Chapter Text
Something about the unadulterated placidity of the uppermost layers of the Jedi temple on a night had always served to make Obi-Wan feel somewhat… discomfited; out of place, so to speak. It was likely a confluence of both the overall ambience, as well as the fact that if he were still a padawan, this would be considered long past curfew.
The temple felt so disparate compared to how Obi-Wan was more accustomed to it. On a physical level, it was tremendously more quiet. A populace of around 10 000 people proved to make at least some noise, practically wherever one goes – admittedly, aside from the meditation rooms and the Archives (even crèchelings learnt better than to disturb Master Nu), but it was a different thing all together to walk the palatial halls and corridors of the Coruscanti temple and be near completely unaccompanied, give or take a few enervated-looking shadows drifting by intermittently.
It wasn’t just the lack of clamor or community, however; Obi-Wan had since found that the Force felt fundamentally changed past dusk. This isn’t to say there wasn’t any spirit; emotion - especially in reference to the subjacent levels of the temple, upon which many of the various nocturnal species of Jedi reside - but it was more harmonious.
Obi-Wan disregards this train of thought as he takes the first step into the Room of a Thousand Fountains; the supple leather heel of his boots compressing the lush vegetation underfoot as he strays from the tiled path, slipping through the overgrowth into a quiet, obscure dojo. Almost entirely concealed by verdant proliferation just a few meters away, it was a padawan dojo not many were actually aware of, let alone frequented. Despite the dedicated gym and training salles towards the eastern quarter of the temple, sufficient training rooms, such as this one, were disseminated and interwoven throughout the temple.
When Qui-Gon had first accompanied him to this very room, not long after both of their recovery from Bandomeer, he had said that the initial principle behind this, was to accustom people enacting their training in places that had varying differences in their connection to the force, rather than the calm, serene, blank slate the gym precinct offered - an insightful realisation that such a thing could not be expected in all corners of the galaxy, and whilst such a peaceful environment was undeniably useful for practicing the basic katas of one's chosen form; it lacked in preparation for the inevitability of messy combat; the stress of not always being afforded the time to clear one’s thoughts. Because of this idea, most of these scattered dojos were originally intended solely for padawans, or for a padawan and their master to practice together. Despite this, over time, some of these dojos were relabelled as ones suitable for both Jedi knights and masters; a recognition of the need for everyone to surpass self-inflicted boundaries and restrictions, even the most advanced in their knowledge and connection to the Force. Obi-Wan distantly recalls Qui-Gon giving him a wry smile as he told him of this over tea the evening after they’d come here for the first time (“Learning never stops, padawan, else you’re doing it wrong,” he'd said, before he brought a cup of sapir, imported from the Outer Rim, to his lips. Obi-Wan still has the tin Qui-Gon kept his tea in; left entirely untouched and collecting dust in its place in the cupboard over the kitchen counter).
Out of the many training salles Obi-Wan had been to, this was arguably the most… cramped dojo that he knew of (that being said, given the expansive capaciousness of the Coruscanti temple, he cannot say he would be surprised to learn of others). It was, as most dojos were, simple in design; with pale wooden panels lining the back and left wall, and retaining the structure of the room were pillars of a deep russet. Both the foremost and right sides of the room, of which Obi-Wan had just stepped through the doorway of, were backed onto the Room of a Thousand Fountains and were made of some variant of rough fabric, taking on the hue of a warm beige and stretched between the pillars; thin enough so that during the day, dappled sunlight would filter through, but not so that they could be seen through; forming a sort of screen. An arched door led into a modest closet towards the back left corner, which is where Obi-Wan took himself, reaching the back in a few long paces. The closet was lined with shelves, bearing many training ‘sabres and, propped up in rows on the floor underneath, were a small series of training droids.
Nearing the back, hidden from view, was where he drops into a crouch, reaching for the training droid he’s been specifically using for the past couple of weeks. Trying to find one that matched his needs had been entirely fruitless, so Obi-Wan had taken issues into his own hands - he had needed something that would allow him to practice against a lightsabre; learn how to counter-attack. This, however, was baseless in the stocks of the many training salles’ storage rooms, with all droids designed around the concept of defending against gunfire, with, of course, that being the biggest hostile threat to a Jedi’s life until about two weeks ago. So, Obi-Wan had resorted to some… slightly illegitimate tampering with one of the droids. In his defence, it had long since gone into a state of disrepair, and no longer functioned as it should anyways, so he’d seen no real practical issue in equipping it with a double-bladed training ‘sabre and programming the basic katas for Juyo into its system - this particular step he’d done with the assistance of a datapad from the Archives for; of which Master Nu gave him a brutally disapproving look for taking out. Despite this, it worked, and although he maybe didn’t do the most elegant job of it; nor the quickest, it met his needs well enough.
