little disclaimer before we begin! i know chapters have been a bit slow recently, and there's been mostly character development rather than plot development, but i promise after this chapter we return to the main clone wars arc that we're covering right now. this addition is a lot of angst and hurt/comfort with artie and anakin, which is what i've been in the mood to write lately. in the next chapter, we will definitely get back to the action and badassery.

i take this story very seriously and i aim to do right by artie's character, as well as everyone else, so slower bits like this are unfortunately necessary. i only ask for patience. i also have a very special chapter in mind (if you hear wedding bells . . . maybe you do)

as always, thank you so much for reading!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ARTIE WASTED NO TIME IN MAKING HER WAY TO ANAKIN'S ROOM. SHE HOPED Padmé would guess where she'd gone and not come looking for her — Artie hadn't thought to say goodbye. By the time she remembered, she had already made it to the Temple's Accommodation Sector without any run-ins; she wasn't about to traipse all the way back and risk getting held up again.

She passed the Temple's crèche and the Padawan dormitories, and so came the endless hall of individual housing, each little room identical to the one before it and discernible only by count. Fifty-six, Artie thought automatically as she passed her own chamber's narrow gray door. It wasn't far from Anakin's.

     A few moments later she came upon it and stopped short. One more step and the door would slide away at her approach. It was just like any other, any of the countless tiny abodes carved into the Temple walls, except for the living maelstrom it sheltered. Artie took five seconds to compose herself. Five seconds to steady her racing heart. She stepped forward.

     The door gave way, and there was Anakin.

     In all truthfulness, Artie wasn't sure what she had expected. She'd envisioned him on his feet, perhaps, out of the Council's sight and free to rage against the galaxy and all its unfairness. He usually had to burn through his anger to get to the heart of his problem, which in this case would be grief beyond measure.

     Artie did not expect quiet. Stillness. But there he sat on the edge of his narrow bed, elbows on his knees and head bent low. No raging. No pacing. She reached into the Force and found that fierce, molten emotion still coiled around him, yet outwardly he betrayed nothing. Artie found herself wishing for an outburst, for some display of passion. A newly realized fear had wormed its way into her heart and Anakin's perfect calmness gave it legitimacy.

It seemed quite possible that Obi-Wan's death would be what finally did Anakin Skywalker in. Not a Separatist nor a slave-master, not a lucky battle droid, not Grievous or Count Dooku, but the loss of his best friend. Artie was unsure if someone could die of heartbreak, but she was certain it could cut so deep as to immobilize. Paralyze. It could carve the fight right out of you, and she worried it was happening before her eyes.

She stepped deeper into the room. The door slid shut behind her. Artie exhaled deeply, let the Force truly move through her, and with a wave of her hand overrode the lock mechanism on the wall panel. It gave a long beep, and they were sealed in. It was against Temple regulations to lock doors (Jedi should have no secrets, no thoughts or habits that needed hiding) but Artie thought just this once, it would have to be all right. She'd never in her life risk someone waltzing in on the conversation they were about to have.

     Anakin did not look up at her, but he murmured: "C'mere." His voice came weak and low.

It was not an order, but permission. Invitation. In truth, Artie was glad for the assurance. She crossed the floor and knelt before him and made him lift his head enough to look her in the eyes. Anakin's face was dark and turned down in a deep scowl, eyes bloodshot and burning blue. He trembled like a leaf in the wind.

"Artie," he said hoarsely. "Artie . . ."

"It's okay," she whispered. She took his face in her hands and wiped his tears as they fell, and they ran like rivers down his cheeks. "You're all right."

"I couldn't — I couldn't stop it. I tried. I tried."

"It's not your fault, Ani."

He gave her an agonized look and pulled away, but a moment later he returned to her, head bowed and arms still set upon his knees. "I could have done more," he said. Artie could no longer see his face. "A better Jedi would have done more. I'm not . . . I'm not what I needed to be to save him."

