Work Text:
When Anakin is small, his mother washes his hair. For years he remembers that, the feeling of her fingers gentle against his scalp, combing through the long strands, cleaning them with precious water. He does the same for her sometimes, when he’s old enough. She has so much hair, dark and thick and heavy, and it smells like home.
They patch each other up, too. When Anakin skins his knee or cuts a finger in his repair work or burns himself on hot metal, when his mother’s feet swell and ache or her knuckles crack and bleed, they sit together and fix the hurts with careful hands, cleaning, bandaging, healing.
One day, Anakin comes home bloody. He spent the day practicing podracing, and he misjudged a gap and wiped out hard. Nothing is broken, but he staggers home with bruised ribs and blood all over his face and arms, covered in deep or shallow scrapes. When his mother sees him, she drops what she’s doing and runs out to meet him, falling to her knees in the path and cupping his face in her warm, callused hands. “Ani, what happened? Where are you hurt?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” he says, trying to smile even though his whole body throbs and the pain in his chest makes it difficult to take a full breath. It’s hot, and he feels a little dizzy. “I had an accident in my racer, but I’m not hurt bad. Just banged up.”
She sweeps her eyes over him, looking for the truth. Then she rises and takes his hand, not caring how he stains her skin. “Come inside. Let’s clean you up.”
They go into their quarters, Anakin leaning on his mother’s support now that she’s here more than he’d like to admit. She takes him to the sink and fetches two stools and the first-aid box, which Anakin notices is running low on supplies. After helping him peel off his tunic, Shmi takes a washcloth and cleans the blood and dust from his skin, moving carefully and paying attention to where he flinches. She asks him questions as she works. “Where else are you hurt, Ani?”
He points at his varied scrapes. “And my ribs. It hurts to breathe.”
She puts down the washcloth and moves her fingers over his ribs, pressing gently, carefully. When he flinches, sucking in a breath, she stops. “Here?”
“Yeah. And across there.”
She feels again, even more gently. “I don’t think they’re broken,” she says. “There’s not much to be done besides give them time, but I’ll buy you some ice when we’re done here. And I’ll make some breka bark tea. Don’t let yourself breathe too shallowly; you’ll get sick. Let’s look at these scrapes.”
He nods and holds still. Guilt and worry are crawling in his guts, and the surface pain can’t quite distract him. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he says as she cleans a deep scrape.
“Why do you say that?” she asks.
“For worrying you. And hurting myself. But it’s okay. It’s not that bad. I’ll still be able to work tomorrow.”
Shmi pauses and sets down the cloth, and for a moment her eyes are so sad he almost wants to cry, even though he doesn’t know the reason. “Oh, Ani,” she says. “That’s not what worries me. I don’t care about if you can work. That doesn’t matter to me. I care that you are alive and whole and here with me, because I love you. You are not a machine for other people’s gain. You’re a person. Never forget that, Ani.”
Anakin nods. He knows he’s a person; Shmi tells him all the time, in that voice she uses for really important things. But he also knows that it does matter if he can work or not—it matters a lot. Even if she doesn’t want it to.
*
It heats up quickly after sunrise. Inside their hut, the thick adobe walls keep the space cool, but the moment they step outside the door, Anakin can feel the heat pressing down on him, smell the hot sand. He doesn’t want to keep walking. His whole body rebels against it.
His mother notices his hesitation and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “It will be okay, Ani. Just say what we practiced. I have to go to work, but I’ll see you again soon, okay?”
He nods and tries to believe her. As she drops a kiss on his head and walks away, looking back a couple times over her shoulder with worry lines creasing her forehead, he straightens his back and throws back his shoulders, lifting his chin. He imagines he’s somewhere else as he walks, somewhere cool and green, maybe, with the sounds of water in the air and nobody to tell him what to do. Or he’s in the cockpit of a spaceship, the air clean and cold, the switches under his fingers as familiar as friends. He’s flying, and his mom’s in the ship with him, and it doesn’t matter where they’re going except that it’s away.
“Boy!” shouts Watto, and Anakin’s steps speed up without him telling them to. “What’s this I hear about a crash?”
Anakin reaches him. Watto’s glaring face hovers too close to his. “I had a little accident yesterday,” Anakin says. “Just a tiny one. I can fix everything.”
