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Everything was burning.
He found himself trapped. His limbs were stiff, unable to move, his eyes wide and unblinking as the flames of the funeral pyre climbed higher and higher. His Master was burning, and there was nothing he could do but watch as the body crumbled into dust.
Jedi were always burned after death. It was tradition, and yet the mere thought of it sent a sharp spike of fear through Obi-Wan’s heart. He had never liked fire, Could not bring himself to find comfort in its warmth the way others could. He had always been weary of the immense heat and the way flesh seemed to melt into nothing beneath its touch.
The flames were travelling. Leaking out from the cracks in the pyre, and soon they were licking at his heels, scorching the rubber of his boots.
A guttural howl permeates the air. It sends a flurry of anguish and hate exploding into the Force, and before he can even think to try to find his bearings, Obi-Wan is running. The flames return with a vengeance, and he is running and running and running until he slips on the sand and the ground collapses beneath his unsteady feet.
“I hate you!”
A flash of red. Bloodshot yellow eyes that bore into his own with a despondent look. A young Togruta girl, shrieking in terror as her ship plummeted rapidly towards the ground. An army of men who all wear the same face, pillaging the temple, the steps awash with blood.
He’s assaulted by a vision of Queen Amidala. A little older, a little wiser, but still bursting with light within the force. She chokes, her soft features contorting as she writhes in unmistakable agony. All of them are engulfed in flames and cursing him for it.
“You left me to burn!”
In the middle of it all stands what can only be Anakin, but gone is the boy with the golden hair and the sun-bright smile. The little boy forever stained by sand. Instead, he is greeted by a monster that reeks of sulphur and charred flesh.
The creature lurches towards him, moaning and growling in a manner reminiscent of a wounded animal driven purely by primal fear.
Obi-Wan cannot bring himself to flee. Cannot bear to resign Anakin to such a fate. A solitary hand reaches out with tarnished metal fingers that twitch and seize spasmodically. A signal of desperation. The creature is pleading no, it’s begging for comfort. For human touch.
Who is he to deny such a thing, even to a monster?
“Now we can burn together.”
His arm is held in a vice-like grip, the touch blazes white-hot and all consuming. Obi-Wan can feel himself melting from the inside out, and so he screams despite the smoke that threatens to choke him.
“Master, please! Can you hear me?”
The young Jedi startles awake, still feeling the searing heat clinging to his tender skin. The too quick thrum of his heartbeat as it pulsed in time with the blinding pain in his head. For one horrible, fleeting moment he thought he himself lay upon a funeral pyre, much like his master had done. But the thick bantha wool blanket wrapped tightly around his middle has him sinking back against his pillows in mild relief.
Everything is still far too hot. His sleep clothes are damp with sweat, and his hair clings to his forehead like wet grass. It was a rather deplorable state of affairs and as fiercely as his parched throat needed him to rise and fetch a glass of water, Obi-Wan could not bring himself to get up. Too heavy, too tired. It would just have to wait.
“You’ll be alright, Master Obi-Wan, we’ve just got to get that fever down.”
A small but blissfully cool palm rests gently upon his forehead before sweeping down to his cheeks and then his neck. It is just cold enough for the harsh throbbing in his head to fade away into a bearable ache. The voice that accompanies the hand is familiar, light, curious and with a sense of sureness so strong for one so young. It almost sounds like… It must be Anakin. Anakin… Oh.
Panic flares within him like a match to an open flame. Wrenching his eyes open, Obi-Wan calls upon the Force for strength and drags himself trembling from the comfort of his bed. Stumbling blindly in the direction of the refresher, he leaves a wide-eyed and bewildered Anakin in his wake. He drops to his knees by the sink, sticking his head under the faucet running the water as cold as he could stand, gasping harshly at the icy tirade that tumbled down his back.
“Master?” Anakin questions from the doorway, fiddling anxiously with his nub of Padawan braid.
“Master, I think you should go to the healers…please.”
The boy inches slowly forwards, his fingers outstretched in a gesture that was chillingly reminiscent of the monster, and wraps his slender fingers around the Jedi’s wrist. Obi-Wan yelps as high and shrill as a newborn Loth pup, flinching away from his apprentice’s touch. He feels his skin blister under the creature's caress. He has to get away. Has to warn the others. Has to pull Anakin back from the edge of…
I won’t let you burn.
A simple string of words, echo’s crystal clear along their bond, and At that moment the smothering fog of fever dreams seems to lift. A sliver of clarity washes over Obi-Wan and leaves him slumped against the sink, blinking owlishly at the child before him.
“A… Anakin?”
“Yeah, master, it’s me.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay. You’re sick, so it’s okay to be a little scared and confused.” Anakin’s tone is mild and placating, as though he had done this all a hundred times before. So mature for a mere boy, it fills Obi-Wan with a sense of sadness he can’t quite describe.
“Let’s get you back to bed, hmm?”
“Yes… Thank you, Anakin.”
The following morning, he chalks all his ramblings up to the raging fever that had plagued him. He doesn’t remember the visions that drove him nearly senseless with fear, but perhaps it is better that way. He lays in bed, dozing softly, with Anakin curled up beside him and a damp cloth cooling his brow. The Force blossoms with warmth, but not with the warmth of fire but of the twin suns of Tatooine. Obi-Wan finds he does not mind the heat, at least not with Anakin by his side.