Artie stared up at Anakin helplessly. She often forgot that he was so young. It was easy to disregard; he was older than her, and two years of non-stop fighting had put countless miles on his soul. His monikers, his fierce reputation and unmatched prowess, they all conjured the image of a man who was above almost everything and so pain could not reach him. But as he sat there drowning in the loss of his Master, Artie saw only a twenty-one-year-old boy whose meager family had been slashed yet again, and he was in a perfect position to blame himself for it.

"You are everything you need to be," she said. "You're everything you should be. What happened to Obi-Wan is . . . is unbearable . . . but it happened outside of you. Outside of your control."

Anakin turned his head sharply. "No. If I were better it would have been within my control."

Artie bit back the urge to argue with him. There wasn't any point, at least not right then. She made him look at her again.

      "What can I do?" she whispered. "Tell me what you want from me. Anything."

He stared at her for several moments, terror in his face unlike anything Artie had ever seen. She would have taken it all upon herself if she could, shouldered the load a thousand times over if it meant Anakin did not have to.

But whatever hand governed the galaxy said that he must.

"Just stay here," he said at last. "Please don't go anywhere. Stay with me."

The simplicity of his plea made Artie want to start sobbing again. She drew him close to her and held him very tightly, his face hidden in the slope of her shoulder and arms winding about her waist with equal, firm intent.

"I will," she promised, and it felt so similar to what he'd sworn to her just days prior before the worst had happened. I'll always be with you. No matter what.

     She kissed his shoulder, then his hair, spoke vaguely and quietly in his ear. She hated to say that everything was going to be all right because it felt far from the truth, but what else could be offered? Some part of Anakin, she knew, wanted her to tell him he was right — that if he had been quicker, smarter, better, then Obi-Wan would still be alive. He wanted to blame himself. Obi-Wan may have been Anakin's Master, and he may have been older and more experienced, but Anakin had felt responsible for his safety and well-being as he felt responsible for the safety and well-being of everyone he loved. Artie knew it was not Anakin's exclusive role to play or burden to carry, but he didn't. In his mind Kenobi's death was the ultimate failure, one she feared he might never recover from no matter the time he was given.

     They remained where they were for several minutes, but eventually Artie disentangled herself from Anakin and had him undress to the waist, remove his belt and boots and set his lightsaber aside. There was doubt in his face, but he did not protest.

     "You need to rest," she said gently.

     He shook his head. "I won't be able to sleep."

     "You might. Just come here."

He waited for her to settle upon the bed, then followed. He laid atop her because there wasn't room for anything else, and rested his head on her stomach, and his arms returned to their place around her waist. Artie moved her fingers over his face, combed them through his hair, kneaded them against a spot on his neck that always gave him pain. She felt Anakin's heart beating where his chest pressed into her hips. After a while, it steadied. His breathing slowed. Artie ventured he might be calming down.

"Do you want to talk about it more?" she asked softly.

"No," was his immediate answer. "Not yet."

Artie nodded, though she didn't think he saw. Eventually Anakin's eyes drifted shut and Artie did not dare move for several minutes for fear of waking him, though watching him sleep made her aware of just how exhausted she was. She set back her head and closed her eyes, hoping against hope there would be no nightmares waiting in the dark relief sleep tempted.

• • •

ARTIE COULD NOT FIGURE IF SHE SLEPT VERY LONG AT ALL; SHE WOKE WHEN ANAKIN WOKE, and he shot up so suddenly she didn't have time to wonder about it. Artie blinked her bleary eyes and found him back on the edge of the bed, head dropped in his hands and gasping for breath. He was little more than a shadow stirring in a room already black as wild space. Anakin reached out behind him and put one shaking hand on Artie's leg, the other still clamped hard over his eyes. She sat up quickly and moved beside him.

     "Hey," she said thickly, for sleep had not altogether left her. "You're okay. I'm right here. Was it a dream?"

He nodded once. Still, he did not look up and did not offer her any details. So Artie remained beside him, one hand tracing the length of his spine as she waited for him to speak. Slowly, her eyes adjusted further to the dim light and she considered the state of Anakin's quarters for the first time since arriving.

