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The tower had no doors.
Anakin had checked. Thousands of times, over thousands of days, he had run his hands over every stone, every crack, every seam where mortar met rock, searching for something he’d never find. No entrance. No exit. Just walls that rose sixty feet in the air and a single window that faced the endless forest.
He’d stopped counting the days three years ago. What was the point? Time didn’t move in the tower. It just… sat there, heavy and thick, like the dust that gathered on the books Palpatine brought him. Books about the galaxy. Books about war. Books about how dangerous everything was, how cruel people could be, how lucky Anakin was to be here, safe and warm and protected.
“The world out there is full of people who would use you, my boy.”
Father's voice echoed in his head like it lived there.
It probably did.
It certainly felt that way sometimes—like the old man had taken up residence in Anakin’s skull, whispering warnings and rules and placating platitudes.
Anakin pressed his palm flat against the cool stone of the windowsill and leaned out, letting the wind hit his face. It was the only thing that felt real. The breeze carried the smell of pine and damp earth, of something green and growing.
He closed his eyes and pretended he was out there. Pretended his feet were on the ground, not suspended in this cage.
He didn’t even know what his own face looked like.
The thought crept up on him, as it often did. Father Palpatine had never given him a mirror. “Vanity is a weakness, Anakin. You don’t need to see yourself to know who you are.” So Anakin had spent his entire life—almost twenty-two years, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure—looking at everything except himself. His own hands were familiar. His own legs, his own chest. But his face? He’d tried, once, to see his reflection in the small basin of water he used for washing. The ripples had distorted everything. He’d looked like a stranger.
He wondered if he was ugly. Palpatine had never said it, but he’d said other things—things that made Anakin feel wrong. Too much. Too bright. Too powerful. “Your emotions are dangerous, Anakin. You must control them. You must let me help you.”
So Anakin had learned to be obedient, despite every instinct in him craving defiance.
He pulled his hand back from the windowsill and turned to survey the room. It was small—one circular space with a bed in the corner, a table, a few shelves of books, and a small fireplace that Palpatine kept generously lit.
The walls were bare stone, rough and cold. The only warmth came from the fire and from the small, flickering hope that someday—someday—he’d find a way out.
But that hope was getting harder to hold onto.
Anakin sat down on the edge of his bed—the only bed, too small for two people, though that had never mattered because there had never been anyone else—and stared at the fire.
He was so tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. The kind that sat in his bones, heavy and old, like he’d been tired his whole life and just… hadn’t noticed until now.
He was so tired of being alone.
So he did what he always did when he felt like this. His hand drifted to the loose stone beneath his window, the one he’d discovered years ago, the one Palpatine didn’t know about. He worked it free with practiced ease, his fingers finding the familiar edges of the folded, yellowed paper hidden inside.
The newspaper clipping.
He’d found it by accident. Palpatine had been bringing him texts—Sith histories, dark side philosophy, treatises on power and control—and one day, tucked between two musty pages, this article had fluttered out. Anakin had picked it up before Palpatine could stop him. Had read the headline.
“JEDI TEMPLE CONTINUES ANNUAL VIGIL FOR LOST CHOSEN ONE — 21 YEARS AND COUNTING”
Father Palpatine had snatched it from his hands so fast it had left a paper cut on Anakin’s thumb. “That’s nothing,” he’d said, his voice calm. “Propaganda. Lies. The Jedi are desperate, Anakin. They lost their precious ‘Chosen One’ and they’ve been clawing for him ever since. It’s a shame.”
He knew that Palpatine was just trying to protect him, but it was a little late for it. He had already seen it, had already read the words, “Every year on the anniversary of the Chosen One’s disappearance, the Jedi Temple releases thousands of illuminated candles into the night sky. ‘A symbol of hope, it is,’ said Master Yoda. ‘Guide him home, the Force will.’”
Anakin had read those words so many times now that he’d memorized them. He’d read them by firelight, by moonlight, by the faint glow of the stars through his single window. He’d read them until the paper had started to fray at the edges, until the ink had begun to smudge from his trembling fingers.
Guide him home, the Force will.
When Palpatine had turned to leave, he surreptitiously used the Force to let the slip of paper drift from his pocket.
By some miracle, he hadn’t noticed. And the moment the door closed, he snatched it up the way a starving mouse would take to a crumb of bread.
It was his one and only act of rebellion.
Guide him home, the Force will.
He liked Yoda's silly way of speaking.
