You know that feeling when a story idea invades your brain and won't leave you alone until you've written it? Well, this is one of them. I was rewatching Season Four and thought I'd just really like to see this scene - and what was originally going to be a quick oneshot mutated into a three-chapter story. It's set right after the Deception arc of Season 4.

I apologise if I make any mistakes, because I'm still fairly new to this fandom, and I also apologise to those waiting for me to write other things - I just really wanted to write this before I lost the inspiration. It's partly me trying to get some practice in dialogue and thought tracking, and partly me just wanting to write something about these two wonderful characters. I hope I've done them justice, and I hope you enjoy! :)

OURSELVES AGAIN

CHAPTER ONE – A HOLOCALL

The Chancellor gives the order for us all to leave, to convene again tomorrow. All around, the senators and delegates and representatives and planetary rulers rise to their feet, muttering to their aides, discussing today's events, double-checking their notes. Any repulsorpods that left their positions slowly scud back into place. The thousands of inhabitants of the Senate Arena begin to trickle out into the corridors. Another Senate session over. Another endless debate that decided nothing. Another discussion I felt separate from, removed, as if I could not fully hear anything that was being said. Or if I could not bring myself to care.

And I know it is wrong of me. How can I not care about what was being discussed today? The Chancellor, the leader of the Republic – openly attacked, almost abducted by the Separatists. At any other time, the thought would make every fibre of my being ache. The pointless violence of this war is threatening even the greatest of men. I do not agree with Chancellor Palpatine on many accounts, but he has led the Republic well and wisely – mostly - through this crisis. I should be outraged, horrified, at how close he came to being captured.

But I can't be. I don't know what's wrong with me. When it was announced, I was shocked; of course I was. And I was relieved when I learned that the Jedi had saved the Chancellor, and I was irritated as usual by how the Senate session called to decide how to respond was able to agree on nothing. And yet those emotions seemed somehow far away from me, as if they were being registered in some faraway corner of my mind. It is similar to how, if music is playing when you walk into a room, after some time you stop noticing it; you are always aware that it is there, but your mind does not dwell on it. And so it was with these emotions. Present, and yet unable to affect me.

I wonder if I have lost the ability to feel. Forever.

The life of a planet's ruler, of any politician, is a life lived in a den of wild beasts. One wrong move and those slavering jaws leap upon you and tear you apart. That is why I must always remain strong, act as if removed from others, not show what I truly feel, because only that will keep me from their grasp. But this… this is different. This is not a refusal to show emotions. Nor is it a refusal to allow them, as it is with the Jedi. This is an inability to have emotion. And I never thought even I could come to that.

I shake myself and rise from my seat. I must get past this. I must. What kind of leader am I if I cannot feel for others? What kind of person?

As I start on the route back to my quarters, I try to avoid meeting anyone's gaze. I don't want to discuss today's meeting with anyone. In fact, I don't want to talk about anything. I don't want to do anything at all. There is nothing I want except to have these last few days erased, to make it so that they never happened, so that they could happen again and happen differently. Happen better.

To avoid the others' eyes, I fix my own on the floor, and so I almost walk into Padmé. I manage to stop in time, and look up so that I can give her the closest thing to a smile I can muster, and a murmured apology.

'It's all right,' she says with a smile, and then adds more quietly, 'How are you, Satine?'

The look she gives me is one of deepest sympathy. At first, despite myself, I feel a twinge of anger – I do not want pity. But almost instantly I change my mind. Most sympathy I have been given, from the few who know my grief, has been somewhat impatient; the eyes of my fellow rulers, especially those of my own world, have clearly read, sorry for the death of your friend, Duchess, now please stop looking like you're on the verge of tears and help us dictate the terms of this new amendment to bylaw 643, you have a planet to run. I don't blame them for it; they are right. I have work to do, and it comes above my own feelings. Besides, they don't know just how much I have lost. As far as they are concerned, I am just one of the many people who has lost a friend to this war. But in Padmé's eyes I see true compassion, empathy even, and I remind myself that she too has lost someone she cared for. A friend.

Only a friend.

I drag my thoughts back to the question she asked me. How am I?

I don't know, Padmé. I don't know. I can't feel anything. But I know that I am in pain. And I want it to end. But it can't end.

That's what I would like to say. And perhaps, were Padmé not a politician, and I were not the ruler of a planet, and we were not in the middle of a corridor crowded with government officials, I would say just that, or something like it. But no, even then I could not, because no one can know the feelings I concealed. That we concealed. Even after what has happened, I will not betray him.

'I'll be all right,' I reply. 'I can't allow this to distract me from my responsibilities.'

Padmé gently places a hand on my arm. 'Losing a friend is never easy. Everyone will understand that. They'll know you need time.'

Yes, but how much time? How long will it take before I can stop feeling anything except this emptiness?

