Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A thick tension, heavy and sour, settled over the small command center. It clung to the stale air and the holographic displays projecting battle maps, making even the low hum of the ventilation feel abrasive.

Anakin stood stiffly, a coil of barely contained fury, facing his former Master. His jaw was clenched tight enough to grind rock, and his mechanical hand rested on the hilt of his lightsaber—not in a hostile gesture, but in a display of sheer, restless energy.

"It’s not 'rash,' Master," Anakin bit out, the word laced with disdain, "it’s proactive. We’ve been sitting here for two rotations while the Separatists fortify that flank. I could take the 501st, hit them from the north, and roll them up before dawn."

Obi-Wan took a slow, deliberate breath, his expression a careful study in restraint. He stood near a table, leaning slightly on it, a posture designed to appear relaxed rather than defensive. It wasn't working.

"Anakin, look at the intelligence," Obi-Wan said, his voice a low, smooth counterpoint to Anakin's sharp edge. He tapped a point on the nearby holographic map—a dark, jagged line indicating enemy troop density. "Their defense there is too deep. A direct assault, even with your skill, would be costly, if not catastrophic. We need to wait for the fleet to arrive and use their orbital bombardment to soften the target."

"Wait, wait, wait," Anakin scoffed, shoving a hand through his hair in frustration. "That's all you ever say anymore! You're paralyzed by caution! I'm not waiting for some old Republic procedure to clear while my men are out on the wire. We take the risk, we win."

The air crackled with the sheer force of Anakin’s impatience, and Obi-Wan’s face tightened infinitesimally at the implied accusation of cowardice.

Commander Cody, standing a few steps behind Obi-Wan and observing the argument with the practiced, weary neutrality of a man who'd seen this same scene play out a hundred times, subtly shifted his weight. His presence was a solid, reassuring anchor in the room. He didn't speak, knowing his direct involvement would only further inflame Anakin, who already felt ganged up on.

Instead, Cody's eyes met Obi-Wan's over Anakin's shoulder—a brief, silent exchange that spoke volumes. Steady, General, the look conveyed. He’s running hot. Don't engage the hooks.

Obi-Wan understood. He straightened fully, pushing himself away from the table to give himself more space, more neutrality. "Anakin, I understand your desire for action, but this is not about 'waiting.' It's about strategy, and minimizing casualties—"

"It's about letting opportunity slip away!" Anakin roared, taking a confrontational step closer. "You're too concerned with 'minimizing casualties' to seize the victory! Maybe you've lost your edge, Master. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable."

The insinuation hung in the air, a deliberate barb thrown not at a military decision, but at Obi-Wan's very nature. Cody's hand, resting lightly on the belt of his armor, clenched into a fist. He took a single, slow step forward, a non-verbal warning to his General's former Padawan.

Obi-Wan felt the presence of his Commander and, for a fleeting second, the tension in his own shoulders eased. He gave a tiny, nearly invisible shake of his head in Cody's direction—Stay back—before turning his focus back to the whirling tempest that was Anakin.

"My 'edge' is irrelevant, Padawan," Obi-Wan said, allowing a sliver of coolness to enter his tone. He needed to find a way to break the escalating loop. "This conversation is over. We will proceed with the original plan."

"No, it's not over!" Anakin's voice was sharp, desperate now. He was pushing for a reaction, for a fight he could win, or at least feel justified in having. "You’re deliberately holding me back. You don’t trust me! You never have!"

Obi-Wan’s patience, always a deep well, began to drain, leaving behind a hard, crystalline core of exasperation. He met Anakin’s furious gaze without flinching.

"This has nothing to do with trust, Anakin," Obi-Wan insisted, his voice hardening slightly. "Don't be absurd. I trust you with my life—I always have. I trust your instincts in a fight, and I trust your heart. This is about making the mission as successful as possible while simultaneously preventing as many casualties as possible."

"See? That's the problem!" Anakin shot back, gesturing wildly between Obi-Wan and the tactical display. "You prioritise 'preventing casualties' over winning quickly and decisively! The longer we wait, the more certain our losses become! You’re choking the victory!"

"I am planning, Anakin," Obi-Wan corrected sharply. "Something you seem determined to avoid."

"If you were truly planning, we'd be moving! You're hesitant, Master. You're too timid, and it's going to cost us the sector!" Anakin’s chest heaved with the force of his emotion. He felt the familiar, burning resentment rise in his throat, a venomous thought that he knew, deep down, was cruel, but which he couldn't stop himself from articulating. He needed to strike, to land a blow that would force Obi-Wan to react, to feel the frustration Anakin was experiencing.

The words tasted like ash, but he pushed them out anyway.

"I wish I had a Master who wasn’t afraid to take the necessary risk," Anakin spat, his eyes burning. He lowered his voice, making the next words all the more cutting. "If Qui-Gon had lived, if he had been the one to train me, we wouldn't be having this problem. He would understand. He would have seen my potential and the path to victory instead of constantly trying to rein me in. Maybe it would have been better if..." He paused, the final phrase hanging unspoken for a heart-stopping second, before he forced it out, "if he had lived instead of you."

The silence that followed was instant and absolute, a sharp inhale of frozen air.

Obi-Wan didn't react visibly—no shout, no sudden movement. He simply stood there, a sudden, profound emptiness in his usually expressive eyes. The words had done exactly what Anakin intended, striking the deepest vein of Obi-Wan’s long-held grief and guilt over his own Master’s death.

Before Obi-Wan could even gather a breath to respond, Cody moved.

The Commander stepped immediately past Obi-Wan, his heavy bootfalls echoing loudly on the deck. Cody’s face, usually calm and composed, was set in a mask of rigid fury that made him look like cold steel.

"General Skywalker," Cody said, his voice flat and dangerously low. It was not the familiar, respectful tone of a clone commander to a Jedi General, but an order given with absolute authority. "That's enough. You will leave this command center now."

Anakin blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden interjection and the sheer force radiating off the clone. "Excuse me, Commander? You don't get to—"

"I said now," Cody cut him off, taking another step that closed the distance between them, leaning slightly forward until his armoured helmet dominated Anakin’s vision. "The argument is over. Your General has given his orders. You will not stand here and speak to him that way. Not ever. Leave.”

Cody's command was a rock-solid wall. Anakin saw no room for negotiation, no crack to exploit, only an unflinching determination that mirrored his own best soldiers. The coldness in Cody’s eyes—the utter lack of warmth or recognition—drove the point home harder than any threat. Anakin glowered, knowing a physical confrontation with the highly-trained Commander would be pointless and unprofessional, especially in front of Obi-Wan.

With a ragged, frustrated sound, Anakin spun on his heel. He strode out of the command center, the sound of the door hissing shut behind him a final, angry punctuation mark.

