Chapter Text
Some time passes before anything happens. A few hours, at least, but beyond that he can’t tell. There are no chronometers visible from his cell, and no windows on the detention level, either. It’s well below the surface anyway.
Anakin sits up when he hears someone walking down the cell block. He’d laid down on the bed some time ago, for lack of anything better to do, but sleep never found him.
There’s only one set of footsteps, and at first he goes tense, anxious that it will be Windu, or one of the less sympathetic Masters like Rancisis—
But then Plo Koon steps into view, and Anakin is able to at least somewhat relax. (He’s not stupid enough to let his guard down completely.) The Jedi is holding what Anakin recognizes as a food container from one of the Temple’s refectories.
“Hello, Knight Skywalker,” Master Koon greets, expression characteristically gentle under his mask.
“Hey,” Anakin mutters, quiet and without antagonism. The man had helped him, defended Anakin when he didn’t have to, and he is grateful for that. But he doubts Koon is going to just let him go.
The Jedi types something into the ray shield controls, and a hole opens up in the energy barrier large enough to fit the container through.
Anakin accepts the meal, because what else can he do? He can’t smell it through the lid, but it looks like the meat and vegetable stew he always gets whenever the refectory serves it, the kind with loads of Outer Rim spices. While he likes the dish, it has never tasted quite right, reminiscent of but still not the same as the food he grew up with.
Staring down at the container in his hand, his frustration bubbles over. “This isn’t right.”
The Kel Dor sighs, defeated. “I know, young one. I am doing my best to convince them to stop this foolishness, but Master Yoda is adamant you not be allowed to leave, and few are willing to go against him.”
Anakin feels his jaw tense. He churlishly wants to point out that Koon could do more than just talking to the others, he could actually help Anakin escape. But he also doesn't want to alienate one of the only people on his side.
After a moment of silence, Koon asks, “Is there anything else you need at the moment?”
There are so many answers to that. He needs another arm. He needs out of this cage. He needs his Master.
But Anakin can’t bring himself to ask for what he knows he won’t receive. Instead he says, “It’s cold here.”
The older man nods. “I’ll make sure some extra blankets are brought for you.” He starts to move away. “And please be sure to eat, Knight Skywalker,” he says just before stepping out of view. “It can only help.”
Anakin watches glumly after him, then scowls down at the container of stew in his hand.
*
He makes himself eat, and is annoyed that it does make him feel a tiny bit better.
*
Not long after, Billaba arrives with an armful of folded blankets, as well as a datapad. At first Anakin is excited, but it immediately becomes clear once he gets his hand on it that this is the same type of ‘pad given to young initiates, one with password-locked parameter controls. Anakin obviously can get around those, but these types of datapads also have no wireless functionality at all, lacking the physical hardware necessary to send any transmission. It’s useless to him without access to the parts he would need to jury-rig something that could send a message out.
Billaba winces at whatever look is on his face, clearly tracking the exact progression of his thoughts. “It’s loaded with things to read or watch. Everything in the Temple’s media archive.” Anakin blinks. That’s petabytes of data. Do the initiate ‘pads normally have that much storage? Maybe he should crack the thing open anyway, at least to check…
“If… If there’s anything not on there that you want, just let me know,” she continues when Anakin doesn't say anything. “I can grab a download for you…” He glances up at her.
The woman looks more uncomfortable than he’s ever seen her, standing stiffly, biting her lip and avoiding his eyes. Anakin knows she’s one of the newer, younger councilmembers, appointed just a few years before the war and only half a decade older than Obi-Wan.
It’s hard to feel much sympathy for her, though, from where he’s standing. Anakin doesn't say anything to her offer. His problem with being down here isn’t the lack of entertainment.
Eventually the silence seems to get to the woman, and she says, “I’m sorry.” Anakin believes her, for what it’s worth. But ‘sorry’ doesn't help him now, does it? “I know this is…” Billaba doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to.
“Yeah.” He looks back down at the datapad. “But you can't go against them, can you?”
