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“Very / soon he / will vanish / completely in the wings / of his own / wordless / stanza”
― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
And so, it comes to pass .
The complex stream of events, one after the other, branching paths that stretch out endlessly. Ten thousand possibilities, ten thousand futures. Destiny spoke of possibilities, of futures. Prophecy accounts for will, and willpower accounts for life, and life permeates itself–creates its own existence.
Time, life, and death–all of them bled together, lost in the tides, in the way that the sea of stars held secrets inside of them, in the way that darkness hid inside of itself. The more that one looked, the more complex that things grew, for it was hard to separate one being from another, when the entirety of creation bled. Energy that permeated, grew, unfolded, one into the next.
When one looks into a mirror, and places a mirror behind themselves, a reflection is born, ten thousand layers deep. To be trapped in one’s own mind is to ignore the reflection one casts outwards–the stories of thousands of others, and the way they fold in on themselves, rippling, one touching the person next to them.
The body moves with millions of cells working together. The Force breathes with living things moving, touching the one next to them.
Midichlorians merged themselves with living cells, to become part of something greater–something cosmic. Something born from the –
“Anakin.”
Father .
Anakin shut his eyes, and didn’t answer.
The Cosmic Force–this great thing that came into being when space and time were first set into motion–created the motion of gravity, the spinning of the stars, the expansion and contraction of the galaxy. The galaxy breathed with the inhalation of the stars, shrank with the exhale. The Force was an exhale–a wish, a dream, the living reality within the cosmos, a thing that blinks and creates a Son and a Daughter. A thing that dreams and creates an aging world. A thing that speaks to create the energy of Life.
It was faulty to think of it as one being–that wasn’t how the Force was explained to Anakin. No one, great being could create so many things. All living things came together to become something greater. Anakin could hold the spinning galaxy in his hand, only after surrendering to it. Only after the midichlorians that lived in his blood and bones and beat his heart and filled his lungs could return from which they came–the hush of the Cosmic Force itself.
If all things became one, then Anakin dissolved his being into the space between the stars, the space between time–the World Between Worlds.
If a being born of the Force and the things that touched life died, it would only make sense that he went back to the place he came from.
He was never a human being to begin with, not really. The Father told him he would replace him as the matrix of the Cosmic Force–the being that held together the ebbing and flowing of the world, the being that was everything and nothing at once. Qui-Gon told him he was the Chosen One, destined to bring balance to the Force. Obi Wan told him that he was a brother, then called him a dead man, a machine with no heart.
Master, Brother, Friend, Father. Killer, Apprentice, Dark Lord, Soldier.
Are you an angel?
It wasn’t unusual for someone to find their place on the walkway–to stumble out of time, to walk into a domain of crossroads. Anakin would lift them in his arms, and walk them back to the place they came from. Most of the time they were young padawans or old masters. Occasionally, they were thieves, or children, or travelers who lost their way.
Rarely, he saw someone he knew. Even more rarely, they recognized him.
“It is unusual.” Anakin finally said, half turning to look over his shoulder, to see the shimmering apparition across from him. “To see someone who has become one with the Force here.”
The midichlorians whispered to those with a quiet mind, hushed things that were less words and more feelings, notions. A quiet murmur of those with one voice. United as one, as the Force itself. Anakin felt it when he called out to Luke across the galaxy. He felt it when he discovered the existence of a daughter he would never know.
He felt it when he was together with his Master, again. Things exchanged without words. Apologies, tears. Things that could never be said but when someone spoke through their heart.
Qui-Gon, however, never seemed to have trouble with it. He seemed to exist to break the rules.
“You have grown spectacularly, Anakin.” Qui-Gon said, his voice calm, serene. He never seemed to be bothered by anyone or anything. He never seemed to look down on Anakin–he only walked beside him, never bothered.
It seemed, to Anakin, that Qui-Gon was perhaps the only person who never fell into despair upon his turn to the Dark Side. Rather, it was as if Qui-Gon had known something even the Father of Mortis didn’t know–something that took Anakin his entire life and death to see.
Anakin felt it–felt all of it–when he had become one with the Force. He felt the embrace of Obi Wan, the one who called him a brother, the one who said that he loved him once, before Anakin fell. He felt the embrace of them all–the mother he’d lost when he’d left her behind, the ones he’d betrayed when he’d turned his back on them.
He felt her , when he’d released himself to the endless expansion of the universe. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her, but he felt her–the way that her hand touched his, the smile she gave him. He carried her with him, always. If the universe ever forgot her name, he wouldn’t–Padmé Amidala would be loved from the beginning of the cosmos, until their end, and to whatever world Anakin was pulled into after that.
