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Romantic Dreams Must Die

Here's a long-due update to the Little One series!

No smut for this one, I'm afraid. This addition delves deeper into Little One's own experience during the war, and introduces a character that I think need a little loving.

Summary: Dreams can mean more than just dreams, for a Jedi. Anakin knows this. You will learn this.

Warnings: Angst. Allusions to major canon events that occur during ROTS.

6.3K words

You’ve been having these dreams…

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

Walking this hallway is not unfamiliar to you.

It is so different from the Temple, these high-class apartments on the highest levels of Coruscant. This level leads to the penthouses on this floor, just two of them. One is constantly used to house senators from Naboo when they visit Coruscant- due to the apartment's neighbour.

Elegantly decorated, you’ve always enjoyed the walk, hands indulgently tracing the smooth carvings in the walls.

What you’ve always loved the most, however- and this is something you keep to yourself, for it’s a little boastful and a little proud- is the view of the Jedi Temple that you get when she opens her door. Always, no matter the time of day, you can see the Temple in all its magnificent glory. So simple, so beautiful. It takes your breath away every time.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

By now you think it’s fair to say you’ve been through a lot.

And yet, standing on one of Coruscant’s thousands of docks, you don’t think you’ve done anything more difficult.

The rising sun is directly in your eyes, and you squint to make out the figure of Obi-Wan. He’s been speaking to Master Yoda for the past hour, or three. You’re not entirely sure, but each passing minute feels longer than a day. Part of you wishes this day would just hurry up and get on with it. Finally, the younger of the two Jedi nods his head in a final greeting, turning slightly to look at you.

“That’s me, then,” He says gently, giving you a soft smile. You can’t muster up one of your own.

Anakin left two days ago, Ahsoka three days before that. You’re the only one staying.

“Be careful. Please.”

“Death is not something to fear, little one,” he chides, voice calm. You huff, glaring at a distant building. “Death is inevitable.”

If this was one of those holodramas, this is when you’d confess, when you’d pour your heart and soul out and tell him how you feel. But how can you? How can you stand there and wallow in your own fear, when you’re staying off the battlefield?

So instead, you pull your robes tighter around you, choosing to say, “You’ve always been in my life.”

“If all goes well and we live long healthy lives, there will be a time when I no longer will be,” Obi-Wan continues, taking one of your hands between his. He shifts, standing directly in front of you and blocking the sun. You can see his pretty blue eyes so clearly now. They’re focused on you.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” You admit, voice hoarse. He smiles again, understanding, even though you know he does not truly understand.

“You will make your own way. Whatever that might be, I have every confidence in you.”

“Please come back.”

“In the event that this ‘war’,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Is dragged out till three months from now, I shall return to Coruscant for a week. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay.”

He turns, making his way to the shuttle that will take him to his flagship. Just before he steps on, he turns his head to look at you.

“Stop worrying,” he calls out, amusement lacing his tone.

The immediate response is indignant, and wholly untrue. “I’m not.”

You know by his smile he does not believe you.

“We will meet again, my friend. May the Force be with you.”

And so he gets on the shuttle, and you watch with growing unease as it rises and departs the planet. You squint for as long as possible, watching it fade into a little dot against the sunlight, your eyes burning.

“May the Force be with you, General Kenobi,” You murmur.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

You cope the way you know best; by burying yourself in distraction.

The first eight days after Obi-Wan’s departure are the easiest. You establish a sort of routine.

On the first day, you eat your morning meal in the quiet of the dawn, curled up on your sofa that now seems far too big and spacious for far too few people. There is a meeting you are to attend, some battle reports you are to read and process, some tactics to debate. Coruscant’s sun is high in the sky when you leave the meeting room, exhaustion seeping through your bones. Somehow you find yourself in the canteen, grabbing a meal to-go as you head towards the Senate building. The debate you attend has your head pounding, the senators that speak to you are infuriating. It's astounding, really, how many of them do not care when it is not their men and women and children dying.

