Work Text:
“Do not be afraid; our fate
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno
~~
Darth Vader resigns to the calm embrace of the Force, but Anakin Skywalker fights for every fading breath, every tendril of life remaining in his grotesquely broken body. Piece by piece, his mask is removed, and the sight of Luke—young, daring, and strong—brings a weak smile to his scarred lips. The ache in his chest begins to diminish as hope warms his tortured soul.
“Now, go, my son. Leave me.”
Luke shakes his head, panic stirring in those solemn, blue eyes. “No, you’re coming with me. I can’t leave you here. I’ve got to save you.”
Shadows edge the corner of his vision, but rather than the cold, numbing loneliness of death’s first caress, Anakin finds solace and peace.
“You already have, Luke. You were right about me. Tell your sister…you were right.”
i.
Anakin wakes to an ancient, abandoned system with starlit darkness above and rock-strewn gravel beneath, his body still enclosed by obsidian armor, his soul still more monstrosity than human. The air he breathes is cold, filtered to warmth by his life support before entering his ravaged lungs and then expelled by his respirator, condensing to white mist.
Obi-Wan watches as Vader stirs to consciousness.
His old Master appears to him in the traditional robes of Jedi learners, his thin Padawan braid barely brushing past his shoulder. A mere child with rosy cheeks stands before him, not the ghost Vader had expected, translucent and limned in eerie blue. Obi-Wan looks young, younger than the Sith has ever seen him, in life or as an apparition.
Obi-Wan shifts from foot to foot as Vader approaches, restless like a bird on the brink of flight. Every muscle in his body appears to tense under the Sith Lord’s relentless scrutiny.
The harsh, mechanical rasp of his respirator is above his control, and Vader senses a shiver in the Force that aches wretchedly in its familiarity, almost as if a bond has arisen seamlessly in the hollowed space where the last had been forcibly severed years ago.
Vader is the first to speak, the weak tremors of his withered vocal chords synthesized to a low, machine-like grumble.
“Your fear. It rolls off you like waves.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes are those of a wizened Master, despite belonging to a small body and a young mind barely contained beneath failing shields.
“I am a child, and you are frightening. What do you expect?”
Behind his mask, Vader almost smiles at the faint touch of petulance, which normally would have fueled his infamous rage.
“Tell me the meaning of this place,” he demands.
“You tell me. You brought us here.”
“Us?”
“I followed you,” Obi-Wan hesitates, before amending.
Another rasp from the respirator, as Vader contemplates their surroundings, ringlets of fear coiling around his heart as they once did when he was a young boy of eleven. He watches the stagnant remains of a decaying star stretch motionlessly across the emptiness od space. It is the dead system which Anakin and Obi-Wan had stumbled upon during a minor mission, not long after Anakin had became Obi-Wan’s Padawan.
It may not be the beginning, but it is a beginning. The moment when the fear frosting his heart finally manifested into a creature—the cold, black dragon that lived inside this dead star, coiling around his chest and poisoning his dreams with whispers of love and loss. His mother, Padmé, their unborn children—all prisoners within its boney claws.
“Everything dies. In time, even the stars burn out,” Obi-Wan repeats, just as he had spoken all those decades ago. “To hold on to something beyond its time is to set your selfish desires against the Force. This is a path of misery. The Jedi do not walk it.”
He watches Vader with a profound sorrow, as if finally reaching an understanding. Tentative feet carry the young Jedi until he is inches away from the Sith Lord, the difference in their height laughable, spiky copper hair barely reaching the plate over Vader’s chest.
“May I see you?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Do you not fear what you will see?” Vader responds, lowering to one knee, until blue-gray eyes meet the dark hollows of his obsidian mask. “I suppose it is only fitting.”
Like his son before him, Obi-Wan removes his mask, grief strewn in every shallow breath, every careful ministration. When the last piece is finally detached, Anakin opens his eyes.
Obi-Wan appears saddened but unsurprised to see this pallid, husk of a man that resembles nothing of the boy he raised, the man he loved. “You are dying.”
“I was never afraid to die,” Anakin admits, “It was not my death that I feared.”
“I know,” Obi-Wan says, as his face fades into the darkness around them. “I know.”
ii.
