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Emperor Misericorde’s flagship, the Requiem, is almost definitely overkill for the task at hand, but it’s the ship they take regardless. It is not Anakin’s place to question the decision. His place, as always, is at his master’s side, silent and obedient, standing next to Misericorde’s throne in the Requiem’s imperial quarters. The room is spare, per Misericorde’s ascetic tastes, but it is well-appointed; comfortable enough that one wouldn't be able to tell they were on a starship at all if not for the pulsing glow of hyperspace through the windows. Anakin keeps himself angled towards the door, his eyes flicking over the beveled-metal architecture of the room, routinely checking every potential entry point. He can see his master only in his peripheral vision: an elegant figure reclining casually in his throne, his white linen clothes scattering the light from the screen of a handheld datapad.
Anakin wonders what Obi-Wan is doing on the datapad; if he’s making plans for the mission, if he’s arranging his pawns as usual such that everything will fall into place as if by force of nature. Normally Anakin doesn’t question, doesn’t think, just follows orders while leaving the orchestration to his master’s more capable mind. But this time their expedition is personal to him. This time Anakin cares.
This time, the Requiem is leading a fleet of the empire’s finest ships towards Nal Hutta.
From the corner of his eye, Anakin sees the datapad’s backlight blink out, and he hears the soft thunk of the silicone-clad metal being placed on the wide arm of Obi-Wan’s throne. There are a few quiet moments where Anakin thinks his master may have chosen to take the opportunity for meditation, but Obi-Wan soon breaks the silence with a light, conversational tone.
“You were a slave once, were you not, Lord Aegis?”
Anakin stiffens instinctively, caught off guard. He has never told Obi-Wan of his origins—and as far as Anakin knows, there is no one else alive who could have disclosed them. His surprise is only momentary, however. It is not difficult to imagine how Obi-Wan could have figured out this piece of his past.
“I’ve arranged for your bags to be packed and brought onboard the Requiem,” Obi-Wan said. He took a bite of his breakfast, chewed appreciatively, and swallowed. Anakin had already eaten his own meal, and tasted the emperor’s for poison, so he stood in his usual position. “We will be leaving after lunch. No time to waste, now that the festivities are out of the way.”
Coruscant had just celebrated the one year anniversary of Emperor Misericorde’s rule—one year since he had sliced through Sidious’s regime and replaced it with his benevolence. One year, and already the crowds had surged in the trillions, cheering, weeping in gratitude, with cries of Long Live the Merciful Emperor! flying from their lips and rising into the air like flocks of doves.
It had been a long week for Anakin, Darth Aegis, the Emperor’s Shield, who’d spent every moment watching for foul play, looking for murder in each supplicant’s eye. But he did not protest at the news that they would be traveling so soon, did not ask for rest. He would go where his master went.
“We have operated defensively this past year,” Obi-Wan continued, “and I think it’s the perfect time to shift towards something a little more aggressive. We will take the fleet to Nal Hutta. It’s long past time for someone to reform those vile worms.”
The Hutts, he meant. Anakin kept his reaction to himself, tamping down on a spark of animal satisfaction. His very own master wanted to crush the Hutts . The Merciful Emperor, indeed.
“The Hutts are… uncouth. They’re violent, dangerous, and greedy.” Obi-Wan put down his utensils and took a sip of tea. “Of course, that’s enough of an issue on its own, but the most abhorrent part of their rule is their open acceptance—nay, their encouragement—of slavery.”
Anakin’s breath froze in his lungs.
“Enough is enough. All of their planets must be liberated. From Nar Shaddaa to Sleheyron, from Cyrkon to Tatooine.”
Somehow Anakin was on his knees, though he didn’t remember falling. Then he was crawling to his master’s side, grasping at the immaculate hem of his robes. Dimly he was aware that Obi-Wan’s stance was tense, that his Force presence was alert, but it didn’t stop Anakin.
“My Lord,” he rasped out, his voice whispery and cracked with disuse. He kissed the robes in his trembling hands. “My Lord.”
