hope is a weapon

Having  a  laser  sword  pointed  at  him  was  not  how  this  day  was  supposed  to  go.  So  much  for  going  to  his  favorite  class.  "The  first  part!  I  fuckin'  swear!"  Assassin?!  Ryan  was  anything  but  one.  Like  he  said,  he  was  the  world's  unluckiest  person  when  it  came  to  this  kind  of  shit,  and  he  had  no  control  over  it. Holy  hell,  he  wished  he  had  been  anywhere  else.  "You  saw  me  fall.  I  have  no  idea  where  the  hell  I  am!"  He  could  lash  out  with  his  magic,  but  that  would  only  prove  the  laser-wielding  dude  right.

It was all gone now. His respect. The hard earned trust that Anakin sometimes barely believed he got. He knew they looked at him with suspicion even all these years later and now, now, they could shake their heads and say I never trusted him, I knew he was wrong all along.

The question snaps him out of his rumination. He lifts his head, blinks at Obi-Wan's back, the knee jerk response on the tip of his tongue. And then it recoils, like he's pulling himself back into the hermit shell he's created. Is the answer so simple?

It is simple because-- Anakin would do anything for the people he loved. For the ones he cared about. He would raze the entire galaxy if it meant saving any one of them. Even at the cost of everyone else. Even when he wants nothing more than to save everyone. To keep them all safe.

"No," Anakin says finally, but the answer is hollow. "But I think you're wrong. ...I know you're wrong."

Jedi. Sith. Just two sides of the same coin. For one second he'd seen it: he'd understood everything. Light always casted a shadow, no matter what. Darkness couldn't exist without it, but neither could the light exist without the dark. In that second he'd seen what he could do, what he could be capable of.

It was in that moment right before Sidious had broken his confidence. He'd been so close. His rage had been righteous, his purpose so clear. Palpatine had been in his grasp and then he played into his fears. Anakin felt something burrowing deep in his mind and--

Again it's Obi-Wan's voice that snaps him back to reality. Try as he might, he can't really remember everything after that. It's bits and pieces all out of order, out of context. Nothing he would say could help his case. Obi-Wan's words hurt. They're a stab wound in his chest. You might not have our trust. It doesn't surprise him, but it hurts all the same.

How long had it taken for them to really see him as belonging? He'll never have that back. What does Ahsoka think of him? Padme would never look him in the eye again. He hasn't taken a look out of that barred window for weeks now. At first he'd dared--denial of his own actions making him pace like a captured lion. The anger had come quick on its heels-- anger at Sidious, at the Jedi, at Obi-Wan. At himself. Until finally it had turned into this. All lack of desire to even acknowledge the outside world.

It doesn't matter what he does from here on out. He's lost everything and to gain it back would take another lifetime.

He wants to vomit and cry and scream all at the same time, but his mind and body stay frozen in place. Would he? It's impossible to imagine it, striking down the boy he raised with the two lightsabers he trained him with, the ones that so naturally hummed in harmony with Anakin's own. They never felt exactly the same, but they did feel like fractures of something once whole and they were pleased to be together again. Obi-Wan never wanted a padawan, he can't imagine never having one now, never having Anakin. His toothy smile, choppy hair, and eager eyes; a boy with passion too big for his heart and a power barely contained within his small fragile body. It's no wonder the Sith had their eyes on him, no wonder his mind broke, he was all the galaxy in a paper bag.

"Not in defense of myself. But for others . . . yes." This time, he feels confident in his words and they only barely waver. He would do all he could to spare his life, but he wouldn't stand down. Not only because it was the right thing to do (he wouldn't know how to stop anyway), but because Anakin would hate him if he didn't. Would hate him even more than he does now had Obi-Wan stood by and watched him slaughter the defenseless and innocent.

He tries not to think about how he did. The 212th had been beyond far from Coruscant when rumors of Dooku's surrender and Palpatine's final grab for power collided, hundreds and thousands of miles away from Anakin with no way to reach him and only a thread-bare mentor bond to assure himself he was even alive.