Vader wakes with the flames of Mustafar behind his eyes and even less of Anakin Skywalker writhing against the black coils of rage inside his chest. Lightning splits the sky in two, as massive pelts of rain crash against his armor, almost as loudly and violently as the thunder that rolls among the clouds. Vader has his lightsaber ignited in his mechanical grasp, mud clinging to his boots and the hem of his rain-drenched cape. He marches across the streets of the small, ravaged village hidden in a forsaken, meaningless planet—bodies of men, women, and children all lay among the carnage and rubble.
Rebels against the Republic, sympathizers to the Jedi purge, these foolish creatures deserved death, but Vader found no pleasure in killing them. Instead, it was desperation to ease this senseless rage, this unspeakable misery that drove his crimson saber remorselessly into pliant, defenseless bodies. The rush of adrenaline, the stench of cauterized flesh so deep-seated in his memory that he could easily have imagined it, numbed his agony for perhaps a fraction of a second before torment returned with ruthless vengeance, spiraling in an infinite cycle of pain and destruction.
A tremor in the Force, a voice piercing through the darkness, halts Vader in his stride.
“Sith!” cries Obi-Wan, as ethereal blue joins garish red against the starless night.
Obi-Wan appears to him as a young man—beardless, beautiful, and newly Knighted judging by his severed braid. He glowers as rain pelts against his face, his copper hair drenched and matted across his forehead.
“It is me whom you wish to kill,” he shouts, “Leave them and fight me!”
Jedi and Sith clash against the rolling thunder and crashing rain, over and over as blue meets red harshly, desperately in violent waves of attraction and repulsion. Obi-Wan stumbles backwards to catch his breath, the wetness of his clothes weighing him down, rainwater darkening his lashes and obscuring his vision. He is young and unrefined, skilled for a Knight but far from reaching his potential as the revered Master he will grow to become.
And Vader supposes he is unrefined as well, burdened by cybernetics and durasteel limbs, the phantom pain of his former body still haunting him inside this unfamiliar suit.
Anakin’s graceful swordsmanship is incongruous now with Vader’s cumbersome, inflexible armor. And it will take years for him to fully transition to the loneliness and anonymity within this machine, until nothing in his movements, his lightsaber style reflects the elegance and dash of the brave, young Jedi from whom the monster has spawned.
“I hated you for what you did to me. For leaving me to die,” Vader wishes he could scream, to have the satisfaction of his rage and pain rip from his throat in a voice that belonged to him, but his suit cannot spare him even the most miserable shred of humanity.
And I hate myself for what I’ve done to you. For destroying everything we swore to protect and build, spurning your friendship, your love for wretched lies.
These words remain unspoken, but Obi-Wan looks as if he understood as lightning ignites the sky, illuminating his face in sorrowful, incandescent blue. He winces against the storm, against the exertion on his body, the agony grating his heart.
“Hate me too,” Vader demands.
“I cannot.”
With a pained rasp, Vader lunges at his former Master, clashing his lightsaber against its ghostly opposite, forcing Obi-Wan to stumble from brute force alone. He takes Obi-Wan’s dominant hand and twists, hard enough to crush the bones in his grasp.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouts as Vader forces the blue blade across his armor, impaling himself until the metallic hilt reaches the plate of his chest.
Obi-Wan drops his weapon as soon as Vader releases him, blue light dissipating as the hilt sinks into the watery mud below. Vader staggers to his knees, gaping without sound as his life support fails him. Obi-Wan grips onto his armor, hands roaming helplessly as if searching, hoping against hope for something comforting and familiar.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, palms tracing Vader’s helmet, the gesture clumsily tender.
“No,” Anakin exhales his last breath, “Not anymore.”
iii.
Anakin wakes to the small apartment on Sirona XVI that he and Obi-Wan had rented during an extended mission in the Alpha Remidian System. Anakin had just turned twenty-two, and no one was around to celebrate his birthday, except for Obi-Wan.
The only furniture inhabiting their common room is a small, gray sofa roughened around the corners and ripped at the seams. Obi-Wan occupies one end of it, swirling a drink in his hand as he watches the sun go down from the large window that sees into the hazy urban horizon of the sad megalopolis. The sky tinges from pale pink to crimson-violet, as the last fraction of sun disappears behind the jagged skyline.
