Forget Me Not

1

A chilly wind blustered across the endless crowd of beings that huddled together, sharing both their warmth and their comfort. Thick clouds hung heavy over the enormous gathering, their greyness reflected in the sea of colourless buildings that rose like sharp waves, frozen in time. Some peaked to form ascending staircases, while the tips of others were swallowed by a shimmering mist, one that hovered over those who had collected to farewell one of the Republic's greatest heroes.

Cradled in a basin that was cut into the densest area of Coruscant's surface, they stood and watched, sheltered on one side by the quintet of spires and rhomboid glory of the Jedi Temple – the home and training ground of the most elite warriors, skilled in the use of the all-encircling Force. On the opposite side rose the dome-topped, bombproof shelter that was the Senate building, through whose thousands of glass windows peered countless senators, officials, and even lower-class guards.

"... and he will be dearly missed, by everyone," Mace Windu, one of the most senior members of the Jedi's leaders, the Council, concluded his speech. His calloused hands gripped the edges of the podium, his dark eyes sweeping over those attending the public funeral. The Jedi had wisely chosen a large space to hold it, setting their stand atop a raised platform and blockading the bottom of the stairs with a thin rope fence and clone guards to control any insurgents. Not everyone appreciated how the Jedi had handled the sacrifice of Anakin Skywalker.

The sobs of some heartbroken individual split the brief silence, but they were soon hushed by a gentle blonde, dressed as nothing less than pure royalty, who offered the comfort that only one who had experienced such grief could give. Her blue eyes glistened with tears, and her navy gown had become slightly crumpled from the space travel, but her bearing identified her as none other than Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore.

"I now invite Obi-Wan Kenobi to come forwards," Mace said, glancing back to the Jedi General who stood behind him, "to receive a small gift."

The thirty-seven-year-old man stepped forwards, his hands clasped calmly behind his back, his clean white robes sitting perfectly, and his brown cloak, with hood nestled on ginger hair, hanging from his shoulders. His blue eyes darted across at the assembly, pausing on the beautiful Duchess who watched him sorrowfully, before resting on Mace Windu. No traces of emotion, aside from a calm acceptance, graced his face, and even if his tidy beard hadn't hidden his mouth, nothing unprofessional or otherwise irresponsible would have been seen. He was a Jedi first, and the best friend to Anakin second.

A silver object, dull and lifeless, lay in Mace's hands as he turned to face Obi-Wan. Tiny black fins protruded from around the barrel of the weapon, built into the sleek metallic body to aid in gripping the handle.

"I present to you," Mace stated, with a dozen camera droids waiting in anticipation, "Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber, the greatest weapon of a Jedi Knight and the exemplification of many years of hard work and labour. Though this is not typically custom for Jedi who have passed, as you, Kenobi, dedicated years in training him, we wanted to honour you with it."

Obi-Wan accepted the saber with all the grace and charisma of one who had given and received such gifts many times before. His eyes flicked between the object and Mace's face, reflecting nothing but gratitude and civility.

"What are you going to do about it?" a clear voice, familiar in political circles and Jedi alike, rang across the sombre procession.

Everyone turned to see the one who had spoken — a young female, in her late twenties, with neatly braided chocolate hair, a dark dress adorned with pale stars, and fiery brown eyes that flashed as she glowered at the two Jedi standing above her. In her hand was a holoprojector, showing the footage that played like a broken record in everyone's minds: Skywalker's sacrifice, captured on camera, every moment etched forever into the pages of history.