Anakin stalked down the metallic corridor of the temporary command outpost, his boots striking the deck plates with aggressive, rhythmic thuds. His mind was a maelstrom of justified rage and bitter shame. He knew he'd gone too far, hitting Obi-Wan where it hurt the most, but the satisfaction of the blow warred viciously with the sudden exhaustion of having deployed it.

He focused on the argument, feeding the fury: Obi-Wan’s paralysing caution, the disrespect from Cody—a clone ordering him, a Jedi Knight, out of the room!

As the familiar, adrenaline-fueled anger peaked, something else filtered into his awareness. It wasn't a voice, but a feeling—a subtle shift in the vast ocean of the Force. It whispered around him, a cool current of profound, inescapable truth.

...change...

The sensation was sharp, urgent, and deeply unsettling. It wasn't a warning of danger, but a vast, silent hum of realisation. Anakin dismissed it, shaking his head hard, attributing it to stress and lack of sleep.

...time...

The whisper intensified, a silent pressure behind his eyes. He stopped dead in the hallway, his mechanical hand clutching the discarded helmet. The anger, so immediate just moments ago, suddenly felt distant, like a fire running out of fuel. A staggering, almost physical tiredness washed over him, a bone-deep exhaustion he hadn't felt even after days on the front lines. The adrenaline evaporated, leaving him hollow.

He leaned against the cold metal bulkhead, trying to drag in a shaky breath, but the weariness was overwhelming. His vision swam, the lights of the corridor stretching into blinding, star-like streaks. He slid down the wall, the helmet clattering to the floor beside him. He tried to call out, to reach for the Force to keep him upright, but it felt suddenly far away, muffled, and too heavy to lift.

The last thing Anakin saw was the dull gleam of the metal floor.

Chapter Text

Anakin woke to the scent of ozone and polished stone, a familiar, comforting smell that dragged him from the thick haze of unconsciousness. Anakin groaned, pushing himself up. The smooth, cool stone beneath his hands immediately registered: The Jedi Temple.

He was in an open hallway. Sunlight, filtered through the high, arched windows of Coruscant's upper levels, pooled warmly on the floor. It was a space he knew well, a corridor near the Council chambers, but the light seemed clearer, the silence deeper than he remembered. He was still wearing his tunic and trousers, though his boots and belt were gone, and the heavy feeling of the Force he usually carried—the weight of war and responsibility—was gone. He felt strangely light.

Then he saw him.

The boy was standing a short distance away, gazing out one of the massive windows at the cityscape. He was small, perhaps no older than thirteen, dressed in simple, neatly pressed Jedi training robes. He had a surprisingly familiar profile, with auburn hair that flopped over his forehead and a smattering of light freckles across the bridge of his nose. When the boy turned, his eyes—a striking, inquisitive blue—met Anakin’s.

Anakin’s heart gave a heavy, disorienting lurch in his chest. A name, whispered by instinct and disbelief, escaped his lips.

"Obi-Wan?”

The question was laced with incredulity. The boy looked nothing like the Master he’d just left on the outpost—not yet scarred by war, not bearing the lines of constant worry and careful restraint. The boy looked youthful, vibrant, and utterly innocent.

It can’t be, Anakin thought, scrambling fully to his feet, ignoring the faint dizziness. Why would he be so young?

Just as Anakin was trying to reconcile the boy’s identity with the man he knew, a sharp, sneering voice cut through the Temple’s silence.

“Well, look who it is. Oafy-Wan himself, daydreaming again.”

Anakin froze. The insult—crude, schoolyard, and utterly disrespectful—slammed into him. His Obi-Wan, his Master, the man he had just viciously attacked, was a General, a diplomat, and a highly respected member of the Jedi Council. The thought of anyone referring to him with such childish contempt sparked a fresh surge of protectiveness, instantly displacing his confusion.

He spun around, ready to confront the speaker, his hand instinctively going to where his lightsaber hilt should have been.

Standing a few meters away was a boy slightly older than the young Obi-Wan, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He was tall, lean, and carried himself with a nasty swagger. His hair was an unnatural shade of white-blonde, and his lips were curled into a cruel, superior smirk. He was utterly unfamiliar to Anakin.

The young Obi-Wan, standing by the window, visibly flinched at the sound of the voice, his shoulders drawing inward. He turned slowly, his blue eyes losing their momentary curiosity as they landed on the newcomer.

“Hello, Bruck,” the young Obi-Wan said, his voice quiet, almost resigned.

Bruck sneered, taking a step forward. “Still wasting space in the Temple, Kenobi? They should have sent you off to the Corps years ago. You’re slow, you can’t fight, and you spend more time polishing the tiles than you do polishing your skills. You’ll never be a Jedi Knight; everyone knows it.”

Anakin felt his blood boil. This Bruck was a bully, plain and simple, and the casual cruelty in his voice was making the young Obi-Wan wilt right in front of him. Anakin stepped forward, his own anger now directed squarely at the blonde boy.

“Hey! Back off!” Anakin snapped, his voice ringing loud in the hall. “That’s enough. Leave him alone.”

Bruck didn't pause his tirade. He didn't blink. He didn't even twitch an ear in Anakin's direction.

“They say Master Jinn is desperate enough to take on a charity case, but even he can see you’re a lost cause, Oafy-Wan,” Bruck continued, advancing on Obi-Wan. “You’re just delaying the inevitable. You belong with the farmers.”

A cold dread settled in Anakin’s stomach. Bruck was talking through him. It was as if Anakin had made no sound at all.

Anakin moved decisively, cutting in front of Bruck to physically block his path to Obi-Wan. “I said stop talking to him like that!” he commanded, trying to force Bruck to acknowledge his presence, to at least make eye contact.

Bruck simply walked right on, maintaining his vicious smirk, his body moving through the space where Anakin stood without resistance.

Horror washed over Anakin. He watched the white-blonde hair and the hateful face pass directly through his field of vision. Scrambling to prove he was real, Anakin reached out, aiming to grab Bruck's shoulder and spin him around. He reached for the solid feel of fabric, of bone, of presence—

His hand closed on nothing. It passed completely and utterly through Bruck’s shoulder as if the bully were made of smoke and Anakin were merely air. Bruck continued his taunt, completely oblivious.

Anakin stared at his own hand—his real, flesh-and-blood hand—that had failed to connect with anything. He was here, he was standing, he was breathing, yet in this space, he was nothing. He was a ghost.

The sight of his own hand passing through Bruck galvanized Anakin with a sense of utter powerlessness. He was trapped, a furious spectator in a memory, or something like it.