With some effort, I force myself out of my thoughts, and with even more effort I prevent myself from dwelling on the word 'friend.' Padmé, of course, understands how I feel – she shares not only the same grief I carry now, but recently, I remember, she told me how one of her planet's bravest warriors – Tarpals, did she say he was called? – fell fighting General Grevious. No, it is not easy to lose a friend.

A friend, Satine. Nothing more.

'I hope they will forgive me if I am not as capable as I should be,' I say heavily. 'But I have a duty not to let that happen. True, I have lost a good friend. But I remain the Duchess of Mandalore, and my mind must be on my people first. Above all else.'

So why isn't it, you useless excuse for a ruler?

'No one can blame you for being distressed. Perhaps you should take some time off work…'

'I don't think that would help matters, Padmé,' I say, hoping I do not sound harsh. Padmé doesn't seem offended; she nods as if she had expected these words. After all, she knows as well as I do that in our lives, there is no such thing as time off work.

'I'm grateful for your concern,' I tell her. 'But… I will be all right.'

She moves back with a small nod, as if acknowledging that I do not wish for any further discussion, that I would rather be left alone. The smile she gives me is the pain-filled, encouraging one that people give to another when they are recovering from a loss. Yes, that is what I am. All I am. Let that be how the Galaxy sees me: Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, who is a little distracted from her work after losing someone.

And let me be someone else on the inside. A woman like any other. A woman who, no matter how powerful the positions she holds may be, no matter what kind of cool exterior she presents, feels pain, and regrets mistakes, and grieves death. A woman who has lost someone who was more than a friend, more than a Jedi, more to her than life itself.

Subconsciously at first, and then desperately, I quicken my pace, until I am on the cusp of running. I want to go faster, I want to run, to not care about the surprised and disapproving looks that would be thrown my way, to not notice the droids who would lurch back to the edges of the corridor to avoid me, to not see the people around me or even feeling the ground beneath my feet. I want to be away from every eye that could ever be upon me, so that I can drop this façade and put on no invisible mask, make no pretences, just be, so that I can make sense of what I feel, or do not feel. I want to run so that I can be away from it all, because I need to be alone, and yet I want to not be alone, to have him there, not gone, there –

And at last I am there, after a shuttle ride and a short walk, and the door closes behind me, and I can pull off the headdress of my office and collapse into a chair and finally admit it to myself. I cannot feel anything now except grief, and I feel that grief because Obi-Wan is dead, and I feel that grief at his death because I loved him.

No. That feeling, that bond, that… that love, it has not gone. It is still there. I know that much. And so I cannot say I loved him. I love him. I've loved him a long time. I always will.

I know that life must go on, I know that I must attend to my duties as always, and I know that there was never a future for us both. But none of that eases the pain. Pain is not a strong enough word to describe what I feel. It is as if some part of me has been torn away, and I am reaching for it, but nothing, nothing, will ever fill this gap.

Never in my life have I known emptiness like this. I've heard it so many times over these agony-filled days: you're not yourself, Duchess. No, I am not. I am not acting as I normally would, or as I know I should. I have very rarely let my heart rule my head. I can count the exceptions on the fingers of one hand – like that time on the Coronet, with Merrik's arm around my neck and his blaster aimed at my head, with Obi-Wan gazing at me with the battle inside him clear in his eyes. When I knew that if this was the last time I would see him, I wanted him to know…

And now, like then, my head is giving way, because what my heart feels is too strong for it. Or rather, what my heart doesn't feel. Because it's the absence that hurts.

Obi-Wan. Gone. Dead. Taken from me. And so pointlessly. It feels so wrong. I always knew he was a Jedi, a warrior, that he would always live his life amid violence, that he was always in danger. I often reminded myself not to get too attached for that exact reason. But somehow, I always imagined that if he were to die of something other than age, it would be on the battlefield. That he would die for his Republic. Die for peace. Because no matter how much I called him a hypocrite – my stars, how I regret that harshness now - I always knew that was what he wanted. Peace, for all of us.

But he never saw it. And he died in such a… a feeble way. Killed by a sniper. Not in battle, but in the backstreets of Coruscant. For no reason. Not fighting for freedom and justice. Just there, and then not.

How is that possible? How is that right? And how could he have let it happen?

I didn't believe it, at first. When I was told… I was convinced that there must be some mistake. That Obi-Wan could never die in such a way. But when I saw his body…

I press my hands against my face, as if I hope that by blocking out the world I can block out the truth. Why did this have to happen? What was going through that sniper's head? Didn't he understand what he was doing, who it was that he was taking away?

I know the answer, and it just makes the pain worse. He must have known what he was doing. And he didn't care. Like Vizla and Merrik and Almec didn't care when they betrayed me. Like that Zabrak Sith didn't care when he murdered Qui-Gon. Like Anakin didn't care when he killed Merrik.