With the droid under his left arm, and clutching a training ‘sabre in his right hand - the one he’s been primarily using as of late - Obi-Wan strides out of the shadowed closet, into the warm lighting of the dojo - upon first starting these nightly escapades; the light had been calming, easy on the eyes: now, he finds himself squinting a little, his eyes stinging ever so slightly. Nonetheless, he props up the droid on one of the small benches to the left, taking a knee as he checks the settings; making sure its training ‘sabre was at its strongest intensity. He then sheds his outer robe - the fabric still carrying the slightly irritating, scratchy quality ones of such novelty tend to - loosely folding it and leaving it to rest upon the bench. Obi-Wan has come to learn that he finds the routine of these motions almost comforting - it was easy to lose himself in the quiet, repetitive ritual of preparation; his body almost moving subconsciously. He regains a sense of full awareness, both in consciousness and in the Force, in the center of the woven floor, the hilt of his ‘sabre gripped within his hand; which was stiller than it had been through the past day, even at such a time of night.
With this, his other hand actuated the droid with the use of a small remote, attached with the model, before floating said remote back over to the bench as the droid straightened, drifting up from the bench closer to where Obi-Wan stood, reaching eye-level. He draws his right foot back, heel lifted from the floor, directing towards the training droid, in the opening stance for Ataru - a movement fully second nature to him; without consideration. Across from him, the droid hovers with a low, machinated hum; the double-bladed training ‘sabre spanning horizontally over its body and pointed away to the side, its main body twisted as it utilises a one-handed high guard, the image of which hounds Obi-Wan into his own sleep, night after night. The spar commences as the droid jerks forward, the movement sharp - not as violent as it should have felt, Obi-wan thinks briefly - Form VII collides with Form IV yet again, a baseless, cyclical repetition of Obi-Wan's own infirmities.
Only a few seconds in and Obi-Wan recognises that he's already put himself at significant detriment – in his instinctive endeavors to parry and to identify an opening in the midst of the relentless attacks, he's slipped tactically; allowing the droid to adopt the offensive, notably more than what was favorable. It pushes him back as he tries to deflect, Obi-Wan’s efforts bearing no fruit with his focus slipping so much. An abrupt sting resounding from his upper arm draws a sharp breath from him as the droid’s ‘sabre spins, the back end of the double-edged blade coming up and around to cut him off. Obi-Wan instinctively bites back a curse at the sudden sensation, narrowing his eyes severely. Not good enough. If that was a real ‘sabre, he'd be missing an arm, do better.
A wave of uncharacteristic frustration surges through him, and he exhales, trying to let the feeling dissipate as he steps back, automatically correcting his stance as he deflects yet another strike. His hand is still steady around the hilt, even as his chest aches slightly, injuries left dancing on the edge of healing and hindering. He's unable to sink into any form of even a light meditative trance like this, which is demeaning to no end - especially considering that he was able to do so back on Naboo. The double-bladed ‘sabre manipulates the flow of combat effectively, utilising the grand, sweeping diameter of each strike whilst simultaneously supplying each stroke with a speed and violence unlike any other form Obi-Wan has sparred against. And, much to Obi-Wan’s immense irritation, he cannot uncover a way to take back that dominance for himself; his wretched feelings only set further aflame by the knowledge that this isn’t even right; Naboo had been fueled with hatred, the Force unimaginably tainted by darkness in a way a droid could not hope to replicate.
This evening training, as much as Obi-Wan is remiss to refer to it as such, has become a standard of repeated failure and deficiency; echoing repeatedly within the four walls of this dojo for just over two weeks now. Even then, Obi-Wan finds it is not solely constrained by this room - it bleeds into everything around him; colours his force signature with muted bleakness. Obi-Wan, not for the first time, is more immeasurably grateful for his shielding; strong as it has been since childhood, and likely strengthened further with the sheer level of the barricades he has mentally fortified around his presence in the Force recently.
