Chapter Text
“So Ahsoka was lying to me when she said some of the Templars saw you?” Obi-Wan asked.
Anakin stopped inspecting the new paintings to turn around. Obi-Wan’s face was stern but Anakin’s vision saw right through it.
“Nothing is true, Mentore,” Anakin replied cheekily and skipped over to Obi-Wan’s desk, making space for himself by carelessly throwing papers to the ground. “And everything is permitted,” he added when tired disapproval flashed over Obi-Wan’s face.
Anakin leaned forward until their foreheads were nearly touching and he could put his hands into his Master’s. He knew the last months hadn’t been easy on Obi-Wan. Their Order was losing ground quicker than they could gain it, and the Templars grew bolder every day.
“We’ll be alright.”
Obi-Wan sighed and mindlessly let his fingers caress Anakin’s hands, though only one truly felt his touch.
“I have a mission for you. I discovered talk of a... device.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed, flickered gold for just a second, identifying Obi-Wan’s unease. He didn’t need Eagle Vision to read Obi-Wan, he never had. He’s struggled to stop using it after he’d been taken in by the Order, to used to relying on it to keep himself safe. With Obi-Wan, he’d never gotten the sense that he was in danger, but since his injury, it had gotten more difficult to get rid of the old habit again.
“A device,” Anakin repeated. “Another piece of Eden?”
“Probably,” Obi-Wan leaned back. “You and Ahsoka need some time away from here, teach her what it means that we work in the dark to serve the light and do not start fights with Templars in the middle of the day.”
Anakin opened his mouth to defend himself - it really hadn’t been his fault, he was just stepping in to keep the Novize from losing their hands - but closed it again when Obi-Wan raised his hand.
“And what can this Piece of Eden do? Is it another Apple?”
“No, thankfully not. I believe you may know it as the Golden Fleece.”
If Anakin weren’t already sitting, his knees would have definitely buckled now.
When he’d been younger, he’d devoured the Greek myths, searching for clues for ancient, powerful, weapons. They had been the only reference point Anakin could find to explain the marks too many thought were outlandish tattoos when he'd been born with them, when they made him bleed ichor.
The Golden Fleece was famed for its healing capabilities.
Anakin’s thoughts went to his crude prosthetic.
“My arm,” he said, his throat suddenly dry. “Could it fix it?”
Anakin had lost so much when that piece of shit Grandmaster had cut it clean off. It had taken months to heal and then half a year more until he had figured out how to make up for his lack of limb. He’d never reached old heights or speeds again in his free-running but with this—
“Could it fix my hand, Mentore?” Anakin repeated, desperation seeping into his voice.
Obi-Wan sighed. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to try.”
It was enough for Anakin.