It shook me, seeing him do that. A reminder of what a good person can become. A warning of what a Jedi can do. And yet Obi-Wan did not do it. With so many lives at stake, and only my feelings holding him back, he did not do it. He would not do it. I think perhaps he could not do it. Why? Perhaps he could not strike an unarmed man – but then, Merrik was armed, with the means to destroy the entire ship and everyone on it. Which leaves me with the only reason for Obi-Wan's hesitation being that he did not want me to think ill of him.

Because he loved me. Or did once.

I can hear him saying it. I have replayed those words in my mind so many times. All right. Had you said the word… I would have left the Jedi order.

The exact words, the exact intonation. I hear them in my mind. I treasure the memory of that sound more than any wealth I could ever possibly possess. How strange that a moment so filled with terror should become so precious, should hold such an indestructible place in my memory.

Remembering those words, though, always brings pain. We knew where our futures lay: his with the Jedi, mine with Mandalore. We have duties. We have people depending on us. And even if I do not agree with what the violence of his life, I respect it. He fights for a good purpose, a purpose I support even if I cannot support the fighting –

No. He fought for a good purpose. He had a duty. There is no violence in his life, because he has no life.

I feel my face crumpling, and I don't try to stop it. Let the tears come. I will have no other time to shed them, because around others I must hide my feelings, be the ruler they expect me to be. The ruler I must be. The ruler I am, and will continue to be, no matter what happens. But why try to stop myself from crying now? Even at his funeral, I tried to cover my face, to muffle my sobs. Because I was under the eye of the Jedi there, and I could not let them suspect anything.

The Jedi. How different things would have been if he had not been one of them. The order that forbade us to be together. The order I wished I could ask him to leave.

I cannot help but wonder – what would have happened if I had asked him, all that time ago? I very nearly did. I was so sorely tempted. But I did not, because I knew how much it would hurt him. The Jedi order meant so much to him. To ask him to abandon that future he wanted so much, just because of my feelings… it would have been selfish.

Except it was not only my feelings. It was our feelings. And it might have saved him.

I let out a wordless, strangled cry and slam my fist down on the table. Which hurts.

All those people were right. I am not myself.

But how can I not wonder if he would be alive now, if I had asked him to stay with me? And what would it have been like, if he had stayed? I wonder what Qui-Gon would have said. I doubt he would have been angry, and I am almost certain he would not have been surprised. But he would have been disappointed, if not in Obi-Wan, in the fact that he would never see his Padawan become a Knight. Obi-Wan would have had to explain to the Jedi. They would have made him feel ashamed of himself, of his choice. It would have cut him to the core.

But I would have had him with me as I rebuilt Mandalore. Perhaps he would have sensed the treachery in Vizla and Merrik and Almec where I could not. Maybe he'd have been able to stop Death Watch before it even became a threat. And how much I have wished, in these difficult years, that I had someone with me to help me – not as a politician, giving advice to the Duchess of Mandalore, but as a speaker of the truth, giving advice to Satine Kryze.

And then he would not be a target for that sniper. Obi-Wan Kenobi, General of the Republic, Jedi Master, would not exist. And so he would not be dead.

But it is too late now. I cannot turn back the years and make my choices again. And I cannot do anything to change the fact that Obi-Wan is gone.

I know it is not my fault. I did not pull the trigger, or hire the sniper. I did not know of the attack and could not have warned him. I was light years away when it happened, and could not have intervened. But I blame myself. It is illogical, but logic, like so much else that I usually have to hand, escapes me now.

Perhaps this is why I can feel so little, so much of the time. It confuses me and hurts me to dwell on my emotions, and so I've been blocking them out without even realising it.

I raise my head, and do something else that I would never normally do, namely wiping my face on my sleeve. A bad habit I thought I'd left behind as a child. I draw in a deep, shuddering breath. And I rise to my feet.

Outside the window, the speeders and shuttles pour between buildings, the silver lines they form stretching away into the distance farther than I can see. Lights glint and glow. Far, far below, I can make out the tiniest dots – people hurrying about their business. In and out of cantinas and shops. Stopping to talk. Reading the screens that display the day's news. I can see from here that they report the Festival of Light on Naboo, and the rescue of the Chancellor, and how Ord Mantell of all planets is a favourite to win the Galactic Cup. News that seems so important to them. And yet there is only one piece of news that feels important to me. Why isn't it to them, too?

Every light I see from this window is a room in a building, or the inside of a speeder, or a streetlight that illuminates the way for hundreds of people on foot. Every light represents at least one life in this vast planet of a city. Most of these people do not know that Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead. A few will never have heard his name. I expect many, if told, would not care. Some would celebrate.

Some would mourn. Some are mourning, or have already mourned. But they will recover, move on, forget. Life goes on.

