Chapter Text
Looking out through the wide paned windows of the Chancellor’s office, Anakin finds himself transfixed by the view.
He’s seen so much of the galaxy by now, lived as a Jedi for so long, these extravagant sights rarely phase him anymore. But occasionally, the ghost of a little desert boy who would look up at the sky and dream will wake up, come forward, and it will hit him all over again how lucky he is to see such marvels.
Worlds he never could have imagined, grand forests spanning continents, oceans the color of the sky, meadows with rainbows of wildflowers, stretching in waves to the horizon. Every planet with it’s own night sky, strewn with uncountable stars, their positions different, yes, but the spectacle always breathtaking.
Coruscant’s dual essence, the gleaming majesty of it’s jeweled spires, the grit and persistence of its moldering underbelly. The evidence of hundreds of generations of sentients enduring, working to carve something out of the cold universe. So much life now fossilized, preserved, in all its pain and love and messy contradictions.
Occasionally, through the grime and atrocities, Anakin remembers that the galaxy still holds wonders.
The sudden sound of the Chancellor clearing his throat drags Anakin back from his deep reverie. Palpatine arches a brow at him, smiling slyly. “Daydreaming, are we?” He feels himself flush at the implied reprimand.
The older man lounges in an armchair on the short end of the tea table, while Anakin sits huddled at the close arm of the couch, limbs tucked into himself. As much as he wants to hug his knees, he’s careful to keep his boots on the floor, remembering what had happened last time he accidentally put his shoes on the upholstery. He doesn’t want to upset his friend.
It’s been a little over a week since the Council first called him in and told him that Obi-Wan Fell. He’s pretty sure they’ve had a few more comm conversations with Obi-Wan, but despite how badly Anakin wants to hear anything, any news at all, about his former Master, he doesn’t dare ask.
This is the fourth time he and Palpatine have met since his new assignment. It hasn’t actually been too bad so far, mostly because they haven’t spent much time actually talking. All their prior meetings have been short and to the point, just communications about the tense holding pattern the war has settled into.
The Council has kept Dooku and Grievous’ deaths close to their chest out of caution, to ensure the Sith Master does not find out. Everyone who isn’t in the know has been understandably uneasy about the Separatists’ lack of movement, waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop.
(Anakin doesn’t understand why they think they can’t trust the Chancellor, the one whose orders they’re all supposed to follow. Literally everyone’s commanding officer. But he promised Obi-Wan he would listen to the Council and the Council told him to keep Palpatine in the dark.)
This is the first chance they’ve had to actually sit down and chat, and Anakin is beyond nervous about it. He’s never been any good at openly lying, has only been able to keep his secrets through deflection and desperately hoping nobody will try to confront him directly about the subject.
He manages a delayed response to Palpatine’s wry question,“Er—sorry, sir.”
“It’s quite alright, my boy, quite alright.” The older man takes one more sip of his tea and then turns his full attention to Anakin. His stomach clenches in premature anxiety.
“It’s been some time since we’ve been able to talk. I know your Masters have been running you ragged.” Anakin pushes away the shiver of unease at Palpatine’s wording. He knows the man doesn’t mean it like that. “I’ve heard you were injured recently. I can only hope you are recovering well?”
Anakin glances away from concerned blue eyes. “Yeah, I’m—I feel fine. Thanks.” His leg is almost completely healed, thankfully.
“Good, I’m glad to hear it. Now!” Palpatine exclaims, resettling himself in his seat. “Moving on to cheerier matters, how has Mrs. Padmé been these last few weeks?” he asks, leaning in with a playfully conspiratorial grin. Anakin smiles back and hopes it looks convincing. The mention of his former partner’s name still brings a painful twist to his gut, but it’s much less potent than it was a few weeks ago.
He starts to reach out for his teacup, hoping to buy time, but the motion stutters when a painful twang runs up his arm. He’d forgotten to take his prosthetic off before bed last night, so his stump is kind of sore. (Honestly, he probably shouldn’t have worn it today, but Palpatine doesn’t like seeing him without his arm, so he’d sucked it up.)
Dropping his hand into his lap, he answers as vaguely as he can, “We’ve been, uh, good.” The lie tastes ashen, without even the excuse of it being on the Council’s orders. He still can’t bring himself to disappoint Palpatine, to tell him just how badly he’s screwed up. The fear that he’ll lose his friend chokes him every time he thinks about coming clean, even if the man has always taken Anakin’s side in the past.