Bruck was right in front of the young Obi-Wan now, his stance aggressive. "Why aren't you saying anything, Kenobi? Going to run to the Council? Or maybe you'll just cry? Oh, wait, you're going to try and lecture me, aren't you?"

The young Obi-Wan took a subtle step back, a gesture Anakin recognized instantly as the beginning of a defense mechanism. "Bruck, there's no need for this," Obi-Wan said, his voice quiet but steady. He looked away from Bruck’s cruel eyes, a clear attempt to deescalate. "We are both training in the Temple. We should be focusing on our studies, not antagonism."

Bruck threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, barking sound. "Ever the mediator," he mocked, leaning in close. "You think you can smooth everything over with a calm tone and a pleasant smile? You can’t even handle a simple confrontation, Kenobi! You’ll never be a warrior. You're too soft. Too preoccupied with politeness and trying not to offendanyone."

Anakin watched, helpless, as the words struck their intended target. He could see the faint flush rise on Obi-Wan’s pale cheeks, a betrayal of the calm facade. Anakin recognized the expression: the slight downward twitch of the mouth, the sudden, strained stillness in the eyes. It was the look of a person internalizing a deep, unwanted truth.

Bruck was speaking the opposite of everything Anakin had just accused his Master of being—timid, cautious, overly concerned with casualties. Yet, seeing these same traits weaponised against a vulnerable young Obi-Wan, Anakin felt a profound, chilling sense of reversal.

The sheer cruelty of Bruck's attack was laid bare, and Anakin could feel the emotional reverberations of the words settling deep into the boy’s mind, taking root in his heart. This was more than teasing; it was an attempt to dismantle Obi-Wan’s confidence entirely.

"You're pathetic, Kenobi," Bruck finished with a dismissive shrug, the ultimate insult delivered with the casualness of stating the weather. He turned to walk away, having achieved his goal of inflicting maximum psychological damage. "You'll be better off when they finally kick you out."

Anakin surged forward again, frustration overwhelming his rational mind. He didn't care that he was a ghost; he wanted to scream, to lash out, to protect the young man whose older self he had just utterly betrayed.

"I said, get away from him!" Anakin roared, though he knew the sound was just air where he stood.

Obi-Wan stood alone now, gazing at the spot where Bruck had been, his shoulders slumped. The light freckles on his face seemed to stand out against his pallor. He didn't move. He simply stared, absorbing the remnants of the humiliation.

Anakin, still burning with impotent rage, turned back to the young Obi-Wan. The boy looked lost, radiating a deep, quiet sadness that hurt Anakin to witness. He knew that look—the practiced internalization of pain, the refusal to let others see the hurt.

"Obi-Wan," Anakin whispered, stepping close. He knelt down slightly, desperate to bridge the gap between his spectral form and the boy’s reality. "Don't listen to him. Bruck is an idiot. You're going to be a great Jedi. A great General. You’re..." He trailed off, the irony of his own cruel words from moments ago crushing him. "You're the best of us."

He reached out and gently laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, trying to convey a fraction of the Force-infused reassurance he might give Ahsoka or a wounded trooper. His hand passed straight through, a brief, cold ripple in the air that Obi-Wan didn't register.

Anakin clenched his fist, sinking onto his heels in despair. He was screaming in a cage of glass, unable to reach the boy who was clearly suffering.

Before Anakin could try another desperate attempt, a new, massive presence entered the hallway, instantly noticeable in the Force. It was a calm, earthy energy, like the deep roots of a great tree.

Qui-Gon Jinn strode into view, his long stride authoritative yet unhurried. He was exactly as Anakin had always imagined: tall, cloaked, with a flowing mane of dark hair and a wise, yet slightly aloof, expression.

Qui-Gon stopped next to his Padawan, placing a large, comforting hand on the boy's head and running it lightly through his auburn hair.

"There you are, Padawan. I've been looking for you," Qui-Gon said, his voice deep and warm, completely oblivious to the recent confrontation. He didn't notice anything was wrong. His eyes scanned the empty hallway and then settled on Obi-Wan. "I was just heading to the archives. The Masters want a full breakdown on those Hutt trade routes. Are you ready?"

Obi-Wan instantly snapped out of his defeated posture. The sadness in his eyes vanished, replaced by an expression of bright, attentive eagerness that was entirely too sudden, entirely too clean. He looked up at Qui-Gon, and a smile bloomed on his face.

It was a beautiful smile, complete and engaging—and Anakin, the man who had known Obi-Wan for twenty years, knew with absolute certainty that it was a fake. It didn't reach his eyes; those blue irises remained guarded and a little hollow. It was the same mask Obi-Wan wore when a strategy failed or when a friend was injured: the one that said, I am fine. I am ready. Do not worry about me.

"Yes, Master," the young Obi-Wan replied, his voice cheerful, perhaps a shade too loud. "I've already highlighted the points of greatest friction. I was just reviewing the historical precedents for Hutt tariffs before joining you."

Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulder approvingly. "Good boy. Always thinking ahead." He turned and continued his walk toward the archives entrance.

The young Obi-Wan fell into step beside his Master, his head held high, the image of a focused and eager Padawan. But as he walked past Anakin, the boy let his gaze drop for a quick, fleeting moment, and Anakin saw a deep, unshakeable loneliness settling back into his expression, only to be snapped away again as he focused on Qui-Gon’s words.

Anakin watched them go, two figures walking together—the Master and the student he had just wished were alive instead of his own Master. The bitterness of his earlier rage was replaced by a crushing wave of guilt and confusion. He felt utterly foolish, a ghost watching the past play out a scene he now desperately wished he could rewrite.

Anakin remained rooted in the polished stone corridor, watching the receding figures of Qui-Gon and the young, suffering Obi-Wan. The hallway, so familiar yet alien, felt like a cage. His earlier fiery anger had dissipated entirely, leaving him cold, hollowed out by a dawning comprehension of the cruelty he had inflicted on his own Master just moments before he was flung into this temporal displacement.

He turned his gaze inward, reaching out with the barest thread of his consciousness. He desperately sought the all-encompassing presence of the Force, the energy he was so intimately connected to.

"Force," Anakin pleaded, his voice a ragged whisper that only he could hear. "Why am I here? Why show me this? I heard the whispers... change... time."

He pressed harder, seeking a sign, a nudge, the familiar flow of cosmic awareness. He demanded answers from the infinite energy that surrounded and sustained all life.

"What is the meaning of this? Why send me now? What am I supposed to realize?"

He was met with a profound, terrifying silence.

The Force was present, certainly; he could feel the vibrant life of the Temple and the deep serenity of Qui-Gon's distant presence. But for Anakin, the conduit was closed. There were no comforting waves, no illuminating guidance, no immediate answers. The Force, usually so eager to communicate with him, had presented a puzzle and then stepped back, leaving him alone in the past, a frantic, helpless observer.