He has been lacking in any improvement or physical proficiency since he undertook this, and the seed of enmity in his chest is being continually nurtured and - dare he say it - harboured by his own failures, more so than Obi-Wan knows he should let it (“There is no emotion, there is peace”). But exhaustion wars with the hungry, rapacious need to be better, be enough, so he persistently and unrepentantly neglects his body’s melancholy call for meaningful rest - he won’t receive it even if he were to try.
Forgoing his regular blends of tea in favour of caf comes easy enough, and with it, the persistent ache in his chest quells just enough for Obi-Wan to disregard it entirely. His days blur into one; a systemic routine of Anakin attending his classes in the morning (in which time Obi-Wan dedicates to the Archives; specifically, the sections pertaining to the Jedi-Sith War and the Sith’s supposed defeat at Ruusan), and then after the boy’s return in the afternoon, Obi-Wan tends to attempting to teach him the basic fundamentals of meditation and shielding, with little success and even less grace. Then, as evening passes them by, the padawan (his padawan, his) retreats to his room, and Obi-Wan slips off. He welcomes the thrum of bitterness as he spars, thrives on the steadily growing distance between him and the world around him. The size of the temple matters not when his life has become so insular, he finds.
The harsh collision of the contending ‘sabres drag him back to the spar rather forcibly, and he furrows his brow as the droid retains its position within the centre of the mat; Obi-Wan pushed off to the side. He somersaults over the droid, an impetuous attempt to at least take the aerial advantage over it, by utilising the minimal vertical space in the dojo had to offer; however, as he lands, he feels the heel of his boot meet the wooden panelling on the other side of the room, his training ‘sabre coming down to clash loosely against the end of the droid’s ‘sabre as it spins to meet his offense, yet again, still somehow penned in a corner.
Obi-Wan expels a sharp sound of frustration through gritted teeth, summoning the remote to his hands with admittedly unnecessary force, powering the droid off. It drops from its hovering position, crumpling into a paltry heap in the middle of the room, plunging the surroundings into a discomforting silence, broken only by Obi-Wan’s slightly audible breaths; his chest rising and falling with exertion. He tosses the remote back over to where his cloak lay folded on the bench, still staring at the droid, finally switching off his training ‘sabre. Another rough exhale falls from chapped lips, and he runs the back of his hand across his forehead; wiping sweat from his brow, before unceremoniously sagging against the wall and sinking into a listless sitting position at its base, at a rather absurdly short distance away from a bench.
His hand comes up; fingers intuitively reaching up to fiddle with his braid, yet his hand curls into a loose fist in the empty space where his padawan braid no longer lay, fingers brushing the rough, uneven strands of hair that hang loosely around his ear - still too short to be tucked behind it accordingly - before he drops it back into his lap, the motion too indicative of his own tiredness than he’s comfortable with. His hair hasn’t yet started growing out properly, retaining that inconvenient length in the rear compared to the short, choppiness of the front, and Obi-Wan distantly wonders if he should trim the back to even it out, or just leave it to grow. He supposes it doesn’t exactly matter to him - Jedi don’t focus on aesthetics anyways.
Just a few inches away from where he dropped it upon sitting down, his training ‘sabre lay discarded on the mat, and Obi-Wan finds that he can’t quite manage to draw his eyes away from it. His gaze is desolate; devoid of any indication of the racing thoughts behind them; desperately assessing his weaknesses, concluding where to improve with a level of fervor unbecoming of one such as he, how to not make the same fatal mistakes again, he can’t—
“Knight Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan reflexively slams up his shields before he even registers who had spoken, only now realising how much of his emotions had been leaking into the Force surrounding him. His head snaps up as this happens, meeting the eyes of whom had cleaved through his fast spiralling thoughts, almost disorientated after the sharp upheaval from his own mind.
Master Mace Windu stands tall in the doorway across from him, illuminated from behind by the cool, blue-toned hues of the dappled moonlight, offering a contrast towards the dim, flickering yellows and oranges derived from a clearly struggling light bulb in the dojo's low ceiling. His force signature is decidedly more subtle than Obi-Wan typically recalls it to be, and he can only assume that that’s why he didn’t sense him coming; even whilst making an acknowledgement of his complete submersion in his own head just moments beforehand. However, despite his presence in the Force giving very little away, with the creases in his face and the severe furrow of his brow, he can hazard a guess that the Korun Master is presumably in at least some state of disapproval. Whether the cause of that is as a result of Obi-Wan’s presence so late into the night, or something entirely separate, it’s difficult to say, however.