Watto’s glare intensifies. He sweeps his gaze over Anakin, scraped-up face to slightly limping foot. “How much did you cost me this time, huh?”
“Nothing!” Anakin protests. He amends, “I have to do some repairs to the racer, but I can do it all really fast, and I know where I can get the materials for practically nothing! And I don’t have to take a break from work or anything.”
“Hm,” Watto grumbles skeptically. “How long will you take to fix it? I have work for you to do. Already lots of work before you broke my property.”
“Only a couple days,” Anakin assures him. “And I can work on other stuff at the same time. You’ll see, I’ll get all my regular work done like usual and you won’t even notice a difference.”
“I better not,” Watto says. “I bought you so you’d make me money, not lose it.”
“You didn’t buy me, you won me,” Anakin says and then flinches. Sometimes he thinks he’ll never learn to keep his mouth shut.
Luckily, his master laughs. “Yeah, with my hard-earned money. I risked a lot of coin for you two, and lost some on other races too. You’re an investment. You better not make me regret it.”
He hears the “or” loud and clear. Watto could sell them. Worse, he could sell one of them. “I won’t,” he swears.
Watto grunts and waves his hand. “Get to work, then.”
Anakin does.
*
Anakin’s breath is burning in his lungs, but he doesn’t slow. The next obstacle is higher than the last, and he calls on the Force to clear it as he jumps. Hitting the ground, he feels a prickle that warns him of an incoming blast; he ignites his lightsaber and beats it aside just in time.
He can feel Obi-Wan’s eyes steady on him as he runs, but he refuses to allow that to break his focus. He has to do this. He won’t make a mistake this time. He is going to be the best.
He puts on a burst of Force speed to reach the next transparent gate in the obstacle course before its automated doors close. The gap remaining is narrow, horizontal, and four feet off the ground; not pausing, he jumps and twists sideways to hurl himself through it before it shuts. Almost there. There’s another blast to deflect. Ahead of him, a pile of heavy rocks blocks his way. He stretches out a hand to shove them aside with the Force, clearing the path. The grinding crash as they fly into a wall is barely audible above his heart pounding in his ears.
The end of the course comes into view, and Anakin sprints toward it. A round blaster droid moves into his path, and he vaults over it, kicking it aside as he passes. Five more paces, and he’s crossed the finish line.
He slows to a jog and then a walk and finally stops in front of Obi-Wan. His breath is coming in dry gasps, and his legs are shaking a little. His connection to the Force feels shaky too. Sweat is sliding down his sides beneath his tunic.
He tries to compose himself and to read his master’s face. He thinks he did well, but it’s always hard to say. He shouldn’t be this tired, maybe. It’s just, he needs to get this right. Better than right, perfect. Then it won’t matter what might happen if he fails.
“Well done, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says finally, and Anakin’s whole chest seems to unclench in relief. The approval in his master’s voice washes over him like sinking into a warm bath. He feels himself grinning broadly, that cocky smile that always makes masters sigh, and Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow as he hands him a bottle. Anakin unscrews it and gulps half the water in one go, still grinning despite himself.
Obi-Wan adds, “You made excellent time, and your use of the Force is improving. But your precision could use work. Your restraint. You still tend to default to blunt force, so to speak, throwing all your resources at a problem rather than making use of a more delicate touch. That touch is an important skill for a Jedi. It allows one to solve problems elegantly, with minimal collateral damage, while still reserving one’s own resources. You have work to do in that area, my padawan.”
Anakin nods, but the tension is back all through his chest, his throat, his shoulders. He wants to protest that it’s not true, that he’s better than anyone, can’t Obi-Wan see, but he pushes back the urge.
He just has to work harder.
*
Anakin is pacing. Back and forth across the luxurious carpet. Back and forth. His fists are clenched, and to his frustration, his eyes are burning. He’s supposed to be better than this.
“Anakin,” Palpatine says gently. “It’s perfectly all right. You’ll do better next time.”
“I was meant to do better this time,” he snarls.
“And you did!” Palpatine assures him. “This wasn’t your fault, you know. You did your best. Really, if they had trusted you, given you more information, the true target would not have escaped and all would have gone according to plan.”