Of course his master is smart enough to realize what Anakin’s behavior meant. He is calculating, and observant, and always seems to know what Anakin is thinking, even when Anakin doesn’t react so… passionately. Obi-Wan’s attention makes Anakin feel embarrassingly open at times, despite everything Anakin does to shield himself; to keep his thoughts and feelings locked away with the Force and his own silence.
That very silence rings out in the room, and Anakin realizes belatedly that he has failed to answer a direct question. But before Anakin has a chance to correct his mistake and indicate a response, Obi-Wan continues on.
“I’ve been puzzling over you for quite some time,” he says. “What could my apprentice’s history be? I feel that the more I might learn about your past, the more deftly I would be able to guide your future.”
Anakin doesn’t look at his master, but he feels his eyes on him. He can never understand what Obi-Wan is thinking. Why wouldn’t he just ask, if he wants to know? Anakin would tell him without question if ordered to speak.
“You’ve been quite a lovely enigma to ponder,” Obi-Wan continues, as if answering Anakin’s unspoken question, as if he has read his mind. “Did you know there’s almost nothing recorded about your past in any of the empire’s archives, public or private? Only your medical history. And of course, there was no one I could ask… anyone who might have known Sidious’s secret dealings was loyal enough to follow their master to the grave.” He smiles—Anakin does not see it with his eyes, but he hears it in Obi-Wan’s voice as he amends himself. “Anyone other than you yourself, of course.”
Anakin wonders, for the billionth time, what he did to earn the mercy given to no one else—the opportunity to submit, the blessing of reformation. He used to be Sidious’s Fist, his loyal dog. Surely he should have been at the top of the list of servants to kill. Instead, he received a gentle hand, a gentle test, and the chance to remake himself for his new master. Perhaps Obi-Wan saw this capacity for change in Anakin from the moment they’d met, before Anakin himself knew of it.
There are a few minutes of silence. Obi-Wan lazily strokes at Anakin’s shields in the Force, quiet probing that Anakin is familiar with by now, almost as intimate as a hand caressing his cheek. Anakin used to be frightened by it—he was terrified, that first night, when Obi-Wan lay next to him in bed as if waiting for Anakin to take advantage of their proximity. That night was long and confusing, Obi-Wan’s mind pressing and testing his shields as his fingers curled and pulled in Anakin’s hair, sensations Anakin didn’t yet know how to catalog without accompanying pain. But even then, and every time since, Obi-Wan never pushed, never forced, only explored.
Anakin wonders what would happen if he did push. Would his shields hold out? Or would Obi-Wan be able to penetrate his mind, his final sanctuary, unraveling his secrets?
“Come, my Aegis. Stand before me that I may look at you.”
Anakin obeys, comes around from where he’d been stationed at Obi-Wan’s side, crisply resuming the parade rest into which he’s been trained. In this position, his back is to the door, but he finds it again in the reflection of one of the wide viewports behind Obi-Wan’s throne. Even so, the position leaves him feeling unbalanced, unprepared to face any potential threats to his master, his emperor.
He still doesn’t look at Obi-Wan, not without permission; doesn’t give himself the luxury of meeting his golden eyes. He doesn’t need that luxury to feel Obi-Wan’s heavy interest; his glacial regard; cold, slow, unstoppable.
“I think,” says Obi-Wan, “that it’s time to confirm my deductions. I will give them to you one by one, and you will confirm or deny them. Is that clear?”
Anakin nods his head like a tiny bow, one smooth, short motion.
“Very good,” Obi-Wan purrs. Anakin shivers with anticipation, and with… something else. “Then, to start. You were once a slave.”
Anakin nods. Surely his own reactions regarding the Hutts gave that piece away. And… Sidious always said the air of a slave clung to Anakin. That even when Anakin rebelled, it was all a pitiable, subconscious ploy to feel the pain of punishment. That he craved the hand of a master to keep his leash.
Perhaps that last part is right, at least, because Anakin has never felt so good, so lovingly owned, as when Obi-Wan commands him. Surely… surely Obi-Wan already knows that too, Anakin thinks to himself, and his cheeks grow hot at the memory of his master’s seed on his lips, of the shuddering completion Anakin found from nothing more than a whisper of good boy, Aegis.