Obi-Wan is bearded, his hair tidily cut. He is the strong, confident man of middle age when Anakin had loved him the most, loved him tirelessly and without abandon.
He remembers this apartment well, their small sanctuary tucked away in a distal corner of the galaxy, hidden from the Order that felt like shackles around his wrists and the prying eyes of the public fixated on turning an intrepid, young Jedi to their Hero With No Fear. In this small Sironian apartment, it was just him and Obi-Wan and their profound, wordless devotion. Their guilt, their broken vows were all but a distant murmur in the back of their minds.
Returning to Coruscant after three weeks had felt like a death sentence.
“I had this planet destroyed,” Anakin says, rounding the sofa to sit in the vacant spot beside his former Master. There were no rebel alliances, no conspiracy against the Empire on Sirona. The planet simply held too many memories that brought him pain, as all memories of past lifetimes do.
“Do you regret our time together?” Anakin asks.
Obi-Wan’s eyes do not waver from the shining window, the flood of orange light growing dimmer and redder, reflecting entrancingly within color-changing irises.
“I loved you, Anakin. This part of our history I would gladly repeat.”
Whether Obi-Wan intended it an invitation or not, Anakin proceeds, leaning towards his former Master until their lips touch. Clumsy hands fumble with the folds of their clothes, pulling and tugging until flushed skin meets flushed skin. No words leave their mouths, but their eyes speak infinitely, their souls bare for the other to see.
They make love as they did the first time on the faraway planet, limbs entangled and breaths mingling as their lips desperately search for the other's, sighing with pleas and apologies. The beginning is too frantic, the end too quick, but time has never been a friend to Anakin.
Afterwards, they bask in the afterglow, with Anakin resting a cheek against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, ghosting kisses along his collarbone and chest. The room is dark, the sky outside a starless, murky maroon. Night has fallen, and the sun will surely rise, and Anakin thinks himself so hapless, so naïve to have lived in this momentary bliss without realizing that less than a year from now, the entire galaxy would spiral to darkness. How could he have known?
Obi-Wan brushes a kiss against his temple, as red tinges the Sironian sky, beginning at a fine point before growing larger and brighter. Anakin knows it is only a matter of time.
Obi-Wan pulls him down for another kiss, hungry and needy as they savor their last passing seconds. They do not watch as garish red split the sky in two, as a great bolt of energy spears into the planet, singeing to cinders everything from the core to the surface.
iv.
Anakin wakes to the cloudless sky of Tatooine and silvery sand beneath his short, bristly hair. He lies on his back within the heart of the Mos Espa market, as wind brushes coarse grains across his face, catching onto the thick, cotton fabric of his Padawan robes. He pushes himself to sit and finds the market abandoned, with only tarps and rippling tents remaining and no vendors to fill them. Even the watering hole for the beasts of transport has long run dry.
Anakin weaves his way across the market, traversing the familiar paths until he reaches the junk shop owned by his former master Watto.
“Mom?” he calls with misplaced hope, pushing past the tarp covering the entrance. Only silence returns to him. Nothing and no one remains.
A tremor in the Force piques his senses, and suddenly, Anakin knows exactly where he must go. He leaves the market and wanders into the desert, traversing the endless dunes for hours with only the clothes on his back, until he finally reaches a small, secluded hut at the base of a rocky canyon.
Inside, Obi-Wan waits for him, legs crossed on a sandy mat, eyes closed in meditation. Age lines have sank to the corners of his eyes, while silver stripes his coppery hair. A faint tinge of brown dusts across his nose and cheeks, fair skin caressed by Tatooine’s suns.
Anakin kneels before his former Master. “You have grown old, Obi-Wan.”
A small smile curves beneath the graying beard, and the voice that follows a soft, wistful sigh. “The desert does this to you. The desert and infinite grief.”
How long were you here?, Anakin wants to ask, but he knows the answer to his question already. Obi-Wan had been on Tatooine for as long as Anakin had been trapped in that suit—enough years for his son to become a Jedi and for his daughter to emerge as one of the rebellion’s greatest leaders. Too long, is the answer.