(If he’s being honest with himself, that’s also part of the reason why. What if Palpatine finds out what happened and then starts saying…negative things about Padmé? As much as it hurts that she left, Anakin doesn’t know if he could handle his friend speaking about her the way he talks about the Jedi Council, even if he’s just trying to support him.)
The Chancellor frowns, face drawing into concern. “Are you sure, my boy? You seem subdued today. You know if you are having any problems, you can always talk to me about them.”
“Oh, no, it’s not…” Anakin glances away, hoping his evasiveness comes off as being uncomfortable with the subject matter. “There’s nothing wrong with… between Padmé and I. It’s just—it’s just, Obi-Wan, you know…”
“Oh, of course, of course.” Palpatine sits back, sympathy spreading across his features. “Your missing Master. I know how his disappearance has been weighing on you.” he sighs, looking down at his clasped hands as his voice grows solemn and remorseful. “Again, I must apologize for upsetting you when discussing him last time we spoke. I cannot imagine the stress you must be under, I would never want to do anything to add to it.”
Anakin feels shame and guilt encircle his lungs with their cold, grasping hands. “It’s—It’s fine,” he says, not meeting the other’s eyes. (Why is he doing this, how can he lie like this? The Chancellor has never been anything but kind to him, and now he’s just taking advantage of that—)
He scrubs a hand over his face with a shaking sigh, hoping it looks like he’s still thinking of Obi-Wan (which he is, he’s just also thinking about other things). It’s just another mission, he tells himself. You don’t have a choice in the matter. He’s done plenty of things for missions that he’s later hated himself for; what’s one more?
Obi-Wan said not to tell anyone, even people he trusts, so that’s what he’s going to do.
“And I—I’m sorry,” Anakin forces out, clearing his throat. At least this is something he can do. “For, for being so rude last time. I shouldn’t have just, walked out like that…”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Palpatine immediately waves away his apology. “There is no need to apologize, dear boy, none at all. The fault is all mine, I assure you.”
“Ah…thank you, sir,” he gets out.
The older man takes a sip of his tea, and Anakin grabs his cup to do the same. Silence descends, and Anakin is utterly unsure whether it is comfortable or not. He stares down into his tea, absently tapping a rhythm on the porcelain with his nails until he remembers that Palpatine hates when he does that and forcibly stops himself. He looks out the window again, feeling horribly awkward.
After a minute, the Anakin hears the chink of a cup being set on a saucer and returns his attention to the Chancellor. His friend is watching him again, that particular intensity that he sometimes looks at Anakin with in his eyes.
“My boy,” Palpatine begins, then pauses. He leans forward, gently resting a hand over Anakin’s. The electric rush from the skin contact almost startles him, sudden warmth suffusing his body. (How long has it been since anyone has touched him?) He repeats, “My boy, there is something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about—”
And then, with no warning at all, the ornate doors to the office fly open, and every Jedi councilmember currently on Coruscant strides in.
Master Windu enters first, face a hardened scowl. Mundi and Fisto flank him, with Tiin, Kolar, and Billaba bringing up the rear. All of them carry their drawn, unlit lightsabers.
Before Anakin can do much more than jerk around in surprise, the procession halts and Windu declares, “Sheev Palpatine, you are under arrest.”
Slowly, the Chancellor rises to his feet, facing the Jedi. Anakin belatedly rushes to stand as well, nearly slamming his shin into the tea table. “Under what grounds?” Palpatine asks warily while Anakin gapes like an idiot next to him.
“Murder, assault, embezzlement, bribery, extortion, fraud, trafficking, torture, crimes against sentience, sedition, and tax evasion,” the Master of the Order lists. “And that is just what we’ve uncovered so far.”
Finally jolting to action, Anakin cuts in, moving between the group and Palpatine with his hands out entreatingly. “Masters, surely there must be some sort of mistake.” He knows they were suspicious of the man for some reason, but this…
“You have no right to bring charges against me,” Palpatine states, confusion and veiled ire in his tone. “Coruscant is under the jurisdiction of the Guard.”
“The Republic provides the Jedi full discretion in neutralizing Sith,” Windu says, a final, damning accusal.