The second day passes by much like the first, except this time Madame Jocasta shows up at your door just as you make the decision to not make breakfast. She presents you with a sweet loaf that you share over a cup of tea, talking about how deserted the library has been since…

Day three has you sitting in Madame Jocasta’s room for the morning meal, and neither of you talk much, but that’s okay. Her old padawan’s old padawan left Coruscant with the title of General last night. It has not been made known to you if she was particularly close to her, but you do not ask, and she does not tell. In the afternoon, the senate talks about numbers and figures and statistics. In your head, that translates to people.

And so on it goes. Breakfast with Madame Jocasta, meditation, meetings- hours of them, more meetings, probably a trip or seven to some politician’s office, a lunch break that you don’t actually use for lunch, meetings, evening meditation, sleep.

It becomes repetitive, and you start to get sick of it.

On the ninth day, Master Yoda is seated at the table when you enter Madame Jocasta’s room for the morning meal. Both of them turn to look at you for a quiet moment.

The way your stomach drops almost makes you dizzy.

“Obi-Wan?” You ask, and he shakes his head. Your nausea doesn’t ease up.

“Anakin? Ahsoka?”

“No,” Says Master Yoda, and Madame Jocasta passes you a cup of tea, placing a guiding hand to your back to lead you to sit down.

Master Yoda’s voice is gentle, when he says, “A close friend of yours, old creche mate, yes.”

Then he tells you their name.

There’s no funeral; there’s no body.

The Jedi Temple finds itself trapped in a new routine.

You find yourself on the side of the table Master Yoda once was for you, speaking to other Jedi. It isn’t something you get used to, there isn’t a script to say or a list of things to be ticked off. You sit across old teachers, old friends, young Padawans. It is you that tells them that yes, that strange feeling you had last night wasn’t just a feeling. It was a truth.

By the time the calendar marks an entire year of the Clone Wars, enough Jedi have died to make the average an even one-a-day.

And even with those numbers, you remember the name of every single fallen Jedi whose death was your news to bear.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

Those repetitive ones- or, at least, you think they’re repetitive. You’re not entirely sure.

So repetitive, like the inevitable rise and set of the sun.

It goes thump-thump-thump-thump-thump- in the back of your mind, like a heartbeat, like raindrops, like the sound of soldiers marching.

Thump.

Organised.

Thump.

Practised.

Thump.

Executed.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

The younglings in front of you are awestruck when you switch on a holo of the Coruscanti star system. You’ve taken to them, lately. And the creche masters are always eager to receive help. Sometimes you think Anakin would have loved teaching younglings, if he wasn’t away fighting droids. He was always so full of love.

“It’s so ugly,” The youngling beside you states, and you grin. The blunt honesty of children was always so much fun.

“Says who?”

“Me,” She says matter-of-factly. “I don’t like it.”

Grin widening, you turn to give her your full attention. It’s easy to, when something about her calls to you. You lean towards her, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “I never liked it much, either.”

Impossibly wide eyes blink up at you, surprised delight in them. You doubt she expected you to so readily agree with her.

“Have you ever seen it from space?” She questions, shuffling closer to you to avoid being bumped into by her other creche mates.

“Oh yes,” Folding your robe sleeves under your arms, you drape them leisurely over your lap. The youngling’s name escapes you, but you know her. Pulling your hand from your lap, your fingers brush against the girl’s cheek. “And from what I hear from Master Yoda, sweet child, you will too soon enough.”

“I still have two years until I’m old enough to be a Padawan,” She complains, pouting up at you. Two years to her were basically a thousand years to you. The youngling pauses then, taking a moment to study you. You try to keep your face pleasant. The child squints, cocks her head to the side, squints even more.

“Do you have a Padawan?”

“No,” You smooth your hand over her hair, trying to tame it. “I don’t, sweet child.”

“Why not?” Ever so inquisitive, this one. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you really can’t help it.

“I still have two years before I’m old enough,” You tease her, flicking one of her braids over her shoulder.