Anakin clenched his fists, the frustration rising again, but tempered this time by stark realisation. He wasn't sent here to fight or to act. He was here to see. He had demanded answers from his Master, and the Force, in its subtle, merciless way, had given him a mirror of the very man he had accused—a man who had learned early to prioritise calm and restraint not out of timidity, but out of necessity and survival against bullies like Bruck.

He was a ghost, unable to interfere, forced to watch the quiet, defining moments that had forged Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Chapter Text

The Temple corridor shimmered and dissolved around Anakin. The smooth stone and filtered sunlight warped into a hazy kaleidoscope of colours, accompanied by a soundless, dizzying rush, like falling through hyperspace without a cockpit window.

Just as suddenly, it stopped.

Anakin found himself standing in a large, circular training dojo. The air here was warmer, thicker with the scent of exertion and old leather. He looked around. The space was mostly empty, save for a few weapon racks and scattered practice gear.

He saw Obi-Wan immediately. He was a couple years older, likely around 17 now, dressed in his Padawan robes. He was facing Qui-Gon, who stood in a watchful posture a few meters away.

Obi-Wan held his lightsaber and executed a flawless sequence of the basic Jedi katas. His movements were precise, efficient, and fluid—every block, every strike, every transition executed with perfect form. He finished the final flourish, his breathing even and controlled.

Obi-Wan extinguished the saber and looked eagerly toward his Master. "Master," he asked, a hint of impatience in his voice, "when will I get to learn the more complex katas? I already know these ones."

Qui-Gon remained still, his expression unreadable. "You will learn them, Padawan," he replied, his voice calm and deep. "When the time comes."

Obi-Wan’s shoulders sagged, and the eager light in his blue eyes dimmed. He looked dejected, his gaze dropping to the lightsaber in his hands.

Anakin felt a fresh surge of confusion and frustration, not at Obi-Wan, but at Qui-Gon. What does that even mean? he thought wildly. Just when was that time?

He watched Obi-Wan. The boy had performed the kata with perfection—a feat that would earn him effusive praise from Anakin, who had always struggled to master the repetitive forms. But Qui-Gon hadn't even offered a simple compliment.

Why wasn't Qui-Gon teaching them to him now? Anakin wondered. He just said, 'when the time comes.' Why was he being so vague? All he had to do was explain why!

Anakin looked from the young, disheartened Padawan to the impassive Master. Did he not notice how insecure Obi-Wan looked?

Anakin felt a powerful contrast bloom in his mind:

Obi-Wan always praised Anakin whenever he did katas, even when he did them wrong. He would correct the stance, then immediately follow up with, "But that turn was excellent, Anakin! Keep that focus."

Qui-Gon, meanwhile, simply watched Obi-Wan stare mournfully at the lightsaber in his hand, offering no further reassurance or explanation. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of Obi-Wan's disappointment. This was not the nurturing, accepting Master Anakin had imagined. This was a distance, a challenge—a style of teaching that was clearly isolating his student.

Qui-Gon watched Obi-Wan for another moment, his expression unyielding. Then, he shifted his focus entirely, the training lesson apparently complete in his mind.

"Enough of the katas for now, Padawan," Qui-Gon stated, his tone shifting back to instruction. "I need you to go to the Archives. Retrieve the full collection of texts on the different prophecies concerning the balance of the Force."

Obi-Wan’s shoulders, which had only just begun to recover from the sting of Bruck’s words, slumped again slightly. "Again, Master?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine reluctance. "Why? I… I don't particularly enjoy reading them, and you’ve already explained most of them to me. I know the general shape of them by now."

Qui-Gon turned and began walking towards the dojo entrance, expecting Obi-Wan to follow. "The prophecies are important, Obi-Wan," he said simply. "They shape the future."

Obi-Wan scrambled to catch up, his brow furrowed with honest intellectual confusion, not petulance. "But Master," he pressed, "aren’t the Jedi supposed to be focused on the moment? Aren't we taught not to dwell on what will be?"

He paused, then added a deeper, more challenging question, one born of the careful logic Anakin knew so well. "And what is the point of studying the prophecies if the events are inevitable and will happen anyway? Why risk overthinking it, allowing the prophecy to become your entire life, when it is already set in stone? You’d only be giving up the chance to enjoy the time you have before those great, sweeping prophecies inevitably go into play."

Anakin, listening to the young Obi-Wan articulate such a mature, centered philosophy, felt a sharp, painful jolt of realization.

He's right, Anakin thought, standing invisibly beside them. He's absolutely right.

Qui-Gon merely offered a vague, dismissive answer, waving a hand in the air. "A Jedi must understand all perspectives, Padawan. Go, now." He offered no deeper philosophical engagement, no explanation for why his actions contradicted the core Jedi teaching of living in the present. He was brushing off a truly insightful observation from his student.

Anakin watched Obi-Wan accept the vague instruction with a sigh and turn toward the Archives. The guilt over his own recent accusations hit Anakin with renewed force.

He was the Chosen One. For quite some time, he had been known only by that title, a destiny forced upon him. Even now, some members of the Council and the Temple only saw the prophecy when they looked at him.

But Obi-Wan, his Master, his real Master, had always fought against that burden.

Anakin had never really thought about it until this moment, seeing the opposite approach being implemented by Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan always made sure Anakin knew that he could still be Anakin, the impulsive, talented, flawed, and deeply loved man, despite the ancient prophecy hanging over his head.

Anakin was suddenly, intensely grateful for Obi-Wan’s persistent focus on the now, on the person, not the potential. It was the only reason he hadn't fully broken under the pressure. That cautious, present-focused nature, which Anakin had just mocked as "timid," was the very quality that had anchored him and saved him countless times.

Anakin remained a silent observer in the training dojo, his mind racing through the painful dichotomy of the man he knew and the boy he was watching. The Force remained silent, but the weight of his own misjudgment was deafening. He had always seen Obi-Wan’s caution as a defect, a fear of decisive action. Now, he saw it as a deep-seated survival mechanism, born from constant scrutiny, casual dismissal, and the need to be meticulous to counter the "Oafy-Wan" label.

He thought of Cody, standing solid and protective in the command center, reflecting the loyalty Obi-Wan had earned. He thought of his own Master's constant, encouraging praise, a deliberate antidote to the coldness he was seeing now. Obi-Wan had protected Anakin not just from the enemy, but from the crushing expectations of the prophecy, something his own Master was now forcing him to obsess over. The realization stung. He hadn't just been arguing with Obi-Wan; he'd been insulting the very foundation of the Master-Padawan relationship that had saved him.