Logically, Obi-Wan knows there is nothing he could have done in the moment, but there is nothing to spare him from the guilt of ignoring Anakin's need for help for all the years prior. Had he just been a better teacher, a kinder mentor, a more caring brother.

"I'm sorry, but it won't come to that. Ever." Because they're going to help him (those who could stand to be in the same room as him), the Jedi are done with abandoning their own, Obi-Wan would make sure of it. "Who you are- you don't want to hurt people. You aren't evil. I know that."

It would be a lie to say everything he's doing he's doing for Anakin's sake, but he's certainly a driving factor. The temple can hold him forever, but they won't want to, not when he's painted the walls red with blood of their own. The Lothal temple is far and out of the way, both easy to forget about and inoffensive. It will be well fortified and the Force will be quiet. Early on, he'd considered recruiting Rex—who likely wouldn't refuse a call to duty—but from what little Obi-Wan knows of their relationship, he was really more Ahsoka's Captain than he ever was Anakin's and inviting him might do more harm than good. To all three of them.

Tarre is political enough to know that the Republic wove their leash on the Jedi too well. Breaking it is not easy, and it should not be, because the consequences of a badly-made separation will not be good. But he still dreams, just as he understands that his time is long gone, and all he can do is give advice.

But if the Force didn't want him to give his advice, it should not have called him, of all Jedi from the past.

"A nightmare." He huffs. And then, with a sigh, his voice softens. "I will not tell you it was easy, or pretty. But it was necessary, and it held back the Sith, and the Republic was quite grateful to have us there, I assure you." He points out. "But what you need right now, I agree, is not an army of Jedi."

And then, after a moment, he smiles. It's something easier, something fonder, because he can certainly relate to breaking every protocol for what he believes in.

"It will not be easy." He tells Obi-Wan. "There will be many times, as the years go on, where you will wonder if you are making the right choices. That is normal. It is a good sign."

Tarre himself doubted more than he could ever show, because the throne he sought was not one that allowed for weakness. And for all he has an axe to grind against the Republic and he has his disagreements with the Order, Kenobi is the one trying to make changes.

"I come from a very different time. It would be concerning if we wanted the same thing for the Order." He says. "And the situation is different."

Then, however, he tilts his head.

"And my people would be foolish to refuse an army, considering the state of our chosen home planet."

Because he was aware of more than he let on, considering his connection to the Force in wartime.

"No matter how twitchy the Republic got. But Dual citizenship... that's a concerningly modern concept."

One is either Mandalorian, or one isn't, and Tarre does feel his age a little now.

Mandalore is back to how it was just under two decades ago: without leader and without cause. Obi-Wan can't help but feel responsible for their instability twice over now.

"I admit, I don't know much about your home, but . . . it would be a huge win for our troops. The senate is scared to grant them citizenship because of their number and abilities—and they'd have to admit to their faults in denying it earlier—but if Mandalore does then the Republic will have to. They'll be backed into a corner. They won't want their army living under a foreign government." It is a depressing way of thought, yet the reality they're living under. Obi-Wan would personally recommend against the Clones staying, but he knows most of them are too stubbornly loyal to the Jedi to leave and the rest simply have little elsewhere to go. Though, Mandalore doesn't really have the ability to shelter them all; it's just a bluff and one he can't imagine the senate refusing.

"Despite everything, or maybe in spite of it, planets are more determined than ever to have no formal militia of their own. From what they've seen, the Republic will do anything to keep them from fighting their wars and they're not wrong. Even if we never will again, they need us to look like we will." And if they ever ask, well, Obi-Wan thinks they'll just have to cross that bridge when they get there. Or preemptively make a plan that involves absconding with millions of people without anyone noticing.

The same place of caring that had governed so many of his choices, and that had him, right now, regard this living Jedi before him with far more gravity, because the conversation now deserved it.

