Chapter Text
Flashes, loud and dark, swarmed his mind. He was barely able to tell there was only one set of foots following him and not tens and hundreds, and he was barely aware of his own steps chasing after armoured men.
Not white, Obi-Wan reminded himself, or at least tried. He could feel his blood grow heavy, Force crying to him with his unexpected extertion, his arms aching with the familiar yet forced and unused lightsaber moves.
On top of all, a kyber was screaming to be liberated, drumming his head as if his thoughts weren't already mushed into each other. It was not good, and he knew further violence was only going to set him more off foot than he already was. He needed to stop, to meditate, to think.
Battlefields rarely forgave wasting time.
So, he followed the grey and blue blurs, focusing on requiring too much attention he couldn’t spare as he carefully supplied himself from the Force. He could feel a trooper chasing him Fett trying to catch up with him, probably to take the enemy himself judging by the sheer hatred the man was projecting.
Soon, the maze like corridors came to an end, to a big greenhouse. Obi-Wan could follow the pattern. First training grounds, now greenhouse. Next was going to be the archives, he would bet. This was a mission just to show off power and damage property.
Blaster fire began once again, and it was all he needed to push through the fog temporarily as Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped back, and a desperate soldier took over. His body wasn't in shape, his new lightsaber still a little odd at his throbbing hands— damaged from the explosion and the beskar plate's sharp edges.
Obi-Wan absendmindedly reached out to his nonexistent battle bonds. Like plants overgrowing the pot, these rotten ends were growing his mind every time he reached those. It screamed trouble, but Obi-Wan's priority fell on physical problems. So, he just checked Dooku, who was just as reserved as Obi-Wan, only to focus-danger-defend.
Get your head together, or someone will have to gather your brain from the floor, Obi-Wan scolded to himself. And you just attached an unstable master on yourself. You better not mess this one up.
Where was he again?
He was fighting. When and where didn't matter much. His hands hurt, but pain wasn't enough to ground him. The kyber between his small fingers hummed louder. This was not good. Obi-Wan was slipping, and it couldn't be further than battle meditation.
He advanced. There was no point in stalling. In battle, in life.
In his life.
If he stalled, people died. If he slipped, failed, stuttered...
He couldn’t afford any of it.
And he wasn't going to let Mandalore, of all places, be the first slip ever since he returned.
Unable to gather any more coherent opinions as he sank into the Force with pleas that his body would hold out, he slipped into the big archive. Force presences flared as soon as he was in the beskar walls, the metal unknowingly doing a spectacular job at keeping the active Force artefacts relatively contained. Still, darkness pressed into his mind.
Everything was disturbingly familiar. Darkness was disturbingly familiar. He had lived in it too long to discriminate it from the light. Dark wasn't suffocating him. It was wrong. He was a Jedi. He wasn't supposed to be used to the dark, but yet...
Ever since knightfall, Obi-Wan hadn't been a Jedi. He had gone rouge. Became a rebel - or terrorist, depending on who you asked - and ran around the galaxy just to stop empire from growing. He became a smuggler and a pilot and even a pirate so he could keep Force sensitives out the radar and keep the imperials busy. He killed and destroyed and—
And he was tired of it all.
He got close to dark. He had always danced around it, and it was just sheer willpower that always held him back from mindless slaughter but Obi-Wan was so tired. Having a second chance was supposed to be about fixing the galaxy, but he was crumbling under the pressure.
People died when he failed. He couldn’t afford to fail.
It was a burden he always carried. It was what he accepted as his fate. But living through it all scarred his soul, perhaps irreparably, and these crikking boots marching together wasn't helping at all.
Easy to say, but he had to let go. Before it became a bigger problem. Before it consumed him altogether.
He had always moved on, for the others' sake if not for his sanity. So why was he failing now?
A saber hissed, clashing against his. Sloppy, weak, unstable. Blade fighting against the wielder more than Obi-Wan resisted the pressure as the sabers locked into each other, black plasma wavering over his pure white blade like waves in the ocean.
Obi-Wan reached the kyber to blow the unstable crystal. Only, the blade grew heavier, a sharp backlash whipping his mind. Fine. No more explosives for him to play today.
At least a heavier blade was easier to use against the opponent. With a spin, Obi-Wan got rid of the lock, the enemy tumbling down as Obi-Wan's blade severed the helmet from the armour, a thump echoing too loud that the remnants of Death Watch turning at him. Or only one head snapping at him.