“…No. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Anakin shrugs and keeps his eyes down. He hopes she doesn’t expect him to accept her apology, because he’s not going to. Eventually he hears her leave.
*
He’s able to get the back off the datapad off with a tiny scrap of metal he found. But his first impression was right, there’s nothing he can do with it. When Mundi brings him latemeal and sees the torn up device, he sighs but doesn’t comment. Anakin gets a new datapad before the end of the evening.
*
That one also has nothing useful inside of it.
*
Things continue in this manner. Every few hours a councilmember will bring him food or some sort of creature comfort. He can't bring himself to engage with them for the most part, even those that talk to him first, like Fisto and Allie. Windu never shows, and it isn't until more than a cycle has passed that Yoda comes to see him.
Unlike the others, the Grandmaster enters Anakin’s cell, using the Force to operate the ray shield controls. He hops gracefully up onto the single bare metal chair and sits with his knees folded under him, facing where Anakin sits on the edge of his cot.
“Talk, we must,” the old Jedi murmurs after a long tense moment. Anakin doesn't respond, just looks at him.
The silence sits for a minute, thick and oppressive. “Attached, you are,” Yoda eventually says. “To the Sith.” It’s not spoken as an accusation, but Anakin knows it is. He takes a deep breath.
“He’s used the Dark Side,” Anakin concedes. “And It’s changed him. But he’s still Obi-Wan.” He looks plaintively into the Grandmaster’s eyes, silently pleading him to understand.
But Yoda shakes his head, unhappy and uncompromising. “Once given into the Darkness one has, forever will It dominate their destiny.” Anakin sits back, feeling his face flatten. “Lost to the Dark Side, Kenobi is. Matters, nothing else does, and change that, nothing can.”
Anakin can only stare for a moment. He says quietly, almost to himself, “You really believe that, don’t you?”
The older man sighs, shaking his head again. “One day, understand, you will.” The reproach in his words is palpable, and Anakin grits his teeth, hating that the tone still makes him want to duck his head and apologize. He repeats to himself, It doesn't matter what he thinks, Obi-Wan loves me. Obi-Wan loves me.
Yoda doesn't say anything else, and Anakin takes a minute to try and center himself. He needs to get through to Yoda if he wants out of here. “Obi-Wan isn’t evil,” he says calmly and firmly. He needs to be measured, rational, if he wants any chance of them listening. “He hasn’t hurt anyone. He helped take down the other Sith.”
“Kill the Master, the goal of a Sith Apprentice is,” Yoda replies, unhesitating in his explanation. “For his own benefit, his actions were.”
“Then why did he help the clones? Why not use the chips for himself?” Obi-Wan would never do something so horrific. If he was truly gone, a husk in the shape of Anakin’s Master that was hollowed out and refilled with madness and fury, then he should have taken advantage of having that information. Even if he hadn’t wanted to kill the Jedi the way Sidious had clearly been planning to, there were plenty of other orders encoded into the chips.
But he hadn’t. Instead he’d told the clones, given them control over their own futures, handed them the keys to shackles they didn’t even know they had.
(He hadn’t just freed them, he’d given them the tools to free themselves.)
But the Jedi just waves a hand. “A miscalculation on his part,” he dismisses. “Or a trap we have not yet discerned.”
Anakin takes a deep, measured breath, trying and failing to not let his frustration show. He knows his Master. The unending well of kindness Obi-Wan has always embodied is still there. “You don't understand,” he says, bitterness escaping his tongue. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Yoda’s eyes glint with something sharper. “Known him longer than you, I have.” Anakin can’t stop himself from flinching. “The only Jedi to have cared about Obi-Wan Kenobi, you think you are? The only one struggling with his Fall, you think yourself to be?”
Before Anakin can figure out a response, Yoda stands from his seat and moves to exit the cell. A hole just large enough for him to fit through opens in the energy barrier, and then quickly closes behind him.