A few minutes later, the training dojo door slid open, and Obi-Wan returned, carefully balancing a stack of ancient, leather-bound data disks and scrolls. He set them down on a nearby low table, dusting off his hands.

Qui-Gon was still standing exactly where he had been, staring out a large, arched window at the Coruscant sky, his expression distant.

Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, then took a tentative step toward his Master, seeking connection after the sting of the argument with Bruck and the vague instruction on the katas.

"Master," Obi-Wan began, his voice soft, almost yearning. "I ran into Bruck on the way back. He... he was saying the usual things. About the Corps, about my skill."

Obi-Wan didn't look for sympathy, only for acknowledgement, a moment of shared frustration, or perhaps a word of encouragement.

Qui-Gon turned only his head, his gaze sweeping over Obi-Wan, but his mind seemed elsewhere, still focused on the unseen horizon. "Bruck is an arrogant boy, Padawan. You must learn to let go of the comments of others. They are insignificant distractions."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied quickly, swallowing his disappointment and trying a different approach. He was still trying to connect with his Master, to share something of his inner life. "I know. It’s just... sometimes I worry. About my future. If I will ever be what you need me to be, or if I should truly just accept the Corps. It can be difficult to know what the right path is."

The vulnerable admission hung in the air—a profound question about his destiny, his worth, and his relationship with his Master.

Qui-Gon finally turned fully, but his eyes were still alight with a focused intensity that had nothing to do with Obi-Wan's anxieties. He walked past Obi-Wan and gestured toward the stack of ancient texts.

"Your path will be determined by the Force, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, his voice deep and philosophical, completely missing the emotional undercurrent of his Padawan's question. "Do not dwell on the trivialities of schoolboy rivalries.Look at these."

He picked up a scroll and held it out. "These prophecies concern the balance of light and shadow, and the one who will bring the end of the Sith. This is the true measure of purpose, Padawan. The individual path is meaningless compared to the destiny of the galaxy."

Qui-Gon didn't even notice the young Obi-Wan’s face fall. He was lost in the vastness of the prophecies, making it painfully clear that his Padawan's personal feelings, insecurities, and need for validation were insignificant distractionscompared to the greater, overwhelming mystery of destiny. Obi-Wan’s true, desperate query was dismissed in favor of an abstract obsession with fate.

Anakin watched the boy nod stiffly, pick up a scroll, and force his attention onto the text, pushing his own anxieties deep down inside, once again adopting the mask of the dutiful, impersonal Padawan.

He didn't need a grand explanation, Anakin thought, feeling a crushing sorrow for the boy. He just needed to know that he mattered.

Anakin watched Obi-Wan retreat, a small figure diligently opening a massive scroll, dutifully burying his emotional needs beneath the weight of ancient prophecies. The full, agonizing realization of what he was witnessing—and why he was there—crashed down on Anakin.

He remembered countless instances over the years of the war, times when the expectations of the Jedi Council, the burdens of the Chosen One prophecy, or the crushing pressure of leading the war effort had driven him to doubt.

Every time Anakin went to Obi-Wan, questioning his own worth, his own sanity, or his place in the galaxy, every time he searched for comfort, Obi-Wan always said exactly what he needed to hear.

Anakin thought back to a moment just after the disastrous Battle of Jabiim, when he felt the weight of his failures intensely. He’d confessed his fear that he was too emotional, too attached, and fundamentally unfit to be a Jedi.

Obi-Wan had looked him straight in the eye and said, "Your emotions are your strength, Anakin. They make you human, and they make you caring. That attachment you fear is what makes you fight harder to protect those around you. You matter more than any prophecy, and you are exactly what the Force needs you to be."

Obi-Wan would also address the petty rivalries and the passive-aggressive scrutiny from other Masters with the same gentle firmness. When Anakin complained about other Padawans or Knights mocking his rough upbringing or his aggressive fighting style, Obi-Wan always dismissed them with an easy wave of his hand.

He'd calmly assert that the opinions of those who bullied Anakin or sought to diminish him didn’t matter, not when they were so blatantly wrong. He always made Anakin feel better, solidifying his identity against external judgment.

Now, standing in the cold light of the past, watching a young Obi-Wan wilt under casual cruelty and philosophical dismissal, Anakin understood the truth with a clarity that stung his eyes.

Obi-Wan hadn't been offering him generic platitudes. He hadn't been guessing. He was saying what he wished he had heard all those years ago. Every word of praise, every defense of Anakin’s unconventional spirit, every reassurance that his personal worth transcended his destiny—it was all the deep, unspoken comfort that the lonely boy in the training dojo and the bullied boy in the hallway had desperately needed, but had never received from his own Master.

Obi-Wan’s entire teaching philosophy with Anakin was a carefully constructed antidote to the painful solitude of his own Padawanhood. He was healing his past by saving Anakin’s future.

Anakin felt a wave of profound sorrow and desperate gratitude wash over him, eclipsing the last remnants of his anger. He owed Obi-Wan everything, and he had repaid that debt by throwing his Master’s childhood pain back in his face.

The sudden, chaotic feeling of displacement returned, sharper and more immediate than before. The image of the training dojo warped and stretched, and Anakin braced himself, knowing the moment of reckoning—or rescue—was upon him.

Chapter Text

The sudden, violent lurch of displacement seized Anakin. The training dojo, the scrolls, and the oblivious figure of Qui-Gon vanished in a flash of blinding white light and a roar of pressure in his ears.

He reformed with a gasp, the pressure instantly replaced by the quiet, cool air of the Jedi High Council Chamber.

Anakin stood near the center of the vast circular room, on the very spot he had occupied as a bewildered nine-year-old slave from Tatooine. The familiar, solemn faces of the Council Masters—Yoda, Mace Windu, Plo Koon, and the others—stared down from their elevated seats.

He was in the heart of one of the most pivotal moments of his life.

Directly in front of him, Qui-Gon Jinn stood tall, addressing the assembled Jedi Masters. Beside Qui-Gon stood a small, fidgeting boy with dark, shaggy hair: his younger self.

Anakin stared at the tiny figure—nervous, bright-eyed, and carrying the heavy scent of sand and uncertainty. A feeling of profound strangeness washed over him, almost a sense of being creeped out by this miniature, completely vulnerable version of himself.

He immediately turned, his eyes searching. Behind Qui-Gon, a few paces back and slightly to the side, stood Obi-Wan Kenobi. He was now older than the boy in the training dojo, perhaps nineteen or twenty, an apprentice on the cusp of Knighthood.

And he looked utterly alone.

Obi-Wan stood rigidly, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the floor. His presence was a stark contrast to Qui-Gon’s commanding posture; he was relegated to the status of an afterthought.