“Do you forgive me?” Anakin asks instead, his soul trembling in his throat.
Obi-Wan opens his eyes, sorrow and fatigue etched in stormy blue. “I have. And even against the will of the Force, I would.”
“Do you forgive yourself?”
A small, breathy chuckle—doleful and resigned. “It is always harder to forgive oneself.”
Anakin feels his throat close, the ache in his chest so miserable that he does not know how he can continue to breathe. Hot tears well at the corners of his eyes, spilling without shame and streaking his face.
“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” he sobs openly, feeling as young and as lost as the body he has found himself in. “I have caused so much pain. I’m sorry.”
Obi-Wan reaches over, brushing his calloused palms against Anakin’s cheeks, wiping away the wetness. “I know, my boy, I know,” he shushes him gently. Even now, Obi-Wan comforts him.
Anakin holds Obi-Wan’s hands to his face and sobs until his mouth is dry, until every drop of bitter tear is spilled to the dusty ground.
“Please, let me stay,” he rasps through the tremors in his voice.
For six days, they rest in the small, secluded hut—no food, no water, just endless sand and the sweltering heat of the desert’s twin suns. On the seventh day, Anakin does not stir.
v.
Anakin runs across the main corridor of the Temple, small feet pattering against the smooth marble as he mazes through much taller bodies scattered along the hall, moving at an insufferably slow pace ahead of him. Some he recognizes—Stass Allie, Quinlan Vos, Masters from another lifetime who greets him with varying degrees of kindness, exasperation, and amusement. Master Windu is there as well, frowning grimly by a stone pillar, shaking his head at the young boy’s lack of reserve, but Anakin snorts as he dashes passed the dour Jedi, thinking what else is new?
He knows exactly where to find Obi-Wan during this hour of the day. Certainly, his Master would be resting in his favorite spot in the garden, meditating to soft rushing of the waterfall or the sing-song chirrups of Jubba birds. Or perhaps he is standing by the ancient oaks, hands hidden in his cloak as he ambles along his peaceful, morning walk.
Obi-Wan has his back to him by the time Anakin finally stumbles into the garden, the old Master’s thinning white hair blowing like wisps of smoke in the gentle breeze.
“Obi-Wan!” Anakin cries out, rushing to his Master’s side. “Obi-Wan!”
The smile Obi-Wan wears is serene, the energy through their bond brimming with comforting warmth. Anakin does not remember the last time he had to look up to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes.
This is how it should be—Anakin thinks—Obi-Wan in his ripe old age, reflecting with calmness and tranquility in the Temple where he has grown up, casting soft smiles and words of wisdom to the generations of young, promising Jedi to come.
This is how it should be—Anakin aches—as an inexplicable emotion stirs deep inside, telling him this may very well be the last time.
Anakin stands on tip-toes, pulling on his Master’s sleeve. “I’m ready, Master. Please tell me, I'm ready. Let me come with you.”
Obi-Wan smiles, a gentle hand dropping to Anakin’s bristly hair. “You will be ready, young one. I have never once doubted you.”
Obi-Wan is the first to fade, but Anakin does not give up hope, quelling the fear in his chest with the unwavering faith and love shared through their immovable bond.
Across the galaxy, the planets rejoice, as the decades of darkness have finally receded to the horrors of yesterday. The Empire has fallen, their cruel leader purged. Fireworks ignite the atmospheres from Bespin, to Coruscant, to Naboo.
Perched by the victory fire, Luke celebrates with his sister and best friend, accompanied by the brave soldiers and countless Ewoks that made their victory on Endor possible. Leia has her hair down, laughter in her smile as she kisses Han on the cheek. For the first time in their young lives, they rejoice without the clasp of fear in their hearts.
Beneath a shadowed bough, Luke senses a familiar warmth, as the spirits of Old Ben and Yoda materialize from threads of gentle light. And a fraction slower, and perhaps a touch more timid, appears the image of a confident, young man with curling, disheveled hair, and a small scar over his right eye—the only blemish on his handsome face.
All three smile at Luke with approval and peace, knowing that balance has finally been restored.
Tomorrow will bring a brighter day.
You were right.