Over his shoulder, in a quiet but perfectly audible voice, Yoda offers one final remark.
“If leave the Order you do, over your attachment to the Sith he Fell to, a disappointment to his memory, you are.”
A wheezing breath punches out of Anakin as the words hit him like a blow. Disappointing Obi-Wan was one of his biggest fears growing up. The anxiety eased after his Knighting, with his Master treating him more like an adult and an equal, but it never really went away.
The statement isn’t true, he knows it’s not true. (Obi-Wan loves him.) But hearing it now still cuts him deeply.
After spearing Anakin through the heart with that last barb, Yoda turns and walks away, quickly passing out of sight. Anakin is left alone with only the buzzing of the ray shield for company.
He remains where he is long after the sound of the Jedi’s retreating steps has faded, trying to force down the emotions crushing his chest and the burning in his eyes.
⌘
Obi-Wan is pacing.
He walks in an unhurried manner, graceful as always. One, two, three, four steps, then turn and do it again.
One who doesn’t know him well might mistake him for being relaxed, with the loose tilt of his shoulders, the calm, methodical cadence of his steps.
That person would be wrong. He is anything but relaxed, and his even, meticulous gait, appearing closer to a military march than an attempt to burn off anxious energy, betrays it.
One, two, three, four, turn.
Padmé watches him. She sits on a cozy loveseat in the meeting room their group is occupying. Her clothes and makeup are flawless as always, but underneath she has the same strained anxiety that thrums through his own veins.
Brex and Dice are both in the room, as well. The clone appears to be paying him no mind, focused on his datawork, but Obi-Wan can feel the outwardly aloof man’s attention and concern.
(Dice had been among the first clones to approach the CIS about the clemency deal. He had come to Obi-Wan personally and asked to work directly under him—after having broken into Dooku’s castle on Serenno, where Obi-Wan was staying.
Obi-Wan learned later that Dice had been a sergeant under Pong Krell. Just under a year before Krell was exposed as a Darksider, Dice’s squad had been hit with a canon shell during an assault on Pasada. The others were killed instantly, but Dice himself survived. Then Krell ordered a retreat, and as per the general’s protocols, the soldiers left without gathering their dead. Dice had been left behind.
He managed to keep from bleeding out long enough for the locals to find and help him. His leg never healed properly, and he still walks with a limp, but he’s alive. Once he was well enough, he moved on.
Before the ceasefire, Dice had drifted for a while, never staying in one place for too long. He’d been declared KIA rather than reported as a deserter, but he couldn’t exactly hide the fact that he was a clone. Anyone who saw his face would know he wasn't where he was supposed to be.
According to him, when he learned that Obi-Wan and Anakin had taken down Krell, he’d been determined to find them. It was why he immediately trusted the clemency deal when he heard Obi-Wan was involved.
After working with him for nearly a month, Obi-Wan is pleased to call him a colleague and a friend.)
An odd ache twangs faintly behind Obi-Wan’s sternum, and he absently reaches up to rub at it on his next turn. Brex follows him with her eyes, but hasn’t moved from her spot leaning back against the wall, arms folded across her chest.
(Her acquaintanceship has been a treasure and a lifeline over these weeks. Most all of the Separatist leadership had been understandably wary and suspicious of his intentions after declaring himself Dooku’s successor following the older man’s death. But Brex had seen the truth in his desire to make a better galaxy for all its citizens and taken a leap of faith. The success of the ceasefire is due to her intelligence and persistence at least as much as it is due to his own actions.)
Obi-Wan had confided in the two of them about his worries over Anakin after his failed discussion with Mace. Surprisingly—to him at least—they’ve both been incredibly supportive. He’d only told them because he knew they’ve noticed his distraction during the treaty negotiations, not expecting that they’d want to actually help.
(It hadn’t occurred to him that they might have a close enough relationship for them to put themselves at risk for his sake. Perhaps his time as a Jedi has had a greater impact on his ability to socialize with outsiders than he’d originally thought.)