“What?” Anakin gasps, a breathless little noise. Why— That can’t…
Before he can even begin to process that, Windu speaks again. “Skywalker, step aside.” Anakin just looks at the man, dumbfounded.
“It is as I feared.” The Chancellor murmurs gravely. Anakin’s horrified gaze shoots back and forth from the group of councilmembers to the older Human behind him. He doesn’t know what to do, what to think.
“Anakin, they are attempting to frame me,” his friend says to him, low, intent. “They wish to take control of the Republic for themselves.”
What? That makes just as little sense as the claim that the Chancellor is somehow a Sith!
(Perhaps he may have thought differently if he hadn’t heard his Master’s endless stories about how frustrated the whole Council is with all the powers the Republic has been foisting off them. He can’t count the number of times he’s heard Obi-Wan bemoan the responsibilities being thrust upon the Jedi over the course of the war. If all he had to go on was his own interactions with the councilmembers, he might have been able to buy it, but as it is…)
Windu snorts, grim mask finally dropping to a disgusted glare. “We have more than enough evidence of your crimes, Sidious.” The other five Jedi behind him remain silent, as they have through the whole confrontation. “Evidence that has already been released to the public.”
At that, a change comes over the Chancellor. He doesn’t move at all, but something about him stills, grows calculating and sharp. A predatory sort of evaluation. Anakin has never seen his friend like this.
The Jedi continues, “It has been about five minutes since the first transmissions went out, and there are, hmm, perhaps a hundred systems within five light-minutes from Coruscant? Is my math correct?”
“…I see.” Palpatine’s voice is flatter than Anakin has ever heard it before. Quite suddenly, he becomes aware of how very close they are standing.
“I don’t understand.” His words are like his thoughts, weak, fraying at the edges. This can’t be what it looks like.
Never looking away from the Jedi, Palpatine intones, “You must choose, my dear boy.”
“What?”
“Will you stand with me and my Republic?” (His Republic?) “Or will you allow them to destroy everything?”
Oh—
Oh, Force. He’s asking him to—
“Stand aside, Knight Skywalker,” Windu orders again, and then, softer, “This doesn’t need to be your fight. Let us deal with him.” Let them— They’re actually going to—
“They will never accept you.” The room seems to chill, shadows in the corners growing deeper. “All these years of them belittling you, dragging you down, preventing you from reaching your full potential, who has always been by you side, Anakin?”
(The answer his mind conjures is Obi-Wan.)
“Only I have supported you.” Palpatine says, with that same unflappable confidence he’s always spoken to Anakin with. “I am the only one you can trust.”
“Enough,” Windu snaps. “You have spewed enough poison into his ears.” Something in his presence shifts, and as one the Jedi take ready stances. “Surrender or fight.”
Palpatine makes a small motion with his arm, and Anakin glances down in time to see a deep, blood-red light bloom from the hilt suddenly in his hand, the horribly familiar sound of lightsaber ignition echoing around the room. At the sight, that telltale crimson glow, Anakin stumbles back two steps, battle-honed instincts kicking in through his shock.
It’s all the opening they need.
Windu dashes forward, violet blade swinging in a deadly arc. Palpatine meets him dead on, a red streak of precision parrying the blow, then effortlessly transitioning to a counterattack. The duel is immediately in full swing, bodies and blades whirling so quickly, a Force-null would be unable to track their movements.
The rest of the Jedi surge past, surrounding the combatants, guarding the exits and covering Windu, and paying Anakin little mind as the last pieces of his world shatter.
Even with the evidence in front of his face, the truth still sinks in slowly, a cold, viscus liquid dripping down his back. Palpatine is obviously an experienced blademaster, wielding his ‘saber with a speed and brutality the grandfatherly old man should not have been capable of, not unless the Council’s accusations are true.
And then it’s like a dam bursting open, emotions and realizations pounding into him over and over. The betrayal rips through his chest like teeth and claws, rending certainty, gouging faith. Palpatine’s been lying to him all along. He’s been a Sith this whole time.
(Was any of it true? Did he ever lo— care about me at all?)
This is why he was asked to spy on the Chancellor, Anakin realizes. Because they thought he was a Sith. The Council knew. They knew, or at least suspected, and they didn’t tell him. They didn’t tell him and they still gave him the mission, sent him into the gundark’s den blindfolded.
