#a variable star

Just reread one of my fav star wars fics a variable star by @twigcollins bc chekov's obi-bomb gun finally went off congrats

lil flashy gif i tried under the cut

inpired by the fic A Variable Star by twigcollins on ao3 (based on a scene from chapter 22)

This is my second time reading this fic and I 100% recommend it if you’re a fan of obi wan kenobi and canon divergent AUs

All of them.  The Dark says, with the absolute confidence of one who cares entirely about the swing with zero interest in the follow-through.  Kriff, just imagine what the Sith Empire must have been like - any of them - primed for total war with their favored source of power cheering them all on.  Destroy their enemies, their allies, themselves - as long as something happened, the Dark was all in.

Is it that their cruelty feeds you, or that you encouraged it in them?  Obi-Wan wonders.  Which one came first?

Murder. It says. Murder murder murder.

Did you practice these speeches inside that holocron?

“The Ka’ra consign your soul to dying stars if you pay someone to hit your elders in the head with rocks when they’re not looking.”  Phelyx says.

“No, no - I would have done it myself, with respect and dignity.  And to make sure it stuck.  Taken him on a lovely picnic, found a nice, hungry krayt dragon. Even made sure I polished his armor first.  An apex predator - that’s a compliment.”

“He would have just left you everything he had in the will.” Nelo says.  “Same results… and you would have had to spend all that time tracking down the dragon.”

“… kriffing monsters, the elderly.”

“He’s only doing this because you’re his favorite bu’ad.”

A lifetime of lessons on finding peace and withstanding darker emotions, the importance of calm in moments just like this are… obliterated, replaced with nothing but raw, blank fear.  Obi-Wan is vaguely aware he’s only making it worse for himself, the fear compounding itself in a vicious cycle, but he finds is entirely unable to stop.  

“How are you still here?”  He whispers, so quietly he can barely hear himself.

You mean because of that?  A dark, gloved hand flicks out from beneath the robes in a minute yet utterly dismissive gesture at the cuff around his wrist.  I’m on the other side of it, little one.  You can’t block out what’s already here with you.  It’s doing you more harm than good, anyway.  Better to just scrap it now and be done with it.

 Yes, let’s just abandon the only thing allowing Obi-Wan to cling to that last thread of composure, let alone sanity.  He stands very still, tries to get his breathing under control.  Focuses on the fall of sand, the most normal and least threatening -

Are you certain of that?

Obi-Wan looks closer.  The sand is… rising in the column, not falling, disinterested in either gravity or whether or not he can handle one more impossibility right now.

Peace.  Knowledge.  Serenity.  Harmony.  The Force.  The short-short version, for when there’s no point in pretending he can think in complete sentences, or that everything isn’t kriffed well past repair.

Ah, the sage wisdom of the gardeners.  The voice means Jedi, Obi-Wan thinks, and it’s spoken with a sort of fond, contemptuous amusement.  The gentle sympathy of watching a tooka kit try and fail to climb a flight of stairs.  Of… limited utility, perhaps, circumstances being what they are.  In their defense, it is a very nice garden.

Obi-Wan finally turns, forces himself to face the cloaked figure head-on… which gains him nothing.  The hood is deep cut, the cloak trailing the ground, concealing everything, and even when Obi-Wan leans forward just a bit, trying to catch a glimpse beneath, the perspective… shifts impossibly, showing him nothing new.  A bit foolish, really, to think it matters whether not the Sith has a face.  

Who are you?

I’m… a hypothetical.  A theory let out to play with the galaxy.  A wager, maybe.  Consider me your ori’vod, if you’d like.

Not kriffing likely.

You may call me… Genet, then.  It serves as well as anything.

Genet.  Gray.  A perfectly mild name - if it wasn’t a lie, and if Obi-Wan couldn’t hear that undercurrent of amusement still threading through every word.

What are you, then?  A… Sith that worked with Mandalorians?  Ancient, if that were true.  Xanatos had been so proud of what he had discovered - his interesting trinket.  So eager to show it off.  

If I’ve been in your head all this time, perhaps I’ve just learned the language alongside you.

In his head, all this time.  Obi-Wan does not dare to let that thought linger long.  I don’t trust you.