Anakin hesitates. “Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely, my dear boy. It’s really too bad the Jedi are so suspicious of you. They should realize how skilled you are, how valuable. You’re their best resource, and they don’t even appreciate you.”
The words ignite a warmth in his chest tangled with something heavy and bitter. He struggles, unsure what to say. “I messed up, though. I wasn’t paying attention—I was just showing off. Obi-Wan says I’m reckless, foolish, arrogant. He said—he said my behavior was shameful and I should think about what it means to be a Jedi.” His eyes burn again. “I didn’t mean to,” he says helplessly. “I swear. He won’t—but I—it doesn’t matter. I still failed.”
Palpatine stands up and comes over. He reaches out, taking Anakin’s hand and patting it. His other arm rubs soothingly across Anakin’s back. “Perhaps so. But I know you will do better in the future, and the Jedi will see that too. If they have any sense, that is. I think you really needn’t worry, Anakin. You’re talented and immensely powerful. They won’t throw you away.”
*
Padmé is smiling. The war is only planets away, always more death and mud and bodies scattered in the wreckage, and the sunlight glows on Padmé’s hair. Her hand is warm in his.
Anakin wants to shut his eyes and sink into this feeling, this moment of the sun on his face and Padmé close beside him and everything peaceful, but he also wants to keep looking at her forever. His hand tightens on her fingers, and she turns to look at him. “Hey,” she says a little sleepily. “Do you want any more food?”
He looks over at the remains of the meal spread on a blanket beside them on the grass. Their favorites, but he’s full. He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
Padmé hums. “I am.” She sits up and reaches out to take a fruit, lifting it to her mouth and biting down. She doesn’t let go of his hand. Some juice runs down her chin, and she sticks out her tongue to lick it up, grinning at him, and Anakin loves her so intensely that it’s an ache in his throat. It’s a familiar feeling.
He wishes he’d never have to leave here. If it could be just this forever, just the two of them and the soft humming of the insects and no duty or Code or useless battles, maybe he could be happy. But that’s a thought unworthy of a Jedi.
Of course, he has a lot of those these days.
Then, from inside his ship, Anakin hears his communicator beep.
Anakin’s stomach drops. He stares at the ship for a moment. Padmé squeezes his hand. “You should get it,” she says, and she lets go.
It takes a moment or two for Anakin to convince his legs to move and take him inside. When he activates the comm, Obi-Wan’s image appears. “Anakin, we need you to come back,” he says without preamble.
“Now?” he asks, voice not as even as it should be. “I’m not due back until day after tomorrow.”
“I know, but there’s been an attack. Your troops were caught up in the battle, and at least a dozen have been killed. A strike is already being planned. You’re needed.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Anakin.”
Anakin nods, numb.
“Hurry.” Obi-Wan cuts off the connection.
He lets his hand, which was hovering in the air, drop to his side. A dozen of his men dead, and where was he? Eating and laughing on Naboo? He wonders who it was; names, tattoos, and haircuts flicker through his mind, dozens or hundreds of them. Each clone a soul as unique in the Force as a thumbprint, all of them struggling to live their brief, bound lives so brightly. And they keep dying. Hundreds of clones die every day, or maybe thousands, but these clones are his. And he wasn’t with them. He’s here, still alive. The self-loathing threatens to choke him.
Padmé appears from between the trees and moves back toward him. Her eyes are sad. “You have to go back, don’t you?”
Anakin looks up at her and feels the shame twist inside him, changing shape. Tomorrow is their anniversary, and they were going to celebrate together. They planned it. “I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Ani,” she says, coming closer. She takes his hand. “I understand. I know you have a duty.”
But he has another duty too, doesn’t he? A duty to her, and he’s failing in it. He fails in everything. “It’s not okay,” he says. Nothing is okay.
“It is,” she insists. “We already had a wonderful day, and we can celebrate some other time. I love you, Ani. Even when you can’t do everything, even when you can’t…meet everyone’s needs or wants all the time. Even when you can’t be exactly what every person wants. That’s not what matters.”
He doesn’t know how to explain to her that that’s all that matters.
*
“Preoccupied, you seem.”
Anakin looks up. Yoda is watching him from only a couple feet away, and Anakin weighs his words. “There’s a lot happening. I’m just trying to…to trust the Force to guide me through it.”
