air that is pumped from the vents low, and all machines and tech are running at half-speed. These effects can be found throughout the ship. Water in the showers remain hot for only a few minutes before reverting to cold. Recreational equipment powers off not long after it has been turned on. The sanitation and water filtration systems require an hourly manual reboot, and all unused areas of the ship have no power allotted to them until a crew member steps inside. Even then, most functions are not optimal. It’s as if the Moira has been transformed into a dark house with only a candle flickering on the window sill. ☄ reuse & recycle The Captain and First Mate are quick to establish that this is a new regime and go about making the ship and its crew more efficient in the wake of their change in course and the low power state of the ship itself. This means they will systematically inspect each occupied barracks room and leave notes for what needs to be disposed of or stowed away. Unlike before, this is no longer a pleasure cruise, and each member of the crew is a guest on board; they will not tolerate useless clutter. Anything seen as unnecessary will be either placed into storage in the Cargo Bay or disposed of through the airlock. This new need for efficiency also extends to the need to conserve resources until they reach their destination. The showers are set to an automatic timer to minimize water waste. Those few minutes of hot water are all a crew member is now given. Meals are smaller, bordering on ration sizes, and luxuries are done away with entirely in order to preserve supplies so that the ship can go longer before needing to dock at a planet. ☄ new jobs, same faces The Captain and his First Mate, as expressed in their addressing of the Moira, explain that work efficiency is a priority. Applications for a head of the following departments will be accepted for a short period: Navigation, the Tower, Medbay, Defense, the Hold, Sanitation, Ingress work, and the Galley/Mess Hall. (Here.) After reviewing what they receive, one head of department will be chosen and tasked with helping crew find positions relevant to those departments and their own skillsets. They will be allowed to retain any positions that they held before that aren’t ship-functional jobs, but they will have to be done in leisure time. In two weeks time, they’ll be accepting department position applications which will be approved, and all those that do not apply will be assigned in accordance with their initial work application. They will also choose three individuals to act as guards of Ploiatos to ensure that there is a rotation available at all times. Will you choose to follow this new decision and promote yourself into a position of responsibility? Or will you simply wait for a reassignment?
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hownkai) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-08-01 12:13 am
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Nothing tampers that adoration.
...Nothing that he knows about, anyway.
He blames that shock that he receives in return on the situation at large. Pre-war, suddenly remembering two years of it, remembering none of it, it's a lot to accept. (And maybe, just maybe, a lot of it is worth knowing nothing about at all.) It doesn't matter. She's here. Fear of his own, trepidation of hers, none of that matters, he can't push that away now.
Anakin smiles, softly, the expression pulling at the edge of pain. Worth it.]
Unless there's something behind me...? There isn't, actually, is there?
[You look like you've seen a ghost.]
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It is his face though that Padmé stays honed on, as if seeking and searching for the man she hadn't understood on Mustafar. The smile alone could break her heart in its genuineness. There is no darkness there floating around the edges, no hatred or anger to turn those eyes cold and hard. No rage that could bring tears to her eyes, although they come anyway. Exhaustion, physical and mental, for simply being removed from the situation does not erase all that had happened.
... that will happen?
It's a soft chime within her mind, a puzzle piece possibly falling in to place, although Padmé cannot say that she is certain. Words have just been words so far, information provided to her by strangers, and while she does not simply write it off, she also does not accept it at face value.
A shake of her head as her gaze drops to her hands, still holding that japor snippet between her fingers. A token from before the dark times, a token that seemingly has followed her to this place. Yet with a soft breath, her eyes once more rise to meet his own.]
No. No, there isn't. There is only you.
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That the ghost is him?Still, that smile doesn't waver, and he reaches first for a hand, slow and reverent, before he pulls her into an embrace. It's careless and out in the open, but he doesn't care. They've never had the freedom to do this wherever the urge struck before, and he's not about to waste any more time worrying about it. Never again.]I've missed you.
[He says this to her hair, loose and soft in a way he rarely gets to see it, muffled by lips brushing the crown of her head.]
So much.
[Somehow, such a useless quantification suddenly feels desperately necessary. ]
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Squeezed his hands together as she begged for him to listen-
It is that shudder, a tenseness in her shoulders that draws her rigid and tight. She cannot even say that the thought has crossed her mind about where they are, for he has taken over all her senses. She's not certain if her heart could beat any faster than it already is although she exhales sharply at his words, at the touch of his lips, and something shatters.
