Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
It happens in a blur, of lightsabers clashing, of the screams of the dying, of a chorus of whispering and pleading and crying voices closing in from all sides. The events of the last rotation start to mesh together, until all he can truly remember is the rage. A roaring, deep-seated rage with embers lodged so far down inside him they feel like they’ll burn forever.
And that’s fine with Vader. After all, he’s right to be angry. They betrayed him. They all did—the Senate, and the Jedi, and Mace Windu and Yoda and Obi-Wan and even Padmé—
Vader growls, pushing back the twinge in his heart he feels at the thought of his wife with a rush of fury, and uses the flare in the Dark Side to propel him as he jumps back to Kenobi’s position with a brutal overhead strike. His former master, ever the defensive dueler, handily blocks, of course, and they’re off to another deadly volley, strokes coming hard and fast. The fire roiling in Vader’s stomach bubbles up with frustration at not being able to land a hit. But, unlike when he was a Jedi—so weak, so lacking in knowledge—Vader uses it to gather more tendrils of the Dark Side around him like a cloud, just like Sidious, his Master, taught him. He relishes in the strength he feels flowing through him.
It is only a matter of time. Soon, his old master will lie broken at his feet, and Vader will have his revenge.
Just then, the boiling lava around the two duelers swallows up part of the flotsam they’re standing on, and they have to find purchase on something else, despite none of the wreckage bearing any semblance of safety. Vader can hardly bring himself to care. Kenobi launches himself onto a pole floating in the maelstrom, so Vader simply follows his prey.
Kenobi inches back from him, his face contorted with pain—not physical, but emotional, Vader can still tell from what he’s projecting in the Force, despite the fact that he can’t feel their old bond anymore. It didn’t break, so much as dissolve, swallowed up by a dark cloud from Vader’s side. As it should be, Vader thinks with a smirk. But feeling the conflict and sorrow radiating from his old master is a gift rather than annoyance, one he takes, uses to reinforce his Dark.
Let him suffer. Kenobi turned against him. He deserves to feel Vader’s pain, one thousandfold stronger.
Kenobi’s still stepping back from the fight, though, to Vader’s annoyance. “Anakin,” he starts, voice raw. “I—I can see now that the Jedi might not have been the place for you.” He grimaces. “You always felt so much,” he adds, a bit softer.
Vader’s anger surges. Kenobi doesn’t get to apologize, not now, before he’s suffered. With a wordless roar, Vader dashes back into the fight, so quick and insistent Kenobi can’t do anything but block.
Somehow, this isn’t enough to convince Kenobi to shut up, however. “Anakin, that doesn’t make the Sith the right path,” he pants between blows. “They only promise power—you’ve never been interested in that, Anakin, I know you—”
“You know me?” Vader spits. Memories flash before his eyes—his mother’s dying breath, Ahsoka’s back turned as she walked away in the sunset, Padmé’s swollen belly. “You never cared enough to know me, Kenobi,” he growls, gathering the Force with his left hand and pushing Kenobi backwards, perilously close to the lava. How dare he. Vader stalks forward to deliver a killing blow, but Kenobi pries himself upward and flips back into position, ready to block. The blades skitter into a standstill.
Kenobi has the gall to look him right in the eyes. “Anakin, I do care.”
A reflexive wall of fury rises within Vader, so potent it takes his breath away. “Call me by that name, one more time—” he chokes out.
Kenobi blinks. “Or what,” he says softly, no mocking tone in his voice as usual. Only a question. Somehow, this makes Vader even more irate.
Before he can respond, however, a giant wave of lava crashes into the wreckage, and both are tossed into the air. At some point during the struggle, they’d managed to float closer to the obsidian sands of the shore, so Vader reaches out to the Force to propel himself far enough in on the bank so as not to get scorched. As he rolls to his feet, he notices Kenobi’s done the same. Without sparing a moment, Vader rushes him with a guttural cry.
Here, with surer purchase on the ground, the duel reaches a fever pitch. Soon, Vader’s raw rage isn’t enough to keep pace, and he’s forced to focus. All of his concentration soaks into the Force, and into every minutae of lightsaber technique he’s ever learned—steps taught to him by the very man before him. Vader simmers at the thought, but is quickly distracted by a stray swipe that forces him to duck, then flip back out of range.
A quick glance at Kenobi shows that he’s in a similar situation, brow furrowed in deep concentration. Kenobi’s coming at him with everything he believes he has, now, Vader knows—all of his expertise, but with none of the emotional power Vader’s using. The rage that could make him strong. And Kenobi’s matching him anyway. Vader’s insides boil at this—he, a Dark Lord of the Sith, should be wiping the floor with his level-headed old master.
A spark of fear lights in him. Sidious would be displeased with this performance.
