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The first hate mail arrived mere hours after Anakin's death.
It was from an unknown sender, Obi-Wan saw, as he sat at his desk alone in his quarters. A slight feeling of intrigue managed to push itself through the heavy numbness blanketing him, and he tapped on his datapad to view the message.
His brow crinkled slightly as he read the message: ur fault theyre dead u should have died with them then maybe it wouldnt be all ur fault.
He couldn't help but feel slightly hurt at that. He'd heard plenty of insults before; Jedi had to deal with many thugs and pirates and brigands who... weren't very happy about being captured by a Jedi. But seeing it written down, the stark block letters contrasting clearly against the background, from someone he didn't know - it felt completely different.
Obi-Wan closed the message and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It was too much receiving that, in the aftermath of Anakin's fall. The datapad lay silent beside him for a few minutes, when - ding, a new message arrived.
That e-mail carried a similar message, too. Also from an unknown sender. Obi-Wan couldn't bring himself to repeat what it had said, and when his datapad once again pinged with a new message, his finger felt drawn to the "open" icon beside it.
They began flooding in after that: e-mail after e-mail, message after message, hate mail coming in and piling up, more and more and more until Obi-Wan couldn't bring himself to look at it anymore. Each new word he read was filled with spite and hate and venom, and only made him feel worse; worse as though a vibroknife had been taken to his heart and cut it open, again and again and again.
He may have been a Jedi, but even he wasn't immune to being told he was hated, that it was all his fault and that he should kill himself. Many of the messages said that - and it hurt, no matter how much he tried to fight it.
Obi-Wan wearily got to his feet. He needed help on the matter, he realised dully. He needed to get help before it snowballed any further. Someone must have leaked his contact details; members of the public were not supposed to be able to contact Jedi. He started walking towards Master Yoda's quarters, not knowing whether the venerable old Grandmaster would be there or not. Without even realising it when he arrived, he stood staring at the door for several moments before sighing and knocking.
There was no answer. He waited a little longer. Nothing. He knocked again. No response. He debated whether he should contact Master Yoda via commlink - then decided against it, preferring a face-to-face meeting.
Obi-Wan turned around as the elevator further down the hallway opened, but his hopes were dampened when he saw a Temple worker going into its doors. The workers were usually assigned specific levels and rooms to clean, so there was a good chance this particular worker often cleaned Master Yoda's quarters. He could ask, he supposed. It wouldn't do any harm.
"Excuse me," he called, walking quickly to meet with the worker, then running to catch him before he disappeared, "may I ask, do you know where Master Yoda may be? Only he isn't in his quarters - I'm wondering if perhaps you saw him leave."
The worker barely even glanced at him before replying. "He was here. He left over an hour ago for the Council chambers."
Obi-Wan was stung. There was a Council meeting in session? Why hadn't he been informed?
"Oh," was all he could say for a moment. "I see. Thank you for - "
But the worker had already gone, and Obi-Wan was left standing alone outside the elevator, his arms dangling uselessly at his sides.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, he tried to reason with himself. Perhaps the worker had simply assumed that Master Yoda had been heading off for a Council meeting. Perhaps the worker had been wrong.
Obi-Wan still couldn't help the feeling of dread and foreboding as he changed direction to make sure, though. The elevator ride seemed to last for hours. And then when he exited the doors, and looked at what was ahead of him, those feelings were confirmed.
The door to the Council chambers was sealed. Muffled voices talking, just barely audible. There was a meeting in session, and he hadn't been told.
When he went over to the access datapad by the door, and used it to request an audience with the Council inside, he did hear one phrase: his name. They had seen the name of the person waiting outside on the filed request. They were talking about him. And yet, Obi-Wan had a feeling that the conversation hadn't changed that much.
Once permitted entry, he felt, rather than saw, several pairs of eyes on him as he walked in. He stopped in the middle, at a respectful distance from his chair - the only one that was still empty - and dipped his head to Master Yoda and Master Windu.
"Please accept my apologies, Masters," he began. "I know I am very late. I am not sure how it happened, but I was not aware a Council meeting was in session. I will be sure to address any problems immediately should it be an issue with my commlink - "
He stopped, seeing the look on Master Windu's face. It was a look he'd seen before, but not directed at him. Never at him.
"You may update your communications devices whenever you like, Master Kenobi. Be assured, if we need you at another meeting, we will contact you," replied Master Windu, his tone cool.
Obi-Wan felt like the wind had been knocked out of his chest.
"I... do not understand, Master Windu. I would just like to know why I wasn't contacted about the meeting, when I am a Council member like everybody else here," he answered, his voice mild and non-argumentative.