"I hoped, for a long stretch of my life," he said, in the end, settled and more serious and a mix of wry and mournful, "to bridge the gap between the Jedi and the Mando'ade. I did not find my very being a contradiction, and I had hoped there would be more like me to follow." He replied. "But I was also born during what history now calls the New Sith Wars." He added, gently. "The Jedi Order I grew up in was an order of warriors that did not yet answer to the Republic Senate. My Clan of origin did not find it abhorrent to let me go to the Jedi, when they could help me and when I would grow up as a warrior still."

He had wanted them to work together. He had also never wanted to ask them to be anything but what they were. Unlike the Republic had.

"I did not embark on the campaign that won me the leadership of my people for this hope. I did it because I had the might and I had the means, and because if I did not, someone else would, and that someone would unite the Clans in favor of the Sith, and then my people, already stretched thin and bled, would likely not survive." He said, tone gentle.

It had never been ambition that drove him. It had never been entirely peace, either.

"The Ruusan Reformations took place when I was already Mand'alor." He told Kenobi. "I had, and have, opinions about it. I even gave a speech in the Republic Senate." And he had enjoyed watching the politicians squirm. Even those he had once respected.

"I had wanted better for the Order. They lost their independence, their ability to act as the Force asked, instead of as the Republic asked. And from that point on I could not, in good faith, ever ask any of my people to join the Order, when it would be a betrayal of who we were." And he did not hide the mourning on his voice.

"Independence for the Jedi . . . part of me still feels it's unwise, but I couldn't explain why, it's just how we were raised. The stories of the Army of Light, they made it sound like nightmare, that we almost destroyed the galaxy with out negligence, but look at us now! We almost did it again!" He barks out a laugh, for once thankful the temple is sparsely populated so no one catches wind of his manic energy. "We must be more than a fist. We need a voice, we need to listen.

"And I can already feel it starting- the change. The Force. It wants me here, breaking rules and going against every protocol I was taught." Though small and far from fully formed, several of his hopes are already blossoming. He has representatives from the different councils working together to ensure that every youngling has a place, Jedi living amongst the outer-rim planets who so often go ignored, and though he can't take complete credit for it (because it's less him and more the stubbornness of their troops), it seems solo assignments are slowly becoming a thing of the past. No more secrets, no more mysterious deaths, no more Sifo-Dyases. "Every lesson I passed on to my own padawan."

His heart still aches at the thought of Anakin back on Coruscant, starved for allies and sympathy. He doubts if even Ahsoka has spoken to him. It's only yet another reason why the Wayseekers have to work; Anakin will need somewhere to heal and prove rehabilitation from the Dark is not some extremist thought. For a moment, Obi-Wan considers asking for Tarre's opinion on it because it couldn't have always been so unheard of, but he holds his tongue. It's a question for when the temple is more habitable and when the people of Lothal are less wary of their new neighbors.

He does need all the help he can get, even despite the way he wants to defend his Master. Alas, time to be diplomatic instead. Just as diplomatic as he is when he nods at the trooper that approaches him, polite enough, but not lingering on him too much. He's handled worse people following him. He still appreciates the lack of an armed escort.

"The Conflict has not been helpful, no, and the Force itself feels noticeably Darker than I remember. Then again, I cannot quantify how much." He admits.

His mission, which has been going far from well, he does not talk about. He's just as far from finding Sifo-Dyas as he was before.

"I know I am not on the wrong track, at the very least." He considers, arms crossed loosely. "That shall have to be enough. And when I find him," he tells Kenobi, "I will try to keep him safe, as we figure out what we next do."

In truth, he has no plan. He has goals, yes, but if Sifo called him here...

"His connection to the unifying Force is uncommonly strong." He says, in the end. "Wherever he is, he is there for a reason."