They didn’t speak, because there wasn’t a need to. They never did. None of them did.
Qui-Gon, as always, was the exception.
“I suppose I must have.” Anakin answered simply, looking out into the endless expanse of doorways–curving, tilting, swimming on themselves. “You last saw me when I was a Learner. Before I was even brought to the Order. I have no choice but to grow over time.”
Qui-Gon laughed at the response–something light, easy, and friendly. He walked forward, passing ahead of Anakin, his hands folded patiently in his robe as he did so.
“Come, Anakin. I have been trying to reach you for a while. You’re a hard man to meet, you know. Busy, I presume? You always were the type to put your own needs last, when other people need you.”
Anakin paused at the observation, frowning a little. He’d honestly never heard such a thing applied to him before–the Council had always called him too attached, too selfish, too afraid of losing things. Certainly, he could feel the earnestness in Qui-Gon’s words–the man meant every one of them–but he wasn’t sure if he could accept them.
“What do you mean?” He asked, and he paused. He wasn’t sure how to address the Jedi Knight–he had been Obi Wan’s master, and not Anakin’s own–but he lightly jogged to catch up to Qui-Gon, who had continued on walking without him.
Anakin’s resting appearance was his appearance before he was placed into the armor that the Emperor had used to keep him alive, after his defection from the Jedi Order on Mustafar. He had no qualms about accepting the name and armor he held as Darth Vader–while Obi Wan and Ahsoka never accepted that they were one in the same, Anakin had always held that his actions were his own to repent for. He simply held no affection for the agony he always felt in the device, and thus preferred to not use it.
When he followed Qui-Gon, however, the man grew taller–or rather, Anakin himself shrank. He walked, half a step behind Qui-Gon, the loose curls sitting on his shoulders once more bundled up into a short ponytail, the Padawan braid hanging just in his peripheral vision.
“I mean exactly what I said, Anakin.” Qui-Gon replied, looking back over his shoulder at the Cosmic Force incarnate. Anakin reached his side, opened his mouth, paused, and looked down.
He had experienced the beginning and ending of time, the endless expanses of the universe. He knew, more than anyone, what being the Chosen One meant. He had given himself up to do it. His legacy was painted in the stars.
He didn’t know what to address Qui-Gon. The old Jedi Master smiled down at him.
“You can call me Master if you’d like.”
It felt as if he were stealing from Obi Wan again. Taking his old Master’s heart and crushing it underfoot. He could feel it, even before the thought registered in his mind, that Obi Wan accepted it. Qui-Gon was a Jedi Master, after all. There was no reason to doubt the name.
The word tasted bitter in his mouth. Qui-Gon put his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. It could only be possible if Anakin willed it to be so, and so it was.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Anakin finally said. “You must have seen. Seen everything. Seen what happened to…”
The Tusken Clans. The Younglings. Order 66 . The Inquisitorius, hunting the Jedi down to the ends of the galaxy, slashing his own son’s hand off, torturing information out of men and women and children, slashing down blood and bone.
I slaughtered them like animals. Not just the men, but the women, and the children too!
He had long since seen the consequences of his actions–he had felt it, when Obi Wan took him by the hand after he died, and took him to the end of time.
He’d seen Darth Gravid and Jaesa Willsaam in person as they meditated on the Sith Magic of Krath, and he’d spoken to them about the Sith Code, and how one could hold onto it while embracing the Light. He walked through the battlefields of the Krath Holy Crusade, attended the Jedi Council in secret while they cast out the First Rogue Jedi who sought out the Dark Side over the Light, walked through Korriban during the Hundred-Year Darkness, fought on both sides during the Jedi-Sith War, and watched monuments fall and rise anew. He watched the corruption of Aboleth, from her beginning to end. He watched his son become powerful enough to tear down stars from the sky.
He knew, of course, what the Balance of the Force meant. The Jedi Code rejected emotion and attachment, rejected love and friendship in favor of a greater order. The Sith Code rejected harmony and peace for power and passion. With the guidance of the Mother, the Son could create worlds. Without the balance between the Light and the Dark, they were locked in eternal combat--and one could never surpass the other.
Somewhere between them, endless combinations existed–the Force Sensitives who could feel love, and use it for hope. Qui-Gon once stated that friendship was more important than any weapon. The Gray Paladins walked and overthrew Heads of State, away from the Council, before they went extinct for good.