Master Windu raised his eyebrow coldly. "You trained a Sith Lord. You failed to take note of Skywalker's behaviours in the weeks and months before he turned, and you also failed to report any suspicions or doubts you may have had."
Master Windu's jaw hardened. "You failed to do your duty as a Master to Skywalker, and you failed to uphold the Jedi Code. And now, you ask why we did not seek your input?"
That hit hard, and Obi-Wan found he had no answer to that. His lips were numb and it was difficult to force his next words out, several moments later. "I made mistakes, Master Windu, but please understand I would never knowingly dishonour the Code. It was ultimately Anakin's choice to - "
Master Windu interrupted him. "Just leave, Obi-Wan. Just... just leave."
And he pointed past Obi-Wan to the door, silence ringing through the chambers. Obi-Wan looked around him, uncertain, knowing his confusion was emanating from him and sensed by the other Masters in the room, but no one else spoke up to support him.
So he dipped his head again, murmured a goodbye and a final apology, turned on his heel... and walked out quietly, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes burning into his back.
He hurried back to his quarters. He attempted to politely greet the first Jedi he met along the way, but there was something very fixed about their smile, and Obi-Wan got the message. He changed his route and took the quietest path back he could find, going out of his way to avoid hallways and elevators with other people in them.
Perhaps he could try again, when it was time for dinner in the refectory. Surely there was someone who would want to talk to him, even if it were only one person. But he wasn't ready to go out right then - he didn't think he could stand another sideways glance, or another pointed look, or even someone pretending not to have noticed him when he greeted them.
It had all changed so quickly that Obi-Wan was still struggling to wrap his head around it all. Less than twenty-four hours previously, he had walked these halls, and Jedi had been happy to see him, had greeted him with a smile. And now... nobody even wanted to hear his name.
He waited, on edge, for dinnertime to arrive. Though he wasn't hungry in the slightest, he knew it was a good opportunity to find a friend. Force knew he needed one right then.
The problem was, when dinnertime arrived, no one wanted him to sit with them. Obi-Wan tried, and kept trying, all their excuses blurring into each other after a while.
"Someone else was going to sit there, I'm afraid..."
"I was almost finished, and the table will be free afterwards..."
"I am very sorry, but I was going to spend my time working, and I really must concentrate..."
He gave up eventually, after his food had gone cold, and found a table in the corner to eat by himself. He didn't finish his meal. Half of it went in the rubbish, though he had hardly eaten anything that day. Obi-Wan left the refectory without saying another word to anyone, feeling more lonely than ever.
Where else would he go, except for his quarters? He found a package outside his door, something that a Temple worker must have delivered while he had been gone. Bewildered, he took it inside, seeing no sender labelled on it. He opened it with trepidation, jerking back in shock when the small box opened to reveal a number of cracked, rotten nuna eggs.
He stood there, pinching his nose against the smell, and thought the message had sunk in, well and truly: no one wanted him around.
Very well, then. He would stay out of their way. Keep out of sight. Never ask for anything. He would pretend he wasn't there, act like he didn't exist.
Obi-Wan didn't deny how much that devastating realisation crushed him. But he was determined to stick to it, and instead of seeing others glare at him or ignore him wherever he went, he would isolate himself from it instead.
Maybe it would hurt less.
Months went by, and nothing changed. Obi-Wan had thought that, with time and effort, it would settle eventually and his life would be back to the way it had been.
He'd been wrong. Terribly, extremely wrong. As time passed, things only became worse: he received more hate mail that became nastier every week, more packages containing increasingly horrible items, more Jedi who didn't even try to be somewhat polite but ignored him instead. He would mumble a "hello" as he walked past people in the hallways, and they wouldn't even look at him now, acting as if he'd never been there.
And it hurt. It really, really hurt.
He dreaded leaving his quarters to go to the refectory, and he only went late in the night, when it was empty. There would, perhaps, be a few tired-looking Jedi also having a late meal, but Obi-Wan knew to sit as far away from them as possible. Once, he'd gone to the refectory during peak dinner hour when there were no spare tables, and he'd had no choice but to sit at the end of an already-occupied table, several spaces away from the occupants. The Jedi had taken one look at him, and moved tables almost the moment he sat down, leaving him alone.
Some days he didn't even eat at all. He didn't even come out of his quarters on those days. He knew when the workers delivered yet more packages to him, hearing them scuffling around outside.
He'd stopped opening those packages a long time ago, like he'd stopped looking at the hate mail. The last package he had opened had contained a kind of acid that burned, and he'd gotten it all over his hands. No one had bothered to ask him what had happened to his hands, or why he had wrapped them in bacta bandages.