"Your dedication to him is admirable." He never had the opportunity to meet the man, but Master Sifo-Dyas has been a shadow over his shoulder all the same. Obi-Wan suspects he is yet another reason why Qui-Gon kept him so distant from Dooku, not wanting to have his visions encouraged or validated by someone constantly plagued with them. In his younger years, Obi-Wan's connection to the Unifying Force—while quite strong—was comparatively weak and like with any unpracticed skill, faded with age. He's never wished it otherwise, but he bets it would be rather helpful now.

"Forgive me for asking, but why do you think there is purposeful reason to this? The man I've known you to be is . . . more materialistic, less trusting in the Force and the way my Master always spoke about you, I assumed you were always that way." Master Nu is similar, different in that she trusts her instincts and the universe's whispers, but she's as equally efficient. She gets shit done and when she's not getting shit done, she is preparing for the next stone to drop.

"...I didn't say that." He's not stupid enough to think the Jedi are defending him. As usual, it feels like Obi-Wan doesn't understand, and maybe that's why they're here. Maybe, if Anakin knew how to explain himself better, if his words weren't so blunt and stunted, if he didn't try to pretend he could live up to the expectations set before him, he would have been able to explain himself better. Maybe he wouldn't have been so naive, so foolish, so easily corrupted. But, then, he was always corrupted, wasn't he? "They could give me up. One thing off their hands. But they won't. You won't."

He doesn't know everything, but it's not hard to infer what they whisper about. He knows how the Senate works, he's intimate with its on-goings thanks to Padme's long discussions on its intricacies. He may not have the patience for it all, but he understands the way the gears turn. The way the Jedi Order has been intertwined for far too long, and that is how Palpatine had so much influence. He'd spent grueling years trying to catch up to his peers on the Republic's long history. It's imprinted in his mind alongside Tatooine's rituals and cultural history. He knows the twists and turns of bureaucracy and he hates every bit of it.

If he has committed atrocious acts, then he should be punished for them. He is a traitor of the Republic, a murderer, a fallen Jedi. Does this not all call for the death penalty, or if not that, a life sentence? Anakin hates the thought of having to life with this, but he's willing to do so if they would stop doing exactly what Obi-Wan is doing. Thinking he's still worth some kind of use after all of this.

"You don't need me," Anakin says.

And that, if anything else, is the point. Why keep him when he was so thoroughly corrupted, a perpetrator in his own right. There's a small of part of him that rejects this idea, but it doesn't want to take blame. It wants to claim it's his fault, it was all Sidious. He said he would kill everyone he ever cared about, and that he could do it, too. Anakin closes his eyes and sees the bodies in the temple. Did it matter if he would kill everyone if Anakin did it himself? Was that the joke? The big irony? In trying to prevent the worst, he had caused it?

(Not that this is the worst. The worst hasn't happened. It won't happen. Or maybe it still will, still can. Is there a chance that being alive can cause the future The Son had shown him still progress, and that the Jedi, in keeping him alive, are still so close to destroying their own future?)

Anakin lets the water bottle settle beside him. His hands run through his tangled, matted hair, as he presses his face into his arms. If it's not the temple, it's the sound of a respirator. It's the children looking up at him with fear and hope and-- Anakin isn't sure if that happened or not. How far did he get? Sidious laughs in the darkest crevices of his thoughts and Anakin has never felt more afraid.

It's been months. He doesn't know how he can continue like this. His head is killing him.

"What if it's my survival that's the problem, Master?" He lifts his head briefly, his words barely above a whisper. "How could you ever trust me after this? Tell them to let me go. They were right.

The Republic wants a scapegoat and Anakin, who could not be proved guilty of collusion against the state, but could be proved to be a confidant of the chancellor and a traitor (murderer) to his own people, would be a tempting pick. They want an easy trial with a neat bow on top, they don't want to examine their own corruption and untangle its roots. They'd want to kill him; say he is a Sith no different than 'his Master' and silence his voice.

