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Chapter Text

As soon as the blinding agony clears enough for him to think again, Obi-wan is pushing himself to sit up, turning to find his opponent, lightsaber thankfully still clutched in his hand. His head swims dangerously, narrow vision fading in and out from pain and heartbeat pounding in time with what he recognizes as the beginnings of a migraine, but he’s in the middle of battle, he needs to keep alert–

But there’s no movement, and after a moment of gathering his focus, he reaches into the Force, searching–and finds the other life-sign in the room guttering low. Breathing hard, he manages to bring into focus the skeletal body of Grievous lying twisted on the floor, a pool of fluids underneath him. The left side of the cyborg’s chest cavity is split open, the metal carapace cracked like an egg to show organic flesh beneath. Split wires spit sparks, jagged metal edges still glow with heat from the strike of plasma, and Obi-wan can just see a hint of glistening wet organs spilling out from the wound. As he watches, the being spasms once more, shredded tissue fluttering as torn lungs attempt to breathe, and then lies still, dead.

The fight had felt hours long, his body littered with aches and exhaustion, though all that pales in comparison to the horrible throbbing burn on his face. Obi-wan had been flagging towards the end of the duel. Even with the Force to bolster his energy, he struggled to keep up with the towering cyborg’s artificially enhanced endurance. The fatigue from months of poor sleep and morale loss certainly hadn’t done him any favors either. 

He had seen a hit coming, known he would not have been able to parry in time, and had gambled everything on a wild slash as he desperately twisted down and away from the blade swinging towards his neck. He had nearly made it, too, but the last thing he’d seen was the very tip of a green ‘saber barreling towards him before he nearly blacked out from pain. Somehow, his desperate last attempt must have landed, and he had dodged just enough for Grievous’ strike to have only grazed part of his face.

Miraculously, he hadn’t died. And , he thinks with dull surprise as he looks back at the corpse, I’ve even won the duel . There had been precious little winning recently.

Despite such a success, he struggles to feel any sense of victory or satisfaction. Grievous was a major player in the Separatist military, a powerful warrior that had personally slaughtered countless Jedi, clones, and civilians alike. His death would be a major blow against the enemy, perhaps even a signal that they would be approaching an end to the war. But it was hard to feel hopeful after what had been revealed to them upon arriving on this planet.

Chancellor Palpatine is a Sith Lord. 

The Chancellor, the leader of the Republic, who had been in league with Dooku and the Separatists the whole time, is the Sith Master behind the entire plot.

He could have laughed at the thought. But the proof had been right there. 

He and Anakin had been in a nearby system just finishing a stealth mission they had been assigned together (and whoever’s idea that had been should frankly reconsider their life choices) when the Council called. The Chancellor had been kidnapped by General Grievous. Anakin and Obi-wan were the only Jedi amid the Outer Rim sieges close enough that could be spared. They left the rest of their command to support Master Luminara’s campaign near the Hoth system and headed out in a small shuttle.

He and Anakin had raced to this planet–a hellish place called Mustafar. The only inhabitants are workers in the obsidian mines, who have to rotate offworld every other month for their own health. Nearly the whole planet is covered in active volcanic fields, the roiling lava flows and resulting offgassing of toxic fumes culminating in a world particularly hostile to life. They had tracked Grievous and his captive to a mining facility on the northern hemisphere.

The two Jedi descended into the maze-like building with mounting tension. The place was suspiciously deserted. No traps, barely any combat or security droids. The lack of resistance was extremely suspect, and each empty room they came across added to the feeling of unease. The stifling miasma of Darkness indicated that a Sith, Dooku maybe, was likely present somewhere, but they passed hallway after hallway with no trace of the Count.

Regardless, they worked quickly and efficiently, like the well-oiled machine they were, communicating silently through the training bond that neither could bring themselves to truly sever, despite the impropriety of maintaining such a bond for so long after a padawan’s Knighting.

(Such a circumstance had long been frowned upon by the Jedi Order at large, and certainly Obi-wan knew that without the war and Obi-wan’s status as a High General, they both would have already been suspended until the bond was cut, and placed on probation until the Council was satisfied with their progress.

Former Master-Padawan pairs are allowed to reforge a fraternal bond after the new Knight has shown that they can hold their own as a fully realized Jedi, but considering how long Anakin and Obi-wan’s infraction has been going on–not to mention the turbulent relationship both of them have had with several members of the Council–they might not ever be permitted to renew their bond.

These thoughts used to keep him up at night, overcome with guilt at his own weakness, his failings in upholding the standards of a true Jedi master, and, to his shame, fear for that day when he would be forced to sever his bond with Anakin. As the war progressed, his sleepless nights began to fill with more important matters–the deaths of his friends, those fellow Jedi and clones under his command alike, endless strategies and planning for endless campaigns, and of course nightmares. It became harder to remember that it was wrong of them to keep the bond, as it slowly became one of the only places of solace for either of them in this Force-forsaken war.)

After at least a half hour of searching, they heard sudden voices down a hallway. Without even sharing a glance, they sprinted on Force-silenced feet to reach an open doorway. They ducked through in perfect synch, lightsabers held at the ready, just in time to witness Sheev Palpatine, still in the fine garments he wears around the Senate building, lift outstretched hands towards the hulking figure of Grievous and loose a cacophony of Sith lightning across the room.

Grievous was thrown from his feet to crash against the far wall, thrashing from the currents of electricity. The blue light cast flickering shadows over the man’s face, harshening the cruel snarl that marred his features and highlighting his blazing, Sith-yellow eyes. Obi-wan distantly thought that he had never, ever seen the older man wear an expression like that before, and those horrible eyes tracked slowly sideways to the doorway where the two Jedi stood.

There was a long beat of silence. (Obi-wan felt a disbelieving, half-hysterical burble of comedy from Anakin in the Force.)

Then, like a mask slipping into place, all the Darkness in Palpatine's presence and expression just…evaporated. He turned a kindly smile onto the two of them, standing placidly, straight-backed, exactly as he always had during Senate sessions. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

“Anakin, my dear boy.” He ignored Obi-wan entirely. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

In a flash, Obi-wan put it together.

Anakin just stared back at the older man. “What…? Chancellor, what is this?” He glanced quickly to Grievous' prone form then back at his mentor, a man he’d known since he was a child.  