So he threw out those packages now, without seeing what was inside. No one cared, either, that he was the only Jedi in the Temple with packages piled up outside their door. No one wanted to talk to him, and no one wanted anything to do with him. He didn't even know who had replaced his seat in the Council; Master Windu had made it very clear that he wasn't wanted there again... just like he wasn't wanted in the refectory, in the Archives, in the training dojo, or in the Hall of a Thousand Fountains.
Obi-Wan didn't know how much longer he could stand it. Surely, he kept thinking, surely someone would forgive him, surely someone would want to talk to him soon... only, they never did. He spent hours either lying in bed or sitting on the floor, waiting for a knock at his door that never came.
He began to drink. Slowly, at first. Then more. Once a fortnight became once a week. Once a week became several times a week. And finally, several times a week became every day. Unable to meditate to relax himself, something about the alcohol spreading through his bloodstream calmed him in a way the meditation couldn't. He would always feel ashamed in the morning, when he woke up on the sofa with several empty beer bottles lying on the floor below him - and he would throw them out, but it wouldn't be long before he was at it again, nearly cutting his hand in his desperation to get the cap off the bottle.
He started to hurt himself. Not with his lightsaber, but with a small knife he'd guiltily taken from the refectory. He needed to see his blood running over his skin and dripping on the floor, not cauterised burn marks. Something about it felt like atonement for his mistakes, a self-inflicted punishment that was entirely deserved. When he ran out of space on his arms, he started on his waist and legs. And when he ran out of space there, he moved back up to his then-healed arms.
They scarred. Obi-Wan knew that would happen. His once clear, pale skin was now permanently marked with furious slashes all over, criss-crossing over each other in the attempt to find a new place to harm. Some of them were massive, stretching several inches over his body. He hated himself for them, but at the same time he wanted more, and found a vicious pleasure in the fact that he was punishing himself for everything he'd ever done. He was clinging on to his life, choosing to keep living by a thread, and anything could have pushed him over the edge.
Obi-Wan was alone, eating a late dinner in the refectory. As always, he took the utmost care to ensure his sleeve never rode up, or was caught on anything; even though he felt he could have walked through the whole Temple with his arms on display for all to see and no one would care, he kept them hidden anyway.
One year had passed since Anakin's fall to the Dark Side. One long, miserable year. And Obi-Wan was so lonely he felt he was drowning silently, among the thousands of people who inhabited the same building.
He didn't know why he chose to keep living anymore. No one wanted him. He wasn't welcome anywhere. He had nothing and no one to live for. He was a failure, a disappointment to the Order who had trained him his whole life, and he always had been. It had just taken him far too long to realise it.
All those messages he had been sent - they were right. All those packages he had received - he deserved them.
He'd spent most of the morning drinking. Most of the afternoon and evening sleeping, weak from the lack of food, and had only reluctantly dragged himself from bed after sleeping for hours. Hurt himself a couple of times throughout the day, when he was awake enough for it. Hadn't eaten anything in three days. His clothes, once fitting him nicely, now hung off his thin frame, starting to wear thin and unravel in places. He'd never asked for new ones. He wasn't worthy of such a luxury.
It was the first thing he'd eaten in days, but Obi-Wan was thoroughly disinterested in his meal, poking it around the plate dejectedly. He wasn't hungry. He was tired. So, so tired, of everything. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be happy. He wanted someone to just look at him and acknowledge that he existed and mattered to somebody. That wasn't too much to ask, was it? For someone to look at him and see him?
He was so lost in thought he didn't notice Plo Koon approaching him. It was only when the other Jedi had no choice but to reach out and tap him gently on the shoulder that Obi-Wan looked up, his eyes wide with shock.
"Master Kenobi, you don't look very well," Master Plo began, then gestured to the empty seat opposite Obi-Wan. "May I sit?"
"Oh," Obi-Wan blurted out in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time someone had called him by his name, let alone initiated a conversation. "I - I - um - " he stammered, flushing. "I'm deeply sorry, if you wanted this table, I can move - "
He stood up and, flustered, hurriedly began to gather up his plates, his hands shaking. What else should he do? Get down on the floor and beg for forgiveness? Would that finally be enough? He knew he had little right to take up the space, or to take the food, but where else was he supposed to go?
"You misunderstand me, Obi-Wan. I was asking to join you. May we talk?"
Obi-Wan froze. "You... you want to talk to me?" he whispered quietly, his heart breaking in two. He'd done something, hadn't he? He'd messed something up so badly that even the Council could ignore him no longer, hadn't he? But he was too stupid to think of what it may have been.