It isn't safe to let him go, in fact, it's about as unsafe as it is to keep him confined to the temple. They've taken precautions, of course, they've moved their younglings to a refuge off planet with a platoon from the 442nd and they've sectioned off the different halls with varying guards and troopers at each door. Ideally, they'd have moved all non-essentials to a safer location, but they have none. The council finds it unwise to split into smaller groups and no where is large enough and fortified enough to house them all. At least, not yet.

"Would you kill me?" The question escapes him without thought. He hasn't the faintest idea why he asked, he already knows the answer.

Perhaps Obi-Wan just needs to hear it for himself, pointless and disrespectful and self-centered as it is.

"I mean right now. Do you want to?" His back is turned as he speaks. "A real Sith would. A real Sith will never stop and that is why we kill them, there is no other way."

He had to believe Anakin could heal; Quinlan had healed. He was never as Fallen as Anakin, but surely they could use his healing process as an example, a protocol going forward. They would need it, the war had broken them too thoroughly and Anakin wasn't an anomaly, a disease, but a symptom.

"You have another way. You might not have our trust, but you have our mercy."

It would be impossible to say if Anakin was wholly aware of his actions while taking them—not even Anakin's own word is to be trusted—but Obi-Wan would hope without Sidious' influence, this would have never come to be. So there has to be hope. Sidious is dead so there has to be hope.

It could have been worse. It could have been the entire Jedi Temple, all of its old, and too-young and Anakin remembers an entire other life parallel to this one. He sees it stretch in its infinity. The destruction he brings, the pain, the terror. And it's still in him. It still is him.

Does it matter if he only killed a handful or if he killed them all?

Anakin takes the bottle of water in a shaky hand, skirting Obi-Wan's fingers as if he's the one who is plagued. He doesn't open it, even though his throat feels like he's swallowed several mouthfuls of sand. He's standing in the sandstorm of his childhood and it's never ending.

He shrugs at Obi-Wan's question. Master Windu of all people could never bare to look upon Anakin's face after such a betrayal, could he? Not the master with the most doubt, the most discernment, the least pleased with anything Anakin ever did. He proved him right after all, so why? Why would he have come?

Why would Mace Windu have let him live?

He knows Obi-Wan is too kind. Here he is, tripping over himself so he doesn't disturb Anakin's delicate sensibilities. If Anakin wasn't quite so sick, he would have strangled him. As it is, all he can do is stare down at the water bottle he doesn't deserve and then drag his murky gaze up to Obi-Wan's face.

"No one is . . . defending you." There is likely a softer way to say it, but Obi-Wan currently has no capacity for his famed silver tongue. He rarely ever does with Anakin. "We all know what happened, what you did, but we also know it wasn't wholly you. Not entirely you. Palpatine had influence over each and every one of us, but his focus was on you. That kind of power- it rots you."

He wonders just how much is the council shielding Anakin from any outside news. Does he know the senate wants to question and try him? The political pressure the Order is facing for refusing them? There are parents demanding their younglings back, Jedi renouncing their oaths and titles, padawans without Masters, and a number of both still unaccounted for.

The majority of information known to the populace is still hearsay; there is simply too little context to explain why troopers had turned on their Generals and allies, why the Coruscanti temple had been attacked and been put under lockdown. Everyone knows the chancellor was a Sith Lord and he's dead, but not everyone believes it. Plenty have reason not to, but the Jedi have no such luxury. They've been ignorant and blind for too long.

"And we mourn for . . ." for everyone you killed. "But we're Jedi. We don't find justice in a life for a life. You will heal, you will get better, and you will help push us through this because it is going to take every ounce of power we have to make it out in one piece." There are governments who want their heads as retribution, Separatists who call them Sith in disguise, politicians who want them disbanded; their home is in the heart of the Republic and they can't take a single step outside without being scrutinized and questioned.

The Jedi—with their meager numbers—will not survive if they don't stick together, and they need to survive. If not for their younglings who could safely be placed elsewhere, then for the Clones who face equal struggles, yet have no where to go.