Obi-wan cut in, “You’re the Sith Master.” He was certain. “The mastermind behind the war.” It all just made too much sense . The leaks in the Senate, the bad intel leading to failed missions. How the Separatists always seemed to be one step ahead of them.

“He can't be,” Anakin’s denial was immediate, but his tone was far more confused than angry. “Sheev, tell him, that’s–that’s crazy!” Palpatine sighed, like Obi-wan had just called him a particularly rude name, rather than making accusations of treason. He still did not look away from Anakin.

 “You know, I’ve long thought of you as something like a son.”  He took a step closer to them. Obi-wan tensed, lifting his ‘saber slightly higher, but Palpatine continued to pay him no mind. “I wanted to tell you myself, Anakin, I just wanted to wait for the right time.”

“What?” Anakin seemed lost, a far cry from his usual boisterousness. Obi-wan ached for him.

Palpatine took another step, and spoke almost apologetically. “He’s right. I am a Sith.” 

Anakin’s face slowly twisted into horror. Obi-wan could feel his former padawan’s emotions balanced on a knife’s edge, the calm before the storm. Through the bond he could tell the younger man was thinking feverishly, putting the pieces together and drawing Force-only-knew what conclusions. (Obi-wan has long struggled to understand just how Anakin’s mind works, how his thoughts can suddenly jump to connections Obi-wan would have never considered.)

Another step closer.

“Join me, my boy. Become my apprentice.” 

…What?  

Obi-wan felt the cold shock of adrenaline shoot from his heart into his stomach.

The man smirked, and while his face still seemed wholly pleasant, there was cruelty in his eyes. “The Dark Side can give you powers beyond your imagination. You will have the power to save anyone, to save your wife .”

“What?” A note of alarm rang through the room at Anakin’s question. “What do you mean? Is something wrong with Padmé?”

Obi-wan jerked and couldn't stop his tone of accusation. “You told him about your marriage?!”

In a sign of just how rattled he was, instead of an angry growl, Anakin’s reply was high and desperate, “I told him everything ! I thought he was my friend!”

“I am your friend.” Oh, Force , how could Obi-wan not have seen this? “I always have been, dear boy.” He left his child alone with this– this– “Join me! Fulfill your true destiny, as the Sith Lord, Darth Vader!” Obi-wan felt a horrible crawling down his spine. (He was so confident in his ability to turn Anakin he’d already picked out a Sith name .)

“I’m a Jedi.” Anakin’s voice was steady, presence shielded but, over their bond, Obi-wan could feel him in turmoil. (There was something else there. Their bond was starting to feel…reduced, clouded almost, like the choking smog of Mustafar’s atmosphere.)

Disapproval flashed over Palpatine’s face. “You were not meant to be a Jedi, boy.” Anakin flinched. “You told me so yourself.”

This time Obi-wan flinched. “Anakin?” The Knight wouldn’t look at him.

“Those fools fear your power, they always have. You were never one of them.”

“Don’t listen to him, Anakin!” He burst out. Frantically, he tried to pour his sincerity and care down their bond, to show Anakin the truth, but their connection was muddled and dim. “You’re one of the best of us!” 

‘ You’re a better Jedi than I ever could be !’ he said through the bond. Anakin jerked around to look at him, the utter disbelief on the other’s face cutting right to his heart.

“You’re going to believe him? After how he lied to you, tricked you?” The words hit Obi-wan like a punch.

(He’d thought it was such a good idea at first. Swap places with a bounty hunter to get close to Dooku, even publicly fake his death so his absence wouldn’t be questioned when “Rako Hardeen” showed back up. His suggestion to the Council that they leave Anakin out of the loop, to get a more genuine ration to his “death” had been more of a brainstorming moment than anything, he hadn't really expected the others to go for it.

Even though the mission had succeeded, he’d felt nothing but hollow guilt afterwards. He’d tried to tell himself that he’d done the right thing, that the other councilors, all more experienced than him, knew best. But he couldn’t quash the little voice inside him that said what if he’d just trusted Anakin? Did they really need to put him through such trauma? Could they not have found another way to accomplish their goal?

For several months, his padawan had kept his end of their link locked down tight. Obi-wan hadn’t wanted to push, even as he felt the bond start to decay slightly from disuse. He tried to give Anakin space, recognizing that he had hurt his padawan, badly, but things just seemed to keep deteriorating.

Then Ahsoka was framed for murder. She was expelled from the order, cast out, abandoned just like he had been before she had even been tried. He couldn’t even blame her when she decided to leave on her own after that. Obi-wan, reeling from his failure to protect his grandpadawan and the Council’s disastrous handling of the entire situation, had gone to Anakin’s quarters desperately hoping to fix–something, to salvage anything of their relationship. He apologized, explained that he had realized that it was wrong of him to hurt Anakin and Ahsoka so deeply, even at the behest of the Council for an important mission.

Anakin in his own loneliness had opened up, telling Obi-wan about his relationship with Senator Amidala. He had known something was there (neither Anakin nor Padmé could be subtle to save their lives) but learning about an illicit marriage had left him dumbfounded. All at once, Obi-wan realized that Anakin, his brother, all but his son , was more important to him than any mission, and had been for a long time. (Anakin and Ahsoka, both. Quinlan, Bant, and Siri. Cody . All the rest of the 212th, and a number of other clones besides.) He no longer could pretend that he could put the institution of the Order over the wellbeing of his family, Jedi and non-Jedi alike.)

Palpatine had continued to rant. “We will be unstoppable.” A manic glee glowed in his eyes. “We will bring order to the galaxy, stability! Burn down this corrupt Republic, and our empire will rise from the ashes. We will bring true prosperity.” He tilted his head up, just so, triumph etched across every inch of him. 

“Take your place beside me, Vader, and you will have everything you have ever desired.” 

Something shifted, then.

Obi-wan doesn’t know what actually triggered it, what the final straw was, but all at once the confusion and terrible doubts raging through Anakin’s mind sharpened to a single point of decision.

And then the avalanche of Anakin’s hurt and anger and betrayal that flooded down the bond nearly brought Obi-wan to his knees.