It is that sob that escapes her, all tension suddenly leaving her body as her face buries itself against his chest. What it is, how it is, Padmé can't say, and yet her fingers clutch at his side, as those tears trickle down her cheeks, and she lets herself be surrounded by him. By her husband.]
Ani. [So much emotion packed in to that name. Longing and hurt and sorrow and love and confusion.] It doesn't- I don't- Mustafar- And. [For all her skill with words, for all her ability to rouse and endear and impart and make an impact, it's a jumbled mess with no meaning and no explanation, flowing like the lava that had covered that planet.]
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His fingers tighten, a fraction, and he bites back the discomfort at being pulled into a shape his wounded body disagrees with. This upset is what really matters; he can't deny the overwhelming pain he feels in all of this. In those hands wound into his robes, the trembling body pressed into his own, the crack her voice. Something is very, very wrong.]
I'm right here. Padmé, I'm not going anywhere...
[Wait. He pauses for a moment, hoping for an explanation that never comes.]
What about-- [Mustafar? Isn't that a mining planet? What is she talking about?] What's wrong?
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Oh, but he had gone- (will go?)- far, far away, down a path that she couldn't follow. Timelines and realities. Those words come wandering through her mind, and how can he not know- unless he doesn't know. And it saps her mind to even try to puzzle it through. A tiredness has etched itself upon her soul, a wound cut deep. Whereas once she might have tackled the problem head on with that political prowess that came as easily as breathing to her, here and now she lacked the desire, the drive, the will-power to do so.
Yet she leans back, one hand loosening it's hard grip to brush away her tears, to look upon him, seeking some glimmer of recognition, or realization, but all she seems to be greeted with is confusion.] I don't- They said- ... what is the last thing you remember before coming here?
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[Of course, that's not much of an explanation, and not the one she's looking for. He still isn't sure what Mustafar has to do with anything--the only thing he can think is that it's a valuable resource planet stuck on the line between the Republic and the Confederacy, another useless bargaining chip in a useless war of which he's been a very useful pawn.
Ugh.
He thinks back those several months--half a year now, how much of the war has he missed?--and almost answers with a glib "saving the galaxy...again," but refrains. He doesn't mind it so much, that's his job, but to say it like this to her seems wrong.]
Saving the Chancellor. Again.
[It's not much better. And the tone doesn't drop either; how much does he know of what's to come? If he'd known what kind of utter betrayal lay ahead, would he have left the man to Dooku's feigned "devices"? Confronted him right then?]
I was coming home. [This time it sounds much more sincere.] To you.
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Arguably, it isn't the best answer for him to give, as yes, he has saved him more than once. Yet coming home...]
From the Invisible Hand?
[Is that what he means? Is that what he is saying is the last thing he remembers? It seems so far-fetched for Anakin not to know everything that she does, but as her eyes scan his, Padmé knows that he isn't lying about having no memory of Mustafar. Of course even the mere thought of it sends a shudder through her as her hand raises to his lips.
If that is the case... Oh, there is so much. Her pregnancy, for starters, although there is little evidence of that- not that there had been much to begin with. The fanciful styles of the Senate had aided her in keeping it hidden for a long time. Still, she waits for confirmation from him that her guess is either correct or incorrect, and already her mind starts to shift through its thoughts.]
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Instead, he nods with a slight hum. It's been so long, and not long enough at all, he can still feel the heat from the unprotected console as they broke through Coruscant's atmosphere. He's had better flying experiences.]
We'd just gotten the Chancellor back, and then...this. [He shrugs, as if knowing too much isn't a weight settled firmly on his shoulders.] Well, Obi-Wan remembers it differently by a week or two. And now we've been stuck here for about...five months?
[Never mind that he'd like to remove two of them.]
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And Obi-Wan... Neither knows then the truth of what is coming, of what is waiting for them. Anakin... Anakin hasn't fallen to the dark side. Yet again her eyes are drawn, as if unable to believe that. Not that she considers her last words to Obi-Wan to be false, but to have that about face so suddenly.
It is him though, the Anakin that she knew and loved, and is it a blessing or a curse? A hand moves, seeking to cup his cheek, yet her expression is still one of deep concern, speculative, letting it linger. It is heavy, that knowledge, and she wonders... Is it written in stone? Is it destined across the stars? But her fingers start to fall away and she feels overwhelmed, even moreso than before.]
Five months... It- time really does move differently here then.
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The best he can do with what he's been given is try. And that has to be good enough, there is no other choice.
The problem with this explanation, however, is its complication. And Padmé's hesitance speaks volumes. The way she continues to pull away, the fear, and worst is the way she stares at him like the first time he met Luke: wounded.
