Anakin reached out and pushed Obi-Wan’s hair off his forehead. It wasn’t often that he got the chance to see Obi-Wan like this. Soft, unguarded. HIs perpetual frown gone, replaced with the openness of sleep that made Anakin’s chest hurt, just a little.

He should have expected Obi-Wan’s quiet rebellion. While he occasionally offered up a retort – Obi-Wan wouldn’t be Obi-Wan if he completely refrained from sarcasm – he often refused Anakin’s bait and the banter that had previously dominated their relationship was gone.

Anakin had known the transition from proud Jedi to cosseted war prisoner would be difficult for Obi-Wan. In the beginning, Anakin had been glad for it. He’d wanted Obi-Wan to suffer, if not pain than humiliation. But as time passed, as they began to spend time together, as he watched Obi-Wan dote on his children, Anakin’s hatred began to evolve back into the adoration he’d once felt for his former master.

Palpatine was beginning to notice. He began needling Anakin in the most obnoxious ways. The rebellion, a constant source of conflict, was growing stronger and Palpatine blamed Anakin’s perceived weakness for it. That day, after the bombing of an important trade route, Palpatine had suggested a public execution to strike despair in the heart of the rebellion.

That was what had sent Anakin to these rooms; to his small family; to his solace. Rage slithered low in his stomach and he carefully pet Obi-Wan’s hair. While Obi-Wan’s death was unacceptable, an execution might still be on the table. Palpatine was beginning to wear out his welcome and more importantly, his usefulness.

“That he would dare deny me this,” Anakin muttered, leaning down and brushing a kiss against Obi-Wan’s forehead, reaching down to carefully run his fingers first through Luke’s hair, and then Leia’s. “That he would dare suggest I give this up.”







Someone please tell my id that it doesn’t need me to write a thousand-page parody of Victor Hugo’s Star Wars, no matter how “awesome” or “fun” it may sound at first

oh my god please, please do

La Guerre des étoiles


Book the First: A Solitary Man

I. Ben Kenobi

In Year 20 of the Empire (Year 10,191 since the forming of the Coruscant Convention), Ben Kenobi was a hermit living beyond the Dune Sea. He was an old man of about fifty-nine years of age; he had occupied his tiny desert hovel since Year 0.

Although it has little direct impact on the story we are about to relate, it nevertheless behooves the author to reveal, if only for the sake of completeness and exactness, the various rumors that circulated the person of “Old Ben” Kenobi. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. Very little was known about Ben Kenobi, in honest truth; it was widely known that he was an offworlder, and a recent newcomer to the barrel soil of Tatooine; it was less-widely known, though no secret, for Kenobi himself would say as much to those who asked, that he was from the planet Stewjon, in the Daly System. How he had come to reside on Tatooine was the source of much speculation.

Once one entered the realm of rumor, however, the accounts varied widely: he was a wizard, some said, or a crazy old man parched by the lack of company. He was alternately a scholar, a monk, a widower, or a scarred veteran of the Clone Wars, come to find what peace was left to him; the fruit-seller at the edge of Mos Eisley, where he came once a month to replenish his stores, claimed he was the last Jedi Knight, fled to the Outer Rim to hide from the depredations of the Empire. In spite of this wide-ranging gossip, or perhaps because of it, Ben Kenobi cut a dashing, mysterious figure to the starved minds of the out-flung desert settlements in which his name was known. He was well-formed, and although shorter than human standard, was still taller than many of the specimens to be found in Tatooine’s slums. He was well-spoken, conscientious, graceful, and learned; he spoke of distant worlds with the familiarity of a spacer and the precision of a Hutt.

as soon as i saw “Although it has little direct impact on the story we are about to relate” i knew this was a solid parody

more of this sort of thing