Anakin, lightsaber still lit, lunged forward at the Sith Master with a cry of rage. But Palpatine was already moving. While talking, he’d maneuvered himself to stand in front of the door on the opposite side of the room, and as soon as Anakin moved he bolted through it, self-satisfied smile never wavering. Anakin, true to character, bolted after him without hesitation, ignoring Obi-wan’s startled “ Wait! ”

But before Obi-wan himself could give chase, sudden movement and a warning from the Force had him flipping backwards, just dodging a strike to the ribs from General Grievous. The enormous cyborg stood between Obi-wan and the door the other two had just run through.

“I don’t suppose we could cut this short?” Obi-wan spoke flippantly, reacting more on autopilot than anything as the revelations of the last few minutes swarmed through his mind like nattering insects.

Instead of engaging with the banter, Grievous only roared with rage and charged him again. Taking the larger being on alone was less than ideal, but Obi-wan had enough experience to know that going after Anakin and Palpatine would be unfeasible unless he could prevent Grievous from following as well. He would just have to make do.

Which brings him to his current situation, injured and exhausted, far away from his former padawan who has rushed off to fight a Sith Master while completely unbalanced. 

Though Obi-wan himself isn’t fairing much better.

Where Anakin had gone incandescent with fury at the truth of his mentor’s betrayal, Obi-wan had felt only cold despair and horror slinking along his bones. 

The whole war. All of it. Every blood-soaked battlefield, littered with bodies they did not have the resources to collect, every sickening atrocity committed against the galaxy’s innocent citizens, non-combatants and children. Entire worlds thrown into poverty and political turmoil. Soaring casualties from battles planned with bad intel. Padawans, children , being drafted into this hell only to die by the handful. Having to decide which of his men lived or died because they did not have enough medical supplies to treat everyone. Collaboration with Hutts . All the sleepless nights, dreading having to get up and do it all again. Tricking Anakin into believing he had died, had bled out in his padawan’s arms.

(He remembers the way Anakin had looked at him, the moment he figured it out. That complete devastation and shattered trust, and the knowledge that Obi-wan himself was the one to put it there, will haunt him for the rest of his life.)

All of it, in defense of the Republic. He thought he’d been protecting the galaxy, sacrificing everything he had to bring peace and defend the Republic, as was his duty as a Jedi, his purpose , but no. No, the Republic had already been lost.

It was all for nothing.

Suddenly, as if sent specially by the Force Itself just to torment him, the memory of Anakin’s first visit to the Chancellor’s office at Palpatine’s personal request flashed through his mind. He hadn’t been happy about it, but he’d rationalized that the man wouldn’t try anything even if he’d wanted to; as the Chancellor, he was one of the most scrutinized people in the entire galaxy. 

(Even at the time it had felt like a weak excuse. He didn’t want to face the fact that, realistically, there was very little he could have done to stop Palpatine if he had truly wanted access to Anakin. As Head of State, the Jedi were legally beholden to his orders. Without hard evidence of something untoward or Anakin’s own refusal, there was little ground to stand on.)

By all the stars in the sky, he’d left his child–sweet, bright little Anakin– alone to the mercy of a Sith predator.

He had failed Anakin utterly, in every possible way.

He’s pulled from his spiraling thoughts as another wave of pain washes from the area around his left eye, agitating his pounding headache and setting off a curl of nausea. He gives himself a few seconds to ride it out. Gritting his teeth, Obi-wan sets to carefully pushing himself to his feet. He sways precariously, and staggers a few steps to lean his free hand against the wall, bad knee protesting. He distantly catalogs that there is definitely something wrong with his vision. He can’t quite stop a grimace of worry, even though that slight movement tugs painfully at the injury as muscles pull on damaged skin. He’s a little surprised his own injury doesn't hurt more, frankly. 

Though, actually, that’s probably a bad sign. Hmm. Nerve damage.

He takes just a moment to breathe, to gather himself. He’s aware that he’s pretty unwell at this point, but he doesn’t have time right now to baby his own injuries, he needs to go help Anakin. Firmly pushing away his anxieties (at least, those concerning his own health. He’s long made peace with the knowledge that he’ll be fretting over Anakin his every waking moment for the rest of his life), Obi-wan turns to the blazing beacon of Anakin’s Force presence and sets off after his family.

—

Anakin’s anger pounds with the beat of his heart as he runs through the choking smog and oppressive heat. Anger at Sheev, a man he’s known for most of his life, his closest friend outside of his family, but also anger at himself.

He’s always known that he’s a fuck-up of a Jedi, but he couldn’t believe he’d been so, so stupid so as to befriend a Sith without even realizing it. He had trusted him, told him everything about his life, nearly every secret he had.

(A memory comes forward, dim with age. His mother’s quiet voice, callused fingers combing through his hair. Their dusty hovel blanketed with night, the safest time for a slave. “Our secrets are our souls, Ani. Depur cannot take what he cannot find. Keep your secrets hidden, akku-ke , and keep your soul safe.”

But he hadn’t. He’d ignored his mother’s words, forgotten the Grandmother’s teachings. He’s forgotten where he came from.)

(In this moment he hates himself almost as much as he hates Palpatine.)

He sees up ahead the man stop running and turn to face him. Anakin slows to a stop as well, and lifts his ‘saber into the opening stance of Djem So. His sweat-damp clothes are plastered to his skin. They both pant for breath. 

Palpatine speaks, his hands out plaintively, “My boy, there’s no need to fight.”

Anakin grits his teeth. His eyes sting from sweat and smoke. “Sheev Palpatine, you are under arrest for treason against the Republic.”

Even at a distance, Anakin can see the hardening of the other’s expression. He throws up a hand and calls forward his Sith lightning, the flashing light an unnatural blue color. But Anakin is ready, bringing his lightsaber up to block the violent bolts just as he’s learned how to do. He pushes forward one step, and then another, trying to close the distance between him and his opponent.

All of the sudden Palpatine ends the barrage, and before Anakin can regain his footing, the old man is slipping his own lightsaber out of his clothes. It ignites as a violent scarlet, blending in with the background glow of distant lava.

Despite his surprise, Anakin is able to defend against the other’s opening barrage without too much trouble. Palpatine is undoubtedly a skilled blademaster, quick and unrelenting, but Anakin has been constantly fighting life-or-death lightsaber battles for years now, and is one of the best Jedi dualists of his generation. 

But then Palpatine starts talking .

“I can feel your anger, boy.” Anakin parries a shot to his ribs, and snarls. “ Yes , use it! Let it fuel you!”