There was only one survivor from the hunting party. She was unarmed, and Obi-Wan would rather not attack unless he was attacked. He had done enough today. He had done enough for three lifetimes, but the fate - or the Force - seemed not to care. Yet he stopped. He needed to stop.
Besides, Fett was giving mixed signals. He wasn’t going to cause any bigger mess than he already had.
Obi-Wan recovered the hurt saber with the Force. This belonged to the temple, where it could be far from this bloodshed and where it could be what it was: a memory of the dead. Not a way to determine today.
Obi-Wan didn't want to go back to his master just yet. He was sure the fight was nearing the end, but he didn't want to join the last efforts either. Not when he wasn’t even supposed to have his saber.
Hopefully, Dooku had a better chance at hiding his saber. While Obi-Wan too could fight only with the Force and whatever he found, he didn't trust the body to hold up for so long.
So he walked away. Where didn't matter, but soon it proved to be a bad idea. There were corpses everywhere, a few arms fried and a few armours unrecognisable, some beyond repair due to deep saber dents, the smell of burnt flesh taking over his senses.
Quiet, dark. Corpses on the ground. Was this a nightmare? His home was smelling ash and fire, and it was crying to Obi-Wan, thousands of years worth warmth and light nowhere. A good part of it was Obi-Wan's doing. To match the sith's plans, he had become as violent as them. But there was no one to lecture him. Yoda was dead.
There was no one to save.
His breaths hitched. He was glad he had already sent a message out. He didn't believe he had the strength to do it anymore. He didn't believe himself for a second when he had been so blind to everything. He didn't believe himself when his brother had slaughtered his family.
Obi-Wan followed the trail deeper into the temple. If he didn't know Master Nu was now trying to wipe the archives, he would run there and do it himself. But he feared he would only slow the woman down. Instead, he ran to the Halls of Healing, knowing what he was going to see.
Walking through the sith's artwork, Obi-Wan heard the battle calm down. He heard the last shouts of resistance die slowly, blaster bolts hitting flesh.
Until it began again. To make sure Jedi were actually dead, the clones began going over the corpses.
Someone pulled him into one of the shadow passages in the wall. He was too tired to care, too hurt to think clearly until he was spun around and—
Younglings survived.
Obi-Wan would never forgive himself if those bright souls didn't make it out of the temple.
"We saved as much as we can," one of the temple guards muttered, quiet. Footsteps outside drummed the floor.
"Good," Obi-Wan breathed out, daring to see how many survived. He could count two crechelings per guard, which made at least fifteen Jedi. More than enough for Obi-Wan to keep fighting for. "Do the guard lines work separately from the temple network?"
The guard nodded.
"Take two younglings each. Go sixty first floor and use the underground hangar there— those ships aren't registered but looked after well. Hide seperately but don't—" Obi-Wan stopped as blaster sounds rose again.
"—Don't ever cut contact. Meet each other once in a while. Support each other, for a Jedi is never alone and should not be. Be each other's light because it will be a while before we ever get to see brighter days."
The guard nodded, ushering everyone deeper with now a way off planet. Obi-Wan turned back, to exit the little hiding place because he was yet to check two places, and he could be of use in the archives.
"What about you?"
Obi-Wan didn't flinch. But it was alarming that he wasn't aware of his surroundings. A guard was not gone. He turned to see who it was—
Oh.
Feemor stood with his mask on his hands, hair damp with sweat and armour dirty. Was this really how they were destined to meet? Fighting for their life, fighting for their family's life when all they could do was slow this slaughter?
"I will check the Halls of Healing. And then—"
The creche. He didn't think he had the heart to do that.
"And then I'll act as distraction. You should get the younglings out, if any is still here."
"We managed to evacuate most of the infants," Feemor informed. "What about... Skywalker?"
"He's no longer a problem," Obi-Wan answered. He didn't want to voice what he did, but he knew he had to, if only to relieve Feemor of another source of worry. "I killed him."
"I'll check the creche one last time," Feemor muttered absedmindedly. "There could be younglings hiding."
"Stay alive," Obi-Wan managed to give a small smile before getting ready to bolt outside. "May the Force be with you, brother."
He didn't stay long enough to hear the response. And after that, Obi-Wan bolted to add to the sith's artwork. He was numb, unable to even feel as his mind still tried to progress the loss of all the lights at once as he matched the sith's violence. Jedi was a one man army, he was a one man army and it was going to take more than an army to take him down.
"Obi-Wan?"
Obi-Wan stopped. Or he had atopped a long time ago but only now grasped where he was. It mattered so little. Opposing to his mind being flooded by the memories he would rather forget, someone offered him light.