“Hm,” says Yoda. “But troubled, you are. I sense clearly your fear, your pain.”
He bites his lips. A better Jedi wouldn’t be so transparent in his feelings—wouldn’t have those feelings at all. “I’m trying to release it into the Force, Master Yoda. But…”
“But difficult, you have always found that. Yes.” Is that disappointment in Yoda’s voice? Or is it something else? Disappointment requires expectations set too high. Is Yoda remembering the warning he gave the day they met, the day Yoda looked into him and found him wanting?
“I’ve gotten better,” Anakin says. He’s not sure if it’s true. Sometimes it seems that the harder he tries to let go of his feelings, or failing that, to push them down or away, the more they return, twice as big as before.
“Hm,” says Yoda again. “What is it that troubles you, hm?”
Anakin weighs lies against the truth. “It’s…a lot of things,” he admits finally. “The war. There’s so much death, and it seems like there’s nothing I can do to stop it. To stop any of it, to change anything. I don’t know who’s going to die next; it could be anyone, and I—I’m scared.” The words are bitter in his mouth.
“Afraid of losing those you care about, are you?” Yoda asks. “But you will, as will we all. Takes everyone, the Force does, tomorrow or in a century; you cannot stop it, for belong to you, they do not, but to the Force.”
Anakin nods. He feels empty.
“Let go of them, you must. Release your fear and your attachments into the Force. Guide you, it will. It matters not what you want. The Force leads where it will. Only its tools, we are. Always we must act according to the Force.”
He nods again.
“Bothering you, other things are?”
There’s a bad feeling inside him, one that grows stronger each day. He doesn’t know if he can endure another loss like Shmi’s. Too often now, nauseating rage and guilt and tangled pain roil inside him, and he shouldn’t be thinking or feeling any of that, he shouldn’t be what he is, but he can’t help it. He tries and tries to make it stop but it won’t stop. Any Jedi he asks will tell him the same thing, because the problem is with him—he knows what he’s supposed to do, but he’s not strong enough to do it. It seems like every day he finds new ways to let everyone down. He’s supposed to be the best, because if he isn’t, what is he worth? If he isn’t, why is he here? Each time one of his men dies, each day the war drags on, he feels as if a piece of him is being chipped away. Will anything be left? If, at the end, something does remain, how will it be shaped?
“No, Master Yoda.”
*
Vader folds to his knees and bows his head.
“Report.” The voice is thin and scratchy.
“I have completed the mission, my master.”
“And?”
“The traitors have been eliminated.” He pauses. “All but one.”
“All but one?” The sound of cloth shifting. Vader doesn’t look up. He is an iron bar of tension. Faintly, he hears the metal of one of his prosthetics grinding. “And what of that one?”
“The second-in-command, my master,” he says reluctantly. “He escaped as I dealt with his confederates.”
“I see.” There’s a pause. Years ago, Vader might have held his breath. Now, the even, relentless rhythm of his respirator permits him no such luxury, and even if it did, the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach feels too distant to summon up much of a reaction.
More shuffling cloth; his master is rising from his throne and approaching. “This is a disappointment, Lord Vader. I put a great deal of work into you, my apprentice, and now, more and more, it seems your potential…falls short.”
“I am sorry, my master,” Vader says. “I will do better.” Resentment and shame coil inside him, twin serpents. It has been a long time since he truly believed in the rightness of Palpatine’s commands, but it has been equally long since he has contemplated defying him. Rebelling against him now is as impossible as defying the suns, and as futile.
He hates his master, but not nearly as much as he hates himself. Both emotions are distant, tired, useless. He knows his role. He knows what he is. There is nothing more to say.
The emperor, when Vader chances a look at him, is smiling. “Yes,” he says. “You will.”
The pain starts.
*
Around him, the Force is clear and bright. There is so much he sees now, so much he knows. There are so many people he thought he’d never see again.
And people that not so long ago, he never dreamed of seeing at all.
When he draws himself together again in the living world, he sees two heads bent close, light and dark, two smiles. He hears two murmuring voices, the quiet intimacy of those who know and trust each other without hesitation or question. The kind of trust that is earned.