It doesn't take much to jump to a conclusion. If it has followed that every time she comes back, she remembers more...it isn't just that something is very, terribly wrong, though certainly true from the way she shakes through those tentative touches she does allow. Trembling, even here, even with this change, alludes to so much worse.
Something has happened. To him, perhaps. To her, certainly, though he could go his whole life never considering it. To them?
Force, please, anything but this.
He swallows around the thick rising lump in his throat, and mourns her hand as it pulls away. His own reach up to her shoulders, (so) gently, as if she might break. And for all the places his mind goes, all the things he envisions in that awful consideration, he's afraid she might.]
You don't know the half of it. It's...complicated. [Especially if she remembers nothing about this. Or her children. Or that large sword hung dangerously low over his head.]
Are you going to tell me what's wrong?
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It hadn't been him, that much she knew. It hadn't been that boy on Tatooine who had provided them with shelter and let them eat at his house, who had showed her a droid he was making and who had risked it all. It wasn't the boy who had carved for her the japor snippet still in her hand or called her an angel. It wasn't that man, grown but not fully, who had looked upon her with such emotion that Padmé hadn't know what to make of it. Like a woman. Like something precious. How it had turned her stomach, but not in a bad way. No, not that. And she had denied it for so long, denied him, until the arena, when she hadn't wanted to die with a lie on her lips. It wasn't the man she had wed, who had so tentatively taken her hand with his false one, who had said those vows on Naboo and joined them as one.
Her own breath is drawn in sharp at the soft touch, drawn from those memories, both good and bad, and how? How can she tell him the truth? How can she say she has died? It was what he had feared, what he had dreamed about, what she had told him would not happen. And by his own hand, crushing down with an invisible force...
There is a measured silence as her eyes flicker back and forth, holding his gaze, yet...] The war, Anakin... It was never about the Republic against the Separatists. It was about Palpatine against the Jedi. And Palpatine won.
[And she knows, knows what Palpatine means to him, although she doesn't quite understand just how far his claws have sunk in to her husband. It is not The Truth that she reveals, but it is a truth, a monumental one of it's own accord, and she isn't certain how he will take it. If what he says about Obi-Wan is true, then Obi-Wan likely hasn't told those words to her. Hasn't told her that he needs to kill Anakin to stop him, hasn't stowed away aboard her craft when she denied him the answer he was seeking.
And she loved him. Force how she loved him, even when Anakin had turned the full might of his rage against her.]
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She knows. And if she knows about this, about the "Chancellor"...that had to involve everything that comes with it. About him. His heart bangs against his ribs, thundering in his ears with a drumming noise he can't drown out. It's that fear rushing right back in, yet another confirmation piled on a whole mountain of evidence and personal experience, and--
She's sparing him. She has to know. That trepidation is suddenly so clear. Reminiscent, even, of her son's. So, why?]
I know.
[It's quiet. Frustrated that once again he's failed to stop it somehow. Scared that this confirmation happens again and again and--]
I should have-- I--
[His hands drop when the words catch in his throat.]
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How she would have loved to have painted a different story for him and given them a happier ending. She doesn't know of his face, of what happened after she blacked out. Obi-Wan had only provided a small bit of information, and it had been all she could do to hold on long enough for the children. Twins. Odd how in the end, they are both right about the gender of their child.
But... He knows? He knows? That confusion is back. He has known the whole time, even as the ship came crashing down? Padmé is never one to condone violence, but maybe this time... How she had looked up to Palpatine, and how he had shattered every one of those feelings. He had fooled them all, or had he?]
You... knew? This whole time, you knew?
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[Would never have what? Fought in the war they started? How unavoidable would it have been if they'd known about the Chancellor years prior? Could they have done anything to stop it? Can he now?]
Here. I found out here. With Obi-wan. We...saw the Temple.
[Time moves differently here. What a horrifyingly simple way to distill everything they've seen and uncovered in ways they were never meant to know it. It feels forbidden. If it isn't, it should be.
Anakin's head hangs when he can't successfully blink back tears. He's so tired of reliving this over and over, but this is his burden to shoulder. One she used to understand in its terrible shock. His world to watch and understand and hope to change. No one else can.]
Everything would be different. I have to fix this.
[The guilt is inherent in the responsibility he shoulders, not entirely willing.]
I don't know why. How it happens. Only that it can't.
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But that... She knows they have joked in the past, that he has teased her about her politics, but she would never have thought that he would actually desire to rule the galaxy, to back Palpatine in his quest. Yet she also knows that the thought of her death has driven him. Does he know that, she wonders?