Growling, Vader redoubles his attack, connecting back into the simmering pit of rage he feels inside him, matching his presence in the Force to mirror the churning of the lava on the banks. He lets his fury thrash and roar, and then lets it sink down, into his foundations, to the very dark pit of the Force presence of Mustafar itself.
Vader shoots his former master a fresh glare. The old man will see Vader’s power, will cower before the wrath of a Sith. And then Vader will make him pay.
Their blades flash even faster now, all strategy forgotten in the pure instinct of skill. It’s nothing like their sparring sessions ever were. Back and forth, up and down the bank, the duel rages. The close calls increase in frequency—a millisecond here, and Vader would have lost his sword hand yet again—a millisecond there, and Vader’s saber would have pierced Kenobi’s chest.
And then, amidst the frenzy, their blades become locked once more. Vader’s teeth grits as he tries to force Kebobi’s saber back, to no avail.
“Anakin,” Kenobi pleads. “Please.”
In response, Vader uses his fury to Force-push Kenobi back and flip away to give him some distance. Then, he charges, launching himself up and over to strike Kenobi where he lies—
—except Kenobi has somehow recovered his footing, and greets Vader with a wide swipe—
—and then the world around Vader erupts into pain. His eyes vaguely register his severed legs falling to the ground, and Kenobi’s look of shock, but all Vader can understand is the agony as he falls, helpless, to the ground, the sharp glass of the sand slicing into him, the screaming pain in the absence of his limbs, and the burning, the unbearable, savage heat everywhere, boiling his flesh.
Somewhere in the haze, Kenobi’s voice reaches him. “You were my brother, Anakin,” he cries. “I loved you.”
Incensed, Vader’s able to convert just enough of his pain into boiling anger, enough to scream, “I HATE YOU!”, before the agony takes over again. He’s only vaguely aware, as time burns away into nothing, that at some point, Kenobi’s figure, blurred by the waves of heat rising from the sand, disappears. Alone with nothing but his pain to keep him company, the blackness rises to meet him, and he knows no more.
***
ROTATION 1
And then he wakes up, and the pain is gone.
Vader jumps to his feet—his feet, still there—and glances around, wildly, at his surroundings. He’s in his room. At the Jedi Temple. The Temple that he recalls burning, down to the ground, like it deserved.
Vader growls, anger rising back up to the fever pitch he’s become accustomed to. Why is the Force-damned thing still here?
And in fact, why is he still here? He should be—
—and then the memories of Mustafar come crashing back, dousing him like gasoline to the fire of his rage. The edges of his vision blur and he roars, punching the wall with his metal fist, so hard he nearly breaks through the plastisteel entirely.
Kenobi. He interfered with Vader’s plans, and then he fought him, and pretended he cared, only to maim him and then leave him, burning alive on that karking bank—
Before Vader knows it, he’s barged through the door, lightsaber lit, all thoughts other than finding and killing Kenobi vanished from his mind. He reaches his old master’s door, and, when he finds it’s locked, plunges his saber into the door and stabs at it until he’s through.
Kenobi is at his feet, lightsaber lit, when Vader barges in. The sight of him nearly reduces his mind to a static of rage, but Vader takes the anger and channels it inward in the Force to keep his vision clear. Vader lunges at him, but not before he sees Kenobi’s face of pure, unadulterated shock and horror.
“Anakin?”
Kenobi manages to gather himself just enough to catch Vader’s blade, and then parries a series of strikes in quick succession until he catches the sabers in a lock. Vader growls—there are no offensive strikes or aggression in his opponent. Kenobi’s just trying to stop the fight, the look on his face still no less surprised than when Vader came in. The nerve. As if he didn’t know—
“Anakin,” Kenobi tries again, uncharacteristic panic edging his voice. “What’s this—what are you—”
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID,” Vader roars, breaking the standstill in the fight and hacking in Kenobi’s direction. The other man ducks, and Vader’s saber traces sparks across the wall.
“No, Anakin, I really don’t,” Kenobi quavers. “Please, why don’t we settle down and—”
Vader sees red at the insolence. “YOU!” he growls, saber swinging wildly. “How DARE you pretend!” Vader lets his fury aim his strikes, Kenobi avoiding each one until his old master is backed into a corner, his hands up defensively—no, placatingly.
“Anakin, I don’t know what this is about, but please listen to me—”
“YOU LEFT ME TO BURN!” Vader howls, the agony of the moment coming into the forefront of his memory. He can still feel the heat all around him, searing him, and Kenobi was the reason why—
He just wants to crush him. Make him feel unbearable pain.
Vader lashes out with the Force in a blind fury, and Kenobi rises up off the ground, gasping and clutching at his throat. Vindictive pleasure starts to appease Vader, through the simple knowledge that he is now the one causing the suffering—
—and then a shock spreads through him, and his vision spirals back to black.