He knew what had happened to him was for the best of the galaxy, the balance of the Force. In their isolation, the Jedi Council took children to train them for war. The Jedi Council became dogs of the state, allowing slavers to go unaccounted for, allowing the suffering of countless planets. Good soldiers follow orders. Good soldiers follow orders. Good soldiers follow orders–
It would, of course, be the 501st that were defective. The unit loyal to him.
Ahsoka was fourteen when she picked up her lightsaber. Anakin was nine. He was too old to be a Jedi. Too old to be a warrior.
“If you know that you were meant to destroy the rot within the Jedi, and destroy the corruption of Sidious’s Sith, then why do you still feel shame?”
Qui-Gon faced him at that point, his expression as patient as ever.
When Anakin had been alive, it had been overwhelming. The Living Force pulsed inside of him, the shores of Naboo on the tides, the underwater city of the Gungans, the volcanic fire of Mustafar. The sands of Tatooine swept through him, storms inside of his blood. The city of Coruscant and the noise of its people banged through his skull like metal sheets blown in the wind. Every death across the galaxy cut through him, stealing his breath, sending him stumbling to the ground. He could feel them–the living as they died, as they were born, as they breathed. He stole their dying hatred as the Dark Lord to fuel his own. He stole their pain as his own.
Every wound was taken inside of himself–every outcry as he walked through the battlefields, lightsaber blazing. Every hand that reached to him was his own reflected back at him.
He would cry, in his Master’s arms. He would beg for the burden of the Chosen One to be lifted from him. Every thought that ever was, every heartbeat in sync with his own. The greater galaxy in the future would only recover from the balance brought to the Force, after five thousand years of Civil War between the Jedi and Sith. He was there for it all. He saw it all.
They were proud of them. He knew it. His mother was proud of him. His wife and son were proud of him.
He knew they had no regrets. He himself had seen the Son’s future predicted for him, before he had taken the Darkness into his own. He took the place of the Father. He took the place of the Daughter. To the galaxy, he was the Light and Dark and Cosmic alike.
He was the Chosen One. He was Darth Vader. He was Anakin Skywalker. He was…
Nine years old, standing in front of Qui-Gon. The bowl cut his mother gave him fell in his eyes, because it protected his face from the binary sun. His hands clasped in front of him at his stomach, while Qui-Gon watched him approach.
The Jedi wore the clothing of slaves, to represent humility. A promise of poverty. Anakin preferred the black robes, because he knew what slavery meant. The Jedi knew nothing of slavery. They knew nothing of poverty.
He never understood why they picked Coruscant, a planet of noise. He could never sleep, with the constant chatter–with light and sound, instead of the quiet moon outside.
He wanted to put his fist through that grand, beautiful town, back when he was alive .
“I didn’t want to be a problem.”
I didn’t want to disappoint you.
The words were unsaid, hanging in the air. It was amazing how unstoppable Qui-Gon seemed back then. How tall he was, how powerful he was. He seemed to be everything back then–someone who was wise and kind, someone who would never die.
He was exactly what a child believed a Jedi Knight should be.
“Ani.” The name was old and new at once, and Qui-Gon knelt down before Anakin, just as he did decades ago. His hands came down on Anakin’s shoulders, and if he were surprised at the echo of the past, he didn’t make any comment on it.
Qui-Gon never looked down on him. He never scolded him, never doubted him. Qui-Gon only seemed to be made of patience and kindness–a sight to the suffering, an ear to agony. He was always what Anakin wanted to be as a Jedi.
“ Master…Sir .” Anakin said, the word breaking in his voice. Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulders again, placing one hand on the back of Anakin’s head, and drawing him in.
Senator Palpatine met him when he was nine years old, just after Qui-Gon died. He put a hand on the Learner’s shoulder, and told him he’d watch him. He took Anakin to the theatre, had lunch with him, and called him his friend. He paid special attention to the child, sharing secrets and promises when the Council used him to watch Palpatine, when Obi Wan grieved the loss of his own master.
Obi Wan had only been ten years his senior–of course he would have seen Anakin as his younger brother. Anakin, who had to leave his mother behind, clung to the shadow of the only other man who showed him gentleness and kindness–the only other man who believed in him at all, the only other man who fought for him to be seen.
“Ani. I’m sorry.” Qui-Gon said, drawing him in tighter, to where the slave boy from Tatooine could fit under his chin.
“Master, why…?”
“I’m sorry that I left you and Obi Wan behind. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I’m sorry the only thing you learned from me was that Jedi could fail.” Qui-Gon said. “I wanted to be there for both you and Obi Wan. I’m so sorry.”
“No– Master .” Anakin drew himself back a little, looking up with wide eyes. “You…you don’t know…”
Whenever he pictured who a Jedi should be, he always pictured Qui-Gon Jinn.
