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When he closes his eyes, all he sees is the rust-brown color of blood mixed with sand.
Emi never went anywhere without him, so when they hurt her, he was always there to see. And they hurt her often – Gardulla, and Watto, and the various overseers he and Emi would be loaned out to when business was slow. They would beat her because she had been too slow, or because he had, because the food was cold or the air was too hot or because of nothing at all – because she was a slave, and she was there, and they could.
Once when he was six, Watto had come into the shop nearly snarling in rage over a lost bet. He had taken one look at Anakin’s emi, picked up a sharp scrap of broken durasteel from a shelf on the wall, and hurled at her as hard as he could. She had tried to dodge it, but Watto had good aim, sober, and it still managed to slice a horrifically deep gash into her shoulder.
Anakin had been at her side before she had enough time to raise up onto her knees again. When he howled his outrage at Watto, it was through tears. He always cried when they hurt his emi, but especially when they hurt her badly enough to knock her down, especially when they made her bleed. What was that for?!
On his way into the next room, Watto had only sneered, and spat on the ground before them. What else is she good for?
Shhhh. Ela’a, Ani. Her hand was pressed tightly to the gash in her shoulder, so she couldn’t hug him back, but she had leant her head against his, while he sobbed desperately into her neck. Ela’a. Nuru bal khan aamsa, lukkali. I’m barely hurt at all, see?
Bright red had flowed through Emi’s fingers and onto the sand. When he was done crying, he had helped her bandage it, and she had kissed him, and crossed her eyes at him to make him smile again.
The wound had bled and then healed and then been disregarded for what it was - one scar among many, with many more to come.
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In his nightmares, he clings to her as she bleeds out into another patch of the same desert. He clings to her and weeps, and when she reaches up to stroke his face, her fingers are stained with blood. Don’t waste your water, the slaves of Tatooine would say to each other, but the phrase they actually used was “The sand drinks your water”. A person could spend sixty lifetimes pouring water onto the dunes, and still the land would remain dry. In his nightmares, the blood goes on forever, for sixty lifetimes, because the sand is always thirsty, the desert always ready to take everything from you and demand more.
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Anakin wakes up lying in a GAR-standard medical cot with nearly his whole left side in bandages and his left arm in a sling.
In his head, he vaguely remembers – the blinding chaos of a battle gone bad, shouting a warning, running, the heat and light of a blast, being tossed through the air, the crunch of bone going through skin as he landed on his arm, the searing pain of a piece of durasteel in his shoulder.
Ahsoka is leaning against the opposite wall of her tent, staring at him with a face of pale ash.
He smiles weakly at her. “Hey, Snips.”
“Hi,” she whispers.
Her voice is so hopelessly tiny, her anxiety bleeding from her into the Force.
Anakin reaches out an arm to her, beckoning her in. Her face crumples, and in a flash, she is crawling onto the cot and laying down beside him, pressing as close as she can. He holds her to him with only one arm, since the other is in a sling. She’s trembling, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps of anxiety. When she presses her face against his neck, her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Shhh,” he murmurs consolingly, reaching up to rub her back. “It’s over now.”
“You were – you were hurt so bad,” she weeps. “I thought – I thought that – “
Her sobs are shards of durasteel in the Force, and they slice into his skin. Turning his head, he presses a rough kiss between her montrals, adjusts her so that she’s curled against him even more. Her forehead is pressed tight up against his jaw. “Ela’a,” he croons to her tenderly. “Ela’a, lukkali. Nuru bal khan aamsa – I am barely hurt at all.”
The words make him lightheaded. Anakin had been born a slave, the child of a slave who herself had been born into slavery. He was freed at nine years old, but sometimes he thought he carried it with him still - he knew he carried it with him still. The bomb which was sewn under his skin when he was four days old was still there, - deactivated but still there, too close to his spine to be removed. Sometimes he thinks that maybe that’s why he can’t escape from it, why he forgets he’s supposed to be free now. They had beaten his emi and they had beaten him, until their blood welled through their fingers and mixed with the sand below. He’s supposed to be free now, blast it all, he knows he is supposed to be, but all the same he can’t seem to stop bleeding.
During Ahsoka’s Padawan ceremony, where they had been formally bound as Master and apprentice, he had grinned at her when he swore the ritualistic oath. By the witness of the Council, and by the will of the Force, I name you as my heir and the heir of my lineage. What I know, I will teach you. What I have, I will give you. He had meant every word when he said it, blast it, every fucking word. If only he knew anything else, besides this. If only he had more to give her, instead of sand with blood mixed in. When he and his emi were Gardulla’s, they had shared a cot in the cramped slave quarters, and she had always slept with him tucked against her, her hunger-sharp jaw pressed tight against his forehead. The GAR-standard cot he’s sharing right now with Ahsoka is made out of much finer canvas, but it is canvas all the same. He has nothing else.
What else are you good for?
Ahsoka’s shoulders are still shaking with her sobs. Anakin squeezes his eyes shut and kisses her forehead again, whispers to her again, nuru bal khan aamsa, my star, don’t waste your water. He tries to choke down the acid when he does it, because Ahsoka is neither a slave nor the child of a slave, but here she is all the same, sobbing into his neck. Eventually, she wears herself out. His Padawan falls asleep with her cheeks stained with tears, her fingers tangled in the front of his robes. Her forehead is pressed tight to his jaw.
The next morning, she watches soberly as Kix changes the dressing on his wounds, helps him tie his sling tight against his chest until they can get back to the Resolute. Because he knows it makes her laugh, he does an impersonation of Obi-Wan’s inevitable grouchiness, when he finds out Anakin has been injured again. She cackles at him and runs ahead to fetch Rex, so he can get a performance as well.
The war goes on. The wound in his shoulder bleeds, and heals, and is disregarded for what it is.
One scar among many, with many more to come.