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The balance of the Force teetered on a knife’s edge.
On the black sands of Mustafar, in the space between what was seen and what was not, the Dark grew thick and palpable, took the form of a tall, pale man. He paced like a caged nexu around the mangled body of Anakin Skywalker. “Years of your influence,” he sneered to his other half, “making him falter, second guess every step.” He stopped, fixed his glare on his constant companion.
Higher up, on the more solid ground, she stood at the side of the exhausted Obi-Wan Kenobi—the Light, in the form of an ethereal woman. Ever gentle in the face of the Dark’s harsh words, the Light was stricken silent. Obi-Wan was not. “You were the Chosen One!” he cried. “It was said that you would destroy the Sith, not join them!” his voice breaking, “Bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness!”
“He could have been the greatest power in the galaxy,” the Dark spoke as a grim reflection of the Jedi’s words, “with the strength and will to do what needed to be done.” Kneeling next to Anakin’s writhing body, he tilted his head, considering, “But look where he is now.” His voice erupted from his throat with the violence of the lava-flow behind him, “Look what’s become of our favorite son!”
His hand hovered over Anakin’s head; the Light reached out as if to stop him, but there was too much distance between them. “You’ve had your chance,” the Dark seethed, “It’s my turn now.”
He brought his hand down almost tenderly, and the kyber-blue of Anakin’s eyes burned away to bright amber. The Sith screamed thickly, “I hate you!”
Tears streamed down the face of the Light as the Force slipped into darkness.