He grunts and fends off a particularly brutal strike. He knows he shouldn't rise to the bait, but he can’t keep a lid on his simmering frustration (his pathetic hurt at being betrayed). “Shut up !”

Palpatine chuckles at his (stupid, childish) retort. “You must embrace the Dark Side to defeat me. You nearly did before, at the loss of your mother.”

Anakin almost flinches at the reminder of his near-Fall four years ago, alone in the desert wastes. He had killed dozens of Tusken warriors, slaughtering even those that tried to run or surrender. His only consolation is that he wasn’t quite far enough gone to attack the non-combatants, the children. It is a cold comfort, when he so often has nightmares about returning to murder them all. The only people he’d ever told were Padmé and Sheev.

Palpatine continues flippantly, “I suppose you simply didn’t care that deeply for her,” and Anakin sees red. He roars in rage, hurling himself at his enemy (but he does not give in to the Dark, not yet). Palpatine laughs even as he struggles to keep up with the Jedi’s furious slashes. He leaps back and puts some space between them.

“You are already mine, Vader. Accept it!” 

“Don’t call me that!” Anakin clenches his hands in their grip around his ‘saber’s hilt, and that is when he feels it. 

There is a twist of movement, deep in the back of his mind that he recognizes as foreign, as not-him. A cold dread creeps into his stomach. He turns a bit of focus inward, still keeping most of his attention on the threat in front of him, seeking out that foreign presence.

And what he finds is a bond.

A filthy bond, radiating sick Darkness, made all the more horrifying for the fact that he’d had no idea it was ever there . As he watches, it flexes in his head, emitting sadistic glee at his revulsion and fear. He can feel it wrapping itself around his other bonds (the thick, deep roots between him and Obi-wan; the newer, strained threads with Ahsoka, far away; even the vestigial almost-bonds he has with Padmé and Rex, Force-null as they are) and squeezing , strangling them shut. 

He realizes it’s Palpatine , Palpatine had put a Force bond in him, without him even realizing . How long has it been there? When–? He mentally throws himself at it, trying to pry it off of him or overwhelm it or–or something, to get it away , but nothing works. He feels sick with disgust, like the deepest parts of his person have been tainted .

Sickened and off-balance, and he can’t swallow down his childish cry of “Stop!” Palpatine only laughs again, the feeling echoing in the Dark bond in his head, and Anakin can’t stop himself from shuddering. His lightsaber shakes in his hands.

“You are Vader. You are mine. Whatever you used to be will be erased, and you will be the most powerful Sith to have ever lived.”

No. No ! He–he doesn't want this, he doesn’t ! He pushes at his wild emotions, trying to find space, he needs to focus, to think . He will not erase his past, he will not lose himself .

(He may have spent many years pushing away his past, but even now it’s not gone, not completely.)

(He has forgotten many of the Grandmother’s stories, yes, but now he remembers the story of Keekta-du. 

—

Keekta-du was a poor Freed woman working for a kind-seeming slavemaster. The master had a great many slaves, and while he never beat or whipped them, they were still bound by his chains.

This Depur plied her with gifts and allowances, never cutting her pay, and one day Keekta-du began to trust Depur, enough to tell him their most precious secret. Keekta-du had a younger brother, enslaved in another town, and she longed to one day be reunited with him. The kind Depur offered her a deal: if she were to wed him and join his estate, he would find her brother.)

(“ Take your place beside me, Keekta-du, and you will have everything you desire. ”)

(And though she was born Amavikka, Keekta-du had forgotten the plight of Ar-Amu’s children, and thus she agreed to marry the Depur. Their wedding was large and opulent. Every one of Depur’s slaves worked through the night to prepare for the celebration. 

Just as he had promised, Depur found Keekta-du’s brother and bought him. Keekta-du was overjoyed, and swept down to greet him in her lavish colored silks, but her brother did not return her affection. He looked upon her and did not recognize her, for she had become a Depur herself. He said “You are not my sister,” and he turned away.

Keekta-du forgot who she was, and in doing so lost the most important thing in her life. )

—

Anakin forgot before, but no longer.

He steadies, drawing strength from the memory of his homes, presence radiant like the twin suns he was born under and voice as solid as the millennia-old foundations of the Temple, “My name,” he dashes forward, ‘saber raised, “is Anakin!” brings it down in a devastating overhead slash, Palpatine just barely managing to deflect it. 

The tide of the battle turns, now. Anakin rains blow after blow on him, Palpatine giving ground as he furiously defends. Despite the Sith’s power in the Dark, Anakin has far more dueling experience, and is also in his physical prime. There’s silence for several minutes aside from the furious clashing of blades, both breathing too hard for words.

They break apart to circle each other, looking for openings. “You’ll never have the power to save your wife as Anakin .” Palpatine’s smirk curls just a little more cruelly. “Let alone the baby.”

And Anakin–freezes. The fingers of his hand go numb. “What?” he whispers.

“Oh? Didn’t you know?” The Sith is positively gleeful. “Senator Amidala has been pregnant for some months now.”

And–his mind races. A baby? His baby? Exultant joy sparks in his chest–but– 

Palpatine hums, casual, as if he was discussing a budget proposal over tea. “I suppose if you won’t serve me, I’ll simply have to train the child.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Anakin’s heart stops.

No.

No.

His child will be Freeborn. (The first Freeborn Skywalker.) Anything else is unacceptable.

He charges the would-be Depur once again, his entire being blazing with fury. (But even now he’s not quite there, has not yet embraced the Dark, even as it curls around him, crooning.) His movements are erratic. Where before, his controlled passion lent him endurance and keen vision, now his anger is what is in control.

Palpatine deflects another wild swing, and this time Anakin unbalances, his momentum throwing him down a short decline several feet away. He rolls to his feet and whirls around as Palpatine mocks him. “Then again, a child is quite a lot of work. Perhaps I’ll simply use it to make sure you behave.”

Anakin roars wordlessly, equal parts rage and desperation overwhelming any sense. In this state, he ignores the clang of warning and danger in the Force. He leaps, hurls himself forward and up at the threat, ‘saber poised for a devastating swing. 

He should have listened.

