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Started reading
March 11, 2023
Sounded like he’d broken his neck. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
When Count Dooku flies at him, blade flashing, Watto’s fist cracks out from Anakin’s childhood to knock the Sith Lord tumbling back. When with all the power that the dark side can draw from throughout the universe, Dooku hurls a jagged fragment of the durasteel table, Shmi Skywalker’s gentle murmur I knew you would come for me, Anakin smashes it aside.
As he looks up into the eyes of Anakin Skywalker for the final time, Count Dooku knows that he has been deceived not just today, but for many, many years. That he has never been the true apprentice. That he has never been the heir to the power of the Sith. He has been only a tool.
He has existed only for this. This. To be the victim of Anakin Skywalker’s first coldblooded murder. First but not, he knows, the last. Then the blades crossed at his throat uncross like scissors. Snip. And all of him becomes nothing at all.
these are murders he recalls with so much pleasure that touching these souvenirs with his hands of armorplast and durasteel brings him something resembling joy. But only resembling. He remembers joy. He remembers anger, and frustration. He remembers grief and sorrow. He doesn’t actually feel any of them. Not anymore. He’s not designed for it.
“Are … all of your rescues so …” Palpatine gasped breathlessly. “… entertaining?” Obi-Wan gave Anakin a thoughtful frown. Anakin returned it with a shrug. “Actually, now that you mention it,” Obi-Wan said, “yes.”
“But I’m a Jedi—” “That’s why I’m not giving him to you,” she’d said with a smile. “I’m asking you to look after him. He’s not really a gift. He’s a friend.”
Anakin gave Obi-Wan a fierce grin. Let someone he loves pass out of his life? Not likely. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go!”
“Oh, so now this is my fault?” Anakin gave him a slightly wicked smile. “Hey, you’re the Master. I’m just a hero.”
“Oh, Anakin,” he said, with the sort of quiet, pained resignation that would be recognized instantly by any parent exhausted by a trouble-prone child. “Where is your lightsaber?”
“All right, all right.” The Jedi Master surrendered with a rueful smile. “You win.” Anakin grinned at him. “I’m sorry? What was that?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d won an argument with Obi-Wan. “Could you speak up a little?” “It’s not very Jedi to gloat, Anakin.” “I’m not gloating, Master,” he said with a sidelong glance at Palpatine. “I’m just … savoring the moment.”
So now, here, for you, the situation comes down to this: you are walking between the two best friends you have ever had, with your precious droid friend faithfully whirring after your heels— On your way to win the Clone Wars.
This is why he can simply stand. Why he can simply wait. He has no need to attack, or to defend. There will be battle here, but he is perfectly at ease, perfectly content to let the battle start when it will start, and let it end when it will end. Just as he will let himself live, or let himself die. This is how a great Jedi makes war.
He reached through the Force and the Force reached through him; his blade flared to life while still in the air; it flipped toward him, and as he lifted his hands to meet it, its blue flame flashed between his wrists and severed the binders before the handgrip smacked solidly into his palm. Obi-Wan was so deep in the Force that he wasn’t even suprised it had worked.
This is, put simply, impossible. It can’t be done. He’s going to do it anyway. Because he is Anakin Skywalker, and he doesn’t believe in impossible.
It’s just the opposite: he seizes upon the Force with a stark refusal to fail. He will land this ship. He will save his friends. Between his will and the will of the Force, there is no contest.
“But surely—” Obi-Wan stopped himself. He thought of how many times Anakin had violated orders. He thought of how unflinchingly loyal Anakin was to anyone he considered a friend.
She shook her head. “What are we going to do?” “We’re going to be happy, that’s what we’re going to do. And we’re going to be together. All three of us.”
“This sounds like a good plan,” Obi-Wan said. “But what Master do you have in mind?” For a moment no one spoke, as though astonished he would ask such a question. Only after a few seconds in which Obi-Wan looked from the faces of one Master to the next, puzzled by the expressions of gentle amusement each and every one of them wore, did it finally register that all of them were looking at him.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said softly. He gestured to an empty seat beside him. “Please.” And something in Obi-Wan’s gentle voice, in his simple, straightforward request, sent his anger slinking off ashamed, and Anakin found himself alone on the carpet in the middle of the Jedi Council, blinking.
Obi-Wan’s eyes shifted, and the sick fatigue in Anakin’s guts turned darker. How bad did it have to be to make Obi-Wan unable to look him in the eye?

