Chapter Text
“Anakin, let her go—!”
Anakin’s gloved fingers pressed ever closer together as his brow furrowed deeper with rage, fueled by his desperate need to end this pain— this suffering. Yet the harder he tried, the more it grew, and grew, and grew— so much that he couldn’t contain it any longer, and eventually that had led him here, where he suddenly found himself willing the force to close around his love’s neck.
He’d almost forgotten why he had done all of this in the first place.
For her.
This… was for her.
And it certainly wasn’t for any other reason…
(Maybe if he thought it enough times, it would become wholly true.)
“Let her go.” Obi-Wan’s voice pierced through Anakin’s rambling thoughts, snapping him back to reality.
His fingers unclenched and released themselves from that (secretly, illegally familiar) position, and he stumbled backwards, boots clicking on the Mustafarian stone.
Padmé— Padmé— toppled to the ground in a gasping heap, quickly losing consciousness.
The charring, searing wind whistled in his ears, leaving him heartbroken in the silence.
The world cleared, and Anakin could see again.
He could see the immaculate figure before him; he watched the peaceful expression on Padmé’s perfect face just as he had done countless secret mornings in her bed, watching Coruscant Prime rise slowly over the urban horizon.
Anakin was angry.
He was angry at Padmé for bringing Obi-Wan here for the Force-knows what reason. He was angry at the Council for depriving him of his rightful role of Master. He was angry at Palpatine— no, Sidious, for being so damn convincing— for telling him about Darth Plagueis or the Darkside in the first place.
But most of all, he was angry with himself.
Anakin was familiar with anger— far too familiar, in Obi-Wan’s opinion. Like, that night when Anakin walked in as Clovis had taken advantage of Padmé in her apartment, when the anger had spewed out of him— out of his fists, specifically— just as the volcanoes were, dotting the fiery landscape of Mustafar.
That anger had always been tangible, physical, palpable, and able to be converted into action— whether that was on the battlefield or on Clovis’s face.
But here, here, it felt so— too— different. His anger didn’t erupt from him, nor did it consume him. It didn’t reflexively clench his fists or furrow his brows.
Instead, it clawed at his chest, his eyes, his heart— leaving him speechless and broken and trembling. It made him want to tear screams one by one from his voice, until his throat ached with such pain that it dulled each stab of anger that coursed through him.
He was angry, yet in a quiet, almost calm (from another’s point of view) way— a way he had never been familiar with.
He kept still, hoping that if he remained as such, he would find himself laying in Padmé’s bed again, eyes briefly flashing open in terror but soon filling with relief as he realized this whole ordeal had been nothing but a nightmare he’d conjured in his stress— and then, he would continue to watch her serene, sleepy countenance as Coruscant Prime rose in the distance, shining behind her flawless brunette curls.
But Anakin painfully, quickly realized that as much as he wanted— willed it to be so, that wasn’t going to happen.
***
Anakin was trembling. Obi-Wan could see it.
“… Anakin…?” Obi-Wan whispered. He reached out towards his former apprentice, only to be swiftly ushered away.
“Don’t—!” Anakin yelped, a mix of fear and anger coloring his voice
“Anakin…” Obi-Wan repeated, a horrible longing crawling its way up this throat. Obi-Wan knew they were more than master and apprentice, mentor and Padawan, friend and friend— they were brothers.
Obi-Wan shoved it down.
“I’m— I’m not…” Anakin stammered, trying to find his footing, the ground beneath him artfully evading his steps as much as it seemed to surround him.
Cerulean, misty eyes flicked up towards Obi-Wan.
“I have failed you… Master,” Anakin managed to choke out. “I have failed you.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan repeated for a third time, and a telltale ache forming at his temples as he struggled (but succeeded) at containing his tears.
“I… I did what I thought I had to do—! I thought… Padmé, she…”
“I know.”
From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan could see C-3PO and R2-D2 helping to carry Padmé’s limp body back upon the Nabooian ship.
“A-and… I…” Anakin winced. When he opened his eyes, his gaze laid upon his right hand and the black leather glove hiding the prosthetic underneath.
And suddenly, the one known by so many names— General Skywalker, The Chosen One, the slave from Tatooine, the Hero with No Fear, the Son of the Force—
Anakin. His Anakin—
— had toppled into Obi-Wan’s arms, and he felt wetness begin to expand on his chest.
“All the things I did… all the horrible things I did…” Anakin rambled, mumbling into Obi-Wan’s robes.
“I know… I know… Shh…”
And for a moment, Obi-Wan was holding that little boy again. He brushed his battle-worn fingers through the child’s silky, golden hair.
“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan…” his high-pitched voice sang, choking with tears.
The child lifted his freckled, chubby face, wet and rosy, his countenance twisted into an expression that could only be described as grief— something one of his age should have never had to feel so intensely.
And— Obi-Wan blinked to find not a nine year-old, but a twenty-two year old crumpled between his arms, and his fingers entangled in messy brown curls.
Anakin lowered his head back into the familiar safety of his Master’s chest. He wept, and wept, and aimlessly voiced his regrets. He wept until his eyes went numb and his throat ached from overuse. He wept the tears of those he had slaughtered who could no longer weep for themselves.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he thought, unaware the words were escaping his lips as well.
And Obi-Wan too shed a few tears for that boy he had met on Tatooine so long ago.
“It’s okay, Anakin. It’s okay… It’s over. It’s all over now.”