Chapter Text
That is the kind of fear that lives inside Anakin Skywalker: the dragon of that dead star. It is an ancient, cold dead voice within his heart that whispers all things die…
~ Matthew Stover, Revenge of the Sith novelization, pg 25
Amid fiery plumes of red-orange lava, a single fighter touches down. The sizable landing platform is otherwise deserted, and the starfighter’s yellow paint gleams dully in the diffuse light.
The lone pilot within lets out a sigh, adjusting his headset as he peers out at the structure that looms ahead.
“No signs of life so far,” Anakin Skywalker remarks, running a gloved hand over his lightsaber.
He wonders, not for the first time, if this is a trap.
Maybe it was a little too convenient that they had been able to trace the emergency message Grievous had sent before his long overdue demise at the hands of one Obi-Wan Kenobi.
And maybe they should have brought the 212th with them, but Plo Koon needed backup on Cato Neimoidia, and there’s no substantial reason two accomplished Jedi can’t arrest a few cowardly politicians on their own.
But if it is a trap—well, nearly every lifeform in the galaxy knows by now that springing traps is what Anakin does best.
So here he is, staring skeptically through his cockpit’s transparisteel dome at a possibly-abandoned mining facility that may or may not contain a group of spineless Separatists.
He thinks of Nute Gunray and sneers.
Mustafar’s oppressive heat smacks Anakin in the face the instant he opens the cockpit, causing his eyes to water slightly at the sudden change in temperature. He feels sticky already, and while taking down Gunray and his ilk will be an absolute pleasure—assuming they’re even here—he is decidedly not looking forward to trudging around on this miserable planet, its sweltering heat too much like Tatooine for his taste.
His left hand grips the rim of the now-open cockpit, but a flurry of inquisitive beeps and whistles halts him in his tracks before he has a chance to vault over the side and storm the facility in typical Skywalker fashion.
He still hasn’t heard back from Obi-Wan.
Anakin slumps back into his seat.
“Right,” he mutters, waving a hand in the air in a vague gesture that could mean anything from I didn’t forget, to Obi-Wan will find me eventually, to I’m too tired to function.
Artoo watches silently as Anakin fiddles with the comm system and tries again.
“...Obi-Wan?”
The hissing of lava and a faint static are the only sounds to meet his ears.
He tries a few more times and, for good measure, attempts to contact the Council. Because despite popular belief, Anakin can be responsible. Sometimes.
He gives up after a few seconds when the static continues and rips off his headset.
“Well, Artoo, looks like we’re alone on this one. Stay with the ship and see if you can reach Obi-Wan.”
Anakin lands lightly on his feet as the astromech beeps an acknowledgement, domed head swiveling. Taking a few steps forward, the Jedi spins in a slow circle, his unlit saber a familiar weight in one hand as he stretches his senses out for any signs of danger.
While tiled stone makes up the landing platform, the rest of the complex is a blocky form of dark duracrete, anchored deeply into the volcanic rock below. Situated at the base of a mountain, the facility is sandwiched between spires of black stone and a massive pool of lava, and the shimmering air is polluted with the acrid stench of sulfur.
Anakin surveys the complex for a moment, weighing his options before he decides, screw it, he's storming the place after all.
No use in sneaking around when his ship’s out in the open.
Path set, he strides purposefully across the landing platform, eyes zeroing in on the nearest door—
And crashes to his knees with a strangled gasp.
“Liar!” The sharp pain of betrayal rips through Anakin’s heart as he sees Obi-Wan standing on the lowered boarding ramp of a sleek Nubian ship.
Padmé’s ship.
And Padmé…
His Angel stands before him, but in the sinister glow of Mustafar, a demon stands there instead. It was all a lie—Anakin sees that now, and the realization is so devastating that he has half a mind to impale himself on his own lightsaber.
Instead, he hurts her.
His hand reaches out, and Padmé begins to choke, weakly clawing at her neck as tears stream from her pleading eyes.