If Obi-Wan notices the color on Anakin’s cheeks—of course, of course he must notice, he notices everything—he doesn’t comment, instead choosing to continue on with his deductions. “That’s where Sidious found you, correct? Enslaved, but your overwhelming natural talent with the Force already beginning to manifest.”
Anakin nods yes. Sidious found him because—
“I imagine there was some event that alerted him to you. Some display of your power… perhaps your piloting skills, Lord Aegis? Your talent with vehicles is unsurpassed, even among Force users.”
Anakin has to fight with himself to not meet Obi-Wan’s gaze in pure shock. He manages to remember to nod. It’s correct: he won a pod race when he was nine—just a small regional race, but Sidious came to his house only a few days later and—
“He took you from your home unwillingly.”
Correct again. Anakin nods. When he was a boy he didn’t want to leave his mother, not to go with a strange man, no matter how kindly he seemed at the time. His hesitance didn’t matter to Sidious. Anakin was taken—kidnapped—and brought to—
“Sidious had you raised in a hidden facility, with only droids as your caretakers.”
Anakin’s hands clench a little behind his back, and he makes sure to check his mental shields as he nods. It often feels like his master is reading his mind, but this is… uncanny. Yes, Anakin was brought to a training compound run by droids after his kidnapping. He isn’t sure how it’s possible for Obi-Wan to know that. The facility was destroyed years ago. Only Anakin and Sidious ever knew about it.
“He punished you harshly when you misbehaved.”
This one is simple enough, if Obi-Wan had access to Anakin's medical records. Truly, he wouldn't even need the records— just one look at Anakin's bare flesh, riddled with forked lightning-scars, likely told him everything he wanted to know about Sidious's punishments. The fact that this is easy to deduce doesn’t make Anakin more comfortable. What does he know about Obi-Wan? What has he learned in the past year? That Obi-Wan is clever, discerning, well-spoken? That he values cleanliness? That he likes spending time in his garden? What has Anakin learned about Obi-Wan’s scars? Nothing. He doesn’t even know who taught him the ways of the Force. Even after all this time, after a year spending nearly every waking hour by his side, Anakin knows almost nothing about his master.
But Obi-Wan has learned about Anakin. And he continues to prove it.
“Sidious told you that punishment was what you needed.” Anakin nods, and Obi-Wan scoffs. “He was a fool.” Anakin nods at this too before he registers it as an opinion rather than a deduction, and Obi-Wan laughs in delight. “Oh, very good, my apprentice. Your feelings are clear, and they are appreciated.”
Anakin flushes despite himself, both from embarrassment and at Obi-Wan’s praise. He feels shaky, out of control. Vivisected. He can’t help it—his eyes flicker to Obi-Wan’s face, to his smile, for just an instant before he forces himself to look away again.
The smile lingers in Obi-Wan’s voice, in the calm amusement that he allows to permeate his Force presence. “My gentle, honest Aegis.” He pauses, lets the hum of the ship’s hyperdrive take over the stretch of silence for a moment before he speaks again. “You never knew your father.”
Anakin’s lungs spasm in a wracking, punched-out gasp. He wants to hide, curl up in a ball on the floor, close his eyes. Instead he nods, again, a tiny jerking motion.
“You were an only child... raised by your mother alone.”
The room is shaking, blurry. Anakin blinks hard. He nods.
“Her name was Shmi Skywalker.”
A sob tears itself from Anakin’s throat. His face is wet. He has nothing, he is nothing that his master does not know, has not seen. He would feel less open, less raw, if Obi-Wan had split his chest apart and held his heart in his hands.
And still again, he speaks, rips Anakin apart further, gentle even in his ruthlessness.
“You loved her dearly.”
Anakin nods pitifully. He weeps for what he has lost, for what was done to him. He aches inside, empty and alone, forced to feel the shape of the hole left behind when he was torn from his mother’s side. He’s hidden it for so long, convinced himself he’d buried it completely. And it has taken Misericorde mere minutes to unearth it, to leave Anakin as vulnerable as a child.