She huffs, plopping down heavily on the seat beside you. “I guess we can wait together, then.”

You hum softly, turning back to watch the rest of the younglings as the girl tries to burrow her way into your side. You let her.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

The food on your plate has been pushed around for ten minutes, but nothing has made it into your mouth.

“Is this not your favourite?” Padmé asks, voice sorry as she folds her hands in her lap. You stab a piece, shoving it into your mouth. She waits while you chew, watching you swallow with great difficulty.

“It’s delicious,” You say lamely, and she scoffs.

“What’s wrong?”

Sighing, you pick up your glass to wet your lips. “Are we doing the right thing?”

Immediately her gaze softens, and she seems to struggle with her own answer. You don’t have to clarify; she doesn’t have to ask.

“I mean, the clones, they are still people,” You say, trying to keep the flame in your chest small enough that it doesn’t turn into anger.

“Most of the Republic doesn’t see it that way,” Padmé mutters, sipping her wine.

“Then we have to make them see!”

Padmé flinches, the glass right next to you cracks.

Blinking, you realise you’re now standing, the loud volume of your words causing your own ears to ring. Everything around you seems to shrink into yourself, and you sink back into your chair, too ashamed to meet her gaze. Dragging your hand over your face, you lean back against your chair with a soft sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a whole thing.”

“It’s alright,” Padmé leans forward, touching your hand with hers. Her voice is kind, understanding. “Anakin said-”

At that you sit upright, frowning at her. “You’ve spoken to Anakin?”

That obviously gives her pause, and she nods slowly, clearly confused. “Haven’t you?”

“I haven’t spoken to any of them since-” You start, shrugging and tearing your gaze away from her. She shifts in her seat, her voice gentle when she asks,

“Not even Obi-Wan?”

You keep your gaze on Coruscant’s skyline, basked in afternoon warmth. If she’s spoken to Anakin, then she probably knows.

It’s not even been a full week since the Negotiator was destroyed.

No one sat you down or held your hand while you found out. In fact, you were all alone. Not that you expected to be hand held.

The plan of action for your day was decently simple with a strange mix of boring and devastating. You were proof-reading reports from across the galaxy, several ships reporting their locations or their successes over battles. Pick up from one pile, skim through, flag out must-know details, place in another pile. Rinse and repeat.

A report from the Aura. A report from the Dauntless. A report from the Triumph. A report from the Semblance. A report from the Haven.

And a report from the Negotiator, and it was-

It was short. Just a few lines.

13:17:47 Venator-class Star Destroyer Negotiator under attack.

14:39:02 Venator-class Star Destroyer Negotiator boarded by enemy forces.

14:58:20 Venator-class Star Destroyer Negotiator activated self-destruction.

15:03:10 Final transmission confirming successful activation of self-destruction.

And then nothing.

The last message was one you had read a dozen times over, at least.

Final transmission confirming successful activation of self-destruction.

The message was clear. It needed no decoding.

Final transmission confirming successful activation of self-destruction.

The procedure was also clear. Go through logbooks, find all the registered escape shuttles and pods and vehicles assigned to the Star Destroyer. Hold an emergency meeting where you would inform whatever Council members that were in the Temple- if there were any. Assign a handful of whoever had some free time on their hands to comb through the list of smaller vehicles and begin contacting them.

And then go back to reading and filing reports.

Final transmission confirming successful activation of self-destruction.

You wouldn’t know, not for certain, until three days later a young Padawan comes bursting through the Council chamber to confirm the survival of Jedi Master and General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

But that wasn’t the same as hearing his voice, seeing his face, watching him breathe.

“No,” You clear your throat, taking another sip of water, ignoring the growing unease in your chest. “Not even Obi-Wan.”

Silence blankets the two of you, broken by Padmé pouring you a glass of wine. “I’m supporting a bill to end all clone training and production.”

You take the glass from her, nodding slowly as the implications dawn on you. Raising the glass, you hold your gaze, a small smile on your face. “To keepers of the peace.”