Whenever he pictured what a father should be, he pictured–
“Ani.” He didn’t have to say it, of course. Anakin’s feelings betrayed him, as they always did, and Qui-Gon drew him close a second time, as Anakin’s hands wrapped around his arm, and he rested his cheek on his robe. “You have no idea how proud I am of you. I never lost faith in you for a moment. I always knew you would become a great Jedi. I always knew you would become great.”
“I didn’t disappoint you?” Anakin’s voice, like the rest of him, was small. The other spirits who lived within the Force lived within him, as did the rest of the Living Force. Qui-Gon pushed his bangs back, and he remembered when his mother would sit him down to use the kitchen scissors on his hair–and his eyes burned, and his throat burned, in a way they hadn’t since Mustafar.
“You never disappointed me, Ani.” Qui-Gon said. “I was always with you.”
“I know. I saw. You still are, Master.” The response was rote, mechanical. It was what he told Ahsoka. It was what he told Luke.
It was what he told his son, and the Padawan he raised.
“Obi Wan loved you dearly.” Qui-Gon continued, and he continued stroking Anakin’s hair, never rising from his kneeling position. “Shmi Skywalker loved you dearly. The Senator loved you, and so did your son. You weren’t a problem, Anakin.”
“Tell that to the Council.” Anakin mumbled into Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and the older Jedi laughed–and Anakin smiled just a little. He loved it when he made Obi Wan and Ahsoka laugh. He always did.
“I fought to get you in, didn’t I?” Qui-Gon asked. “No. We had our troubles, too.”
Anakin swallowed.
“Do you regret it? Finding me?” The words spilled out, one over the other. “Not because of what I did. I brought balance to the Force. I know I’ve been forgiven. But what I mean is…”
Qui-Gon didn’t guess. He didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“Do you regret finding me, because of who I am, not what I am?” He finally asked. “I’m impatient. I’m disobedient. I’m angry. I was never teachable. I was always…”
A problem.
I didn’t want to be a problem.
“I couldn’t ever.” He bit down on his lip. “I don’t know why, Master. But I couldn’t control my anger. I couldn’t control my passion. I couldn’t help falling in love. I couldn’t help the anger inside me. I couldn’t help it. It was always so much. The Force, it was always… I was always…too much… ”
He was split down the middle, the Cosmic Force, and a boy from Tatooine. Light and Dark. Living and Cosmic.
A boy without a father, born to a human mother. He was always going to be a contradiction.
“Anakin. This is what I mean.” Qui-Gon paused, only to speak. “To reach your full potential, you deny your humanity. You taught the clones to be human. You taught your padawan to find her own path. You did many terrible things, and many great things. You’re the Force, but you’re also a boy. The midichlorians inside you make you up, but they bind to your human cells. You’re both. You can’t forget that.”
“But Obi Wan…” It felt childish to protest, but he did anyway. “And you. You never seemed to struggle. I could never reach Master Obi Wan. I could never reach you. The peace you found. Your balance.”
“Ani.” Qui-Gon’s arms were a blanket, and a shield, as they wrapped fully around him, and he dropped his face back into the Jedi’s shoulder. “I don’t regret you. You aren’t too much. I’m proud of you. You were never a problem to me.”
Small shudders ran through him, because he didn’t allow himself to cry anymore, because the Emperor only laughed when he did, and told him to relish the pain that made him stronger.
He only ever had one father in his life. One man who raised him, taught him, followed him, hand on his shoulder. One man who stood in his shadow and called out orders. Obi Wan could never be that man, because Obi Wan said they were brothers.
“For just a while.” Anakin finally said. “Can I pretend…?”
It was the most pathetic he’d ever felt, even more than when he found out he was used by the Emperor, and he’d spend the rest of his life in a suit. Pathetic, childish, and stupid. Emotional, and passionate, and a failure. Jedi don’t have parents. Obi Wan never needed a father.
Maybe he did, though.
Maybe that was why he pushed Anakin away until he was old enough to become a padawan.
“If you want me to be.” Qui-Gon said, and he never ridiculed Anakin, never mocked him. He never looked down on him, never scolded him. “I would be honored to be.”
He would never lock him into a suit.
“My father.” Anakin said, once again the Jedi Knight, once again the hero of the Clone Wars, a member of the council.
Qui-Gon pulled him to his feet, and embraced him.
“I’m so proud of you, Ani.” Qui-Gon said. “I’m so proud of you.”
For the first t ime since the shadow of Palpatine passed over him, Anakin cried into his father’s arms.