Most (really, all) Jedi kept no material possessions and maintained completely minimalistic lifestyles. But not Anakin. He stashed all kinds of things in his room. He had clutter. He was untidy. It wasn't even a conscious rebellion — certain things would catch his interest and if he could take them, he did. His quarters looked more like a disorganized mechanic's shop, though Artie thought all of this was to be expected of someone who built a podracer behind his slave-master's back at the age of nine. Mostly there were small droids or bits of machinery to be disassembled and then rebuilt because even when Anakin had downtime, his hands had to be moving. More often than not he was elbows deep in R2, insisting on some modification or alteration that would do well for the little astromech. He also made things out of durasteel scrap that would have had no purpose otherwise. Recently, he'd been fashioning Artie new earrings. Some he made to go through the holes in her earlobes, others to hinge on her cartilage, and some for anywhere in the space between. Artie wasn't sure how he knew how to do it — he just did. Almost every earring she wore now was one Anakin had made.

In his own space, away from the reputation that the War gave him and the expectations the Order had for him, it became apparent how badly Anakin wanted to be a person. Not a slave, not a Jedi, not a hero, but a person. He tried so hard it broke Artie's heart. It made her wonder if the little boy on Tatooine had ever actually needed the Jedi, prophecy or not. Perhaps all he should have been given was freedom.

Instead, it had just been one master to the next.

Anakin lifted his head at last. He kept his eyes down and fixed on his hands, his palms turned up and fingers curled slightly. He took a very deep breath.

"My mom never kept the fact that I didn't have a father from me. Growing up, I always knew. It wasn't shocking to me — there were plenty of people that didn't know their fathers." The upturned hands started to shake. "When Qui-Gon came and called me the Chosen One, my understanding of it changed. He said I was born from the Force itself. Immaculate conception, divine — whatever you want to call it. And I believed him . . . for a long time. I liked that explanation, even if I didn't fully get what it meant."

Anakin set his jaw and looked up, eyes boring into the dull beige wall ahead of them. Artie stayed very still and waited for him to resume.

"But Qui-Gon died," he went on. "And then my mother died. And I started believing something different. There has to have been a father. Nothing else makes any sense. Maybe he left, and my mom hated him too much to ever talk about him. Or maybe he died, too. But I don't buy Qui-Gon's theory anymore. I can't."

Artie kept a hand on Anakin's arm as she peered up at him. He didn't often talk like this. Unsure what else to say, she asked, "Why?"

Anakin leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. What strange and faint light could make its way through the shuttered window fell in bands across his face, setting off the bright blue of his eyes and illuminating the top of his hair that radiation had bleached the color of honey. Even in this low, devastating moment, he did seem divine, like perhaps he truly came from somewhere beyond the rest of them, like his blood and bone were not quite mortal.

Or maybe Artie just loved him to the point of worship. To the point of unwisdom.

"Qui-Gon came up with the 'Chosen One' idea — I never claimed it," Anakin said. "The Council would say it — they'd call me it, but always like an insult. Like they didn't actually . . . they stopped believing I was any use a long time ago. At least, I wasn't while there was peace. Now I'm a war machine that delivers during a time they're desperate for one. I'm a slave from a planet they can't bring themselves to step foot on, who happens to have an aptitude for fighting. But I'm not a worthwhile Jedi in the Council's eyes."

He moved his gaze to Artie at last, and his eyes swam with pain beyond her understanding. He had the look of a man with the weight of the universe on his back. She reached to touch his face. "Ani . . . Anakin, you — "

" — and I am not the Chosen One. I have a human father, and he left like fathers do. Because Artie . . . if the Force created me . . . I would be so much more than what I am. I'm good in battle — I know that I am — but it doesn't matter. I couldn't save Obi-Wan. I couldn't save my mother. I'm terrified that if it comes down to it, I won't be able to save you." He turned away as a pair of new tears slid down his cheeks. "If the Force needed me . . . if it made me . . . it would have made me good enough to do what's asked of me. But it didn't. So I'm not."

Artie was stunned to silence for what seemed like ages. With all her heart she knew she had to say something, but the weight of Anakin's words was to be reckoned with and Artie could not risk a reply that did not appreciate that weight. Her hand went to the nape of his neck as she thought hard, fingers winding through his hair. It was curling as he let it grow; Rex had begun trying to goad Anakin into cutting it off again, while Artie promised him hell if he even thought about it, and so far she was getting her way.