The councillor clears his throat, and Obi-Wan blinks hard, somewhat dazed as he realises that he was just staring at him, offering no response to the inherently questioning salutation. He promptly pushes himself up into a standing position, without much thought - potentially with slightly too much force, given the way the room blurred, the colours smearing and forming a vignette around the peripheral edges of his vision. He does not let his minor turbulence dissuade him, however, and hurriedly bows, the movement fluid, practiced.
“Master Windu,” Obi-Wan murmurs in greeting, raising his head and straightening as he meets the councillor’s eyes, whose penetrative stare feels somewhat discomfiting to the younger Jedi. Master Windu is silent for a long moment; something in his expression tightening in a way Obi-Wan does not know the man well enough to explain. Something in the acuity of his scrutiny leads Obi-Wan to dip his head again, speaking before he even really realises he’s opened his mouth.
“I apologise if I’ve caused any form of disturbance to you, Master,” Obi-Wan says, the words coming easily to him, despite his voice remaining remarkably flat even for all of his efforts to sound at least slightly reconciliatory. He lifts his head again, and finally, does Master Windu address him further.
“You are no longer limited by a curfew, nor have you disrupted me, Kenobi.” Obi-Wan gets the faint impression that he is being scolded, or at the very least, lightly chided, despite Master Windu’s conflicting sentiments. “There is no need for an apology,” the Vaapad Master finishes; dark eyes boring into Obi-Wan’s own muted teal, studying him intently for a few stretched seconds. Obi-Wan, once again, has to resist the pull of his hands to the phantom presence of his padawan braid - childish, his mind supplies.
As Obi-Wan fights to summon any form of eloquent response to the forefront of his mind, Master Windu raises an eyebrow at the mechanical pile laying in the middle of the mat; evenly spaced between the two Jedi; a lackluster centerpiece drawing the attention of the room in a way Obi-Wan does not wish to acknowledge.
“I train here, Master, on an evening,” Obi-Wan offers, by means of explanation, his fingers twitching absently against his tunic. The words catch onto the end of the unspoken question drifting through the room, but instead of allaying whatever concern Master Windu has, it merely seems to invite more.
And, because he can't quite help the desperation in his chest or the thrum in his ears, he tacks on, “It allows me to maintain my own disciplines, whilst not neglecting Anakin’s needs as my- as a padawan.” That… is, admittedly, a slight embellishment of the truth, and in reality, it's far more of a balm to soothe his own broiling inadequacy than anything so noble, but the excuse is a practiced one, and Obi-Wan doesn't consider it to be too flawed, all told.
Master Windu’s eyes flicker from the droid to Obi-Wan again, studying him further. Does he realise he's lying? He can't, surely, Obi-Wan thinks, reinforcing his shields all the same.
The Korun Master steps fully into the small room, offering yet another glowing variation of frown at the training droid on the floor, and Obi-Wan can't quite help his cringe as the councillor’s eyes linger on the double-blade. Master Windu straightens somehow further, and casts his gaze across the room, quiet for a moment.
“Why here?”
The words were simple, and soft in that simplicity, just a recognition of a question Obi-Wan hadn't thought to ask himself.
He feels sick, quite suddenly. A sickly sweet build up in his throat, making the backs of his teeth ache, and he swallows thickly a few times, in an attempt to dismiss the sensation before anything actually threatening comes of it.
His hand comes up to press against the sudden tightness in the centre of his chest, but he aborts the gesture halfway, all too aware of Master Windu's eyes on him, his brows furrowed in what can only be irritation, surely.
“It’s- It's where I'm most familiar, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan throws out, the words catching like glass in the back of his throat, tearing at flesh with the level of desperation he spat them out with, just for the sake of a response.
Despite the lack of thought put into them, the words carried the distinct impression of something dead and unspoken, something entirely to do with absence and that Force-forsaken pyre. Master Windu's expression seems to shutter, and to Obi-Wan, it is just a face with features that do nothing and mean nothing.
The councillor looks away. “I see.”
Obi-Wan’s shields tighten further, coiling around him, choking him out. His Force signature is masked, drowned out by the smooth ripples of the Force as the younger Jedi melts into the seamless tapestry. It overwhelms him, now, after Naboo. Obi-Wan feels it seep through the fissures in the void, poisoning the light.
“How is the boy?” Obi-Wan blinks hard, as if that will clear the fog in his mind, and focuses in on Master Windu's piercing eyes, and somehow, Obi- Wan feels just as penned in as when he was fighting.