It is impossible to see the stars on Coruscant. There is too much light from the city. But I know they are there. And those invisible lights, they stand for millions of lives, trillions of beings who never knew Obi-Wan, who would never mourn his death, who could never understand the pain I feel now. Who have never known the warmth that comes – came - with seeing him smile, or could picture the exact shade of blue that his eyes were, or find something other than Jedi discipline and dry sarcasm in his voice.

It makes me feel so alone. And it makes me wonder how one person's death can mean the world to me when to the world, it just means one person's death.

I turn away from the window, and, after a moment's hesitation, press the button to draw down the blinds. It feels almost cowardly, to isolate myself, to lock the doors and shut out the light, but I feel somehow more secure like this, when it is impossible for anyone to see me. I am a Duchess. I must stay strong, show no weakness. But when I can't be seen, I can let go.

I enter the bathroom, stand for a few moments in front of the mirror, staring at the face I see reflected there. No, this will not do. Anyone could call upon me at any moment – another politician, wanting to debate a matter in private, a droid to clean the room, a friend seeking company or to comfort me. None of these people may see me like this, the tear stains clear on my face and my hair rumpled from where I pulled off my ceremonial headdress. I have had my time for grieving. Now is the time to move on.

I do it slowly and methodically, pouring all my focus into each separate task, one by one, allowing my thoughts to concentrate on nothing else. Removing the heavy earrings and other ornaments. Untangling and smoothing my hair. Washing the evidence of my breakdown from my face.

I will not forget you, Obi-Wan. And I do not believe I will ever love a soul but you. But you understand, I'm sure. You always said that there is no death, only the Force. If that is so, perhaps you can see me now, and know how I feel. It is not that I do not miss you. That I will always miss you. But I must carry on.

The sharp ping from the holoterminal startles me. I let out a sigh – this is the last thing I need now. Mentally, I snarl at whoever is calling to leave me in peace, but the insistent pinging sound continues. I check the mirror. Well, I look presentable, at least. Not as dignified as I would like, but presentable.

Head high, Satine. Put on that invisible mask. Answer that call, face whoever it is. Speak to them calmly, as you always would. Show nothing. Be strong. You're still in the den of wild beasts, and you won't be leaving it any time soon.

Except now there's no hand waiting to pull me out of the den if I need it.

The holoterminal is still beeping at me. I cross the room. Breathe in deeply. Press the button to receive the call.

As the projector throws up its blue beam, I find myself half-hoping that I will see him. It's infuriating, how illogical my mind is being, for I almost expect to see him when I turn around after someone has said my name. Even though I know that cannot be, because I have seen his body and watched his funeral. If I'm going to be pathetic, I might as well be pathetic logically.

Which involves not seeing this. I'm not a woman prone to having her own mind play tricks on her, but this is too much.

I wait for my mind to behave itself, but it doesn't. It still shows me this.

But this is something I know cannot be true.

This is impossible.

This is something that makes my heart lurch to a halt, my breath slam to a stop in my throat.

Because the hologram I am seeing is a translucent blue figure of Obi-Wan.

That's enough, Satine. Pull yourself together. He's dead, there's nothing to be done about it. Stop imagining him here, or whoever's really calling is going to think you've gone mad.

I close my eyes, send a mental apology to my caller, and breathe in again, long and deep. I banish all thoughts from my mind except my need to answer this call. I open my eyes again.

And this time I feel my lips slowly part, and my eyes stretch wide. Because I am still seeing Obi-Wan.

No. This is not true. This cannot be.

I cannot turn my head away, I am frozen in place, but I flick my eyes from side to side, so I can be certain that I am seeing everything else clearly. The rest of the world seems to be as it should be. Everything seems normal, except I am seeing Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan is dead.

From the hologram, Obi-Wan watches me, as if waiting.

He died.

Unless… unless for once in my life, fate is being kind to me. Unless there really was a mistake, somehow, unless I didn't see what I thought I saw, unless there's a chance, an actual chance that he's still here, not gone, not taken from me, not dead –

A feeling. An emotion, an actual emotion at last, is rising up within me. Something that fills the emptiness.

I think it might be hope.

I stare at the blue ghost of him projected in front of me. He gazes back with a strange expression that I think might be apology.

And he speaks.

'Hello, Satine.'

Well, chapter one is done, and chapter two is already written, so it should be up soon, after I've gone over it and edited it. If you're wondering about the title, it'll be explained in the final chapter. I'm sorry this was mostly one long thought process, but I do enjoy writing my characters' thoughts - and next chapter will pick up the pace.

This was very hard to write, because while I've been trying as hard as I can to make both Satine and Obi-Wan in character, it's the first time I've tried to write either of them, and they're such complex people that it's not easy. Am I getting Satine vaguely right so far? Advice for improvement would be much appreciated! And thank you for reading. :)