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Yards below, at the bottom of the ravine, is another man. His name has always been and (this time) will always be Anakin Skywalker, and he suffers.
Anakin knows he’s dying. It’s too excruciating to be anything else. The very air around him burns just as much as the black stone beneath, every touch, every breath hell. He can’t feel his limbs (please, Force, no, not again). Tears stream down his face as he shudders at the blistering agony.
He can feel the Sith pawing his way through his mind, peeling up thoughts and memories like layers of skin. It hurts, this choking presence tearing at his brain, violating him. And he is helpless against it, mangled and abandoned in this terrible hell. (It hurts so much, and he’s scared. He wants Obi-Wan, he wants his Master!)
All he is right now is the pain, but for the horrible numbness in his arms and legs (Gone, they’re all gone! You’re broken!), and all he can do is shake and sob and beg, to anyone and no one, stop, stop, please, make it stop!
He feels the sadistic presence laugh at him, cruelly satisfied by his desperation to escape the pain. ‘Perhaps I’ll put Amidala in a cell with you, once the babe is old enough to be trained.’ The voice slithers through his mind, possessive, predatory. ‘If you behave, I might even keep her body in one piece.’
No. No! Not Padmé, not the—their child!
Struggling wildly, blindly, he reaches out to the Force, scraping together whatever tiny threads of focus he can between his choked, breathless cries and the monster invading him, to do—do something—something, anything, please!
And Anakin does manage to do something, forcing his tormentor back just a little, just enough, that he feels like he has the barest space to breathe. But he knows it’s only a tiny victory, only the slightest reprieve—
And then suddenly, all at once, Sidious is gone.
The awful, heavy presence raking through his mind, suffocating his bonds and flaying him alive, just evaporates like so much smoke, and he groans at the release.
But, the mental relief does nothing to alleviate his physical agonies. Anakin continues to burn, alone now, just as helpless. He wails in wretched misery. (He’s going to die here before he ever meets his baby!)
But then, faintly in the distance, finally, there is a call.
“…Anakin!”
He can’t tell if it’s in the air or through the Force, if it’s even real, but the electric jolt of hope is painful. Please!
“Obi-Wan!” The cry is weak, rasping, and it doesn’t carry. He moans, hurting and afraid.
Try again. Lifting his body on one trembling, damaged arm, he sucks more boiling, dirty air into his lungs and howls as loudly as he can, “Obi-Wan!” Help me, please, help me!
And then—
He—he’s here! Obi-Wan, his Master, his brother, he’s right here! Anakin sobs again. It’s going to be okay, he’s safe, safe because Obi-Wan is here. He didn’t leave me, he didn’t, he came back for me!
His big brother picks him up, and it hurts still, but it’s okay, Obi-Wan’s here, he’s helping him. Arms wrap around his back, pressing him chest to chest with his Master, and it’s agony, agony, but it’s so much better than dying alone.
They move and his injuries are jostled and he screams, it hurts so bad! But Obi-Wan holds onto him, his Force presence so soothing and familiar, and Anakin clutches back with his one hand (one, only one, oh Force—). He hears gentle apologies and reassurances from where Obi-Wan's mouth presses against the top of his head, and he buries his face into his Master’s neck, still weeping. “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…”
He was so, so scared! Scared that Obi-Wan wouldn’t find him in time, wouldn’t know to come back for him. That he was going to die in that hell while the man he’d thought was one of his best friends tortured him. Or, even worse, that Sidious would have kept him alive, like he said, would have taken him away so he could keep hurting him forever, and then gone to do the same to his family. Anakin can’t hold back another sob just thinking about it.
Obi-Wan presses love and I’m-here across their bond, and Anakin shudders hard, thankful beyond words. He coils his own Force pretense as tightly as he possibly can around his Master, so desperately grateful that the man is here.
Obi-Wan adjusts his hold on him, and then begins to walk. Anakin can feel determination mixed with exhausted self-assurance coming from the older Jedi, the sense of enacting a solid plan. Obi-Wan will take care of him.