One, two, three, four, turn.
While Obi-Wan may appear nearly calm and entirely in control on the outside, his presence is anything but. Invisible to the others, the Force lashes around him like storm-swept ocean waves. He doesn't know how much of the turbulence is premonition and how much is from his own whirling, writhing emotions.
Anakin’s been missing for almost two days. Obi-Wan had managed to get in contact with the 501st through the 212th members that had arrived on Aslanu and was able to speak with Captain Rex. The clone assured him he was doing everything he could think of to try and locate his general. Obi-Wan had cautioned him to use discretion, and be very careful if poking around the Temple in person or confronting any Jedi directly. They don't yet have proof that the Jedi have something to do with Anakin’s disappearance, but…he has a bad feeling.
“Bail’s responded,” Padmé speaks up suddenly. Obi-Wan glances over to see she’s pulled out her comm.
The rhythm of his steps stutters, but he can't quite pull himself from his pacing entirely. “Yes?” he asks, trying and failing to not get his hopes up.
Padmé’s dismay washes over him a second before she announces, “He hasn’t found anything. The councilmembers he’s spoken with have been playing dumb about the whole thing.”
One, two, three, four, turn.
“They know we are friends,” Obi-Wan reminds her. Bail being the one to ask them likely put them on their guard. Bitterness seeps into the cracks of his resilience, and he tries to release it into the Force; it doesn't feed the Dark as well as the more vivid emotions.
A dull throbbing has begun at the base of Obi-Wan’s skull, and he frowns. The last thing he needs today is a migraine.
Padmé sighs as she puts away her comm, then pulls out her notes for the upcoming meeting. They haven’t had as much free time as they would like to devote to the search with the peace negotiations in full swing. While Obi-Wan does still keenly feel a responsibility to prevent a return to war, honestly, if it weren’t for all of his friends here helping him keep his head, he probably would have tried to sneak off to Coruscant by now. He’s just so worried.
(And he misses Anakin so much.)
One, two, three, four, t—
Obi-Wan staggers as a rush of vertigo sweeps through him. At the same time, the faint throb in the back of his head abruptly sharpens, spikes. Stars burst behind his eyes. Sudden wooziness narrows his vision, tunnels his hearing until everything sounds distant and staticky.
The pain in his head drums louder, and he drunkenly tries to bring a hand up to it. Something stabs in and out of his chest, over and over. He realizes it is his heart, pounding and pounding and pounding from a terror that is not his own. All of it seems slow, and far away.
His knees give out next, though he doesn't feel them crack into the tile underneath. Ah, that would be because there are hands under his armpits, arms holding him up as his body judders and convulses. He watches his own blunt fingers claw at his chest as one would an unannounced puppet show, with detached bemusement.
And then whatever barrier between his conscious thought processes and this fit stealing over him shatters, and Obi-Wan is plunged into a chaos beyond anything he has ever known.
Awful, overwhelming pain reverberates through his body, seeming to stem from his chest and head. Fear and desperation he can’t discern the sources of crowd his mind, throwing his thoughts into disarray.
(The emotions aren’t his, he knows they aren’t, and they don’t belong to anyone in the room, either, so where…?)
Someone else is screaming, begging inside his head, Stop, stop, please, stop! He hears himself gasping for air as the sensations pound into him. He doesn't know what is happening.
Right up until he does.
And then his own confusion and alarm turn to panic, joining the throbbing, thrumming echoes that have overtaken his body.
Between the horror of his realization, and that awful, sickening pain crawling its way ever further into his bones, shaking him to pieces, he is barely able to choke out an explanation to the concerned faces surrounding him.
“It’s—It’s Anakin!”
⌘
It takes several hours for Yoda to return, the longest Anakin has been left by himself since they put him here. He would have been more annoyed that they kept barging in on him during the night cycle if he had been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time anyway. (He tries not to think about how glad he is they haven’t just left him by himself all this time. Hates how pathetic it makes him feel.)