He doesn’t realize he’s staggering backwards until his back hits the wall. The sounds of battle seem to get louder, echoing in his head.
(What if he did? What if he does? What if he’s like Obi-Wan, a—a good Sith, somehow, and all of this is some misunderstanding…)
But then, even as Anakin thinks that, Darkness begins flooding the air, radiating off Palpatine, and it’s—it’s awful. Heavy and suffocating and cold, clinging to everything it touches like rancid oil. He sees the other Jedi stumble from its influence, Windu nearly losing his head before he regains his momentum.
Anakin has never felt cold like this. The sensation isn’t anything at all like Obi-Wan’s Fallen presence, which was bitingly sharp, but still lacked this oppressive weight. This—this hurts, deep inside of him. It feels wrong, like teeth scraping a chalkboard, like sand rubbed against a sunburn, rotted meat forced down his throat.
(What if it’s the other way around? What if Obi-Wan was—was tricking him, camouflaging himself over the holo-call, and in person he actually feels like this, this unbearable malice?)
Anakin watches the battle, frozen in place. Windu is the only one truly holding his own against the Chancellor (against the Sith). The others circle, occasionally darting towards an opening, or covering for Windu, but for the most part simply staying out of his way and ensuring that Palpatine is unable to escape
Part of Anakin is urging him to join, to help, he should be helping, he’s one of the Order’s best duelists, they’ve kept him around for his power, this is what he’s for. But all he can do is stand there.
The two combatants seem near-perfectly evenly matched, twirling gracefully around each other at dizzying speeds, twin masters at their craft, godlike, untouchable—
—There! Red stutters as purple achieves the smallest of triumphs, Palpatine knocked off rhythm as Windu streaks through his defense and manages a light graze against his arm. For a single heartbeat, it seems the balance may tip in the Jedi’s favor.
However, in that critical instant of near-victory, Windu trips upon his Jedi instincts, and hesitates to go for the kill.
And so, with a bellowing pulse of wrath and might, Palpatine gathers his Darkness to him and flings all the Jedi across the room, slamming them into the wall with a crash.
All of them, except for Anakin.
Palpatine—Sidious—turns to him. His breath catches, lungs freezing.
“This is very confusing for you, I know,” the old man says quietly, voice a silk-wrapped blade. “But Anakin, I only want what is best for you, for the galaxy. I will give you everything you could ever want.” He sounds entreating, utterly sincere. “As my apprentice, you will have the power to shape the galaxy to your will, bring peace and prosperity. You will finally be free from the Jedi’s control, free to be with the one you love.”
He holds his free hand out to Anakin, just feet away. “Trust me.”
Anakin looks into his old friend's eyes. They’re yellow now, neon-bright, a venomous, scalding color. Despite his lofty words, those eyes are cold and lifeless, nothing in them but avarice.
(He remembers Obi-Wan’s eyes. How even though the calming blue has burned into an unnatural gold, they’ve still kept their gentle, candlelight warmth.)
Anakin swallows, trembling, his unignited lightsaber held too tight in a two-handed grip. “Ch—Chancellor Palpatine.” He doesn’t know why he feels so afraid. “Y-you are—u-under arrest…”
Slowly, the offered hand lowers. It feels like a door slamming shut in his face. The Force offers no guidance.
Palpatine’s frigid, citrine eyes pin him in place. “You will realize your mistake in time, my boy,” he intones softly. “I promise.”
And then the man turns away, towards the enormous bay windows overlooking the city. Anakin stares after him, rooted to the ground.
“Skywalker!” he hears Windu gasp, as the Jedi begin to struggle to their feet, “Stop him!”
The command jolts him out of his stupor, and he lurches forward. But it’s too late.
Palpatine shatters the windows of the Chancellor’s office with a flick of his fingers. He stands there for a beat, silhouetted by Coruscant’s grand skyline, the setting sun glinting off his blazing, acid-yellow eyes. And then he leaps over the edge.
Anakin rushes to the ledge, gripping the wall as he leans forward and peers down to see—
—nothing.
There’s no sign of the man (the Sith) anywhere. He’s just disappeared.
Seconds later, the rest of the Jedi run up to join him, hissing out dismayed exclamations when they also find only the empty sky, no Sith to be seen. Windu quickly begins barking orders, directing teams to split off and search, to work to ensure the safety of the senators and other staff still in the building.