Dooku offered him light.
Ridiculous. Between someone who defied the dark until his last breath and someone who tried to find justice in it, the latter was offering the light. But light was light, and Obi-Wan needed it. Obi-Wan needed the light. He needed to keep remembering there were people to save.
And there was a way to save himself.
Trying to tie himself back to reality, Obi-Wan saw the slaughter. It was disturbingly familiar and again by his hands. These regular soldiers didn't have to die because of following orders. Clones didn't deserve to die because they were following orders.
Shakily, he stepped forward. He didn't trust himself to stay awake any longer. He was drained of every bit of strength and willpower. So he slumped against the first support he found.
He couldn't focus on Dooku as he was picked up. He didn't have the energy to think how humiliating the action was. Because Obi-Wan was failing to keep his from shutting off as if he were a real youngling. This small body was useless— and worse, too fragile to walk to safety, let alone fixing the future he lived through.
Obi-Wan reached out the Force for some stability. He had to get his strength back before he became a burden to Dooku. He had no talent in healing, but at least he could beat himself into a healing trance by sheer stubbornness. One more quirk Vokara Che would kill him if she ever learned.
Dooku helped, again. It came without the unsettling feeling this time, at least. Was Obi-Wan growing fond of the man?
He couldn't bring himself to care as his mind descended deeper into the comforting feeling.
Good, Obi-Wan was reminded again and again through his life, was not for him. He felt his mind surface just as fast as it sank, but this time, there was no light grounding him. He hated his first instinct was to reach out to light, to comfort. The empire sometimes put captured Jedi into statis just to catch the Jedi who were desperate for light. No matter how much Obi-Wan tried to spring those traps first, it always caught a few Jedi before he could stop it.
To his assurance, the light, Dooku, pinged back.
Force, why he couldn't magically have his stability back like he had his family back?
Obi-Wan rolled over his hands— wrapped. He had not expected Dooku to actually take care of him. There was a political mess and probably too much to clean up. Perhaps this was more about how manytimes Obi-Wan woke up on his ship's floor, alone and still bleeding, rather than the situation.
He sat up. He was again on a ship's floor. But this time warm, relatively uninjured and safe. His lightsaber was just next to him, with another one. A triangular one. Obi-Wan of course knew what it was. He just refused to acknowledge until it was someone else's problem. Preferably the council's. Or the senate's. Anyone else's but his.
The lightsaber buzzed.
Kriff.
Since when lightsabers physically buzzed? Sure, they were half sentient, but only in the Force.
Crawling towards it, Obi-Wan first took his own saber and pushed the Darksaber a little. The Darksaber never did this through his lifetime. Not even when he possessed it for a short while in his first time on planet (a long and embarrassing story he would rather not remember).
He was smarter than this. He knew better than just poke a weapon especially powered by Force.
The saber split into two with a hiss.
Madame Nu was going to kill him. He ignored his first thought wasn't his immediate safety but the archivist's anger.
The kyber was pitch black, like coal. It looked like natural beskar ores (another long story). Obi-Wan didn't break eye contact as he stood slowly, still shaky. He must have woken before he reached the better end of the trance.
A blue hue took over before an armoured figure appeared. Obi-Wan reached out to feel if it was light, and the Force supplied him with calmness. This was no Force ghost, at least. He had enough trouble with Qui-Gon's one due to his state of mind back then. He couldn't imagine dealing with a historical figure who had more unhinged mission records than himself.
Honestly, he was only surprised to get this recording through a lightsaber. The individual feeling in the Force was just an illusion.
"I wouldn't judge that fast," the Mando broke the silence. "Your recording holds as much as your personality as this has mine."
Obi-Wan frowned. "Master Vizsla," he greeted just for the courtesy, but possibly the man couldn't know about the small recording he made in the temple's homing beacon. It was yet to happen. It was never going to happen if Obi-Wan had anything to say about that. But that two had to be different in nature. Obi-Wan only narrated the information he had while this could read Obi-Wan.
"Any kyber is capable of holding data. Most prefer to have an emergency safe in shape of their creator," the holocron explained.
"So this is a holocron," Obi-Wan muttered. This was the jackpot.
"More likely a big data chip." The holocron corrected. "But tell me, what in the haran my lightsaber do to you for you to try to blow it up?"
"It wanted to be liberated. My opinion is insufficient communication on the saber's part."
The figure tilted its helmet. "I'd love serving with you. Now, I have the locations of flagships stationed on Manda'yaim if you want to blow things up so badly."
"It's my pleasure."