Obi-Wan spreads his arms invitingly. “Come, Anakin. Kneel.” Anakin obeys, stumbling, rushing in his haste, his blind rawness. He falls to his knees and sobs again when Obi-Wan’s hands guide his head to his lap. He cries into the white linen, soothed and tormented in equal measure by Obi-Wan’s fingers carding through his hair, scratching at his scalp. The only soft hands to touch him since his mother’s. He feels a great craving, a great need, wordless, useless. Obi-Wan brushes against his mind again, the same caress to his shields as always, but this time… this time the shields crumble to dust, and Anakin gasps wetly as their minds connect. Obi-Wan is not the cold, remote glacier, the way he makes himself feel from the outside. Inside, his darkness is warm, inviting, forgiving. As if the gentle way he treats Anakin is his truest self.
“Sidious told you that you were nothing without him,” Obi-Wan says, directly to Anakin’s mind, all encompassing, lips unmoving. “But that’s not true at all. Anakin, you are everything.” And he knows everything, everything, so maybe this is true, too; maybe Anakin is everything if his master says it is so. He cannot protest, cannot disobey, cannot even move, can only sob in his master’s lap and let himself be soothed, caressed, from the inside out.
They stay like that for seconds, minutes, hours… Anakin cannot tell. He runs out of tears, his mortal form utterly wrung out by the force of his emotion. His body is trembling and sore like after a long sparring session, but no sparring session has ever left his mind feeling like this. His head throbs, until Obi-Wan’s benevolent warmth soothes it away. Without words, he bolsters Anakin, helps him return to himself—even helps him rebuild the shield around his mind. Anakin is grateful. He needs that barrier around him, holding him in, hiding him from anyone force sensitive enough to feel him. It was the first skill he learned; one Sidious did not teach him directly, but that had been essential in order to survive him. He is sure, by now, that Obi-Wan knows this without needing to be told.
Once his shields are rebuilt and he is secure in himself once again, Anakin takes a deep breath. His headache soon returns without Obi-Wan’s presence there to soothe it.
“You did beautifully,” Obi-Wan tells him. “I’m honored by your trust in me, my Aegis.”
His hands withdraw from Anakin’s hair, a sign that it’s time for Anakin to stand to attention again. He obeys, ignoring the stiffness in his joints, ignoring the spike in his headache at the movement, but wanting to blush and crawl away when he sees the wet spots he’s left on his master’s thigh. Somehow it feels more intimate, more profane, than when Obi-Wan spent in his mouth.
He does not meet his master’s gaze, as usual, but he can feel the tiny crease in Obi-Wan’s brow, and he somehow knows what he’s going to say before he speaks. “You will need to drink water, and I think I will have you lie down until dinner. Perhaps have you take some medicine as well, for your headache.”
Anakin feels… concern, for himself, from outside of himself. Obi-Wan’s concern, he realizes with a bone-weary frisson of astonishment. His master’s mind is no longer wrapped around his wholly, and both of their shields are still firmly in place, but it’s as if there is a tether that links through the layers of mental concealment, showing him the surface of his master’s mind, the vaguest shape of his thoughts.
He feels Obi-Wan discover it, too; feels his initial surprise fizzle into warm satisfaction. Aegis, my Aegis, his mind whispers, and Anakin shivers.
~
Later, he lies in his bed, the cabin lights dimmed lower than the smeared starlight spilling in through the window. He does not want to be here—he wants to be by his master’s side, protecting him, as is his duty. But he has been ordered to rest, so rest he shall, until his master permits his presence again.
He allows himself one lapse, one tiny indiscretion to soothe his selfish fears. He reaches out through this new bond, through sterile circulated air and cold metal walls, finding his master where he sits at his desk, going over his plans to dismantle the criminal cabal that ruled Anakin’s youth.
Safe? Anakin asks him.
Safe, Obi-Wan answers.
And with that last assurance, with the new comfort of their bond twining around Anakin’s soul, he lets go, and finds the peace of dreamless sleep.