Anakin staggers back from the blown out window, pounding heart not slowing in the slightest. The others’ voices start to blur into unintelligible noise, his ears ringing. His breath comes quickly, irregular. He finds himself on the opposite side of the room without knowing how he got here. The image of those yellow eyes burns in the back of his head, almost like they’re still watching him. He feels like he might throw up.
After some time, the world begins to come back some, and Anakin senses movement coming towards him. He glances up.
Windu is heading his way. Anakin ducks his head again, arms crossing over his chest. The man must be coming to yell at him, and he—he really doesn’t need that right now. He knows he fucked up. The sting of failure feels like a brand on his body. But he can’t— He just can’t—
The footsteps stop near him. “Knight Skywalker?” Anakin refuses to look up, his hair hiding his face. He braces himself, biting his lip. His eyes burn.
But Windu surprises him.
There is a soft sigh. The older man speaks quietly, almost gently. “It’s alright, Skywalker. It isn’t your fault he escaped.” Oh. Windu is—reassuring him? “You did your best.”
(But his best wasn’t good enough. He’s never good enough.)
Anakin tries to work his mouth open, tries to think of something to say. This is—good, right? The Sith are exposed, defeated. If Palpatine was the one behind everything, then with him out of office and Dooku dead…
His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears, but at least it doesn’t crack. “The…the war…will be over now.” (It still hasn’t sunk in. (Maybe it never will.))
“Yes,” Windu agrees. “So long as Darth Ardence keeps his word.” Anakin manages a small glance up at the Master’s face. Instead of hopeful, he looks skeptical, suspicious. Part of Anakin burns to defend Obi-Wan, but the protests don’t make it past his teeth. He’s too tired (too afraid) to face what he knows will greet such objections.
With one last nod of acknowledgment, Windu turns and walks back to the other Jedi. Anakin stands there and watches him, feeling empty. His mind seems to float atop his thoughts as they whirl around too quickly to pin down. Seconds stretch, time condensing. The sensation would almost be like meditating, except that it feels very bad.
Anakin startles badly when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder, knocking him out of his state. He lurches away from the touch, some kind of sound escaping his throat. Master Fisto is in front of him, holding his hands up and stepping back. He must have approached without Anakin noticing.
“Whoa there, easy,” the Nautolan says like he’s soothing a wild animal. Anakin realizes he’s breathing raggedly, arms still wrapped tight around his chest. “You okay, Skywalker?”
He opens his mouth, but can’t get any sound to come out. He ends up just staring at the older man.
“Yeah,” Fisto says sympathetically. “Thought not.” A flush of shame rocks through him, but he still can’t react. Everything has begun to feel distant and dreamlike again, his body becoming a heavy, unwieldy thing.
“Come on,” Fisto says. He turns halfway and gestures for Anakin to follow him. “I doubt you want to be a part of all the politicking we have to do now. I’ll take you back to the Temple, and you can get some rest.”
The thought of returning to his empty, lifeless quarters makes something cold squeeze in his chest, but he also desperately does not want to be in this room any longer. Stumbling a little, he trails behind the older Jedi.
The walk from the Chancellor’s office to one of the Senate building’s visitor flight decks passes by in a blur. Anakin only remembers flashes of moments moving through the halls, unidentifiable people running to and fro. He and Fisto seemed to be in their own little bubble outside the chaos.
Reaching a nondescript speeder (illegally) parked just outside the entrance, Anakin slips into the passenger seat without a word. Master Fisto thankfully doesn't try to talk to him as he starts the vehicle up and pulls away from the landing pad.
He’s grateful for the man’s kindness, truly. But a part of him can’t help but whisper that the act can’t be entirely altruistic. They’ve made it perfectly clear how little they trust you, a voice whispers. They aren’t helping you, they’re suspicious. Two of the people he was closest to have turned out to be Sith. What does that say about him? They think you’ll be next.
(What if they’re right?)
He tries to focus on the future, their plan to end the war. Tries to think about how he’ll be able to leave this behind behind soon and start fresh with his Master (his best friend, his brother, his everything). Tries to take comfort in that.
(Obi-Wan won’t try to pressure him into Falling. He won’t.)
But staring out at the darkening city through the passenger window, blurring night lights flickering past as Fisto drives them back to the Temple, Anakin feels more lost than ever.
(…Right?)