He wondered what it must be like. To be chosen. To have an entire order of warriors searching for you, lighting candles, never giving up. To be so important that your disappearance became a vigil.
That’s why the story had loomed so large for him. It was something of a fantasy of his, being important to someone. Anyone. He was important to Palpatine, sure—but not like that.
Sometimes Palpatine left for days without a word. He would do his ancient Sith rituals to siphon power from him and then disappear until he needed him again.
That wasn’t really the kind of devotion he dreamed of.
Anakin’s thumb traced the headline again, feeling the raised ink, the faded letters. He’d read it so many times he could recite it in his sleep.
The Chosen One.
Stolen from the Temple—from his mother’s arms, as a baby. Never found.
Anakin felt a strange pang in his chest every time he read it, a longing he couldn’t explain. A pull, like the article was reaching out to him, trying to tell him something.
Probably that he wasn’t special. Wasn’t chosen. And he needed to stop spending so much time wrapped up in a fantasy.
“You’re special, my boy,” Palpatine had told him, over and over. “Special to me. That’s all that matters.”
And Anakin had believed him. He’d had no reason not to. The world outside was dangerous. The Jedi were liars. The only person who truly cared about him was Father.
But sometimes, late at night, when the fire had burned low and Father Palpatine had disappeared again and the silence was thick enough to choke on, Anakin would pull out the article and whisper the words to himself.
“Guide him home, the Force will.”
He didn’t know who the Chosen One was. Or if he even existed. He didn’t know what the Force wanted. But he knew, with a certainty that made no sense, that those candles were the most beautiful thing he’d ever imagined.
And that someday, somehow, he wanted to see them for himself.
He tucked the article back into its hiding place and replaced the stone, his fingers lingering on the rough edges.
Even though he wasn’t a Chosen One, at least there was proof that somewhere out there, people hadn’t given up on someone they loved. That hope existed. That light existed.
That maybe, just maybe, it existed for him too.
***
Below the tower, dusk was falling.
***
Obi-Wan Kenobi had been running for three days.
His side burned where a blaster bolt had grazed him—not fatal, but agonizing. The wound made every step something of a negotiation with his own body. His clothes were torn, his face was streaked with dirt and sweat, and he’d lost his lightsaber somewhere in the chaos of the ambush.
Good going, Kenobi. Really stellar planning.
He’d been on the run since the order came down. Execute Order 66. The words had been broadcast across every channel, spoken by a voice that made Obi-Wan’s blood run cold. He’d heard it in the barracks. He’d seen the clones’ eyes go blank. And he’d run. He’d run because he knew—he knew—that if he stayed, he’d have to kill them, or they’d kill him, and he wasn’t ready for either.
So he’d run. Like a coward. Like a thief.
He stumbled through the forest, clutching his side, and then, through the trees, he saw it.
A tower.
It rose out of the clearing like something from a fairy tale, impossibly tall and impossibly isolated. No doors. No stairs. Just stone walls and a single window at the very top, where a faint orange glow flickered—candlelight. Firelight.
Someone lives there.
Obi-Wan didn’t have time to question it. He heard the shouts behind him—clones, still hunting, still relentless—and he made a choice.
He ran for the tower.
He reached the base, pressed his back against the cold stone, and looked up. The window was too high. Impossible to reach without climbing gear, without something. He was trapped. Cornered. He could hear the clones getting closer, boots crunching through the underbrush.
And then, a face appeared at the window.
Obi-Wan’s breath caught.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Wide blue eyes, framed by a mess of golden curls. A face that was young and yet so wise at the same time—innocent but haunted, like a man who’d seen too much and nothing at all. He was looking down at Obi-Wan with an expression of pure, startled wonder, like he’d never seen another person before.
And then—impossibly—Obi-Wan felt something lift him.
Not physically. Not like a hand grabbing his collar. Something softer and warmer than that, like the air itself had decided to carry him upward, cradling him like a child. He rose past the stone walls, past the moss and the ivy, and through the window—into the tower—where he collapsed onto the floor in a heap of exhausted limbs.
The last thing he saw before the world went dark was those blue eyes, wide with curiosity, and a voice that cracked when it spoke.
“Who—who are you?”
Obi-Wan tried to smile. He probably failed.
“Someone who would’ve died,” he rasped, “if you hadn’t helped me.”
And then he passed out.
***
Anakin had never touched another person.
Not really. Not like this.
