I AM NO LONGER.

he blinks, and the suns of tatooine set before his eyes, the vision still blurry as the sky turns red-purple-blue-black. there are stars in the sky, and they shine so brightly it is almost an insult. obi-wan presses his hand against the ground, picks up sand and lets it fall down slowly, grain for grain for grain. he sighs.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  — the desert makes you that way. the body which had not been born to the sand craves the softness beyond it ,  her water-fat desires ,  the sea which is not the dune sea , the wind that is not violent , the green that is not a bruise.  this is nostalgia , as well as guilt , to feel that surviving is not enough , to want more with a hunger that sits in the pit of her stomach , always there , watching from behind her eyes.

padmé’s small hand , desert-touched , should not fit so well in obi-wan’s hand , their callouses brushing against one another , born from the same wounds.  it is not a sin that in their tragedy , they’d seek the comfort of touch.  but it feels like it anyway.  it feels like a knife to her heart that  his rough lips would be so gentle against her skin , & that she would be thankful for it , until their intertwined fingers squeeze their conjoined hands ever so lightly.  & like their conjoined grieving , they touch for the sake of touch , only for the hunger of it.

it is almost funny  ( in the way tragedies are )  that another’s man lips , in another story , had felt like fire and that now she feels obi-wan’s mouth so gently kiss her hand and can only think of water.  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬.  this fills her with guilt , a sadness for which she has only one name but will no longer speak.

& padmé is familiar enough with the cold touch of guilt nowadays :  she is guilty of living when others are gone ,  guilty of being a ghost , a mother , and no-longer-being-padmé , which sits in her both as guilt and as anger.  but she ignores it as she ignores so many other things , the desert has no heart for it.

❛  well, so many other things in life leave us no choice at all. ❜  , which she says with as much melancholy as cynicism.  it tastes different in her mouth , she’s still unused to the shape of it.  ❛ like everything else , we’ll just have to deal with it. ❜ , which she adds with more softness, with a brush of her mouth to his hand like he did with hers.

& most nights , the darkening of the stars  ( metaphorical at the same time it isn’t ) mirrors the bruised shadows under their eyes.  but in the morning she holds his hand in hers , makes caf for him and the children , & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 .

               there is a story ,  somewhere in the old world   (  here understood as that which is no more   &   all that has been lost   )  ,  about a man.  except he was no man ,  but a soldier ,  not a soldier but a negotiator ,  not a negotiator but a jedi.  sometimes ,  when he closes his eyes ,  he can see the shape of him ,  the grace of honor ,  the sillhouete of an ideal.  most times ,  he can not picture shape nor shadow ,  only a name which weights heavier than the entire galaxy and is all but buried now ,  burnt to ashes in a planet made of fire.  obi-wan kenobi once held the light of the galaxy in the palm of his hands ,  so carefully he watered it and fed it.  there is no more of that now ——  now there is only ben ,  and the grains of sand spilling through his fingers. 

                 (   &  this is what he tells himself at night ,  when the touch of her soothe him into sleep ,  as peaceful as it could be  :   in the story ,  the jedi had a best friend ,  who had a great love ,  who had a family and a home.  that is just a story.  he is only ben.  ) 

              padmé’s eyes glow against the sun  ,  brown reflecting gold against beige ,  and at times obi-wan forgets how stories ought to go  —  sometimes ,  all there is is the soft curl of her lips ,   the delicate pink of it  ,   how her laugh sounds ,  how the children cling to her with so much love it feels as though it could heal old wounds.  it doesn’t ,  but they can pretend , sometimes.   other times ,  it slips ,  like holding water in your palms , or sand ,  or the roughness of both against the skin now that all softness is gone from the world.     ❛   when you put it like that.   ❜      he says ,  and the words linger in the air with no finality  —  there is nothing to be said here ,  when neither live by their own choices ,  when their life ,  or their pretend-make-believe-life ,  is someone else’s life.   

               instead ,  he lowers his eyes to her hands ,  to the dry-softness of it , to the paradoxical nature of all around him ,  like the green in a vase in the corner in the middle of the desert ,  or their not-themselves-themselves existence. his thumb grazes over her jaw , softly , lovingly , and he smiles.  there is so much want here   —  the kind of desire that stains.  the tips of obi-wan’s fingers are stained with the desire of her ,  or perhaps they are stained with the blood of him ,  or perhaps they are both the same thing  :   red , and thick ,  and dripping over him.  it says  :   this is what you took in the same way you took his life.  you ,  murderer.   you ,  thief.   obi-wan stands in the place where he once stood ,  drinks the love that he once spilled ,  eats the bread that is his  ——  regret is late and posthumous and sometimes not here at all ,  just the memory of it , and the guilt ,  and the paradoxical nature of some-kind-of-happiness. 