The sudden agony shocks him out of his rage, taking his breath away. (He knows this feeling, has felt it before, and no, stars no, not again, please .) He lands face down on the ground with a scream and nearly whites out from the pain of jarred injuries. He tries to gasp in a breath, and nearly chokes on a swirl of ash. The Force pulses again with danger, urgency and he pushes himself up on his elbows, legs (stumps) shuffling uselessly. His vision swims, eyes watering from pain and smoke, and he tilts his head back to see Palpatine leering over him, red lightsaber throwing eerie shadows over his face. The condescending pity and disgust in the older man’s eyes sends a churn of horrified shame through Anakin’s gut, despite himself.

(He shouldn’t value Palpatine opinion of him, the man’s a traitor, to Anakin and the Republic both, he hates him, but– 

He’s looked up to Palpatine for years, thought of the man almost as a father. He doesn't want to care about what he thinks of Anakin, but he can’t just turn it off, no matter how much he wants to.)

(He remembers what the man said the first time they spoke after Anakin lost his arm. How he was so sympathetic and kind on the surface, reassuring that it wasn’t his fault, but he still grimaced at Anakin’s empty sleeve, the faint sense of his repulsion in the Force having stuck with Anakin for days after, like a leaden weight in his stomach.

“ My boy, I’m certain that you’ll be back to full strength soon enough, I just hope the other Jedi won’t think lesser of you now .” The integrity of the body was considered among jedi to be a vital part of how one interacted with the Force. Losing parts of one’s body could lessen the person’s connection to It, make it harder to fully reach out to It. Anakin had never really had a problem with that, likely because his connection to the Force was already so powerful on its own, but after that conversation he couldn’t help but notice how others looked at him in the Temple hallways. 

The first time Palpatine had seen his prosthesis he had winced and suggested that Anakin keep it covered when he was in public. “ For politeness’ sake, my boy. Goodness knows nobody wants to see that .” It’s part of the reason he’s always worn a glove over it, even when they weren’t in the field.)

Anakin is suddenly jerked upwards into the air, arms pinned to his sides, Palpatine lifting him with the Force to be just under his own eyelevel. He struggles uselessly, wanting to fight back. (Lightsaber? No, its gone, must have been knocked away when– when– )

The man eyes him up and down (like buyers at an auction). “You can still be of some use, even as damaged goods.” He grits his jaw and swallows down a low whine of pain and fear at his vulnerable position. “I will ask you once more, boy,” Palpatine’s voice is a low croon, a parody of gentleness, and Anakin shudders. “Join me. Embrace the Dark Side. We’ll rule the galaxy, and your family will be safe.”

In this, at least, there is no longer conflict for Anakin. He’s never had any desire to rule anything. He may have been tempted before by promises of safety, of protection, but he knows the lie for what it is now. Depur is never satisfied, not until he has chained the whole world. Even if he submits to Palpatine, sooner or later the man will turn his gaze to Anakin’s child. ( Unacceptable .)

Anakin looks up into those yellow eyes and snarls through his teeth. “ I will never serve you .” He has just enough time to watch the rage darken over his old mentor’s face before the man swipes his arm out and Anakin is flung onto the ground. His breath is knocked out at the impact, and he lays there stunned and wheezing.

He doesn't have enough breath to scream when the bleeding saber lashes out again, and takes his left hand at the wrist.

He jackknifes onto his right side, prosthetic hand gripping his left elbow hard enough to bruise as he clutches the final severed limb to his chest. The movement jars his legs, but his scattered mind can only think desperately that he can’t breathe! He makes a series of abortive, strangled cries as his body heaves, trying to get his lungs working again. He’s too disoriented to keep control of himself, and tears stream unheeded down his face, leaving tracks in the ash and grime on his skin. The first full breath he manages comes out as a sob. 

(He tries frantically to reach for Obi-wan, to find if he’s close, if he’s coming, but to his horror he can’t find any trace of their bond. Instead the terrible, rotting presence is there, spewing malevolence, cutting them off from each other somehow, and Anakin doesn’t know what to do –)

Then Palpatine is there again, kneeling over him, pressed into his space. “This is your own fault, Vader.” The sound of Depur’s new name for him makes him feel sick. The Sith reaches forward and rests a hand against Anakin’s cheek in faux sympathy. His thumb rubs gently against the line of his jaw. “Soon you’ll learn to see your errors. I will be sure the lesson is thorough .” He leans in closer. “I’ll keep you alive, I think. Limbless in a little cell. I’ll bring your child to see you sometime, to show what happens to those that defy me .” He pats his cheek once, like he’s really the kindly grandfather everyone believed him to be. 

Anakin twists his head and bites him.

Palpatine howls and lurches back, tearing his hand out of Anakin’s mouth. He has a moment to feel vicious satisfaction at the taste of blood. Then Palpatine rears back and kicks the cauterized stump of his left thigh.

The pain is beyond anything. Waves of agony ricochet through him, the fingers of his metal arm gouging rivulets into the black rock below him as he writhes, unthinkingly trying to just get away . He realizes he's been screaming when a hand suddenly clutches at the back of his head, the sound cut off abruptly when he is yanked upwards. The corner of his mind not overtaken by pain bristles with outrage when he realizes that Palpatine is dragging him along by his hair . He twists in the man’s grip, grabbing at the arm that’s holding him up, but there’s no leverage for him to pull away. His stumps legs scrape over the jagged volcanic rock, bits of dirt and grit being ground into the wounds, and he can’t keep himself from gasping out short keening noises, again and again.

Palpatine is speaking, snarling cruelly down at him, but he can’t for the life of him make out any words over his own torment. The fear he’s been desperately trying to hold back ever since he– since he lost his–his legs (no no no) is flooding in. Fear of being trapped (being hurt and alone), of being taken and helpless (useless) and chained again and–

Palpatine’s taking him somewhere, where are they going , what–?

And then they’ve stopped, at the end of a low rise that suddenly drops off. At the bottom of the cliff, some dozen feet below, there’s a small outcropping of solid rock beside a slow, winding flow of molten lava. Even at this distance, the sudden waft of heat on his face makes him flinch.

The Sith forces his head to tilt back, and they look at each other. Anakin can almost see his own face reflected in those yellow, yellow eyes. Palpatine spits at him “Remember, this is happening because of your own failures, your weakness . You are nothing without me,” and then he shoves Anakin forward, over the edge of the cliff.