When the Grandmaster reappears, he isn't alone.
Most of the Jedi Council files into the space in front of his cell. Shaak Ti and Agen Kolar are missing, though that is not surprising. Ti has rarely left Kamino these last few months, and Anakin knows Kolar had been deployed to deal with a contingent of Separatist soldiers on the Outer Rim that had ignored their leader’s ceasefire orders. From what Anakin understands, the CIS leadership had authorized the GAR’s intervention in that specific case, though he doesn’t know about the details.
The point is, it makes sense for those two to not be here.
But Master Koon’s absence is more conspicuous.
The ray shield suddenly cuts out, letting the Masters enter his cell. Anakin has half a thought to try to make a break for it, but there’s no way he could get past all of them, unarmed and without the Force. All it would do is give them an excuse to…do something else.
He still gets up off the bunk, standing next to it and successfully fighting the urge to back away as they approach him. The space is really crowded, the cell not built to hold ten people at once. The silence stretches, Anakin’s eyes flicking from one person to the next.
As he watches them, his apprehension grows even more. Tiin and Allie have hung back from the others, and are whispering fervently to each other. Mundi and Rancisis’ expressions are grave, while Unduli stares hard at Anakin, one hand pressed over her mouth. Fisto and Billaba look really uncomfortable, almost anxious. Windu won’t meet his eyes.
“Wh—What’s going on?” he asks. Despite still being cut off from the Force, he’s suddenly overcome with the feeling that something very bad is about to happen.
No one says anything, the tension increasing even further.
“Masters?” His voice comes out far more frightened than he’d wanted it to.
Finally, Yoda steps closer. Unlike before, he looks somber, grimly determined. “I am sorry, young one.” Anakin’s pulse picks up. “For your own good, this is.”
Then, after sharing one more loaded glance, Tiin and Allie raise their hands in unison, and Anakin is abruptly flung back down onto the cot behind him.
He cries out, startled but not hurt, and instinctively tries to jerk back upright. But no matter how he struggles, he can’t sit up, an invisible weight pressing down on his body, preventing him from moving.
It takes him a second to figure out what’s happening. They’re using the Force to pin him down on the bed, flat on his back.
Real, deep fear slides down his spine. “What—what are you doing?!” he shouts, still trying to thrash, but it doesn't do any good. He’s trapped.
The two pinning him down stay where they are, but the rest of the Masters come closer, circling around the cot. His breaths are coming more rapidly now, chest heaving from confusion and the beginnings of panic.
Rancisis reaches him first. Without saying a word, the older man lays both of his hands on Anakin’s chest, right over his heart. The contact is firm, but not painful, not obstructing his breathing. Fisto steps up beside him and grips Anakin’s shoulder. Again, his hold is strong, but not enough to hurt. Anakin tries to shake their hands off him, but he can’t, he’s completely restrained.
One by one, the others crowd in around him, touching him in one way or another. Billaba takes his hand in both of her own, Mundi going for his other shoulder. Unduli presses on his stomach, just under his ribs. “What are you doing? Let me go!” He doesn’t understand, and it scares him.
Yoda hops up on the head of the cot and lays his palms against Anakin’s temples. “Why are you touching me?!” The ancient Jedi says nothing. Why won’t they answer him?!
Windu finally speaks. “It’s alright, Skywalker.” He reaches out and gently rests his hands on either side Anakin’s neck, index fingers resting along his jaw. “It’s going to be alright.”
And then, slowly, methodically, he begins to pull at the threading of Anakin’s mental shields.
He gasps sharply, both from the sting of the intrusion and the shock that it’s happening at all. “What—”
But that’s all he can get out before another gasp of pain is ripped from his chest, as a second presence joins Windu’s in digging into the outer-most layer of his shielding. “Hey—” A third. “Wait, wait—”
(Anakin’s shields are among the best. He is a fully-realized Knight, with the skills to match, but even more than that, he has to have better shielding than most, with how loud the Force is to him, how strongly he feels Its pull.