***
For a while, the blackness is all Vader knows. Something distant niggles at his mind—there’s something going on, just at the edge of his awareness, but his consciousness is too sluggish to make it out, preferring the peace of the still silence. Eventually, however, Vader’s hearing starts to pick out distinct voices.
“—he’s never—”
“—reason why—”
“—Force presence felt like Dooku’s—”
“—Anakin—”
Something in Vader snaps to attention, and he opens his eyes.
He’s lying on a hard, durasteel floor. In fact, durasteel closes in all around him, from every direction save one, which is sealed by a ray shield instead. Fury surges within him—he’s been put in a Jedi cell—except something feels off. His rage feels less powerful this time, like he’s unable to use it to power the Dark Side—and Vader looks down at his hands to see that he's been put in Force bonds.
Anger consumes him, vanishing all rational thoughts from his mind, and he scrambles to his feet, then body-slams into the plasma door with all his might. It repels him, of course, flinging him back and causing him to skid across the floor. The pain he feels upon impact rattles his skull, and he rises to his feet more slowly this time. He closes his eyes and tries to rub his head, only to realize he can’t, due to the tight bonds. Vader snarls and opens his eyes to glare in the direction of the plasma door.
Standing behind it, colored yellow by the translucent barrier, are the very Jedi who threw him in here.
Within an instant, Vader is pressed once more against the barrier, standing tall so he can look the Jedi scum in the eyes.
Then, movement attracts his attention from behind them, and another Jedi squeezes into their midst and reveals himself to be none other than Kenobi. Vader bares his teeth, cursing that he doesn’t have his lightsaber. He wants nothing more than to take his saber and burn that man’s flesh with it, like Kenobi did to him, and then cut off his limbs—
“Skywalker,” someone else says, and Vader snaps his attention to the perpetrator. It’s Mace Windu—and something about his presence bothers Vader, tickles at his sense of logic, but Vader’s too furious to care. “What is the meaning of this?”
Vader smirks. “I wouldn’t expect you Jedi to understand,” he sneers. They can come up with better questions than that, the filth—as if they didn’t all betray him.
“Jedi, you say, as though you are not?’ Ki-Adi Mundi intones.
What an insinuation. Vader clenches his fist. “Can you not recognize a Dark Lord of the Sith?” he scoffs. Some of the Jedi make a show of gasping, as if they did not already know.
“But yesterday you were—Anakin, when did this happen?” Kenobi finally pipes up. He shakes his head as if in confusion. “Anakin, this isn’t you. Last night, I seem to recall you behaving normally, but you woke up today and—What’s going on?” Kenobi finishes by affixing Vader with a pleading stare.
Part of Vader roils with anger at Kenobi’s address, but something else in what he said bothers Vader. Last night. None of the Jedi are acting like they know anything about yesterday—about Vader’s Fall, about Order 66—
—wait. Vader’s thoughts grind to a halt. They should be dead. He watched Mace Windu die. The Temple burned, Vader saw to it personally.
Is he somehow in the past?
Suddenly, Windu’s commlink blinks, and all the Jedi turn to it, expectant—as if they are waiting for some news. “It’s Master Fisto, from Utapau,” Windu murmurs, evidently trying, but failing, not to be heard. “We’ll interrogate him,” he nods in Vader’s direction, “later.” Windu turns to leave, the rest of the Jedi in tow, except Kenobi, who shoots Vader one last hurt, and confused, look, before leaving as well.
Vader wants to be angry, but he is just as baffled.
Utapau?
If his instincts are right, he's indeed somehow ended up transported into yesterday—a version of yesterday that looks different from the one he just lived through. Kenobi was supposed to be the one to go to Utapau to face Grievous—except, because of Vader’s attempt to kill him in the morning, the Council would have wanted to keep him around, and sent someone else instead.
All the changes are due to Vader’s actions this time around, and to nothing else.
Vader’s first instinct is to be angry. Whatever messing around the Force just did, all of his and his Master’s plans to exterminate the Jedi have just been undone. The kriffing Temple is still standing. Order 66 has not come to pass. And his Master—his Master doesn’t even know Vader is his apprentice, unless Sidious sensed his darkened Force presence from the Senate building. Cut off from the Force, Vader can’t contact him now.
A rush of fury fills Vader, and he slams his bound wrists into the plasma barrier. This is far worse. The Jedi have him prisoner, and—
—and he isn’t maimed and burning on the banks of Mustafar.
Biting down the wave of rage at the memory for the time being, Vader ponders his situation. The Force has indeed spared him the pain of such a loss. He may have inadvertently landed himself in a cell, but his Master’s plans are all still intact, and can be executed later. Except, this time, with prior knowledge to use against the Jedi, they can be put into action with even less resistance. And Vader can exact his revenge upon Kenobi, all with him being none the wiser.
All Vader has to do is figure a way out of this cell.