Chapter Text

There is a man standing atop a ravine on a terrible, burning planet. This man is known by trillions as Sheev Palpatine, but that has not been his true name for a very long time. The harsh environment tears at his body, noxious air stinging his eyes and lungs, but he does not cringe or cough. (He was taught that pain begets power .)

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 . It is a small mercy that, upon being thrown into the crevice, he landed on the solid ground beside the viscous stream of lava, rather than in it.

But it is only a small mercy.

Sprawled just feet from the burning river, Anakin is slowly cooking alive in the superheated air. The rock he is lying atop of is scalding hot from the magma just underneath its surface. No matter how he struggles he cannot escape the burning heat.

(He cannot sense Obi-wan anywhere, no matter how hard he tries.)

He fights to breathe amidst the toxic gases pooling in the low ditch, heavier than the oxygen-rich air higher up, gagging on the stench of seared meat. The tears that drip from his face boil as soon as they hit the rock below him. 

His single remaining arm scrabbles around, seeking purchase. He manages to find a grip, and tries to pull himself forward, anywhere away from the glow of the lava, and succeeds only in dragging his abused body a few inches closer to the sheer rock wall of the ravine. He sobs in pain and misery.

The synthetic leather of his outer layers has prevented the plant-based fibers of his inner tunics from igniting, shielding them from the sparks spewing from the ever-burning planet. But now the synth-leather pressed between his chest and the ground begins to smoulder from the heat, releasing toxic fumes into his face and further burning him. If nothing is done, it will begin to melt and adhere to his wounded skin.

A bubble of air trapped in the molten rock pops a few feet away, spewing flecks of lava against his back, and he cries out again. The droplets begin to harden as they cool, but the new rock will continue to be hot enough to sear for a long while.

And through it all, the slimy, seething wrongness squirms through his mind. He feels Sidious squatting in the back of his head, like a Hutt on a throne, radiating sadistic pleasure at Anakin’s pain. ‘ This is only the beginning, boy .’ The words scratch and sink into his mind, like he’s being forced to swallow gravel. ‘ I think I’ll keep you like this. Alive, but never healing, burning forever.’  

His lungs burn , and he’s constantly battling with himself between holding his breath against the boiling air and gasping for oxygen though the sulfuric fumes.

‘I’ll make you crawl on the floor like the worm you are, make you beg for air. You can never escape from me .’

He can almost feel hands on him again, touching his face and scratching through his hair.

‘You are mine , Vader. You have always been, and you always will be .’

He’s never felt so violated in his life. ( Has he really always been a slave to him, this whole time? Has he ever been free? )

‘Perhaps I’ll put Amidala in a cell with you, once the babe is old enough to be trained. If you behave, I might even keep her body in one piece .’

At the mention of his wife, his baby , the threat to his precious family’s most vulnerable members, the roiling fear and choking agony wracking his body is, for an instant, held back by a bolt of desperate clarity. 

(He has always been Anakin, but he has nearly forgotten that he is also Anahkeen Ekkreth , the-one-who-brings-the-rain, the-slave-who-makes-free, and no chains have been made that can hold the sky-walker. He will not kneel and neither will his loved ones.)

He grasps at the Force–the one thing that has never let him down–with everything he has and gives a single, unfocused push upwards, where he can feel the source of the slithering hate that attempts to chain his mind. The effect is weak and dispersed, and at any other time, in any other place, it would have done little more than ruffle the other man’s clothing. 

However, at this time, and in this place, the stirred air that sweeps forward is speckled with glowing cinders, superheated particulates blown in from the uncountable deadly pyroclasts that blanket the planet. It might only be luck. Or, perhaps it is nothing less than the will of the Force Itself that guides Anakin’s desperate last stand. Regardless, the cloud of burning toxic ash suspended in the air is flung directly into the eyes and face of Depur. 

The man’s eyes screw shut as he stumbles back, crying out with far more rage than pain. The attack is little more than an irritant. Even as it happens, Sidious begins to think of how he will punish this pathetic disobedience, a tiny, momentary disruption of his victory.

(But Anahkeen knows the importance of momentary disruptions, of tiny acts of resistance, as all Amavikka do, for he has heard the stories that will save his life.)

It is enough.

In that crucial moment of distraction, Obi-wan Kenobi hurdles around a rock formation at the Sith’s back, sees the man that has preyed upon his child, and runs him through.

—

Much later, when describing the event time and again, to the Senate, the courts and news outlets, Obi-wan will detail how he carefully considered all the facts of the situation when he decided how to move forward. He will say that his decision to execute the disgraced Chancellor was carefully calculated based on the information he had on hand, his knowledge of how dangerous the man was and his desire to get Anakin the medical care he needed.

But the version that he will report to the other Jedi, the version that is the full truth, is that he is barely even aware of his actions when he kills the Supreme Leader of the Republic. 

His vision–what is left of it–is blurred from exhaustion and smoke and pain (his own and that of his brother padawan his child. It is horrible, both in the degree of agony, and in its familiarity (Anakin has felt this before) but he doesn't have time to dwell–) and he can barely hear the hissing of venting gases and burning lava over the pounding in his head. The smell of sulfur (and something else, something he can’t place but which has a terrible dread gnawing within him) burns his nose and twists his stomach.

His bond with Anakin is growing fainter and fainter, and he has to fight to keep his panic at bay as the last few tendrils of connection to his padawan become obscured by sickly, foreign Darkness.

Even still, he knows exactly where to go. He does not know how he knows this, cannot pinpoint Anakin’s direction over the shrouded bond, and he certainly cannot focus enough through the pain to search for the location of his or Palpatine’s Force presences. But he sprints over fields of loose rock without ever rolling an ankle, dodging boulders that seem to simply appear out of the murky, low-visibility air without slowing down. He moves under the power of adrenaline alone, gasping for oxygen in the tephra-choked atmosphere.

(It is as if the Force itself has reached out to pull him along, is propelling him with a purpose of Its own without him having to consciously reach back. He’s never felt anything like it.)

Without any warning, he rounds a corner and sees a figure just a few feet in front of him, silhouetted by the sickly glow of the lava. He does not (cannot) stop to think, to assess.

(The Force has been with him his entire life. Through every tragedy, every hardship, he has relied on It for strength and for comfort, and It has never, ever abandoned him. The Force is with him now. 