"Ani," Artie began with cautious but firm resolve, "you can't blame yourself for Obi-Wan, or for your mother. You don't have to believe me, but you're not at fault for what happened to either of them. You are exactly as you should be and you're loved exactly as you are, as you would be even if there was no prophecy or war."

"What if one day it's you?" he whispered, and clearly Artie's attempt at soothing him had fallen short. He ran a hand underneath her hair and held the back of her head. "Artemis . . . I've watched my mother die, and now I've watched my Master die, and if I have to . . . if I have to watch you . . . "

"You're thinking the worst," she said. She reached to wipe away a lone tear on his jaw. "There's not a pattern to this, love."

"Artie, you don't know that. My mother and Obi-Wan's deaths have one thing in common, and it's me — falling short, not being with them in time . . . I don't think I can make you understand how this feels."

Artie tried not to let that sting because it was true. Abandonment, humiliation, betrayal — these were things she understood. But death was somewhat abstract in her mind, or at least it had been until she was forced to reckon with it when Obi-Wan was killed. To Anakin, though, death had been a persistent presence that haunted most of his waking hours and stalked his dreams. Obi-Wan's demise was another twist of the knife, deepening a wound in Anakin that Artie did not have.

"No." She had to admit it. "I don't think I understand. You've endured things that I haven't. I'd never take that away from you . . . but please try to hear what I'm saying. I can't stand to watch you torture yourself when you don't deserve it."

"Who deserves it, then? Who?"

"I don't — I don't know. Maybe no one."

Anakin's jaw tightened. "No. Someone does."

Artie sighed and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. His skin was warm. When she lifted her head again, she found her vision blurred by tears. "The only person who can be blamed is the man who killed Obi-Wan. And we'll find him. Windu has already put up a bounty — he'll get flushed out. He'll get punished."

     "It's not enough," Anakin said. "Nothing . . . nothing's enough. It won't bring him back."

They remained as they were for another spell, and the night seemed to prolong itself for their sake. Eventually Artie straightened, cross-legged on the bed, and drew Anakin's head down to rest in her lap. She trailed her fingers over his brow, down the bridge of his nose.

"Tell me what it was like before we met," she said, forcing down her tearfulness. "Before the war. I feel like there's still so much I don't know."

Anakin's frown relinquished ever-so. "I was always in trouble."

"But that's a given."

He almost seemed to smile. "All right. Before you and I met . . . it was really just me and Obi-Wan. Every day, every assignment — we did it all together. For the greater part of my life, he was all I had."

     Artie hummed softly to tell him she was listening, her hands still drifting over the lines of his face.

     "I've got to hand it to him," Anakin went on. "I was a complete pest. I never listened, but I never left him alone. The first . . . the first year I was on Coruscant, I'd sneak into his room at night and sleep on the floor. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't ever leave me behind." He paused. His eyes were closed, but a new furrow had formed along his brow. "I guess that's why I resisted having a Padawan at first. I didn't think I'd have the same patience as Obi-Wan did. But Ahsoka's never been like I was."

Artie thought about it. "You're different people," she said. "She was raised here, but you'd known a life before the Order. You'd known your mother. You'd lost things and Ahsoka hadn't, at that point." Artie smiled. "I still think she gives you a good run for your money, Skyguy."

"Yeah, well, it's what was coming to me. I think I aged Obi-Wan a few years. More than a few, maybe. Remember the tracker he put in my lightsaber? He started doing that after I lost my third one in two months."

"When you were twelve," Artie agreed, her smile growing. "And ever since."

     "Still didn't stop me from breaking a few after that. He could find them, but they'd be busted." Anakin went quiet again for a few moments. "I screwed up a lot at the beginning. The kind of screw-ups that other Padawans didn't make — that other Masters didn't have to deal with. But like I said . . . he was patient. Always. I don't know how."