But, with the inhibitor cuff leaving that part of himself functionally deaf and paralyzed, his shields are currently static, inert things, unable to shift and flow, impossible to rebuild. Where normally he could reinforce different parts of them in real time, now all he can do is flail helplessly. He is a ship missing half its thrusters, uselessly spinning in circles, going nowhere.)
The pain grows from a sting to a sharp burn, a white-hot soldering iron pressed to his bare flesh, unrelenting no matter how he squirms. More and more Jedi join in, until Anakin loses count. It’s too much, more presences than he can keep track of while they’re splitting him apart.
They—if nothing else—are attempting to minimize the damage to the rest of his mind, not trying to shatter his shields completely, rather just opening a hole to get inside. But Anakin is not feeling charitable; he doesn't want them in his head at all, and it still hurts just as much, if not more, than if they would just blow through the barriers entirely.
(They probably wouldn’t be able to, a distant part of him recognizes. Even all together, it’s possible they just don’t have the raw power necessary to straightforwardly break into his mind. It’s a cold comfort, when they’re doing this instead.)
He can’t stifle his rising groans of pain, still thrashing against the power holding him down, but he can hardly move at all, held in place as he is by both the Force and all the hands on his chest and face. “Stop!” he yells out at a particularly sharp lance. It hurts, like an ice pick being driven through his skull, agonizingly slow. “Stop it! Get off!”
The others don’t listen to his cries, continuing to bore down through his layers and layers of shields, cracking open and prying apart the safeguards of his very mind. Anakin struggles and fights, desperately trying to shore up his defenses. But he can’t. The inhibitor keeps him from being able to properly direct the energy flow. Yet another person joins in the assault, and Anakin screams with helpless torment.
“Be calm, Skywalker,” someone says. He can't tell who. Everything outside of the pain is starting to blur together, the horrible drilling sensation merging with his pounding heart.
“Stop, stop, please!” He gives in and begs. “Please, you’re hurting me! Stop!”
“It only hurts because you are fighting,” another voice tells him, but it doesn't make any sense! How could he not fight against this? He doesn’t understand.
“Please!” Anakin cries out again as another piece of himself gives way. “I don’t want this! Please, stop!”
More voices. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“Necessary, this is.”
“I’m sorry.”
But still, they won't stop.
There’s an awful cracking, splintering sensation as the last barrier buckles under the assault. A wordless cry is wrenched from Anakin’s throat as the first intruder plunges into his mind, a blade sinking into his flesh. One by one, the others slip in behind, each incursion accompanied by a stab of agony.
Soon enough, they’re all crammed into his head, taking up more and more and more space until he can barely think around the pressure. It feels like he’s going to explode.
He can't move and he can't get away and he can’t stop them. He feels so helpless, bound and strung up and then violated. His face has gone hot, then cold, and distantly Anakin realizes he’s begun to cry.
One of them, the strongest presence, moves away from the group, pushing deeper into his mind. The web of thoughts and beliefs and memories and emotions that make up Anakin spasms, trying to expel the foreign body, but it only continues, unmoved, unperturbed.
He barely has the presence of mind to be relieved that the intruder is avoiding his memories, leaving the bulk of him alone. This deep inside of him, they could do anything to his mind, prevent him from being able think certain thoughts, change or destroy memories, alter his fundamental beliefs. They could completely unravel what makes him him, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Please!” he moans, long and low, no room for pride or dignity, just blazing animal need for this to end. “Please! Stop!”
His wishes are ignored.
The leader continues its prowling, seemingly looking for something specific. It lightly prods at memories and strings of thought, not doing any damage, but it still hurts. Finally, after an amount of tie Anakin has no way of discerning, it seems to find what it is searching for.
The others stir, following the leader’s signal, stretching him to his breaking point as they traverse through his mind. Anakin is very distantly aware of hearing himself moan in pain. They move past his memories, away from the core of him and towards the figurative edge of his mind, where his bonds to other Force-sensitives lay. The group heads unerringly towards his connection to Obi-Wan.