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

They’re disorientating.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

Your hands find the grooves on the walls instinctually, hand moving up and down in gentle waves as you grip your lightsaber tightly with the other. Even now, the motion brings you some comfort. This, at least, this one thing they can never take from you.

The Jedi Temple shines brighter than it ever has before in Coruscant's skyline.

Somehow, its beauty continues to astound you.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

Seeing Coruscant from outside its atmosphere has always been strange to you. Now so more than ever, with this being the first time you have left the planet since the war.

You’re not alone, because you are part of an escort for the new Senator Dulani. He used to look at you with sweet eyes, and talk to you with sweet words. He hasn’t, since the assassination of his father and predecessor a few moons ago. The senator has larger things to worry about now, and so do you. Still, though, it is strange when you notice the absence of spare affection. It’s like the war has robbed you of everything.

Not that it stops him from seeking you out. He asks for your opinions on several matters, regarding them with a severity you never thought you would see on his face. There are times the conversation turns a little lighter, but it never lasts long.

On your third day of travel, you’re plunged headfirst into the physical side of the war.

Blaring alarms are what wakes you, and you don’t bother pulling on your robes when you grab your lightsaber. The last time you used it in an actual battle was also the first time you had used it in an actual battle; a battle you cannot remember due to the extent of your injuries. When you later tried to press, Obi-Wan refused to talk about it.

There’s a droid right outside your door. You slice through its middle, side-stepping and ducking to avoid blaster shots. Twisting your wrist, you turn your lightsaber, keeping your body low to the ground as the blaster shots ricochet back towards your aggressors. They drop in seconds, the hallway suddenly empty.

It’s eerie; the alarm continues blaring, unanswered. The hallway’s main lights have switched off, swathing the room with a low red. Reaching a hand out to balance yourself, your fingers find the ridges along the corridor wall. They find the grooves instinctively, and you use it to ground yourself as you step over crackling remains of droids, your feet bare against the cold tiles.

To focus, you need an objective. And your objective seems pretty clear to you; find the Senator Dulani and keep him safe.

There’s something strange in the air, like the galaxy feels a little off kilter.

As you pass through your third empty hallway, it hits you. They were all empty. No droids, no bodies. No nothing.

Senator Dulani’s room lies at the end of the hallway, the door shut, no signs of any forced entry or struggle. You approach it, cautious to tread quietly. You slow your breathing, taking measured inhale, exhale, and wave your hand to open the door.

Senator Dulani sits on a chair, in his pyjamas, calm despite the red lightsaber hovering next to his neck. It’s mere milliseconds for your gaze to sweep upwards, settling on the man so clearly behind all this.

“Count Dooku,” You breathe, more perplexed than anything else.

Senator Dulani cocks an eyebrow, flexing his hand. “He’s been asking for you.”

“Well, here I am,” Raising your lightsaber in a challenge, you point it straight at Dooku. The older man smiles, a slow, languid movement, tilting his head as a greeting.

“Here you are. It has been a while since we last spoke, hasn’t it?” Dooku asks casually, jerking his lightsaber a little closer to Dulani. You step forward in warning, inhaling sharply. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, keeping his gaze fixed on you. You feel more nervous than he looks.

“What do you want?”

“To have a civil conversation,” Dooku remarks lightly.

“I wasn’t aware ignited lightsabers were a part of civil conversation,” Your response is clipped and you take another small step forward. Dooku raises a brow, nodding towards your lightsaber pointedly.

“They are not.”

Meeting Senator Dulani’s gaze once again, you exhale slowly before switching off your lightsaber, arm lowering to your side. Dooku follows suit immediately, tucking his lightsaber into his robes. He extends a hand to you, guiding you to the sofa set in the Senator’s room.

Dooku waves his other hand, and Dulani slumps in his seat, unconscious.

Lowering yourself onto the sofa, you eye Dooku as he sits across you, arms folded pleasantly. You glance around, side-eyeing the door before your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Alright. I don’t get it. What’s happening here?”