“  IT’S NOT POLITE TO STARE,  ”    the growl in her throat descended into a low purr,   finding the heat of his throat under her palm something quite   …  delicious.  her mind quickly offered a name for the face she found in the shadows:    the general,    kenobi.     his shadow   —   the boy,  hard-faced and  dark eyed   —  she couldn’t feel his presence.   he was alone,   and that was his first mistake.    ar’kana’s mouth twisted into a ravenous smirk,   leaning in close to whisper in his ear.    “   hello,   @trajedis· .   this is what is going to happen.  in a few minutes,    you will hear a scream.  it will be a wife,   coming home to find her husband dead.   you will do nothing.   you will say nothing.    you will turn around and walk with me,  nice and easy.    otherwise,   i will let you die like a dog here in the gutter.   nod once so i know you understand.   now.  ”    

the queen did not oft suffer fools.       as maia slipped her fingertips away from the expectant hand of the guard escorting her into the grand hall — khan dio, ma’am! new to the palace and iziz!    he had told her that morning — she kept her face frozen in the serene sweetness of a princess, all the whole watching the hard lines in her mother’s face.    her gaze was leveled tensely against the shadows, drawing maia’s eyes to the shiftless figures standing dutifully in the far corner of the room.    the jedi knights.       a thrill shot through her, questions burning her tongue where she pressed them up against her teeth.     her mother had been adamant — she was not to spend time alone with them,   their presence was nothing more than political necessity at best and frivolous pageantry at worst. we have survived in spite of them, all my mothers and their children, she said as her advisors sighed.     maia had not argued, though rebellion flared hotly in her chest.         i will not be afraid, i cannot be.    — it seemed to her that her courage was rewarded by a chance meeting with the naboo senator. how beautiful, maia thought. she’d caught her by accident, having been sitting in the nook of a tree in her mother’s garden  when she heard what she assumed was a heated argument below her. heated words became sweet nothings just as maia thought to make herself known — suddenly, the senator was looking up to her with glowing cheeks and a shadow stalked away. a tall one,  trailing with it the sound of a saber resounding against a leather belt.    so,   as the grand marshal introduced the princess of ondoran,   maia remembered her promise.     

“     —  THE PRINCESS WILL NOW CHOOSE HER FIRST DANCING PARTNER AND BEGIN THE NIGHT’S REVELRY.   ”

 she thought it was silly,  really.   frivolous pagaentry, indeed.   and still,  maia was not so  proud as to not pleasure in the way the son’s of the gentry squared their shoulders as she passed.  some drew in barely audible breaths when her skirts brushed their feet,   some even blushed.   she regarded the ceremony as she would regard eyeing down an opponent on the other end of her blade,  as it made her blood rush the same.  however,  her liquid smile undid any sternness,  particularly as the crowd gasped collectively the moment she offered her hand to  ….                         “    master kenobi,  yes?   i’d be honored.   ”   

@trajedis  ,   @liberdie,    @sitheoi  

                    he has a bad feeling about this.   this was the first thought to cross obi-wan’s mind as he set foot down at onderon  —  the feeling sat at the bottom of his spine ,  like an itch that you long to but can not scratch :  an unreachable spot in the body ,  like a dog with no teeth nor paws.  here is the truth :   there is nothing obi-wan wants less than to be stationed at a former separatist planet, surrounded by untrustworthy eyes in the middle of a long standing war,  where his efforts could be much better suited.  obi-wan is tired  —   the war has turned his limbs into stone, and he swears he can hear the crack of his bones if he moves too fast.   there are other ways of being tired, too, ones that sleep do not fix and that obi-wan does not speak of  —  that tired lingers ,  spreads like water , contaminates.  obi-wan wishes he was elsewhere, but if obi-wan is anything that thing is dutiful, and so he stands, with his best smile and best posture, and the utmost diginity a jedi knight may have, and he does his job.  

                the same can not be said for anakin.  obi-wan knew he was going to be a problem the moment he spotted, out of the corner of his eyes, the figure of a certain senator, and cursed the force for having him stuck in onderon with anakin and padmé amidala —  she is, of course, nothing if not pleasant  (  as pleasant as politicians may be  )   ,  but anakin is . . .     well.  he has not looked at anything else except the senator since the gala began , and , as far as obi-wan is concerned,  they were meant to protect it , not take part of it.  