The man was heavy—solid muscle and broad shoulders—but Anakin managed to drag him to the bed, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. The man’s side was bleeding. Red and wet and wrong. Anakin had never seen so much blood. He’d never seen anyone hurt before.
What have I done? What did I just get myself into?
He grabbed the cloth from his washbasin and pressed it against the wound. The man groaned, his face contorting in pain, but he didn’t wake. Anakin kept pressing, kept holding, kept praying.
Please. Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me alone again.
He didn’t know why he cared. This man was a stranger. A threat, maybe. Palpatine had told him countless times that strangers were dangerous, that they would use him, hurt him, take everything he had.
But this man had looked at him from the base of the tower with such desperation in his eyes. Such vulnerability. And when Anakin had lifted him with the Force—his power, the power he was never supposed to use for anyone except Palpatine—the man hadn’t fought it. He’d just… trusted.
No one had ever trusted Anakin before.
He finished bandaging the wound, his hands shaking, and sat back on his heels. The man was still unconscious, his breathing shallow but consistent. His face was sharp and handsome—even Anakin could see that—with a strong jaw and a reddish-gold beard. His hair was a mess, auburn and tangled, and there was a cut on his forehead that Anakin hadn’t noticed before.
He reached out, hesitating, and gently brushed the hair away from the man’s face.
His skin was warm.
Anakin pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.
He didn’t know what to do. He’d never been this close to someone. He’d never felt the heat of another body, the weight of another life. He’d never had someone depend on him before. Not like this.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching the man breathe, and waited.
***
Obi-Wan woke to the feeling of being watched.
It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant feeling. In the Force it felt like care, like worry.
He cracked one eye open and saw the same beautiful man staring at him with an expression of pure, unguarded terror.
Oh, Obi-Wan thought, I’m definitely dead. This is the afterlife. And it’s incredibly good-looking.
“Hello, there,” he croaked.
The man flinched. “You’re awake.”
“Appears so.” Obi-Wan tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillow. “You… you saved me. That was you, wasn’t it? The… the lifting?”
The man nodded, his eyes still wide. “I—yes. I’m not supposed to. He said not to. He said—”
“Who said?”
The man’s mouth snapped shut. He looked away, his jaw tightening, and Obi-Wan felt a pang of something—sympathy, maybe. Or recognition. He knew what it looked like when someone was afraid of the person who was supposed to protect them.
“Never mind,” Obi-Wan said softly. “It’s alright, darling. You don’t have to tell me.”
The man’s gaze flicked back to him. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “I—I tried to stop it. I think I did. But I don’t know. I’ve never—”
“Breathe,” Obi-Wan said gently. “Just breathe. I’m not dying. Thanks to you.”
The man blinked. His shoulders sagged, just slightly, like he’d been holding a breath for years and finally let it go.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered.
Obi-Wan smiled. It hurt his face. Everything hurt, honestly, but the smile felt worth it. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The man hesitated. “Anakin.”
“Anakin,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. It felt warm. “I’m Obi-Wan.”
Anakin’s eyes did something strange—they lit up, just for a moment, like he’d never heard a name before. Like Obi-Wan’s name was a gift.
“Obi-Wan,” he said, and his voice cracked on the syllables.
Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. He was in trouble.
***
The fire had burned low.
Anakin sat on the floor, his back against the cold stone wall, watching Obi-Wan sleep. He’d been watching for hours now, unable to look away, unable to move, unable to do anything except stare at the stranger who had fallen into his tower like a gift from the universe.
Obi-Wan.
The name felt strange in his mind. Foreign. Delicious. Like the first bite of something sweet after a lifetime of plain bread. Anakin rolled it around in his head, tasting each syllable, and felt something flutter in his chest.
Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.
He’d never said anyone else’s name before. He’d never had anyone else’s name to say. Palpatine was just “Father”—a title, not a name. Not something that belonged to Anakin.
But this name—this name—felt like it was his. Like Obi-Wan had given it to him, freely, and Anakin could keep it forever.
He hugged his knees to his chest and watched the slow rise and fall of Obi-Wan's breathing.
The man was beautiful. Anakin had known that from the moment he'd seen him at the base of the tower—even from sixty feet up, even through the fading light, there had been something about him that made Anakin's breath catch.
And now, up close?
It was almost unbearable.
The sharp line of his jaw. The neatly-trimmed beard. The way his lips parted slightly in sleep, soft and unguarded. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled and called him darling.