It pains him, but Anakin can’t trust her anymore. She doesn’t love him—she never did. And now she brought Obi-Wan here to kill him.
Anakin blinks, and the space in front of him is empty. He pushes himself shakily to his feet and whirls around, but he’s alone. Padmé’s not here, and neither is Obi-Wan, and the only ship here is Anakin’s starfighter.
What the kriff.
There are some things that Anakin doesn’t allow himself to think about. He locks them deep in his mind—an old, rusted box under miles of sand.
He doesn’t think about his mother’s dying breaths, or the undeserved pride that shone in her kind, blue eyes.
He doesn’t think about the silhouette of a young Togruta against the Coruscanti sunset, walking down the Temple steps for the last time.
Leaving the Jedi.
Leaving him.
He doesn’t think about the nightmares—the ones that catapult him awake in a sprawl of fevered limbs, reducing the confident Jedi into a sobbing, trembling mess.
Because he is powerless, and she is going to die.
Anakin certainly doesn’t think about the wide, terrified gaze of a defeated old man, crossed red and blue blades lighting his face from below.
Delivering an execution in place of justice.
And if, for a brief moment, Dooku’s red blade had felt more at home within his grasp than his own, he doesn’t think about that, either.
And so as Anakin blinks dazedly at the place where he had witnessed himself killing his wife and preparing to fight his best friend, he dredges up that ancient, battered box from the depths of his mind.
He shoves the recent vision inside and slams the lid.
And Anakin Skywalker keeps going.
After a surreptitious glance behind him confirms that Artoo remains oblivious to his inner turmoil, Anakin ignites his lightsaber, slashes an ‘X’ into the metal of the door, and blasts it violently inward with the aid of the Force.
Time to arrest some Seppies.
He steps over the rubble and doesn’t stop. And as Anakin storms through the halls, searching for signs that the Separatist leaders are actually here, he tries not to think about the vision.
He fails.
❖❖❖
No one is here.
The empty corridors are eerie, and Anakin can almost hear the echo of clashing sabers as he makes his way through the facility. His steps are confident, but his senses are on edge, expecting a surprise attack around every corner.
He’s waiting for a hiss and a crimson glow, for a cloaked figure to leap out at him from the shadows, but it never comes. The facility is functional but abandoned, and the only lightsaber is the brilliant blue of his own.
Anakin doesn’t trust the silence.
Three years of war taught him that nothing good ever comes from it—the tense anticipation between battles, the lull before an ambush.
And so when the comlink built into his left glove crackles to life, he breathes out a small sigh of relief, deactivating his lightsaber and clipping it to his belt in a single fluid motion.
“...akin, can…ear me? Anakin?” The signal is faint, interspersed with static, but the voice is unmistakable.
He activates the comlink with a tap and raises his arm toward his mouth, eagerly replying, “Obi-Wan, are you there?”
“...jammed…using a local…”
Anakin frowns, starting back toward the landing platform in hopes of securing a clearer connection. “The mining facility is empty—where are you?”
“I found…near...sending you the coordinates now.”
Anakin pauses. “You found a what?”
“...think…belongs to…” Obi-Wan’s voice devolves into static.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin tries to find the signal again, but it’s gone, plunging the corridor once more into cursed silence.
“Great…” he mutters, taking off at a jog.
❖❖❖
Anakin steps carefully over the scattered pile of rubble that had once been a door, and is promptly met with an insistent Artoo. The yellow starfighter had moved conspicuously closer to the doorway, and the astromech whistles animatedly from his slot in the left wing of the ship.
“Yeah, I know.” Anakin hops into the cockpit, expertly flipping a few switches as the transparisteel dome lowers around him. “Set a course for Obi-Wan’s mystery location.”
And with the roar of an engine, the single fighter is gone, veering off into the distance. It flies low over volcanic plains and weaves between peaks of black stone, leaving behind the ominous mining complex that radiates pain and anger through the Force.
Leaving behind the ghost of what could have been.