I promised @darthrrevan a fanfic if she finished writing a paper last night. I keep my promises. When she finished the paper, she wanted a story that had Anakin happy, which is really all I want from Star Wars, too, so I decided to play with the Crèche-Master Anakin trope, which somehow also became a Time-Travel Obi-Wan trope, which is also turning out to be a sequel to AdalynJ’s Healing the Force, which while not a perfect story, is still one of my favorites. As I’ve had her permission for damn near a decade to play with the concepts in the story (they will come up), I am sure she’d be perfectly fine with this. If not, she knows who I am and how to reach me and I’m sure she’ll let me know, if she’s not fallen off the face of the planet (and if she hasn’t, I’m still waiting on the last few chapters).
So, without further ado:
General Obi-Wan Kenobi of GAR’s 212th Attack Battalion was tired, dirty, soot-covered, and – perhaps most importantly – broken-hearted.
If the Order still existed, I would have kicked myself out.
He’d broken the one tenant of their Code that he’d struggled with since his days as a youngling, and the one he’d most lectured his former Padawan about: Obi-Wan Kenobi had surrendered to an attachment with a fellow sentient, and too late, he’d realized just how deep that attachment went, how blinded it had made him to all the faults and flaws of that sentient.
The sentient who was shouting abuse at him as it lay, legless and with only one limb, and that a mechanical one, on the banks of a river of lava on Mustafar, where Obi-Wan had had left it to die.
Easier to think of it as an ‘it’, not to name it, or humanize it; the guilt would eat him alive if he allowed himself to remember that this it was his brother, his friend, his child, his Anakin. But it was not for his own sake that he pushed these emotions down. A Jedi is calm and serene at all times, Obi-Wan. He knew that for a lie. But there was another sentient, one he’d failed almost as much, who needed him to hold himself together for just a little bit longer.
He reached Padmé Amidala’s side (had she taken the Skywalker name, even in secret?), and lifted her, relieved that the Force still flowed around her, that his failures hadn’t taken her life, as they would soon take the life of the it that screamed, even now, the cries of pain echoing across the desolate landscape, louder than the roar of the lava and explosions, the whine of the Emperor’s shuttle, drawing ever closer.
They had to leave.
Later, he had no concept of time by then, so he would never be sure how much later it was, he held her hand, Padmé Amidala (Skywalker?), as she birthed her (their – hers and its, his, Anakin’s) children, crying as he felt the Force drifting from her. She was weakening, even as he watched, and he couldn’t bear it. He’d lost one child today, and he wouldn’t lose this one, not another that he’d felt responsible for, especially given the attachment he’d felt for his Padawan, child, friend, brother and the attachment said young man had for the slip of a woman who was drifting away, her lifeforce draining through the Force at an alarming rate.
He wouldn’t have it.
General Obi-Wan Kenobi had been called the Negotiator, and for good reason – he recognized the stain in the Force that was pulling on Padmé, and he would not allow it to stand. He slipped into meditation between one breath and the next, allowing the room around him to become visible through the Force and nothing else. The babies – babies! – glowed a beautiful blue so bright it was nearly a blinding white, and he smiled to look at them. He, himself, was navy, weighed down with the mistakes of his life. And Padmé, precious Padmé Amidala (Skywalker?), was so faint a gray that she blended in with the null in the Force that was their surroundings.
He refused.
Taking a deep breath, he began feeding her a line of his own energy. The navy thread shimmered between them for a moment before latching onto her solar plexus and burrowing its way through her energy nodes. The drain was gone – he must have thought that Padmé was too far gone, that he’d taken enough – but Obi-Wan refused to allow her to fade. More and more energy he poured into her, until she was lit with the glowing threads of energy throughout her body, easily distinguished from the Force null of their surroundings.
That’s enough, Padawan.
Shimmering white stood a presence he hadn’t felt in a decade or more. He shook his head; here, in the privacy of his own mind, he could admit that wasn’t true. He’d felt his old Master, more than once, over the years since his return to the Force, but he’d convinced himself it was his imagination.
As though you ever had an imagination to begin with, Padawan.
Obi-Wan smiled at the fondness in his Master’s voice, even if it was inside his head.
Obi-Wan, that’s enough. If you don’t stop, there will be nothing left for you.
A dim part of his mind registered the truth of the words, but the greater part simply didn’t care. What did it matter if he survived this encounter? Padmé would be bound to him in a way that she would revile – he, the man who couldn’t even stop the Chosen One from Falling – he, the man who hadn’t been able to bring her children’s father home. General Obi-Wan Kenobi was a failure.