Because he loved you, Artie wanted to say, but stopped herself. Could she be sure of that? If Obi-Wan had loved, he had fought it. Artie remembered his solemn, detached compassion and proclivity for a brutally legalistic point of view. To admit that he loved Anakin would have been a rebellion against the Code and by extension the Jedi Order itself — something Artie could not imagine Obi-Wan being able to live with.

"He cared about you," she settled on. "He was a good Master, maybe in ways others wouldn't have been. You complimented each other." Whether Obi-Wan liked it or not.

     "I'm going to find who did this, Artie," Anakin said. The defeat had left his voice. He sat up and looked at her, his eyes blazing with the same savage ferocity that was often the last thing Separatist troops ever saw. "They're going to pay for it."

    Artie blinked numbly. She'd expected him to return to this ambition, but it worried her nonetheless. "I understand why you need to," she said. "But please be careful. Be . . . be mindful."

    Anakin's stare left her, flitting here and there before falling back to his hands. "You're thinking about Tatooine. The Tuskens."

     "Yes." There was no point in lying.

     "It's not like that."

     "It's very similar," Artie said.

     His jaw tightened. "Maybe. Are you going to tell me that revenge isn't the Jedi way?"

     "I might. You're still a Jedi, a considerably important one. You know you're being watched. Obi-Wan wouldn't want you to do something you might regret in his name."

     "I wouldn't regret — !" Anakin stopped short. He was silent for several beats, and when he spoke again his voice was calmer. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I can't sit idly by. This can't just happen, and I do nothing about it."

     Artie felt her expression become pleading. "I'm not suggesting you do nothing, I just want you to think it through. Please. I'm asking you, please. Wait. I say this only because I love you, and I do not want to see things become any worse for you."

She could see that desire to argue in his face, that tumultuous undercurrent of sharp protest, but Anakin did not object to what she said. His reply was: "I understand. I love you, too."

"You don't have to humor me."

"I'm not humoring you. I . . . I won't act rashly. I won't do anything tonight." He took her hand and pressed a kiss her knuckles.

Artie watched him. Unconvinced. "You mean that?"

"Yes. Don't you believe me?"

     "You're just suddenly and uncharacteristically nonreactive."

     Anakin's brow turned down, and his lips tilted into a small, sad smile. "I'm trying to be," he agreed. "I spent ten years ignoring Obi-Wan telling me to think before I act, and I can't ever go back on that."

     "But you'll try now?" Artie couldn't keep the emotion out of her voice.

     "Yeah," Anakin said. He still held on tightly to her hand. "Even though it feels completely wrong, and I'm more frustrated than I'd like to admit. You're asking me . . . so I'll do my best."

Artie nodded faintly. "Thank you, Ani. I only worry for your sake." Like Obi-Wan had.

"I expect you want me to come back to bed?"

"I'm tired," Artie said. She felt a smile curve her mouth, but it was strained. "And I want you where I can see you."

"Anything you say," was his reply and he moved towards Artie as she lay back down, propped slightly against the wall.

His head now came to rest on her chest, his ear pressed to her thumping heart. His arms around her waist again. His breathing slow, as time went on. Artie held him very tightly. Her earlier smile, halfhearted as it had been, was gone. She was frowning now, and she could tell by the way the muscles in her face strained that it was a deep, childish frown. Artie didn't care. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door. She almost wished someone would come in and object, come in and see them and try to break them apart, so she would have the opportunity to demonstrate how far she was willing to go to keep that from happening. The attempt would not be made twice.

Artie had him there, in that moment. There, in that moment, no one could witness him but her. She had never felt such beastly protectiveness, but after he confessed his thoughts on Qui-Gon, the shame he shouldered, the disgust he felt from the Jedi Council, exactly what he had lost in Obi-Wan . . . she fully realized the lengths to which she would go to shield him from such vileness— the same irrational lengths that she had warned him against not five minutes before. Maybe she was a hypocrite, but Artie didn't exactly care. Her resolve was immovable.

     Nothing like this would ever touch him again, as long as she was around to have any say in it.

note.
thank you all again for reading!

i want to start doing some reader appreciation at the ends of these chapters! this time i want to thank calkestiss and spideys- for their continuous support not only for this story, but for other works along the years. thank you both!

also, here's an artie i drew :)