Obi-Wan stirred, and Anakin's heart stopped. He watched the man's eyelids flutter, watched his brow furrow, watched him shift on the bed with a low groan of discomfort.
He's in pain. The wound. I need to—
But before Anakin could move, Obi-Wan's eyes opened.
And found him immediately.
“Still watching me?” Obi-Wan rasped, a lazy smile curving his lips. “I'm flattered, darling. But you could at least come closer.”
Anakin's face went hot. He'd never blushed before—he was fairly certain this was what blushing felt like—and he looked away quickly, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest.
“I wasn't watching you. I was… I was keeping watch. For danger.”
Obi-Wan laughed, then winced, pressing a hand to his bandaged side. “Right. Keeping watch. From the floor. While I'm unconscious.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, even through the pain. “Very effective.”
Anakin wanted to disappear into the stone. “I didn't—I couldn't—”
“Anakin.”
His name. Obi-Wan had said his name. It sounded so different coming from somewhere other than Palpatine's mouth—warmer, softer, like it meant something.
Anakin looked up.
Obi-Wan had propped himself up on one elbow, wincing slightly at the effort. His eyes, when they met Anakin's, were impossibly confusing. “Come here,” he said, his voice gentle. “That floor looks miserable. And you need proper sleep.”
Anakin shook his head. “I can't. The bed. There's only—”
“Only one. I noticed.” Obi-Wan smiled, and the pretty crinkles were more visible. “I don't bite, sweetheart. Well—” he paused, considering, “—not unless you ask nicely.”
Anakin's brows furrowed together. What does that mean? Is he making fun of me?
His face went hot, his stomach twisting.
“I…” Anakin's voice faltered. He wrapped his arms further around his knees. “I might hurt you. In my sleep. I'm not—”
He trailed off, unable to finish.
Not what? Not safe? Not normal? Not worthy of sharing a bed with someone like you?
The memory surfaced unbidden.
He’d been younger. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. The tower had felt even smaller then, the walls closing in, the silence suffocating. He’d been reading one of the engineering texts Palpatine had brought him—a thick volume on mechanical systems, droid construction, the inner workings of starship engines. His fingers had itched to build something. To take pieces apart and put them back together, to create something that worked, something that was his.
So he’d asked.
“Father? Could I… could I have a pet? Or maybe a droid? Something I could take care of? Something I could—”
Palpatine had looked at him with that cold, placid smile. The one that made Anakin’s stomach twist.
“A pet, my boy? A droid?”
“Yes, Father. I think I’d be good at it. The book said—”
“The book,” Palpatine had interrupted, his voice soft and dangerous, “doesn’t know you like I do.”
He’d crossed the room, his robes whispering against the stone floor, and placed a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. His grip was gentle.
“Anakin. Vader.”
Anakin had flinched at the name. He’d never understood where it came from—some old Sith word, maybe, or something Palpatine had made up just for him. It meant invader. Conqueror. Something dark and hungry.
Palpatine preferred it to “Anakin” most days. He’d made that clear.
“Do you think I keep you locked in here for my benefit?” Palpatine had murmured, his thumb pressing into Anakin’s shoulder just hard enough to bruise. “No, my boy. It’s because of you. Because you’re dangerous. Because you’ll hurt anything you touch. Or yourself. I’m protecting you because I care about you.”
Anakin had swallowed hard. “But I wouldn’t—I’d be careful—”
“You think you could control yourself?” Palpatine’s voice had sharpened. “You, who can barely control your emotions? You, who throws tantrums when you don’t get what you want? You think I’d trust you with a living creature? With a droid you could dismantle and weaponize?”
Anakin had shrunk back. “I wouldn’t.”
"You would." Palpatine's grip had tightened. "Not intentionally. That's the tragedy of it, my boy. You don't mean to hurt things. You just... do. It's in your nature. You're volatile. Unstable. A bomb waiting to go off."
He'd crouched down to Anakin's eye level, his face soft with sympathy.
"I'm the only one who sees you clearly, Vader. The only one who knows what you really are. I keep you safe—from the world, and from yourself. That's what fathers do."
Anakin had nodded, his throat tight, his eyes burning.
He'd never asked for a pet again.
The memory faded, leaving Anakin hollow and cold.
Obi-Wan’s expression shifted. The teasing faded, replaced by something that almost looked like… sadness.
