Jedi do not form attachments. Everyone, from the Initiates in the Creche to those bound for the pyre, knew it to be true. Like all Jedi, Anakin Skywalker knew the Code by heart, but that did not mean he followed it.

Anakin was the Master, the mentor of a young, spirited Torgruta: Ahsoka Tano. Like all teams, the Master and Padawan shared a very unique connection through the Force. Their bond. By very definition, an attachment.

So how does one counsel, console, without forming an attachment? Anakin did not know. His padawan had made him a parent, he had to protect as much as teach. Ahsoka and Anakin were alike, too alike and that often got them into trouble.

Anakin remembered going down in a gunship, smelling smoke, feeling the fear from the soldiers around him.

"Prepare for impact!" he had cried, knowing the good it would do.

Of a sudden, she was there, her arms a vice around his waist. Not a soldier, but his student, seeking sanctuary, seeking safety. It was a foreign feeling, to both, but neither would let go till they set their boots on sturdy ground again.

War is merely worldly hell, and Anakin found that the only way a careless child and a haunted man could make it, was to keep their hold on each other. Bridging the bond between the mental and physical gave them the strength to go on. Touch brought comfort when scarce else could.

Anakin remembered the earth, cold and hard, biting into his knees as he kneeled beside her body. She had no life, no light left in her. Her skin, void of all color, was as grey and bleak as the future he foresaw, one without her in it. No longer would he be blessed with her voice full of joy, her laugh like music. Anakin never prayed, but that night, he did. And by the grace of the Force, or some unseen god, she opened her eyes. And she coughed. And the color came back to her face.

Without a moment's hesitation, Anakin wrapped his arms around her, one hand around her waist, the other, curling around the ends of her lekku. He could feel her heart, beating against his chest. With every shuddering breath she reminded him of her color, of her aliveness. When he finally let go, it was only so he could see her eyes, unfocused but open, and hear her voice, confused but clear. From that day on, he held her more tightly, never forgetting what the earth felt like.

He knew how the earth felt on Tatooine, holding his mother in the dark of that hut. It was the last time he had hugged her, the last time he had seen her face after eleven years apart. He had already lost her. He wasn't able to save her, wasn't strong enough to stop her from dying. He couldn't lose Ahsoka. He was stronger now, he could do this.

But in the end, all of his strength couldn't stop what happened. It wasn't her fault, she just wanted to help. They thought she killed her. But Ahsoka could never kill in cold blood. She wasn't like him, she was so much better. She was so smart, so strong, so she did what her training demanded she do. She ran. He ran after her, but there wasn't much he could do.

It was a close call, but he managed to prove her innocence. Their bond should have been restored, should have been stronger than ever, but it was not.

He remembered holding out his hand, offering her the braid. But she refused. And she walked out.

He ran after her.

But she didn't run to him.

In the end, Anakin knew he had lost her. There was no point in trying to make her stay.

And he wanted to hug her. To hold her in his arms and say goodbye.

But he could not. He would not embrace her.

He was afraid that if he held her, he wouldn't be able to let go.