But each step jars his injuries and sends shooting pains through his body. He tries to keep quiet, but can’t suppress small whimpers and sobs. Obi-Wan’s guilt swells against him, and Anakin feels guilty in turn for worrying him. Beyond the blazing throb of his skin (his arms, his legs), his lungs burn, and his chest feels really tight, like he can’t get enough air.
At some point, Obi-Wan trips, driving a cry from Anakin, and then he can’t stop himself from coughing. It hurts. It hurts so much, but he can’t stop, and it feels like he’s going to suffocate. Obi-Wan holds him close and talks to him. Anakin thinks that’s the only reason he makes it through. He tries to send through the bond how much he loves Obi-Wan, how thankful he is that his brother is here.
They keep moving. The journey feels endless. It’s getting harder to breathe, the pain in his chest worsening. Anakin begins to wonder if he really will die here, still. He’s glad he isn’t alone.
Suddenly, wave of nausea rolls through him. It’s overpowering, and he knows what’s coming. “Master,” Anakin rasps, trying to warn him.
“Hush, dear, save your strength.”
He can’t, can’t stop it. “Obi-Wan, I’m—I—” Anakin has enough time to think Force, this is going to hurt, before he leans over and starts heaving.
He’s right.
It goes on and on, his body fruitlessly trying to purge whatever chemicals he’s been inhaling for hours. When the urge to retch finally releases him, he sags limply against Obi-Wan, who he just threw up on. He’s never felt so weak and miserable in all his life. “’M sorry, Mast’r.” The older Jedi tries to reassure him, but it doesn’t make a dent in the despair.
He’s so tired. Even the sudden flair of hope and relief through the bond cannot stir him enough to lift his head. The transition from dim lava-glow and scalding, poisoned atmosphere to florescents and cool, recycled air sinks into his mind slowly.
By the time Anakin realizes they’ve made it to the ship, Obi-Wan is moving to put him down somewhere. The flair of anxiety jolts more awareness into him. No, no don’t leave me! But Obi-Wan doesn’t move away, just helps him to lay back against the shuttle-standard cushioned medical cot, standing right beside him. Anakin keeps a hold of his robes, though, just in case.
Obi-Wan looks down at him, and he looks up at Obi-Wan, and…
Oh. Oh, gods.
His Master reaches over to gently brush back a lock of his hair, but all he can feel is horror.
His face—his eye. Obi-Wan’s eye is gone, a deep, horrific burn lashing from just to the side of his nose outward. It’s a lightsaber wound, too clean and precise to be anything else, and just barely shallow enough to not be lethal. Even a centimeter off, and the weapon would have cut through bone. The realization of just how close the strike had been to cleaving through his head draws another sob from Anakin in retroactive terror.
“Master—” he says, but coughs before he can go any further. He can’t look away.
Obi-Wan attempts a smile, saying, “‘Tis but a scratch, Padawan mine.” Anakin just clings tighter to him and tries to stop coughing.
The ship’s built in medical droid comes over, and Anakin tries to pay attention, he really does, but there’s just so much pain and fear and exhaustion. He blinks and the droid is fitting an oxygen mask over him. It’s uncomfortable, but after a moment his head clears a little and it feels slightly easier to breathe.
Obi-Wan steps away from his bed, then, the fabric of his robes slipping out of his prosthetic fingers with little resistance even as he tries to tighten his grip, and Anakin gasps, panic resurging. Obi-Wan, please! Immediately, Obi-Wan reaches to Anakin mentally, curling his presence over him like an old, familiar blanket.
He clings back, trembling, and tilts his head to watch as Obi-Wan only goes to the sink on the other side of the room. Tension lines the older Jedi’s form, pain pulling on his posture. But then he sees the med-droid effortlessly bully his Master into accepting medical care with just a few sentences, and can’t stop a tiny grin. Obi-Wan meets his eyes for an instant.
(Anakin is so happy they’re together.)