Anakin heard Master Windu’s grave voice echo in the chamber. "The Council senses much fear in him. Too old is he to begin the training. Unwise this is." The Council was refusing to accept the boy Anakin as a youngling.

Qui-Gon was unperturbed. He met the Council’s dismissal with his characteristic stubbornness. "I will train him then," Qui-Gon declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "He is the Chosen One. I will take him as my Padawan."

Anakin's full attention snapped back to the figure standing behind them. During the actual meeting, Anakin had been too confused, too overwhelmed, and too focused on the bright promise of freedom to even consider the man standing behind Qui-Gon.

But now, he saw it.

He saw how betrayed Obi-Wan must have felt. Qui-Gon had so blatantly, so instantly, cast Obi-Wan aside in favor of a stranger. Without a word, without a glance, without apparent care for the man standing behind him, the boy Qui-Gon had raised since childhood, Qui-Gon had chosen a destiny over his Padawan.

Obi-Wan's eyes, when Anakin finally fixed on them, confirmed the truth. They were shining with a painful gloss, held in check only by years of practiced Jedi discipline. The rigid set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders were a clear expression of a heartbreak that went deeper than just being passed over; it was the pain of utter replacement.

Internal frustration boiled inside Anakin. He screamed, a sound that no one heard. "Turn around, Qui-Gon!" he raged, desperate to force the Master to acknowledge the damage he was inflicting. "Look at him! See him! See what you’re doing!"

His desperate cry gained no reaction, no response from the spectral figures in the Council Chamber.

Then, Yoda’s distinct voice pierced the air from directly behind Anakin. "Qui-Gon, a Padawan you already have. Only one can you train."

Qui-Gon turned slightly, sparing Obi-Wan a brief, cursory glance. "Obi-Wan is ready for the trials," he stated, treating the end of their years-long relationship as a mere procedural technicality.

Obi-Wan, the model Padawan even in pain, stepped forward immediately, his spine ramrod straight. "I am ready for the trials, Masters," he agreed, his voice clear and unwavering.

But Anakin, his older self, could see through the practiced Jedi composure. He looked deep into Obi-Wan’s eyes and saw the raw, exposed fear, the sudden, terrible uncertainty. Obi-Wan was agreeing to the trials because he had just been told he was redundant. It was the only way to retain his dignity and escape the shadow of being immediately replaced. He was sacrificing the final period of preparation—perhaps the final moments of true connection with his Master—for the sake of his pride.

This moment, this casual dismissal, was the root of Obi-Wan’s most guarded fears. Anakin finally understood.

This is it, Anakin thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a thousand-ton hammer. This is the reason.

Obi-Wan hadn't just lost his Master; he'd been rejected for a nine-year-old stranger. He was forced into the Trials prematurely, alone, still grieving Qui-Gon’s distant nature, because his Master’s focus had shifted entirely to the prophecy and the power it represented.

Anakin suddenly saw the years of their relationship, not through his own lens of resentment and frustration, but through Obi-Wan’s eyes.

Obi-Wan sacrificed his last moments with his Master. He took on Anakin—the very source of his pain—out of a sense of duty to Qui-Gon’s final wish, even though the Council warned Anakin was dangerous. He then spent the next decade meticulously shielding Anakin from the very fate-obsessed pressures and emotional coldness that had defined his own youth.

Obi-Wan had lost his identity, his preparation, and his sense of belonging, all for Anakin. And in that command center, Anakin had thrown that sacrifice back in his face, telling him he wished he had died.

The guilt was a physical agony, a crushing weight far heavier than the armor he usually wore.

Chapter Text

The Council Chamber dissolved. The oppressive silence and the rigid figures twisted and warped into a warm, enclosed space.

Anakin materialized gently in a small, simply furnished room. The primary light source was a single, dim glow from a lamp near the head of a bed. This was Obi-Wan’s private quarters in the Temple.

He saw him instantly. Obi-Wan was sitting on the edge of the bed, slumped slightly, wearing only a simple sleep tunic. He looked utterly exhausted. The lines of weariness around his eyes were already pronounced, even in these early years of Anakin's apprenticeship. He held a datapad loosely in one hand, but his attention wasn’t on the text.

Curled up soundly next to him, his head resting against Obi-Wan’s hip and his small hands clutching the edge of the tunic, was Young Anakin. He was sound asleep, his face peaceful, the trauma of his nightmares momentarily subdued.

Anakin remembered this routine instantly. In the early days, the transition to the Temple and the constant stress of the Force had triggered paralyzing, violent nightmares. Obi-Wan had let him sleep in his room countless times, never complaining, never judging the display of weakness, always offering the gentle anchor of his presence.

A wave of intense, overwhelming fondness washed over Anakin. He saw the genuine, selfless care etched into the curve of Obi-Wan’s posture, the way he subtly leaned toward the sleeping boy. This was not the indifference of Qui-Gon; this was maternal, fraternal, total devotion.

Anakin realized just how deeply Obi-Wan cared for him. The bond went far deeper than the transactional connection of Master and Apprentice. It was pure, unconditional love—the kind of love Anakin craved and often feared, the kind of love Obi-Wan had never been shown by his own mentor.

He watched Obi-Wan gently lift his free hand and lightly smooth the hair from the forehead of the sleeping child—a fleeting, tender gesture that spoke volumes. The weariness in Obi-Wan's face was the cost of choosing love over detachment, the cost of being the Master Anakin needed, not the one the Council demanded.

Anakin stood, lost in the quiet domesticity of the room, feeling the profound comfort emanating from Obi-Wan's patient, tired form. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to reassure this younger, exhausted man that his efforts were not in vain, that the scared child sleeping beside him would one day fight fiercely for him.

Suddenly, the room dissolved once more, this time without the chaotic rush. The transition was smooth, instantaneous, and unsettlingly judgmental.

Chapter Text

Anakin found himself standing outside the command center on the dreary military outpost he had just been on. It was night, the air cold, and the only light came from the dim, reinforced door.

He wasn't alone. He felt the vast, silent, and entirely focused presence of the Force all around him, not as an answer, but as an inescapable witness. It was watching him.

The door to the command center became briefly transparent, showing a slow-motion replay of the argument that had triggered his temporal shift.

Anakin watched the scene unfold from this outside, objective perspective, detached from his own volatile emotions.

He saw Obi-Wan, standing rigidly near the table, his posture carefully open, trying to find a compromise, trying to de-escalate the tension. He saw the genuine strain in Obi-Wan's eyes as he spoke of minimizing casualties and strategy.

Then, he saw himself.

His spectral gaze locked onto his physical self, the older, confident Jedi General. He watched his face contort with fury, his mechanical hand clutching his lightsaber hilt, radiating impatience and self-righteousness.