And that’s when he realizes. What they want, why they’re doing this.
The Jedi are going to break their Force bond.
“No!” he screams, horror ripping the sounds from him. “No! Don’t do it! Please! Please!”
Heedless to his begging, the trespassers circle ever closer to his Master’s bond. Powerless and terrified, Anakin can’t stop himself from breaking down into thick, ugly sobs. He continues to gasp out desperate pleas in between his cries. “Please! Please, don’t, please, please—!”
The first of the presences reaches the root of the connection, the place where Obi-Wan’s mind meets his, and then it begins to dig.
“NO!” It comes out a terrified shriek. “NO NO NO NO!”
It’s as if someone is taking a pickax to the inside of his skull. The pain from before is nothing compared to this, as each presence begins to hack and rip and gouge at the dense, vibrant bond.
“STOP!” he cries between, heaving, gasping sobs. “Stop it, please stop! Don’t, don’t—!” It hurts, it hurts so much. Why are they doing this? How could they do this, how could they be so cruel?
One of the attackers suddenly peels off, twisting away from his bondspace and then disappearing from his senses entirely. There is no relief, though, the rest of the assailants easily picking up the slack.
He can’t move, can’t fight or run or defend himself in any way. All he has left is his voice.
“PLEASE! PLEASE!” Desperate, babbling pleas fall from his lips. “Stop, stop, please, no, NO, don't do this, DON’T DO THIS, PLEASE!!!” He tries again to physically get away, bucking against his restraints, but it’s useless, useless.
The intruders continue their ceaseless assault, continue to rend and tear at the roots of his connection to Obi-Wan, broken pieces drifting away like ripped out fistfuls of hair.
With metaphorical hands, he clutches at the bleeding tendrils, trying to keep them from slipping away. But for every one he catches in his grasp, three more are hacked away under his assailants’ claws. Slowly but surely, he’s losing ground.
The bond itself seems to join the fight as well, shredded ribbons of light sticking and clinging as best they can before being torn away. Doubtlessly, Obi-Wan has felt what is happening, is doing his best to keep the bond together, but the distance is just too great. He’s too far away to help.
Little by little, minute by agonizing minute, their connection is whittled down to just a few dim, tender strands. Hopeless horror squeezes his chest tight, making it even harder to breathe through his wild, involuntary sobbing.
He tries with everything he has to cling to that last sliver of his Master, screaming into the Force, begging for help, for mercy, for anything.
But his prayers go unanswered.
The brightest of the invaders circles that last tether. Paying no heed to Anakin’s desperate struggling, it cinches tight—
—no, no, no, no, no—!
—and slits right through it.
“AAAAAAAAUUUUGHHHHHH!!!”
The bond snaps, and it’s like someone has shoved an electro-staff down his throat and pulled the trigger, has dug a serrated blade into his eye socket, has tossed him into a pool of magma to burn alive. In this moment he is not a person, but a thing that hurts, a mechanism that only knows pain, an object that screams.
The recoil of the broken bond is excruciating, but the emptiness that follows just behind is even worse. It feels as if part of him has died, and yet the necrotic tissue still hangs attached to the wound, pulling agonizingly on the exposed, misfiring nerves. The metaphysical hands he’d been clutching his Master with are now bloodied stumps, that part of his mind acceptable collateral.
All he can do is writhe there and wail, body trying to expel the pain in any way it can. It’s useless, though. Nothing helps. Nothing could.
He hardly even notices when the Force pinning him to the bed eases, when the torturous minds retreat and the constraining hands lift away. His entire consciousness is taken up by the yawning, empty pit that’s replaced his most precious bond, the sparking electric agony at the place where it’s been carved out of him. He is only vaguely aware, some incomprehensible amount of time later, when the people who’ve done this to him leave his cell, leave him to his suffering and despair.
It doesn’t matter. The damage is already done.
He’s broken, and alone.