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 — pieces of it are all over it even now.  padmé & obi-wan sit by the kitchen table , where light sheds its petals over it , both hungering for crumbles of old lives , better stories.  grief is a difficult guest at their house , it demands attention , speaks louder than their silence , takes too much space in each room.  grief is the hollowed space under scar tissue , phantom pain , or golden blonde hair on a boy sitting with the eopies outside and watching the desert sky.  𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞. 

𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐦é 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞.  hope is fresh warm caf , the very scent of it in the morning , it is leia’s gentle treatment of the droids , the sharing of food with obi-wan , luke’s hands when he touches the animals with the same kindness he holds for people.  & the suns which are often cruel and violent sometimes shine through what remains of a night’s bad dream , and burn not to hurt but to comfort.  she wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she had not hope for something better than this;  consciously and unconsciously trying to put herself back in narratives that existed once … but not now.  she was amidala once  /  amidala is a myth.  & both stories are true. 

❛  luke just left with biggs darklighter , which should come as no surprise , really. something about podracing , i was told , only it was not podracing , of course— something about piloting … ?  so you do owe me a credit.  ❜  

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 , 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭.  that she remains , that padmé lives & now touches the corner of obi-wan’s mouth , flesh to flesh , to wip juice from his lips.  this is intimacy , this is also guilt.  any shape of love cuts her , & only love may soothe it , the hunger she’s always had for it — but it hurts , that she is healing enough to touch this man with a tenderness that was once another’s , until guilt comes to sit at the table with them. she smiles all the same. 

❛  leia , on the other hand , took 3PO rather harshly , if you were to ask him , and went off to the city as soon as the suns were up. so i owe you a credit too — do we call it a friendly draw then ?  ❜  

                    obi-wan has learned how to live with guilt —  from a young age , he has been haunted by it ,  from the first time he ever laid eyes on a beautiful woman , to the countless of deaths that hang on his hands , the blood of all drip, drip, dripping from his fingertips , red and sticky and redder , its iron taste almost blinding. obi-wan has known guilt  :  he carries it with him as an old friend, hand in hand, tells them stories to go to bed and feeds them after a long day. he has no interest in departuring from it   :    there is no such thing as an absolution for obi-wan kenobi.  there is only the penance of each day , and the pain , and the silence choke of tears that dare to burst out of him, a broken-raw-swallowed sob that he muffles by the touch of his palms against his throat.  this is what it means to be obi-wan kenobi, every day : you carry the guilt and the remembereance and the loss and you try to keep yourself together, against all odds, so that one day, perhaps, you may rest your head against the pillowcase and have a dream made of the force.  

                 the first haunting and haunted guilt he had ever met was of qui-gon’s death :   here , boy , child , padawan , here is where you should have been more. should have been better. should have saved your master’s life, should have stood by him in death , should have joined him, should have —— silence, now, or the guilt of him will resurface, and that is a guilt that neither reader nor narrator could bear to hold.  instead , now , we talk of the guilt which is no guilt at all  —  the guilt which obi-wan kenobi will take on gladly, again, and again, and again, if only for the small flutter of hope to shine through his chest once again. if only then. 

                  obi-wan smiles at padmé, the softness of her touch bringing softness to his features, to his sand-bruised skin, to the roughness of the desert, and of a soldier,       a jedi.     he takes her hand, softly, from the corner of his lips and holds it inside of his own, before bringing it closer and placing a kiss to the back of it, ever gentle with her.  a smile that reaches his eyes bloom from him, and he sighs in fake displeasure.      ῾     podracing?  hm. perhaps he will be a great pilot one day.  if biggs darklighter isn’t too much of a ... distraction , of course.   ᾿   obi-wan lets her hand down, but does not let them go  :  instead , he intertwines their fingers together, so that they are only one, and if so wish could feel each other’s heartbeat through skin.  

𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐦é 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.  she dreams of fire that kills , water which restores. sometimes , she dreams of home , or she remembers it.  the lake in which the water had known her , the body which had not known what she knows now , & light & the earth &distant childhood.  padmé had been born to water , to the long , dark throat of it — 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. is it memory or the fabrication of one ?   is this body is still a topography ?  the memory of naboo almost dissolving like sugar on water , her veins and arteries as the rivers of her land before the flood , the fire , the desert.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 :  an ever-consuming place where water does not find her. the sand knows a cruelty for which she has no stomach.