"I do," Master Plo replied, inclining his head. "Please. Sit back down. You do not owe me an apology for taking one table when hundreds of others are empty, or for having your dinner."
Master Plo paused, regarding him. "Especially since I noticed you were not here at all today or yesterday."
Or the day before, Obi-Wan thought, but he didn't say it. But he felt his heart warm, just slightly. Maybe, just maybe, Master Plo didn't think he was a complete waste of space.
So he re-took his seat, and answered Master Plo, squishing himself up in his seat to take up as little room as possible.
"I wasn't feeling hungry."
"So, you simply chose not to eat anything at all during that time."
Obi-Wan lifted his shoulders in a self-conscious shrug. "I find it difficult to make myself eat when I have no appetite. But I hope you don't mind me asking you a question, Master Plo. I'm sorry, but... is there a reason you wanted to see me?"
"You've lost weight. I rarely see you around. I became worried."
Obi-Wan stood up again. "That is because nobody wishes to see me. I stay in my quarters, so they don't need to."
He gathered up his plates, preparing to leave.
"Obi-Wan. Wait," asked Master Plo. "The Council are going to summon you in two days' time. It might be a shock, and I believed it fair to let you know in advance - "
"They would like me to leave. Wouldn't they?"
The look on Plo's face confirmed it. "It was not my decision. I argued against it, and I was overruled. They feel that your presence here is making others uncomfortable. They will send you to another planet, a quieter Temple. You will still be a part of the Order."
But the damage had already been done. Obi-Wan found himself fighting back tears. "Are you aware of what it is like, when no one else wants to even look at you? For months on end?"
His voice shook, and he couldn't keep the tears at bay any longer. They spilled over onto his cheeks, hot and fresh, and Obi-Wan made no effort to hide them. He turned to leave. He didn't care that Master Plo saw them, and paused as he was about to leave.
"Did you know, Master Plo, that you are the first person to address me by my name so far this year?"
Obi-Wan didn't wait for a reply. As he left, Master Plo never suspected that he would be the last person to ever see Obi-Wan alive. His vision blurred with tears, he made his way back to his quarters. And when he was inside, he drank and he drank and he drank, until he passed out and the blissful release of unconsciousness washed away all his worries.
He woke up on the floor the next morning. Blearily, he became aware of several things: he was thirsty. He desperately needed to empty his bladder. His head hurt. The lights were too bright.
He struggled to stand up, leaning heavily against the walls for support as he staggered to the refresher, and then back again to drink water from the tap in the kitchenette. Finding he was too exhausted to get to bed, or even to the sofa, he lay down on the floor and curled up to go to sleep.
When Obi-Wan woke up again, the hangover was gone, and he counted twelve empty beer bottles on the floor. A familiar feeling of shame enveloped him as he cleared them away, but he knew it wouldn't stop him from doing it again. And with a jolt, he remembered Master Plo's words, and he remembered that the Council wanted him to leave. He lay there, thinking, for a long time.
What day was it? The conversation with Master Plo had been two days previously. The Council wanted to see him that day. And sure enough, his commlink was beeping with a new message, Master Windu's voice issuing curtly from the device, ordering him to report to the Council chambers in thirty minutes.
He wasn't going to attend the meeting. He'd had enough. It had been the final straw. He was tired of living when no one wanted him, and he was tired of trying to fix his mistakes. He was tired of being useless, and stupid, and worthless. He was tired of no one caring about him, and most of all, he was tired of being himself.
If they wanted him to leave, he would do the job himself. It wasn't like anyone would miss him, anyway.
He spent a few minutes sharpening the knife, and then walked slowly to the refresher, small silver knife in hand. His footsteps echoed with a certain type of finality: it would be the last time he would walk this path.
He locked the refresher door. He lowered himself into the bathtub, fully clothed, inserting the plug to block the drain. He'd considered this carefully. He didn't want to leave a mess for the Temple workers to clean up.
Obi-Wan looked at the knife, its deadly sharp edge glittering in the light.
He tested its sharpness, pleased when the smallest amount of pressure caused blood to well up from the cut in his finger. He pushed up his sleeves, revealing the dozens upon dozens of scars and healing wounds littering his skin.
His hands didn't shake when he pressed the knife to the soft underside of his wrist. He pressed down, hard, grimacing in pain as the knife sank into his wrist, the blade fully immersed in his blood.
You deserve this, he told himself. You'll be doing everyone a favour.
And then he slit his wrist from top to bottom, blood pouring out of the fatal wound, soaking his clothes red and pooling in the bathtub. He wasted no time in slicing his other wrist open. He laid his head back, gasping, feeling warm blood streaming over his wrists.