Dooku raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not very patient, are you?”

You jerk your head, expression deadpan. “Nope. Not a strong suit of mine.”

The Sith Lord studies you for another moment, expression getting serious.

“I have come to ask you to join me.”

And you can’t help it. Truly. You really can’t help but start laughing.

“Have you lost your mind?” You demand, leaning forward to study the minute changes in his face. Dooku’s expression remains stony.

You scoff, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the sofa. You cross your arms over your chest. “You are the leader of the Separatist Army, as much as they deny it. And you want me, a Jedi, to join you?”

“It is not safe, for you.”

You bark out a laugh, caught somewhere between exasperated and disbelieving. “Somehow, being shot at by droids is not safe, no, thank you for noticing.”

“You do not understand.”

“And you do not explain!” Throwing your hands up in the air, you wonder if you’ve been drugged and are on hallucinogens. It would certainly make more sense than the plausibility that this conversation was genuinely occurring. “You’re just standing there, demanding I throw it all away. And for what? Safety? It is not my safety that I care about.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Dooku sneers, leaning forward. “To have no idea what it is like to lose a Padawan.”

“Ironic you say that, after you almost killed both Anakin and Obi-Wan,” You rebut.

Dooku lifts a shoulder, as if he were discussing the weather. “It was never my intention to kill them. If I wanted them dead, they would be dead.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Dooku shakes his head, leaning forward. “I do not have time for this. Come with me girl, or suffer.”

He stands, circling around the sofas and making his way to the door. You stare after him, astonished. “What happened to you?”

Dooku pauses in the doorway, glancing back at you. “After this, I will not be able to come back for you.”

Something painful tugs at your chest. Twisting your fingers together, your voice is small when you say, “You shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

“The Jedi cannot keep you safe.”

“I already told you. It is not my safety that concerns me.”

Dooku’s stony expression turns a little softer, a little more sorrowful. You think he might say something else. He doesn’t.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

They’re suffocating.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

You can’t stop them, can’t get away from them.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

You start to avoid sleep.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

By the time calendars have marked the end of the second year of the war, the circles under your eyes have become permanent fixtures.

You have chosen to sit with younglings, again. They are oftentimes sweet, and oftentimes they take your mind off death and despair, being beacons of the future. You feel old thinking about it, but you think you get it now.

One youngling in particular skulks up to you about an hour after you first arrived. You had the notion she was avoiding you, and the thought left your stomach uneasy. But now she stands in front of you, frown on her face.

“Is something the matter, sweet child?” You ask gently, slowly reaching out to grasp one of her hands in yours. She huffs, looking up to meet your gaze, and she looks nothing short of distraught.

“There are rumours that you have picked a Padawan,” She tells you, pulling her hand away. You frown, taking her hand again. “I can tell you with certainty that I have not.”

The youngling sniffs, meeting your gaze. You smile gently at her, stroking her hand with your thumb.

“You should smile more,” She says when she finally pulls her hand away, rubbing her face.

“Oh?” You keep your voice light, teasing. “Do I not smile enough?”

“No,” The youngling says, picking up a book. “You do not smile anymore.”

You watch her walk away, without a smile on your face.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

It's pure chance that you are talking to Master Yoda when it happens.

“I’ve been having these… dreams,” You admit, running your hands over your thighs.

“Plagued you for a long time, have they?” Master Yoda sits across you clutching his staff.

Exhaling as you nod, you toy with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Since the war started.”

“Hm.”

“There is loss? I think. I can’t ever truly remember but there’s just so much loss…”

“Fear death, we should not.”

“I don’t fear my death. At least, I don’t think I do.”

“The death of your previous Master, if it was?” Master Yoda suggests, not unkindly. You remain silent, fingers twisting together.

“To struggle with this, the only one you are not.” Master Yoda continues, repeating advice he has told a thousand times over with the patience and understanding that many Jedi strive towards.

“How do I-?” You plead, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Acceptance.”