She doesn't ask what about the Temple that he saw, whether it was the burning mess, or perhaps the death... Or even how they have seen it. It is his tears that break her, knowing that he is not the one that stood before her on Mustafar, a future self that is driven by decisions he has yet to face.]
Oh, Ani... [She's not certain how or what can be done, as is it not the past for her now? Is it written for eternity in the stars to be fated that way?
Her hands move, cupping his cheeks, to brush his tears away with her thumbs. She doesn't need to have any special ability to see the weight of it all on him, how it bears down upon his frame, or the manner in which it affects him. Two hearts beating as one, two pieces of the same soul.] I am sorry. So sorry.
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But that comfort is there, so freely given when he still doubts his own worthiness, and he's struck by it. Is dependent on it. He wants to be stronger than this, sufficient and equally caregiving, but he isn't. He can't be.
She is, in every way he's ever meant it and ever will come to mean it, an angel. Nothing else compares.]
For what? [When he does finally find his voice, he feels so young again, impossibly overshadowed by expectations he can't understand.] You have nothing to be sorry for.
[And as far as he's concerned, she never has. Even if she knows. Even if she knows more than she says (and oh, the thought of that, when combined with what he knows of how little his children had known him; the thought dosent bear thinking and yet never goes away). None of this is her fault. How could it be?]
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Her hands remain, tender and gentle, still cupping his cheeks, for she is his as much as he is hers. But she shakes her head at his words.]
For everything, and more.
[Perhaps an argument could be make that had she not married him, this path would not have been the one that they found themselves on, but Padmé would never take back her marriage to him. It was fractured at times, having to live that lie, stealing moments now and then when they could afford it, but when he was near, she had felt more alive than ever before. Duty had driven her and they had clashed at times, but through it all, she loved him- loves him- still.]
You know then...
[The shadow that looms for him, that has engulfed him for her. Not completely. No, she would never believe that, knowing that within him, there still flickers that beacon of light. Resting her forehead against his, she cannot help but wonder what else he knows. Perhaps something happier? Her voice drops, a soft but embracing tone to it.]
And do you know of our children? We were both right, in the end. You thought I was having a girl because of how strong the kick was, while I thought a boy. It was one of those secret pleasures I had while you were gone, not knowing what it would be.
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[Pregnant. Oh. Oh, he's missed everything. Missed everything important and still it ends like this. How is this right? How is this fair?]
What have I done?
[It's not an honest question, nor one he really even notices outside an exclamation of dismay. How has he ruined this much? He buries his face in her shoulder, a stark contrast to how much he knows he should walk away.
He's known for some time now that Padmé had been just as much an absent figure in their childrens' lives as he had, but he'd never imagined it like this.
...And what if that's his fault too?
There are times he'd used to tell himself he could quell emotion the way the Jedi wanted, that crying was a weakness no one would ever see. This whole affair seems to reduce him to weeping with little provocation. Just one thing on a long list of how terrible a Jedi he really is.]
She's...so angry. [He only offers this when he's able to take in a breath without it shaking. The tears he doesn't care about; Padmé's seen enough of them by now, more than he should have ever subjected her to. Perhaps it is a hypocrisy to call his daughter on her fury when this has been Obi-Wan's harshest criticism of him too, but right now, it's about the sole defining feature of their relationship.] Leia. All these things I'm supposed to do, what she remembers.
I don't know what to do.
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Her arms shift, to draw him down in to her embracing hug as he hides his face against her. Had he thought walking away would be that easy, Padmé would have set him straight. No, there are things she hasn't said and she isn't certain if she will. It is something that she will need to decide upon. There are those soft comforting noises given as her hands stroke the back of his head and she makes no attempt to move from the position they have found themselves in. It is selfishness on her part, not wanting reality to come crashing back again, at least not yet.
It seems that there is much she needs to learn about this place and the people who are here, although from his words, she gathers that Leia holds him responsible. Of course she does pause there, thinking about the babe she had so lovingly named, and how he is talking about her... How she is here? Oh, that thought stills her, although that gentle hum of comfort is back again.]
Together, Anakin. We'll figure it all out together.
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He breathes her in and remembers everything: the intoxication, the comfort, the need. In time, his heart slows, its pace meeting her own in perfect sync (
or what he fancies as such, figuratively if nothing else). Padmé is, and remains, a too-large fraction of his soul, and the thought of leaving this is absurd.Wrapping his arms around her back, he grounds himself in that soothing presence, forgets for a moment whether he should think himself worthy of it or not.