As he sunk deeper into his meditation, ignoring his Master’s shouts, he fully recognized all of the many ways he’d failed. As an Initiate, when he’d failed to keep reign on his temper, and nearly lost himself a chance to work with the Master he’d been predestined for. As a Padawan, when he’d been too slow, to unskilled to save his Master from the Sith. As a Master – oh, any number of times – every time he’d failed to give Anakin the hug the small child desperately needed – every time he’d failed to see how truly different it must be for a child like Anakin, how different that child was from he, himself, and how different his needs – every time he’d sarcastically berated Anakin for failing at something that Obi-Wan found easy, especially in light of Qui-Gon’s sacrifice for this Chosen One – every time he’d let his resentment lash out at the child – every time – well, suffice it to say that he’d failed Anakin spectacularly, perhaps most importantly when he’d somehow given his adored child the impression that he would choose the Council, choose the Jedi, over him, made his beloved son believe that he would not shield him from their censure at his marriage, his upcoming parenthood. His heart wept, he wept, for his lost child, the child who had chosen a Sith Lord to confide in instead of his own Master.
He was a failure.
He was also failing to notice that, as he slipped further and further into self-hatred, the navy of his aura in the Force darkened to gray, and then came through the other side, to a dusky-tinged red. For not the first time in his life, Obi-Wan was touching the Dark Side. But it was the first time he no longer cared.
Would you change it, if you could?
Too distracted by his grief, Obi-Wan failed to notice the difference in Master’s voice, the sleek oiliness that overlaid the familiar, comforting tones.
“Of course!”
The voice laughed, then, drawing Obi-Wan from himself for a split second, allowing him to glimpse how very, very red his aura was becoming, and to hastily stuff as much of the grief back behind the impenetrable walls he’d built over the years to keep it from overwhelming him, cutting off his connection to Padmé to make sure she remained untainted by his darkness.
Oh, little Jedi, I think you’ll only make it worse.
The words brought a sharp stab of renewed grief and he didn’t need to look to know he’d darkened again, but he refused to let this warped version of his Master win. General Obi-Wan Kenobi had failed at everything he had ever attempted, but he’d be damned thrice over if he’d let some voice (because it couldn’t be Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon was dead, thanks to him) insinuate that he’d fail again if given a second chance.
I think you’ll fail in much more interesting ways. This was too easy. Like playing Dejarik against a youngling. I think we should let you try.
Before he could respond, he felt himself falling away from his physical form, leaving his tie to the realm of the living and being flung headlong into the Force.
I’m sure you’re wondering just what you got yourself into, staking this particular claim. No doubt, you’ve scanned my tumblr (if you haven’t, I suggest it) and are questioning your own sanity.
Have no fear!
I’m actually pretty easy to write for.
Basically, all I want in life is a Carth/Exile story.
Barring that, I want any story where Carth does not end up with the person he holds responsible for the death of his wife/destruction of his planet. I think that’s a bit much to ask someone to forgive.
If you’re going the the non-KotOR route, then congrats - you get to soothe the anguished teenager I am so very deep inside - to heal a wound that was ripped into my soul in my preadolescence. In short? You get to make Jo March come to her goddamn senses.
Rules: she must pick Teddy of her own free will, and there must be no marital infidelity.
That’s it. You can manage it however you want.
Some things you should know about me, as a reader:
I generally tend to skip explicit sex scenes. I don’t have any sort of moral objection to them nor do I hate smut, but it’s not something I generally read. Feel free to add them if you think they’re needed (I know plenty of people who won’t read a story without them, and as much as this story might be for me, you want others to read it, I understand) just be aware I probably won’t read them.
I am the kind of person who doesn’t write fluff but can inhale it via my eyes indefinitely.
I hate severe OOCness.
That’s about it. Feel free to anon message me @spacemomnephmoreau, my personal tumblr, for any further information!
065. Deliver
Deliver Me
for munzland & bluefiredragon
The latest installment of my supposed drabble series, to the prompt table profoundly-grey and I came up with in 2013 with the intention of completing the entire table by the end of that year (shifty side eyes) isn’t really a drabble, but it’s a rather cute, if I say so myself, little Usagi/Mamoru ficlet that I’ll probably pick up again. It was inspired by one of those hundreds of AU prompt lists that run around this place - and it kind of snowballed from a drabble into a 6k one-shot, so…
Anyway, if you’re interested, I’ve got it up on ff.net but not yet on AO3.
Sniper training was, in a word, boring. She was sure it would be better once she could actually hold the rifle instead of just watching some old guy in a uniform pet his, but right now, it was pretty damn boring. For the thousandth time, she cursed that stubborn streak that had made her and her cousin enlist the day they’d both turned eighteen instead of going through an officer candidacy program, like her mother had wanted them to. Her baby cousin, a whole three hours and twenty-six minutes younger than she was, hadn’t wanted to bother with any specialized training once they’d finished their grueling basic training course; leave it to Ari to jump right into the fray.
So, a little while back, I wrote a fic in google docs for a friend who wasn’t feeling well - one of my best friends, actually, Nyruserra, who STILL hasn’t joined tumblr, despite my urging. I’ve posted it on AO3 and ff.net, so I figured I’d throw it up here in case anyone cared to read it :D
The color of the eyes that first drew her in. The color of the box she called home. The color of the sky and oceans on her native planet. The color of the envelope in her hand.
These are my NaNo tables. 30 short stories, 30 pairings (possibly), in 30 days. Because I cannot fixate on a single idea and this seems the easiest way to force myself to actually write for NaNo this year.
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
areudirty
snowghoul