“Acceptance?” Exhaling, your gaze fixes itself on the window, trying to calm the frustration you were feeling. You only look back when you feel his hand over your own.

“Struggle with this, I still do,” Master Yoda adds. “Difficult, yes. Frustrating, yes. Impossible?”

He tilts his head towards you, waiting for a response, and you inhale while shaking your head like a child. You feel like a child, scared and uncertain, being told things that made no sense to you. But still you rise, nodding your head as if you understood, making your way to the door.

And then something happens that makes you pause in your step.

The initial seconds that tick by leaves you confused at the change of something in the Force, but you can’t place it. It’s like…it’s like somethings missing, or something has been moved, like a pen that’s rolled backwards and lodged itself between the counter and the wall, never to be reached again. It’s only when you turn your head to look at Master Yoda that it clicks for you.

He’s facing the window, hands gripping the top of his staff tightly, body rigid.

Somewhere out there, his old Padawan just took his last breath.

A little part of you aches with sorrow, even if you never knew him that well. Staring at the Jedi in front of you, uncertainty floods through you when you open your mouth to speak. “I’m.. I’m sorry, Master Yoda.”

He inhales, then exhales, turning towards you with an expression you can’t quite place.

“Acceptance,” he repeats. “Struggle, I still do.”

When you’re asked the next morning to oversee a group of younglings because Master Yoda is suddenly, inexplicably unavailable, you agree without question.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

You lowered your lightsaber. What else would you have done, seeing familiar colours make their way towards you?

Anakin used to tease you for being too trusting.

He was right.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

You wake with your arms shooting out, shoving at whatever was gripping you, holding you down. A garbled mess of sounds leave your mouth, and you use the force to shove whatever was on top of you, scrambling back and landing on the floor with a painful thud.

From behind you, you hear a concerned “Love?”

You inhale, exhale, breathing through your mouth as you gulp for air. “What colour was it?”

“Darling-”

“Don’t- I can’t-” You turn onto all fours, pressing your face into your hands. “I don’t remember what colour it was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I had a dream!” You exclaim, nails digging into your skin. Obi-Wan hisses, moving towards you. “There were people attacking the temple. I… I don’t know who, I couldn’t see their faces but they had a colour they were all wearing… I can’t remember-”

“It was just a dream-” Obi-Wan murmurs, turning on the lamp on the bedside table. He turns back to you, hands grasping your arms. He pulls you forcefully upright, away from the sharpness of your nails, despite the crescent marks already dug into your skin. You’re panting, hyperventilating, and he cups your jaw to get you to focus on him.

The vividness of the blue in his eyes has you flinching. “Don’t touch me-” You hiss, ripping yourself away from him and stumbling towards the window. Slumping against the cold railing, you struggle to control your breathing. It takes more than a moment, but you can tell Obi-Wan is behind you, a respectful distance away, waiting.

Forcing yourself to steady your breathing, you turn back to Obi-Wan. Guilt paints your expression, and you reach out one tentative hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” He tuts, gently brushing his fingers against yours. “You’re on edge. I should know better than to touch you without warning after a nightmare.”

You exhale shakily, tears pricking at the back of your eyes. This wasn’t fair. Not to you. Not to him. “How could you have known?”

“I’ve been surrounded by soldiers for two years, my love,” Obi-Wan says gently, stepping closer.

“Right,” Rubbing your hands over your arms, you exhale, turning back to the window. Coruscant’s moon sits low on the horizon, the night still young. “Soldiers.”

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

Morning passed in quiet bliss.

Obi-Wan woke you with the smell of tea and breakfast sprinkled through the air. You get a little distracted on the couch, and by the time you move to pick up your plate, the food is cold.

“Your fault,” Pointing your spoon at Obi-Wan accusingly, you pretend to be annoyed at the way you’re now only wearing his shirt. His response is a kiss to your fingertips.

While you dress, he rubs his fingers over your dark circles, and you poke at the frown lines settling in his face.