The med-droid approaches him then with a small hovertable of supplies, and he tries to refocus his attention. “First priority is to clean and dress lower residual limbs, to stem bleeding and prevent infection,” it says without preamble. It gently rests an appendage on his shoulder, dactyls very carefully squeezing in what he recognizes is a gesture of support and comfort. “Unfortunately, pain relievers can only be administered after.
He swallows, the motion painful to his abused throat, but nods in acknowledgment. The only way out is through.
It begins it’s work immediately. Anakin lays his head back against the cot and tries to focus on breathing. Then just on not screaming.
He hears Obi-Wan bark something, feels a flair of protective anger, and can guess at the problem. “‘t’s okay, Master,” he tries to reassure. “I c’n handle it.” Callused fingers brush his head for a moment and he soaks in the comfort like a sponge.
At least the bacta gel feels a little nice, when it’s over.
Something touches his shoulder again, and he blinks open exhausted eyes. “Time to sit up, Padawan,” Obi-Wan murmurs to him. Anakin almost wants to cry again at having to move, but he just lets the man lever him back upright. Obi-Wan helps him drink some water. He tries to hold the cup himself, but he thinks his prosthetic might be damaged. (The thought foreshadows a surge of anxiety, but he pushes it away. He’s too tired for that right now.)
He watches on, amused, as the med-droid comes over to chastise Obi-Wan again, but then, “—we will need to remove the integrated prosthesis—” and it takes him a second to process that, but—
“No!” All of Anakin’s weariness just evaporates at the sheer terror—no, no they can’t take it—he leans away from the droid even as his body pulses in renewed agony—please, no it’s all he has left!
He hears Obi-Wan say, “Anakin,” and turns to him desperately, shivering.
“No, Obi-Wan, please.” His voice rasps painfully, muffled behind the oxygen mask. “I don’t want—I can’t—” Frightened tears gather in his eyes. Please don’t let them take it, Master, please!
Realization alights in Obi-Wan’s eyes, and he reaches up to carefully pull Anakin’s forehead against his, radiating comfort and safety into their bond. Anakin shudders and grasps at his brother’s clothing again with clumsy, malfunctioning fingers.
“It’s alright, Anakin, it’s going to be okay.” He closes his eyes, tries to believe that. “It’s just for a few minutes, dear, I promise. I’ll be right here the whole time.” Obi-Wan will be here, he tells himself, Obi-Wan will be here and he won’t let anything happen.
Okay. Okay. He makes himself nod.
Anakin feels the droid cutting through his soiled tunics, but keeps his eyes closed, focusing on the mental and physical presence of Obi-Wan beside him. He feels the sense of pressure from artificial nerves as Obi-Wan takes hold of his prosthetic, and then can’t stop himself from flinching when the neural link disengages.
He lets his awareness of his surroundings fade away, centering his attention just on his own breathing and the steady bulwark presence of his Master, keeping the panic away. He senses touches, movement, but trusts Obi-Wan to take care of things.
Before long, they’re helping him lay back down, and then Obi-Wan reconnects his arm and he can breathe again. His Master starts petting his hair. It’s nice.
There’s another flair of pain from his chest as he feels his clothing being drawn away, shivering a little at the cold air, and then a burst of horror in his bond. With difficulty, Anakin drags his eyes open again to see Obi-Wan’s face perfectly reflecting his emotions in the Force.
“Master…’s bad…isn’ it?”
Anakin meets grief-stricken eyes. “…Yes.” The worry that fills him is foggy, distant, but very much there, even with his Master’s reassurances. “You’re going to be just fine…”
Time begins to slip a little, the exhaustion catching up to him. Obi-Wan starts to wipe the grime and tears from his face. Ignoring the occasional stings as the cloth catches on minor burns, his eyes slip closed again, content to drowse in his brother’s care.
He makes sure to poke fun at Obi-Wan’s fear of needles when the med-droid is finally able to set up his IV. Almost immediately, he begins to drift off, cocooned in Obi-Wan’s comforting presence and the sweet embrace of prescription painkillers.
The last thing Anakin is aware of is Obi-Wan’s strong, supportive grip on his hand. It feels like home.