& now she sees the ruinous vestiges of nightmare in obi-wan’s eyes;  had lied in bed with him too many times to not be familiar with the remembrance of it.  the same guilt sometimes stares back at her from the mirror , the same haunted look between them makes her choke on intimacy.  out of politeness , the same courtesy he offers her , she pretends not to notice.

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.  sunlight that softly skimmers over the surface of her grief , there is a strange , obsessive sort of hope that throbs in her like an organ. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭:  padmé dreams  of water , wakes in the desert , rises and goes about her day. most times , she allows her guilt to sit at the table with her.  most days she licks the salt of her wounds when no one is looking.

sometimes, a kitchen is two people looking at each other and learning to heal. she wonders when their time will come. 

❛  i’ll give you a coin if you guess where luke is ❜ , she replies.  this is familiar enough , this well-meaning civility that masks tiredness , the mannerisms of a politician still come easy enough — the smile too , brief and simple , but not untrue when it comes to her family.  ❛  i’ll give you another if you find leia. ❜

then there comes their rhythmic familiarity , hand briefly to hand , melodic onomatopoeias of plates and glasses as the caf boils behind them.  & padmé takes the last piece of fresh fruit , that obi-wan had left for her , and parts it n two with her hands and puts half of it on his plate.     ❛  eat your breakfast. ❜

                  every day ,  before obi-wan gets up from bed ,  he lies still   (  this , you see , is another relic of the past ,  now corrupted by the present  :   before , obi-wan would lay for hours at a time , with no end in sight , though time seemed not to move at all , or moved so quickly that it all seemed as nothing more than a minute  —  for the force , a concept such as time is naught concept at all :  it blends and binds and slithers away , and obi - wan gives it all to the force , feelings and seconds and thoughts ,  a willing sacrifice to an ever - craving god  ) .  after ,  or now ,  he stares at the beige ceiling and counts his mistakes.  he imagines them as grains of sand ,  each mounting up again and again and again still.  he places them into jars until they overflow ,  and at some point he loses count.   perhaps it is fitting , after all , that they would end up in a planet made of endless mountains and dunes.    

            obi-wan kenobi can live with grief ,  has lost too much at too young of age not to know how to.  here is what he can not fathom :  emptiness.  where once there was the universe ,  now there is only a bleak beige ceiling , cracks in the cement that spread through , like veins.  sometimes , silently , he wonders if they lead to a heart. he wonders if there is still a heart in the desert to lead to. 

              still ,  here ,  sitting at a kitchen table ,  there is color  :   padmé’s hair ,  the scarf around her shoulders ,  the soft palete of milk and fruits , the smell of caf in the air.  he drums his fingers against his legs ,  a single eyebrow lifting. a hand to his chin , a stroke to his beard —  he falls into the same familiarity of an once known home , only in another place.      ῾   ah .  he’s not with the animals again , is he?     ᾿       a small smile , then , flashes through his features. a fondness for which he has no words , which his dogma once forbid.  attachment.     and then , as silently as it came , it slips away , for a second or perhaps two  :   had obi-wan not always measured his words carefully and exactly , it may have slipped out , but he does so almost obsessively — he weights the syllables against his tongue , measuring their length and the sound of them , feeling them against his throat.  these words ,  the words that are not spoken ,  wrap around him as a rope.     ῾   either leia is still asleep , or she’s running about in the city —  but i would never dare to take credits from a lady.    ᾿    if she’s anything like her father.  

                       he stands up, and finds a breakfast table perfectly set for four. @liberdie already sits on it, as regal as always, quiet in her grief as she is in her pain, hidden away in a face made for lying.  within obi-wan, there is a wound, already in the stages of healing. he picks at it, and blood flows out again.   ʿ padme, dear one. up this early?   ʾ       his voice is still rough from sleep ,  though for her and her alone he softens it, taking the seat next to her as he spreads what looks liks bacta on a bread and prays it tastes differently.     ‘  and what of the kids?  are they still asleep?    ʾ     it is quiet conversation , almost forced , in this reality for which he should not have, nor belong.  