At her answer, Anakin can only nod. He might think that relationship just as unsalvageable as it had been when Obi-Wan had offered something similar in the wake of those awful revelations--someone else who should have taken the chance to walk away--but she has a point. Alone, they've only ended up like this: broken, wounded, and so terribly sad.
Together, it feels like this. Warm, and comforting. Like there might be a solution, somewhere.
Like home.]
I love you.
[It's murmured there, into her skin, as if it could embed itself as a permanent piece of her fundamental construction. It feels so small and so overwrought all at once, but if there is anything he's learned in the last several months, it's that he can't take anything for granted.
Not even something this implicit. Especially not something this implicit.]
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He is her heart, even as he crushed it.
Yet he doesn't radiate those negative emotions as he had on Mustafar. Such a stark contrast, and yet she knows she will give anything to keep him from that, to keep him from going down the path of darkness here where the sun has not yet set upon their tale.
There is no thought put in to their location, to the public nature of it. He is here. He is, and in this moment, that is all that matters as she keeps those soft noises and lets her fingers rest at the nape of his neck. There is no question of value, because she is, and always has, and always will be, his.
But Leia... No, Padmé will see what can be done there. She has witnessed first hand the turmoil within him, on Tatooine with his mother and on Mustafar with herself. What bleak future does he hold that his own daughter would shun him? She can only begin to imagine, but also knows that they are not the same. That he has not changed, that she does still know him. His mind has not been twisted and turned and corrupted.
Cheek against his cheek, she can feel the kind warmth of his words, and she gives a low hum of acceptance before leaning back slightly. There is a gravity to her face, a seriousness to her words as her eyes catch his, and hold on, as if to burn the very words in to his memory so that he would never forget them.]
And I you. Never forget that, Anakin.
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[He shakes his head lightly, and pulls himself away from that embrace to look at her. Whatever sits here between them, whatever will happen, might happen, or is theoretically supposed to, that never changes.
This never changes.
He won't let it.In a moment, his heart slows to a normal pace--or something, at least, not as anxious and skittish as it has been though all of this worrying--and he backs up to hold an arm out to her (notably the still-flesh one, the one that can still feel everything) in a way he's never been able to outside of that one trip to Naboo that feels like a near-lifetime ago; even as "only friends," this would have been too close for comfort when the Jedi are supposed to eschew this kind of contact, however polite.
That lesson never sunk in. Especially now that he's not trying to hide it at all.The heaviness of that reunion might still linger in the air, even if the moment is over. But he's also never been one to say no to prolonging that contact, even in the smallest of ways.]
You sounded lost, what were you looking for? We can talk while we walk.
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Yet looking at him, he radiates that truth, and she does find her heart lifting, that own shadow dissipating ever so slightly. She vows to herself in that moment that she won't let it happen again. Never. Not here.
And there is a soft noise at his gesture, one of relief and love and perhaps a touch of amusement. It's still too soon for the darkness in her own soul to be gone, but how she just wants to gather him up again and never let go. Secrecy has always shrouded their marriage, just as she said it would. Padmé would not ruin him, deprive him of being a Jedi, for being a Jedi was just as much a part of him as being her husband.
Delicately, as if it is something new, and it is, her fingers move to curl around his arm, until she is squeezing it. That light pressure remains, as if reminding herself over and over and over that it is him, that he is here, that this is some reality where he has not descended.
Steps. Small steps. One at a time.]
The quarters I've been assigned to. The Nomo deck?
[Casting a curious glance in his direction. Mechanical things have always been in his blood, right from the first time she had met him. No doubt he has been around the ship, quite possibly poking in to things he might not be poking in to. More like than not, he knows where it is.]
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There's Obi-Wan, of course, an anchor in his own right, but Anakin is like the embodiment of Tatooine's twin suns; no single anchor will do.]
I think I can manage. Even if it means running up and down between decks all day.
[There's a laugh there, but he means it. Every word. It's a sense of completeness here, and he's not keen on taking it for granted. Not now, not in the future, not ever. He's still scared, fearful of what lingers in the periphery and just out of his sight, but his heart is lighter. When he smiles, he means it. Every millimeter of it. This love is an embodiment of right, and there is no one who could say otherwise. No one who could ever change his mind.
Love isn't a weakness. It's a lifeline. You said the biggest problem in the universe is that no one helps each other. And that's what love does. It isn't blinding, it isn't inhibiting, it isn't wrong.
This is how you change the galaxy.]
And this time, Obi-Wan won't even mind.
[Which is perhaps half-true. Obi-Wan would likely mind a good deal. Stopping him, however, is a different story altogether.]
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