Anakin sees bits and pieces of Padmé in both of them, their features and the way they move; he sees himself too, and even his own mother. He stays still for a moment, just watching, remembering. He doesn’t intrude; if one day Leia wants to speak to him, to know him, she knows how to do so. He won’t push. After everything, that respect is the least she deserves.
Leia squeezes Luke’s shoulder and then rises, moves away. When she’s gone, Luke’s eyes drift up and across the trees, and Anakin lets his form solidify into visibility. Luke smiles when he sees him. “Hello, Father.”
“Luke,” Anakin says, feeling a smile touch his own lips. After so long without, it’s almost unfamiliar.
Anakin approaches, and Luke pats the ground in front of him. Anakin sinks down to sit cross-legged in front of him, not quite on the grass but an inch or two above. On impulse, he reaches out to touch Luke’s hand. Half-solid, the contact tingles.
“The new government is starting to come together,” Luke says. “The beginnings of it, anyway. So many meetings.” He laughs. “It’s strange. I don’t feel qualified for politics, not really, but here we are, trying to work it out. Leia knows what she’s doing, at least. She’s up most nights, reviewing texts or drafting documents. It’s not what she loves, but it’s where we’re needed right now.”
Anakin nods. He doesn’t understand this much more than Luke; the minutiae and manipulations and webs of subtle social connections always frustrated him, even after the Jedi attempted to train him in diplomacy. And later, even after his—after Palpatine’s halfhearted and increasingly frustrated efforts in the same direction, when, early on, it occurred to the emperor that Vader might be useful in more visible political situations. No, it was never his strength or his interest; he always felt someone else ought to be in charge of all that, and he would be there beside them to help bring their vision to fruition. At least, before he ceased to care about such things at all.
Luke turns his hand over so that his callused palm rests against Anakin’s insubstantial blue one. “I’ve been talking to a lot of people, too,” Luke says. “People from all across the galaxy. They’ve been through terrible things. We all have, I guess. One of Jabba’s former slaves contacted me.”
“Jabba’s former slaves?”
“Yes. Not long ago, just a little while before—before the second Death Star, we went to rescue Han.” Anakin drops his gaze, ashamed and suddenly too aware of Luke’s hand in his, but Luke goes on. “And in the process, we killed Jabba and freed his slaves.”
Anakin sits with that for a little while. There’s a combination of feelings swelling inside him, a blend becoming more and more familiar. He thinks part of it might be pride. Pride and…hope.
“I’m glad,” he says eventually. The words don’t mean nearly enough.
Luke seems to understand, though. He looks Anakin in the eyes, and what he sees there seems to be enough. “I want to do more,” he says. “After we’ve done what we can here. I want to go back to Tatooine and free my people from slavery, or aid those who work toward that end. Growing up, I always knew what was happening, but there was never much I could do. Only little things, here and there. But now…now I can.”
Anakin’s throat feels tight. He feels as if there’s more inside him right now than this form can contain. In front of him, his son burns so bright, so beautiful, so fully and perfectly himself. Anakin lets his head tip forward until his translucent forehead is just barely resting against Luke’s own. “You’ll tell me. If there’s anything I can do to help?”
Luke smiles at him. Even though his eyes are closed, Anakin can hear it. “I will. I promise.”
Easy silence drifts between them. When Luke breaks it, it’s to say, “You were a slave.”
It feels strange to hear him say it. Anakin pulls back to look at him. “Yes. Your aunt and uncle told you? Until I was nine.”
Luke purses his lips. “But not just then.”
It’s like a fist around his heart. Anakin doesn’t have to ask what he means.
Finally, Anakin says, “It’s so different, being dead. Of course, that’s no surprise, but I mean…I’ve never had no one to answer to before. I’ve never had no one to call master.”
“What do you think?” Luke asks.
“It’s beautiful,” Anakin says. “And it’s terrifying.”
Luke nods. “I’m glad you can have it,” he says. “After everything.”
“I don’t think I deserve it,” Anakin admits.
Luke rocks forward a little, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “It’s not about deserving,” he says. “Or if it is, it’s what we all deserve, just because we’re people. You don’t have to earn being a person.”
A gentle wind passes, rustling the grass and the trees; Anakin feels it whisper through him. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know anything about any of this.”
“That’s okay,” Luke says. “You can learn.”