“Anakin,” he said gently, “you’re not going to hurt me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Anakin shook his head, his throat tight. “You don’t know anything about me. I’m dangerous. I’m a monster. I could—”
“Sweetheart.”
Anakin’s voice died in his throat.
Sweetheart.
The word hung there for a moment, warm and strange. Anakin turned it over in his mind, trying to understand it. He’d heard Palpatine use words like that before—my dear boy—but this felt different.
He keeps calling me that, Anakin realized. Darling. Sweetheart.
His brow furrowed slightly.
Sometimes Father calls me vermin. Or parasite. Or “boy” when he’s angry. Is “sweetheart” similar? Is that what he means? Some kind of… insult?
Maybe he’s mocking me, Anakin thought. But the idea felt wrong. I don’t understand.
Before he could think about it more, Obi-Wan reached out with his free hand and held it out, palm open. An invitation.
“I’ve been running for three days,” Obi-Wan said softly. “I’ve seen men die. I’ve seen brothers turn on brothers. I’ve seen the galaxy fall apart at the seams. And then I found this tower, and I looked up, and I saw you.” His smile returned.
Sometimes Palpatine smiled before he electrocuted him. Would Obi-Wan electrocute him?
“And I thought to myself: ‘Well, Obi-Wan. Either you’re hallucinating, or the universe just handed you the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”’
Anakin blinked. “What?”
Obi-Wan’s smile widened. “You heard me, darling. Now come here.” He patted the empty space on the bed beside him. “We can protect each other from the monsters.”
Anakin stared at him. At his open hand. At his bed.
“You’re injured,” Anakin said weakly.
“Then be careful,” Obi-Wan replied simply. “I trust you.”
Anakin’s heart cracked.
What is this man’s game?
Anakin rose on unsteady legs. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, his body rigid, his hands clenched in his lap.
Obi-Wan’s smile tore at something in Anakin’s chest. “Now lie down before I have to drag you down myself—and trust me, with my current injury, that won’t be graceful.”
Anakin laughed. He didn’t know he could do that.
Obi-Wan’s face lit up, like Anakin had just given him the sun. “There it is,” he murmured.
Anakin’s cheeks flushed. He quickly lay down on the bed, stiffly, awkwardly, trying to take up as little space as possible. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Obi-Wan shifted to make room, and suddenly they were close. Close enough that Anakin could feel the warmth radiating off Obi-Wan’s body. Could smell him, could smell the sweat and blood and something earthy.
Anakin’s heart pounded so loudly he was certain Obi-Wan could hear it.
Obi-Wan sighed and shifted. “Come here, Anakin. There’s not a lot of space, so I’ll need to hold you close. You understand.”
He lay rigid in Obi-Wan's arms for a long, breathless moment, his body stiff as a board, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain Obi-Wan could hear it. Every muscle was tense, waiting for the inevitable—the moment Obi-Wan realized what a mistake this was, the moment he pushed Anakin away, the moment he saw Anakin for what he really was.
He's only doing this because he's injured, Anakin told himself. Because there's nowhere else to sleep. Because he's being practical. That's all.
But Obi-Wan's arms were warm. His chest was solid beneath Anakin's cheek. His breath was slow and even, ruffling Anakin's hair.
It doesn't mean anything, Anakin insisted silently. It's just space. Just logistics. Don't read into it. Don't be stupid.
And then, slowly, impossibly, he relaxed.
The tension bled out of his shoulders, his jaw, his clenched fists. His body, it seemed, had decided to trust Obi-Wan even if his mind hadn't caught up yet. He melted into the warmth, into the rhythm of Obi-Wan's heartbeat, into the feeling of being held.
He'd never been held before.
He'd never known what it felt like to have someone's arms around him. To be pressed against another body, to feel the rise and fall of someone else's breathing, to be enclosed in warmth and safety.
But a pit of guilt began to grow in his stomach.
He's only holding me like this because he has to, the voice in his head whispered. Because there's not enough space. Because he's too weak to push me away. Because he doesn't have a choice.
Anakin's throat tightened.
If he had a choice, he wouldn't touch me. No one touches me by choice. Father touches me to control me. To remind me I'm his. That's different.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thought away.
It doesn't matter why he's holding me, he told himself fiercely. It doesn't matter if he wants to or not. I can just... pretend. For tonight. Just tonight. Let myself pretend someone actually wants to hold me.
And so he did.
For now, in this moment, he let himself be held.
And for the first time in his life, he slept without dreaming.