He watched himself sneer, using the word "timid," throwing the accusations of lost "edge" and "paralysis by caution."Every word, every cruel inflection, echoed in the unnatural silence of the vision.

And then came the final, brutal cut: he watched himself lean in, his face tight with anger, and spit out the vicious words about Qui-Gon living instead of Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s reaction, which had been subtle and internalized during the real event, was painfully clear from this distance. The visible emptiness in his eyes, the way his shoulders instinctively slumped before he caught himself—it was the same heartbreak Anakin had just witnessed in the young Padawan being replaced in the Council Chamber.

Anakin felt a wave of nausea. He was disgusted by the man he was watching. The raw, unchecked ego, the juvenile petulance, and the monstrous ingratitude were laid bare. He saw himself as nothing more than a privileged bully, using his Master's deepest, most vulnerable grief as ammunition.

He understood now. The Force hadn't sent him to the past to learn about Qui-Gon or the prophecies; it had sent him there to learn about Obi-Wan's pain, so that he could recognize the cruelty of his own actions when he saw them performed against a ghost of that pain.

He was filled with bone-deep shame. He had been so blind, so self-absorbed in his frustration that he had failed to see the constant, quiet sacrifice of the man who loved him most.

The vision snapped away. The cold, dark night of the outpost's exterior vanished.

Anakin inhaled sharply, choking on a breath that felt thick with stale air and regret. He was no longer standing; he was slumped against the cold metal bulkhead of the corridor where he had collapsed. His helmet lay beside him.

He was back.

The last remnants of the visions faded, leaving him with an excruciating clarity and a desperate, immediate need to apologize. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the dull ache in his joints.

He had to find Obi-Wan.

Anakin shoved himself off the cold metal wall, the shame and the clarity of the visions fueling an intense, desperate need for immediate action. His earlier anger was utterly extinguished, replaced by a burning remorse. He had to find Obi-Wan, now, before any more time could pass.

He snatched his helmet from the floor and started moving, not stalking, but rushing down the corridor toward the command center door. He was so focused on finding his Master that he nearly collided with the solid, armored figure emerging from the opposite direction.

"General Skywalker," the voice was flat and tired.

It was Commander Cody. The clone stopped instantly, blocking Anakin’s path. He was carrying a datapad and a mug, his stance suggesting he was finally heading for a well-deserved, quiet break.

Anakin stopped short, running a trembling hand through his hair. He looked at the clone—the man whose loyalty he had just witnessed being earned over years of careful, selfless leadership—and felt a fresh spike of shame.

"Cody, where is he?" Anakin demanded, his voice low and urgent, devoid of its usual authority. "Where's Obi-Wan?"

Cody regarded him for a long moment, the visor of his helmet reflecting the hallway's dim light. He didn't move to step aside.

"General, why?" Cody asked, his voice visibly weary and deeply skeptical. "We just spent twenty minutes trying to de-escalate you. If you're coming back to argue strategy, the General is busy and I suggest you wait until the morning."

Anakin didn't blame him. Cody was protecting his General, just as he should.

Anakin sighed, letting his shoulders fall in defeat. He met Cody’s gaze, willing the clone to see the stark difference in his demeanor.

"No," Anakin said simply. "I'm not here to argue. I'm here to apologize. For the strategy argument, for the shouting... for everything I said." He swallowed hard, forcing the crucial part out. "I was a fool. I said things I should never have said. I need to make it right."

Cody remained still for a few seconds longer, his gaze sharp, assessing the sincerity of the confession. Then, slowly, the tension in the Commander's posture eased. The protective rigidity around his shoulders softened, and a hint of the usual warmth—the acknowledgment of the deep, mutual respect they all held for Obi-Wan—returned.

"He went to his quarters, General," Cody said, pointing down a side passage with a nod of his helmet. "You’ll find him there."

Anakin felt a wave of relief so intense it nearly buckled his knees. He was still here; he hadn't missed his chance.

"Thank you, Cody," Anakin whispered, the gratitude in his voice immense. He gave the Commander a nod that held more respect than any medal.

He spun on his heel and rushed down the indicated passage, leaving the Commander standing alone, watching his General's volatile former Padawan finally pursuing something more important than a battle plan.

Chapter Text

Anakin reached Obi-Wan’s quarters and hesitated for only a second before keying the code. The door hissed open, revealing a small, utilitarian room—standard military issue, sterile and temporary.

Obi-Wan was sitting by his desk, working on something with his datapad. He looked tired, the recent argument clearly weighing on him, but he maintained his usual calm composure.

He glanced up as Anakin entered, his expression shifting from neutral exhaustion to guarded wariness.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, his voice level but lacking its usual warmth. "Do you need something for the 501st, or..." He paused, not finishing the sentence, leaving the underlying question—Are you here to start another fight?—hanging in the air.

Anakin shut the door softly, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The sight of Obi-Wan, tired and vulnerable, finally broke the last of his composure. The torrent of guilt and realization from his visions surged forward.

"I need to apologize," Anakin blurted out, taking a decisive step into the room. His voice was ragged with emotion. "I am so, so sorry, Master."

Obi-Wan stood up  slowly. His blue eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of Anakin’s sudden remorse.

"Anakin, look—" Obi-Wan began, attempting to wave away the dramatic apology.

"No, wait, please, just let me say this," Anakin pleaded, cutting him off before his Master could minimize the injury. "I don't wish Qui-Gon had lived instead of you. I don't wish Qui-Gon was my master instead. That was a cruel, stupid thing to say, and it wasn't true."

He took a shaky breath, the words flowing out now with absolute conviction. "You were the best Master I could have had."

Obi-Wan watched him, the guard dropping entirely from his expression. He looked wounded, but instantly forgiving. "Anakin, I know you didn't mean it. You were angry, and you lash out when you're angry. It's alright."

"It is not alright," Anakin insisted, shaking his head vehemently. "I said it, and I shouldn't have. I saw..." He stopped himself, realizing he couldn't explain the visions. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the truth he had learned.

"I know why you're a good Master, Obi-Wan," Anakin continued, his voice dropping to a painful, sincere whisper. "You are good because you don't care about the prophecy. You care about me."

He stepped closer, needing Obi-Wan to understand the depth of his realization. "You let me be me. You never told me my emotions were a flaw; you said they made me stronger. You told me my worth wasn't tied to being the Chosen One, but to being Anakin. Every time I failed, you still found the victory. Every time I doubted myself, you gave me the exact words I needed to hear to stand up again."

Obi-Wan stood perfectly still as Anakin spoke. The genuine, raw realization was undeniable, and as Anakin detailed the gentle, protective care he had been given over the years—the care the young Obi-Wan was denied—Obi-Wan’s eyes grew suddenly bright. Tears welled up, blurring the edges of the sterile room, a silent acknowledgment of the pain Anakin had unintentionally healed by his simple thanks.