@trajedis· :  ❛ are you giving me professional advice ? ❜

          ❛   even better , general kenobi :  the advice of a politician:   think fast !   ❜     she says it not meekely , lips only slightly upturned even as she shoots over his shoulder ;   there is the sound of metal crashing against the floor. padmé turns:   eyes on his eyes.   ❛   are you leaving   all   the droids to me ?   ❜

obi-wan is unable, for the first few years, to meditate. what was once a source of comfort  &  a way to ease the weight of his feelings and a form to find the prized jedi balance, turns into something agonizing : when he closes his eyes and tries to be one with the force, all he feels is cold, and fractured, and he finds a void where there was once warmth. he remembers, then, the great void and cold feeling of the deaths of order 66. he hears anakin’s screams and his pleas for help. he feels the darkness that overbears and engulfs the galaxy. he can’t meditate. 

on every empire day, he drinks his feelings out in the closest cantina. labyrinth of evil, gambit & other legends books have touched briefly on obi-wan’s fondness for cantinas and his enjoyment of drink, and on days like that it goes overboard. he drinks until he can not feel anymore, and gets himself back up again the following day. 

obi-wan is also disconnected from the jedi who parted and became one with the force. in this case, he becomes disconnected from qui-gon jinn, who, even if attempted, would not be able to contact him. he is not in harmony with the force. he is not balanced. no matter how many times he may pray for guidance, it never comes. 

               𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐃 ,        and then , as swiftly as death came ,  comes the silence.     no ,    that is not right  :  silence  would be  better  than  the  single  thread - like  ringing  ,  constant  and  continuous  , as  though  listening  to  the  flatlining  of  a  heart .       perhaps this is death  :      the  taste  of  iron  on  his  tongue  ,   the  weight  of  bones  and  muscle  and  flesh  bringing  him  down ,  feeling  every  molecule  of  air  as  it  comes  in  through  his  lungs ,   with  each  breath  he  takes  ,   a  sharp   &   painful  reminder  of  it  all  ,   heavy  eyelids  begging  for  the  darkness  of  shut  eyes.          then ,  the force shifts.      there is a presence ,   somewhere  within  the putrid  ,  engulfing  , eternal darkness   ,   somewhere  buried  six  foot deep below  the  smell  of  burning  flesh  ,  somewhere ,  somewhere  ,   a presence he  has  not  felt  in  years  is  seen.   

𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄     :            two  young  men  face  the  battlefield together.  the year does not matter ,  be it only suffice to say it was  before  ,   and  their  bodies  still  move  as  one  ,   lightsaber  drawn   &    blaster shots  deflected.  there is no time for questioning  ,   only there were the need for such  :   such  a  bond  exists  on  the  basis  of  blind  trust ,  and one  may  consider  it  foolishness  ,   but  not  them.   they are anakin and obi-wan ,  and obi-wan and anakin ,  and  that  is   enough.     obi-wan slips  for  a  second  ,  or  perhaps  two  ,   and  it  could  have  been  the end  ,  had  it  not been  for  the  blue  lightsaber  to  the  left  over  his shoulder  ,  and  a  droid  falling  lifeless  to  the  ground.  

no one kills you but me , master.       a grin ,  and  , just like that ,   they are back  in  the  battlefield.     it is obi-wan kenobi and anakin skywalker  ,    and it will always be.  

              ❛    𝐖𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄     to  hold  onto  idealisms  ,  satine.   there are lives  at  stake  here.     ❜         

                𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐃,   this   obi - wan   knows  ,   or   ,  maybe  ,   this   obi -wan   has   always   known  :   it   corrodes   everything   it    touches   ,   leaving nothing   behind   except   for   itself.           guilt breeds guilt ,   an ever - consuming tumor ,          breathing wreckage after wreckage after  ------    it   does   not   do   well   for   a   jedi   to   linger   on   such   matters.    he’ll   swallow   it   down  ,   let   it   burn   as   it   finds   his   way   through   the   pathway   of   his   throat   (  which it knows as intimately as one knows a lover  )   until there is nothing left but the after - taste of himself    (  bruised  &  bitter   &   battered  ) .    guilt is an acid   ,    and   he   will   water   his   wounds   as he   waters   a   plant   in   hopes   it   will   wash   the   wound   away.  it blooms. 

              her   voice   pulls   him   back  :   it   is  not  as  he  once  knew ,  the high , steady  pitch  ,  the  certainty  and  defiance  ,   passion  laced  and  ,   somehow   ,    still kind.         no ,  her voice is nothing like that  :     it   curls up   in   it   of   itself ,     small and smaller still ,      a  thread  and  barely ,   a sound   more   like   a   wounded   animal   than   a   woman.      he shudders at the sound of it  ,  even still.        perhaps   it   is   one   of   the   many   aftermaths   of   guilt.  𝐎𝐁𝐈 - 𝐖𝐀𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐈  ,   jedi master  &  general of the republic ,   looks   at   padmé amidala   and  finds  that  there  is  no  greater  challenge  than  to  respond  to  her  pleas.   he  closes  his  eyes.  he  opens his  mouth.