Eventually you do have to leave the confines of your room, Obi-Wan using the quiet hallways to keep his hand on your back as you walk. He seems exceptionally daring today, continuing to touch you as you move through the main Temple chambers.

It’s a convenient excuse, when you have to dart and weave around younglings and Padawans rushing here and there for classes. And it isn’t a surprise to you when a youngling that you had been particularly looking forward to seeing walks head first into you.

“Good morning, sweet child,” You murmur affectionately, and she grins up at you when you ghost your hand over the top of her head.

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk up in an amused smile, and he nods his head. “Hello, Padawan-?”

Her expression sours immediately, and you tilt your head to whisper “Sensitive topic,” to Obi-Wan. “Ah, apologies,” He corrects immediately, smoothing a hand over his robes. “It simply was because you look so grown up.”

At that, the youngling’s smile reemerges, shuffling closer to you.

“I still do not know your name, young one.”

“Reva, Master.”

“Reva. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Reva shakes his hand firmly, smiling at him just long enough to be considered polite before she turns her full attention to you, Obi-Wan forgotten.

“Will you be in class next week?”

“Of course, sweet child.”

“I knew it.”

“I'm sure you did.”

Reva flashes you another grin, bows her head towards Obi-Wan, and then spins around. Reva skips down the hallway, bumping into another Jedi with a quiet ‘oof’. You keep your gaze trained on her until she ducks into her classroom, and it is only then that you turn your attention back on Obi-Wan.

It startles you to see the way he’s watching you, a knowing expression on his face.

“What?” You demand, a little defensive.

He shrugs, smiling. “I would not presume to know.”

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

It's strange how quickly values die when one is plagued by war.

Priorities shift, and what was once something to condemn becomes something inconsequential, something not worth mentioning.

War also breeds affection.

It's for all these reasons that the Jedi pretend not to notice the increase in attachments forming. Master Yoda turns his head when he sees a General hold their Commander's gaze for a tad too long. Padawans hide their grins behind their hands when they see their Masters check another for injuries with a care that is almost too intimate. Friends busy themselves with how interesting the ground is when the Senator they're protecting seeks the comfort of another Jedi's hand.

Why condemn them? With the galaxy burning around them, who could fault the Galaxy's protectors for indulging in something a little soft, a little sweet? It's hardly as if those attachments would cause their downfall.

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

It is pure chance that you are in the Temple when it happens.

There’s something off about you being here.

Which is odd, because the Temple is your home. It always has been.

And yet…

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. ...

The Temple is emptier than it has been the whole war; the Separatists have tried for a final push everywhere, despite the fall of Grievous, or perhaps because of it. The push has called dozens upon dozens of Jedi back out of the safety of the Temple and into the chaos of battlefields, scattered like dust around the galaxy.

Obi-Wan leaves Coruscant in a day, to act as a protector to some Senator you had never heard of- by direct request from the Chancellor. You had grumbled a little at that, your lack of sleep the last few days souring your mood beyond what even Obi-Wan's presence could salvage.

Not that it stops him from trying, with soft words murmured and warm mugs of tea lovingly pressed between your palms.

You get your own orders, directly from the Chancellor, and you pass a snide remark to Obi-Wan about how he's conducting more warfare than he is politics. Obi-Wan presses another kiss to your forehead, his own mouth curved downwards.

Always revolving around each other, always in each other’s orbit. And yet in twenty hours, you and Obi-Wan will be further apart than you have ever been over the last two years. It should be of no surprise then that you want nothing more than to be with him. Nothing more except…

“Go be with her,” he says as he pulls away, and you don’t have to ask to know he means Reva.

He steps back, and you’re struck with the fear that you’ll never see him again.

“I love you,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

.- -.-. .-. --- ... ... - .... . ... - .- .-. …

There’s a spot for you on a ship that is set to depart Coruscant in two hours, and for some reason, you find yourself in Senator Amidala’s apartment. When she opens her door, the strange feeling intensifies.

There’s something off about Padmé.