The nausea that coated the back of his throat flung itself to the forefront of the younger Jedi’s mind, instinctively searching for a trap in the words, although Master Windu did not add anything else. Obi-Wan found himself speaking before he really registered the words, the disconnect intrinsic to him reappearing.
“Anakin is… adjusting,” he says, the words separate from him and his racing mind. It's not untrue, Obi-Wan considers briefly. He doesn't tell many lies. It was near enough pointless to do so, when surrounded by the Force, however it didn't stop him from dousing half-truths in a murky solution of pointless, yet factual, statements.
The Force within him chitters disapprovingly at this, but typically, no more protest is given.
“He has a lot to catch up on, certainly,” Obi-Wan settles on, shifting his weight as he looks at his hands. Still shaking. “I cannot ignore the importance of the crèche in shaping a Jedi, and teaching him without those fundamentals will not be easy.”
The words are steady, clear; a still lake within the raging fires beyond. It's an easy admission to make, and the expected one. Anything else would be - and rightly so - deemed arrogance of a veracious quality.
“However, he's taken to running through katas with a training ‘sabre well, and I am content to continue working on Shii-Cho with him until I believe he is ready to apply those practices to other forms.” The slight waver in his tone has evened out now; his voice smooth and practiced.
Obi-Wan's gotten good at acting over the years, appealing to the right audience, negotiating his way through all sorts of galactic messes with Qui-Gon’s guidance. He closes the thought down before it can take root.
His gaze slips down to his training ‘sabre before he corrects himself, looking slightly past Master Windu as he continues. “I do not plan to take him to Ilum for a long while yet, of course,” he appends, biting back the defense he feels, letting it dissolve on the tip of his tongue. Obi-Wan feels the thrum of his heart, actively suppressing the tensing of his shoulders as he tries to just shut his mind off. He can't help but feel like the Korun Master is searching him for an answer he can't give; just waiting for the slightest indication that Obi-Wan can't handle the pressure of a padawan.
In his defence, Obi-Wan knows his fears aren't exactly unfounded - the council were vehemently against his insistence to train Anakin, and that doubt presided even after that meeting; to the point in which many of the council came to Obi-Wan separately, imploring him to think over it more. Frankly, if it hadn't been Qui-Gon’s dying wish, Obi-Wan is convinced the council wouldn't have even considered it.
The councillor draws him back to the present with a considered hum, dipping to pick up Obi-Wan's training ‘sabre; rolling the hilt between his fingers thoughtfully.
“...Speaking of Ilum, when do you plan to go?” Obi-Wan flinched despite himself, immediately breaking eye contact.
“I haven't had the time to consider it.” The response is too sharp, and Obi-Wan knows that, but his nerves are on fire, and he just needs this conversation to stop. He doesn't even have a good reason for not going. He needs a new lightsabre; that's undeniable, but the sheer thought of going makes him feel truly ill.
Quinlan had asked him the same thing last week, when he'd come over with Aayla in an attempt to get the two children acquainted. It was casual conversation up until that point, but Obi-Wan felt himself almost completely shut down. By the time he recalled coming back to the present, Quin had crossed over from the other side of the kitchen and was squeezing his friend's shaking hand, eyes sharp with concern. They didn't bring it up again.
In any case, the Korun Master nodded, leaving the abruptness of his words thankfully uncommented, and ignoring the manner in which he looked away. He studies Obi-Wan, and the younger knight suppresses his discomfort at the scrutiny, feeling the quiet, insistent hum of exhaustion pull at his muscles.
“Your discipline is admirable,” Master Windu starts, to which Obi-Wan feels an intense sense of discomfort at the undeserved praise, “Yet it is much too late for such productivity. Rest now, Kenobi,” he advises, and Obi-Wan isn't quite familiar enough with the Vaapad Master’s speech patterns to understand the notes of concern in each word. However, he has a suspicion that the sentiment is born from at least some element of clearly misplaced pity.
He must be more tired than he thought, because for a moment, he nearly summons the gall to answer back; make a callous comment on his own inevitable lack of sleep regardless. Biting his tongue, Obi-Wan nods, bowing his head in respect. “Yes, Master Windu. He takes his discarded robe by the hood, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he avoids direct eye contact. Even after walking past, he only dares to allow his shoulders to slump in fatigue once he is long escaped from Master Windu’s penetrative eyeline.