It wasn't long before he started to feel dizzy, blood starting to steadily fill up the bathtub until it was several centimetres deep. His fingers, slack and limp and unable to hold on to the bloodstained knife, let go and the blade sunk to the bottom.
Blackness crowded his vision. Obi-Wan was lying in his own blood, and still it continued to rush from the wounds he had given himself.
It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Harder to keep his eyes open. So he closed them, breathed out slowly, and he let go of everything he had ever known.
Dying was peaceful. Comforting, tranquil, pleasantly cool waters whispered gently as they came to meet him, came to embrace him quietly, came to wash him away with the tide. There would be no more struggles, Obi-Wan knew, once he went with them. He would finally have peace and calm, once death took him.
He faced the waters, and he wanted to go with them. The waters would take care of him, and he was not afraid, and he was not lonely.
Obi-Wan breathed out his last breath.
And then he let the waters take him away.
"Where is he?" asked Master Windu, visibly irritated that Obi-Wan had not reported to the Council at the appointed time. "He was told to be here ten minutes ago."
"Did he respond to your message?" Master Plo enquired.
"He did not. I specifically requested that he confirm the meeting in the message I left him, but he never responded."
"Hm. I request permission to leave and seek him out personally."
"Granted."
Master Plo stood up, dipped his head, and left the Council chambers. Obi-Wan had explicitly told him he spent much of his time shut away in his quarters. He would look there first.
Obi-Wan did not answer when he knocked on the door. Worry began to flicker in him, and not knowing Obi-Wan's passcode, he entered the emergency override code instead.
The rooms were dark and quiet. His unease grew. They were quieter than they should have been. He called out again, noted the empty bottles of beer in the recycling bin, picked up an empty mug on the table, and stepped forward to see how many beer bottles were in the recyling bin -
- and was hit by the stench of blood.
Plo dropped everything and ran to the refresher. "Obi-Wan!" he called, hammering on the locked door. The smell of blood from the room was overpowering, and dread churned inside his gut. "Master Kenobi! Answer me!"
He broke the lock and forced his way in and saw a sight he would never, ever forget: Obi-Wan. Lying still in a bathtub not containing water, but blood. Clothes drenched in red liquid. His wrists were slit, huge, deep gashes slashed deep into his flesh.
"Obi-Wan," Plo gasped out, and his voice trembled slightly as he tried Obi-Wan's pulse, finding nothing. He hadn't wanted this. No one had wanted this.
"I need a Healer," he spoke into his commlink, his tone urgent. "Now! In Master Kenobi's quarters - "
Obi-Wan wasn't breathing, and he had no pulse, and Plo could not sense him in the Force.
His body was limp as Plo lifted him out of the bathtub, blood dripping onto the floor. His head lolled lifelessly as Plo set him on the ground. He was still warm, Plo noted dimly. He had barely started to cool.
He began compressions, and was still performing them when the Healers came. But he was too late. They were all too late.
Obi-Wan was gone, and he'd died alone, before Plo had even arrived.
He'd almost forgotten that he was still to report to the Council with Obi-Wan. It was only when Master Windu contacted him that he remembered.
His voice stuck in his throat as he delivered the news. "I'm afraid that will not be possible, Masters. I found Obi-Wan in his quarters. He... is no longer with us..."
Plo's voice trailed off. "He took his own life this morning. I arrived too late to help."
Silence from the other end.
"How did he do it?" Master Windu asked finally.
"He slit his wrists in the bathtub," Plo answered at length, his mind far away.
He stood there, covered in Obi-Wan's blood, even as the Council members filed in and took in the tragedy that had occurred, watching as the Healers covered Obi-Wan's body and took him away. The scene seemed unreal to him - the refresher splashed in blood, the loss of a good man.
Obi-Wan had made mistakes, but - Plo realised - they had too. They were all partially responsible for Obi-Wan's choice earlier that morning. Obi-Wan had been a good man who had made a mistake, and he had been bullied and hounded and pushed away until he'd felt he had no other option to make it stop. Suicides among Jedi were exceedingly rare; whatever Obi-Wan had been feeling for him to make the decision to end his life must have been far worse than he'd suspected.
He had been struggling, so much. But Plo remembered the expression Obi-Wan had been wearing when he had passed away. It hadn't been panicked, or regretful, or guilty. Obi-Wan had looked... relieved. Peaceful.
Plo couldn't imagine how badly a person would have to feel about themselves to want to die so badly.
We are deeply sorry, Obi-Wan, Plo thought gravely, and he meant every word. If we had known... we would have cared more than you believed.
Perhaps.. you will find your peace now.