You’ve been suspecting something for a while, but when she stands before you in a gown with a skirt half the size of the living room and her life force wavering strangely, you narrow your eyes.

“Are you sick?” You demand in lieu of your usual hello. Padmé laughs, looking a little out of breath at the action. “Well, hello to you too.”

“Is that why you’ve called me here?” Rushing towards her, you press your hands to her cheeks, frowning. She pries your hands away, leading you to the lounge. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

It’s clear you don't believe her, but she rolls her eyes good naturedly, struggling to sit down. Padmé adjusts herself, giving you another tired smile.

“It’s Anakin. I’m worried about him, and I was wondering if you could talk to him.”

Leaning forward, you look over Padmé, gaze lingering on the odd cut of her gown.

“Padmé. What’s going on?”

She looks nervous, and scared, and young. She looks so lovely, in the light of Coruscant’s evening sun.

“Anakin won’t talk to Obi-Wan. He’s been having these nightmares,” Padmé says, voice wavering. “He won’t talk to me.”

You take her hands in yours, sending out a calming energy that doesn’t seem to do much for her.

“Ahsoka isn’t on Coruscant. I know you’re leaving soon but-”

“Padmé,” You interrupt, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ll talk to him. Once I get back-”

“No,-” She protests, and her voice breaks. She starts crying, pressing a hand to her mouth to try to calm herself. “I can’t- I’m scared.”

Padmé smoothes a hand over her gown, emphasising what her dresses have hid so cleverly the last few months. You stare at her, blinking at what feels so obvious but so impossible.

“I need him, now,” She pleads, and you nod blindly, eyes glued to her belly.

It’s funny how quickly priorities shift.

In less than five minutes, a single conversation changes your circumstances remarkably. You suddenly don’t care for the Chancellor’s orders, you don’t care for propriety. Everything in the force tells you to go.

To go to him.

.. -- .--. . .-. .. .- .-.. -- .- .-. -.-. ....

“Reva!” You yell, using the force to pull the group of younglings towards you. She’s crying, holding onto one of her friends so tightly that her knuckles are white.

“You stay behind me. Understand? You all stay behind me-” You instruct desperately, twisting around at the sound of blaster fire. In front of you, a Jedi who’s name you don’t know slumps against a column, their lightsaber flickering out as their eyes close.

As the pounding of clones outside the door reaches your ears, you feel afraid of your own death for the first time. You do not think of Obi-Wan, or the future you could have had, or the things you have never done. The only thing you can think of are the younglings behind you, their fear so obvious in the force that it’s sickening. You’d rather give your life than see any of them come to any harm.

You lowered your lightsaber.

.. -- .--. . .-. .. .- .-.. -- .- .-. -.-. ....

You know they’re dreams. A part of you always knows.

Another part of you isn’t so sure.

.. -- .--. . .-. .. .- .-.. -- .- .-. -.-. ....

Your lightsaber crackles quietly in your grasp, providing a low green lighting in the darkened room.

Your other hand is pressed firmly to your abdomen, and when you glance down, you notice your robes are stained a frightening dark red.

They cannot take this from you, you think.

Dragging yourself up stairs on all fours, you make your way through the building, forcing yourself to carry on. It’s hard to breathe, like you’re inhaling smoke.

They might have taken everything else, but this, you will not let them.

The bedroom holds no one, like everywhere else in the apartment. In the corner, a crib has been newly built, if the tools on the bedside table are any indication to go by.

You know those tools.

Desperation fills you now, and your attempts to make it back down the stairs fail. You can't breathe, your body numbing to a point that you cannot move. Settling against the wall, halfway-down the steps, you tilt your head back in an attempt to get more air down your throat.

Your lightsaber lies at the bottom of the steps, no longer providing light.

A ways off, outside the open balcony and several buildings over, the fire that has consumed the Jedi Temple burns brighter than Coruscant could ever shine.

.. -- .--. . .-. .. .- .-.. -- .- .-. -.-. ....

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