And he is with the Force.

He will not abandon It.)

(The Force knows this as well. In another life, perhaps, Obi-wan Kenobi, in his pain, would have left Its son, Its precious child, to burn and break and be chained. But in this life, he will not .)

Instead, his steps do not falter as he pulls his lightsaber from his belt. His arm holds it out in front of him just so, the beginning of a kata he’s performed thousands, perhaps millions of times. He moves his thumb to the ignition button, and the brilliant blue bursts from the hilt and into the lower left of Palpatine’s abdomen. He brings his ‘saber diagonally up and to the right, meeting little resistance in the older man’s spine and a number of ribs, a clean stroke up and out of the top of his right shoulder.

Darth Sidious is dead before his body hits the ground.

(In the back of his mind, Obi-wan feels his bond flare back into brilliant clarity.)

Obi-wan pays the corpse no mind. He whips around wildly, ignoring how the motion sends spirals of vertigo through his head. Anakin was chasing Palpatine, Palpatine is here then where is–?

“Anakin!” He calls out, trying to curb his rising panic. He takes a few steps forward, still looking around, peering through the gloom and trying not to cough. “ Anakin!? ” 

And then, faintly, he hears it. “...Obi-wan!”

The voice is weak and raspy, but he hears it. He whirls around again, towards the edge of the outcropping, and sees that it looks out over a small ravine.

(That smell he couldn’t identify, it’s stronger now.) Down at the bottom of the ravine, beside a lava flow, he sees a shape. 

Then he sees the shape move. “ Obi-wan !”

He lunges down into the crevice, just barely slowing his descent with the Force enough to keep from injuring himself. Immediately the heat is unbearable. He forces down the coughing fit his body nearly falls into, and looks down–

Oh.

Oh, Anakin–

His padawan lies on his stomach, upper body propped up on the elbow of his prosthetic. His left hand is gone. Legs–also gone. Head tilted back to look up at Obi-wan, hair and exposed skin covered in dirt and soot. His face is twisted with distress, blisters already forming around a shiny burn wound on his temple.

Obi-wan takes all this in in an instant, as he feels the needling pain in his skin from the blistering heat. 

Without hesitating he reaches down to grab Anakin under his armpits. He can't stop himself from crying out in pain as the heat from Anakin’s scorched clothing burns his hands, but he manages to keep his grip as he pulls his padawan ( what’s left of him ) up into his arms, and turns to make a desperate Force-leap out of the ravine. He staggers upon landing, but miraculously manages to keep his footing, even when Anakin screams at the jolting movement.

Anakin clutches desperately at the back of Obi-wan’s robe with his remaining arm. The heat of the metal burns Obi-wan, even through his clothes, but it’s easy to ignore. He presses his nose to the crown of Anakin’s head, ignoring the caustic smell of burned hair and taking a moment to just hold his brother. Horror at the younger man’s injuries wars with the relief that he’s even still alive at all. Anakin shudders against him, face pressed into Obi-wan’s neck.

“Obi-wan…Obi-wan…” Anakin’s voice is raspy and broken. He shakes with sobs, tears beading on Obi-wan’s skin. Through the bond, Obi-wan can feel his desperate relief that he’s here, that he came back for me. He sends back love-love-reassurence-always even as his heart breaks a little more.

(Anakin has always hated crying. He remembers once when the boy was still new to the temple, Obi-wan had tried to impress on him that there was nothing shameful about crying, that it was a healthy way to release one’s emotions. Anakin had looked up with such a serious expression on his little face and had informed him with an air of quoting someone else, “ Crying wastes water, Master. It should be saved for when you really need it .”)

“It’s alright, dear one. Everything’s going to be okay now,” he rasps. He feels Anakin’s Force presence crowd into his space, clinging to him for comfort and pressing strength into Obi-wan both at once. Even exhausted as they both are now, Anakin still shines like a little sun in the Force, and the small boost does wonders to bolster Obi-wan’s energy. 

Looking up again, he spots the corpse of the former Chancellor on the ground. The dual sensations of cold fury and vicious satisfaction flood over him. Despite it being entirely against the Jedi way, he cannot let go of the vindictive pleasure at knowing that the monster that hurt his family so terribly is dead.

Forcing down his emotions for the time being, Obi-wan focuses on their next steps. They both need medical attention, Anakin especially. Jedi Healers will give him the best chance of recovery. They have to get to the Temple, and to do that, they have to get back to their ship. He can see in the distance, just at the edge of his visibility, the top-most structures of the mining facility, where they had landed what feels like ages ago. Determined, he starts walking as quickly and smoothly as he can, both arms holding Anakin against his chest.

It’s not very fast. Both of them are wheezing and coughing, lightheaded from smoke inhalation.  The lightsaber burn on his face is screaming , it’s all he can do to try and school his expression still, to keep from aggravating it further. Despite his best efforts not to jostle his passenger, Anakin whimpers with every other step. Once, Obi-wan stumbles on a loose rock and Anakin lets out a low, choked-off moan, and then breaks into a horrible coughing fit.

“I’m so sorry, Ani.”  He hasn’t called Anakin that since the boy was shorter than him. “Just a little further.” It’s as much a reassurance to himself as it is to his charge. Anakin tries to send him it’s-okay and not-your-fault through the miasma of pain. It takes nearly half a minute for his coughing to subside, and afterwards his head sags against Obi-wan, breath shallow. He keeps walking. 

Some minutes later Anakin stirs again. “Master.”

“Hush, dear, save your strength.” Obi-wan can feel himself fading, his steps slowing a little.

But he’s insistent, “Obi-wan, I’m– I–” He cuts himself off as his whole body spasms in Obi-wan’s arms, and he turns his head away and to the right just in time to vomit. A small amount of black-tinged fluid lands on Obi-wan’s sleeve, and he freezes, holding still as Anakin retches again and again. He wishes more than anything that they could stop and rest, give Anakin a moment to recover, but Obi-wan fears that if he stops moving now he won’t be able to get back up again. Nothing else comes up, and after a long moment Anakin finally slumps back into his hold, wheezing weakly.

They start moving again. He hears Anakin slur faintly, “‘M sorry, Mast’r.” Swells of misery roll through the bond and Obi-wan can only blink back tears and offer reassurance and it’s-okay .