"You taught me to be a Jedi without making me forget how to be human," Anakin finished, his own voice cracking. He stepped forward quickly, abandoning all pretense of Jedi decorum, and closed the distance.

Anakin wrapped his arms tightly around his Master, pulling Obi-Wan into a fierce, desperate hug.

Obi-Wan immediately reciprocated, burying his face against Anakin's shoulder, a shuddering breath escaping him. He squeezed Anakin tight, accepting the apology not with words, but with the pressure of his embrace. The tears flowed silently, washing away the sting of the day's cruelty, and the accumulated loneliness of a lifetime.

Anakin held his Master tightly, the years of unspoken tension and hurt dissolving in the embrace. He felt the rapid beat of Obi-Wan’s heart against his chest and knew this silent, tearful acceptance meant everything. He pulled back slightly, but kept a firm hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

"You are a great Jedi Master, Obi-Wan," Anakin repeated, his voice thick with sincerity. "And you’re the best of us. You have an incredibly large heart, and you have to have the most patience in the Galaxy to deal with me as a Padawan."

Obi-Wan finally pulled fully away, swiping quickly at the moisture on his cheeks. A genuine, slightly watery smile touched his lips, and then, mercifully, a true sound of laughter escaped him—a soft, slightly rusty sound.

"Well, that, at least, is empirically true," Obi-Wan managed, his voice still a little shaky. He reached up and affectionately cuffed the back of Anakin's head. "Thank you, Anakin. That... that was enough. Now, tell me, what in the name of the Force brought on this complete and unprovoked change of heart? I thought you were furious enough to try and declare war on the Council."

Anakin leaned back, a genuine, warm smile finally replacing the anguished tension on his face. He felt lighter than he had in months. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Master."

Obi-Wan raised a curious eyebrow, the familiar spark of challenge returning to his eyes. "Try me. I’ve been chased by giant aquatic monsters, I’ve impersonated a bounty hunter, and I regularly face off against your emotional outbursts. I think I can handle anything you've got."

Anakin chuckled, shaking his head. "It's quite a long story, really. It involves the past, a lot of regrets, and some truly awful haircuts."

Obi-Wan settled onto the edge of his bed, leaning back against the pillow with a sigh, the exhaustion of the long day catching up to him. He gestured for Anakin to sit.

"Good," Obi-Wan said softly, his blue eyes warm with affection and relief. "We have all the time in the Galaxy. Start at the beginning."

Anakin sat down heavily beside his Master, feeling a profound sense of peace settle over him. He had his friend back, his Master back, and he finally understood the man he loved. He smiled, ready to begin the impossible tale.

But as he looked at Obi-Wan, a lingering detail from the vision of the hallway flashed into his mind, and a mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Before I start, though," Anakin said, turning to his Master, his tone shifting to teasing disbelief, "why Oafy-Wan? They really couldn't be more creative?"

Obi-Wan froze. Every trace of warmth and relaxation vanished from his face. His blue eyes went wide, and he stared at Anakin, utterly startled and momentarily speechless.

"How in the—Anakin!" Obi-Wan hissed, his voice dropping to a shocked whisper. "How do you know about that? No one knows about that!"

Anakin simply shrugged, his grin widening, a triumphant joy bubbling up over the shock. "See? I said that you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Obi-Wan stared at him, his blue eyes wide, struggling to reconcile the name from his embarrassing, difficult adolescence—a secret buried for decades—with the man sitting beside him.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan finally managed, his voice a bewildered whisper. "That name... only Bruck..." He trailed off, the memory of his predicament during those hard times suddenly vivid. He looked at Anakin, the puzzle finally fitting the jagged pieces of the morning's intense argument. "What... what did you see?"

Anakin sobered quickly, the playful moment receding. He reached out, taking Obi-Wan's hand—the warm, living hand of his friend, not the ghost of a memory. He held it firmly.

"I saw the price you paid for me," Anakin admitted, his voice rough with lingering emotion. "I saw what it cost you to become my Master, and what it cost you to be the kind of Master I needed. I saw... I saw what I did to you today."

He squeezed Obi-Wan's hand. "I wasn't arguing with you out there, Obi-Wan. I was being a selfish, stupid fool, and I took the deepest insecurity you ever had and used it as a weapon. I am sorry, Master. Truly sorry."

Obi-Wan's gaze was soft, but incredibly deep, a mixture of pain and profound understanding. He squeezed Anakin's hand in return, acknowledging the apology and the confession all at once.

"It is forgiven, Anakin," Obi-Wan assured him. "It is entirely forgiven. But now you must tell me everything. Start with the awful haircuts."

Anakin settled back against the pillows beside his Master, feeling the weariness of the temporal journey give way to a peaceful exhaustion. He began to speak, starting with the bright, filtered sunlight of the Temple hall, describing the white-blonde bully and the pain in the young Obi-Wan's eyes.

He recounted the confusing silence of Qui-Gon during the kata practice and the obsession with the prophecies. He told Obi-Wan about witnessing the Council meeting, and how heartbroken he looked when Qui-Gon chose the prophecy over the Padawan. He even told him about the quiet comfort of the quarters, and the sheer love he felt watching Obi-Wan care for his younger self.

Anakin spoke for a long time, and Obi-Wan listened without interruption, his expression shifting through shock, sorrow, and deep recognition. By the time Anakin finished, the lamp in the room seemed dimmer, and the outpost outside was entirely silent.

"So," Obi-Wan whispered finally, a faint, disbelieving smile touching his lips. "The Force sent you on a remedial course in empathy. It showed you the past to heal the present."

"It showed me how desperately I needed you, and how much you sacrificed to be here," Anakin corrected softly.

Obi-Wan leaned his head against Anakin's shoulder, a casual, comfortable gesture that spoke volumes about their restored trust.

"Well," Obi-Wan sighed into the quiet. "I may have lost the trials, and I may have lost my Master's attention to a prophecy, but I didn't lose the boy he forced upon me." He tightened his grip on Anakin's hand. "And I would not trade that for all the complex katas or ancient texts in the galaxy, Anakin."

Anakin smiled, his heart finally at peace. He glanced at the closed door, thinking of Cody waiting outside.

"I think we might still have a lot to apologize for tomorrow," Anakin said, his voice laced with the weariness of someone who knew the truth. "The argument was loud. And Cody looked like he hadn't slept in a week."

Obi-Wan simply closed his eyes, leaning fully against the solid weight of his now-remorseful former Padawan. "Let's face tomorrow when it comes, Anakin. For now...we rest.”