He drifts close to the wall, keeping his eyes away from the few who are still up and walking around the temple at this time; just a little too conscious of the soft echoing of his feet in the absent corridors of the temple. As a youngling, the separation between how closed off the temple felt from Coruscant’s surrounding traffic and ferment had never ceased to amaze him; and even now, this audible silence felt distinctly out of place with the constant moving lights and noise just outside.
It’s not long until Obi-Wan has rounded the corner to his quarters, before he’s really realised he’s actually made it that far, and he inadvertently slows his pace just a little before reaching the door.
His hands aren’t steady as he inputs the access code, something he ignores by roughly shoving them back into the sleeves of his tunic as the door slides open, the sound a little less smooth than it probably should be - something Obi-Wan makes a half-hearted resolution to have a look at some time in the distant future - and he steps into the dusky light of his - their - living room.
Obi-Wan stands, listless, taking in the blank slate of a room that was born out of Qui-Gon’s death. To the left, their kitchen was barely stocked, since Anakin predominantly eats in the refectory, and Obi-Wan predominantly doesn’t eat much at all. The small living space to the right was starkly empty; shelves gathering dust without his Master’s plants; without the song of the Living Force weaving strings through the room. It was quiet now, as still as the rest of the temple.
“Where are you taking them?” Anakin’s voice had come from behind him, and whilst Obi-Wan didn’t turn to face the boy, he could hear the burning curiosity in his voice.
“The Gardens. They’ll be cared for there,” Obi-Wan had said, wiping soil off of his fingers after managing to squeeze another plant in a crate he picked up from the weaponsmiths in the lower floors of the temple.
Whilst he was down there, he’d been distinctly aware of a pair of eyes boring into him the entire time he was down there, and it was as he turned his back to leave that he heard the awed whisper of ‘Sith-Killer’ come from the lips of a padawan working on their lightsabre hilt.
“But can’t we care for them?”
Obi-Wan paused at that, before turning to face him. Anakin’s eyes were wide, though whether that was just Obi-Wan being unused to the child’s rapt attention and wonder at everything around him, he was unsure.
“I was never the best with plants,” he had settled on saying in response, which wasn't necessarily untrue. Obi-Wan had taken care to avoid the topic of his own loss with Anakin. It felt unfair, after all - the boy had just had to walk away from his mother to a prophecy, told to him by a man who wasn’t even there to see it through. However, this principle did little to reduce the ache in his chest that hadn’t quite left, even after his ribs had mostly healed up.
Anakin’s face screwed up in quite clear confusion - Obi-Wan supposed he had to be grateful for Anakin’s expressiveness; he’d worried that after Anakin got the hang of shielding, he’d struggle to understand how the little one was feeling, but it didn’t seem like that would be much of an issue.
“How hard can it be? It’s just water, right?”
Obi-Wan stood up, lifting the crate with him, as he turned to their door, gesturing for Anakin to stay with him. Anakin’s fascination with water hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, though Obi-Wan supposes it’s to be expected.
“Water’s important, yes, but similar to us, they have other needs too. Nutrition, sunlight, company, for example.”
“Company?”
“Yes, Padawan. They are vessels of the Living Force just as we are.”
Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair. Not for the first time since he moved them into the Gardens, he acknowledges that he should have potentially kept at least a succulent or something. Whilst yes, one can submerge themself into the tapestry of the Living Force without such a thing - and, under Qui-Gon’s tutelage, it was something Obi-Wan became quite good at - it was always easier to do so with some form of life, especially in moments of mental disarray.
Still, with a sigh rivalling even Master Yoda's most ponderous, Obi-Wan sinks into his own, considerably worn meditation mat, eyes falling shut with startling ease. It takes him some time to slip into the respite of the Force, which is a discomforting thought to be had - most unlike Anakin, Obi-Wan had always taken to meditation with ease and a surprising level of acquiescence for someone as headstrong as he in his youth. This disconnect was unlike him, and spoke to more than just some complex thoughts.
Despite this, and to reject the first notions of childish impatience, Obi-Wan falls into the embrace of the Living Force - it doesn't replace sleep; not entirely, but it doesn't carry the same fear of fear itself; of which Obi-Wan has begun to avoid like some form of backwater planet plague (‘Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to-’). It hums around his tenuous projection, melancholic as he tries, once again, to flush out the emptiness in his chest; the grief, unnamed but eating him whole all the same.
The night drifts by with an unintelligible ache, and the meditation does little to settle Obi-Wan, leaving him cold, tired, and just as emotionally wrought as he had been beforehand.