Finally, finally he catches sight of their shuttle in the distance, right where they left it on one of the facility’s external landing pads. “Almost there, my dear.” He gets a tug on the back of his robe in response.

The ship’s ramp drops open upon their approach, and Obi-wan takes a moment to be wildly grateful that they were made to bring an astromech on their original assignment. It’s an R4 unit, one neither of them had worked with before but which thankfully has a fairly easygoing disposition. (Anakin had convinced R2-D2 to stay with the rest of the 501st before they left, citing that the headstrong droid would be bored to death on a stealth mission.)

Obi-wan stumbles up the ramp and into the cockpit. The small ship is designed for long-term use by two people, with both a hyperdrive and atmo-capable engines. The open front area has the cockpit and a small medbay, complete with a four-armed medical droid. There’s no bacta tank. The back has a bunkroom and refresher, a kitchenette, and a ladder down to the storage hold. Obi-wan beelines to the patient exam bed in the medical area.

He calls out in a voice rough from smoke, “R4, download the security footage in the mining facility from the last few hours, then set a direct course for the Jedi temple on Coruscant.” The droid beeps in assent and begins its pre-flight checks as Obi-wan carefully sets Anakin down on the edge of the cot, then helps him lie back against the raised head. The younger Jedi gasps in pain when his back makes contact with the surface. He shifts his grip from Obi-wan’s back to the hem on the front of his robes. The med-droid in the corner begins to boot up automatically when the system detects that people have entered its area.

Obi-wan takes a moment to look over his former padawan’s face in the clear lights of the cockpit. Underneath the coating of dirt, his skin is pinkened. Worse burns drift from his temple down the left side of his face, curling around his eye socket and marring the line of his cheek, already swelling with blisters.

He gently runs his fingers over Anakin’s forehead, carefully avoiding the visible burns, and brushes aside some of his damaged, ash-coated hair. Anakin looks back at him, fresh horror tracking through the lines of his face.

His voice is crackling and hoarse. “Master–” he coughs, brow tense with pain, but he continues to stare up at Obi-wan’s face– no, at his left eye.

He tries to smile without pulling at the throbbing wound. (It doesn’t work.) “‘Tis but a scratch, Padawan mine,” he says, hoping the humor will settle them both.

(This doesn’t work either.)

The med-droid comes trundling over then, informing them of the built-in medical scanners in its middle-two appendages. He addresses R4 again as it begins scanning the two of them, hand still resting lightly on Anakin’s head. “Before we enter hyperspace, transmit a message to the Jedi Council, full encryption, marked highest priority. Tell them that we have discovered that the Sith Master infiltrating the Senate was Chancellor Sheev Palpatine. 

“Palpatine was a traitor to the Republic and working directly with Separatist leaders, and in attempting to apprehend him we used lethal force in self-defence. We are returning to the Temple now and will require immediate medical care upon our arrival. End message.”

R4 acknowledges the order, then informs him that it will take a little over six hours to get to Coruscant space and approximately another forty minutes to make it through planetary security and land at the Temple. Obi-wan braces himself against the cot as the ship lifts off, and the med-droid signals that it has finished its scans.

“Immediate triage. Patient-One: respiratory distress from hydrogen sulfide poisoning and sulfur dioxide exposure; left transradial amputation, cauterized; bilateral transfemoral amputation, partially cauterized, minor femoral bleeding.” 

The droid pulls out two oxygen masks from containers built into the ceiling as it speaks. “Superficial burns on approximately 60% of body surface, partial thickness burns on 35% of body, full thickness burns on 8% of body; minor heat exhaustion; dehydration; minor laryngeal hemorrhage." 

It hands Obi-wan one mask and carefully affixes the other over Anakin’s mouth and nose. As he pulls on his own mask, he finds that the line connecting it to the ceiling–presumabley where the oxygen is being stored–is long enough to allow him to traverse the whole cockpit.

“Patient-Two: hydrogen sulfide & sulfur dioxide exposure;  partial thickness burns on 10% of body; full thickness burns on 2% of body–full destruction of vitreous body, sight likely unsalvageable; moderate heat exhaustion; dehydration; low blood sugar.”

Obi-wan feels–something he’s too tired to identify (something that looms , like it could give way at any second to awful, paralyzing panic) at the prognosis that he will probably lose his eye, but he pushes it away to focus on the present. (He’s going to need to meditate quite a lot later.) Some of the pounding in his head eases as concentrated oxygen begins to flow through the mask.

Obi-wan sees the med-droid gently squeeze Anakin’s shoulder, presumably in a place where he’s uninjured. It says, "Unfortunately, this medbay is not equipped to fully treat injuries of this caliber. We will stabilize those most severe wounds with what supplies we have until the patients can be transferred to a larger facility.”

(Because of the complexity of the tasks required of them and their frequent interaction with organic beings, medical droids tend to develop unique ticks and personality quirks that are less common in other types of droids. This med-droid is no different; even as it speaks with such directness, without affect, it still offers tactile comfort.)

It turns to Obi-wan, “Patient-Two, are you prepared to assist in giving first aid to Patient-One?”

“Yes.” His voice is muffled oddly through the ox-mask. He is pathetically grateful that he’s being allowed to do something other than sit around and feel helpless.

It beeps pleasantly at him and gestures to the nearby sink. “Wash your hands.” He doesn't hesitate to follow its orders, even as Anakin gasps at the loss of contact when he steps away. He sends love-I’m-here over the bond in apology. While the cool water is pleasant, he can’t hold back the hiss of pain as he scrubs at his burned hands. When he’s finished, he doesn't have time to blink before the med-droid is slapping some bacta paste onto his hands. He starts to protest that Anakin needs treatment first , but it cuts him off.

“If you are to assist in treatment, your primary appendages must remain functional.” The chastisement is utterly no-nonsense, with no room for argument. “Now put on gloves.” And it turns right back around before he can do more than gape at it. He meets Anakin’s eyes over the droid’s shoulder and sees, for just a moment, a tiny smile on the other man’s wan face, a quiet bubble of humor flitting through the strain in his Force presence.

Obi-wan sighs, exasperated but fond (marveling anew at his boy’s strength), and goes to put on gloves. 

The ship is rising quickly but smoothly through the atmosphere, and it will be several more minutes before they are clear to jump to hyperspace. When he returns to the cot, the med-droid is cleaning the lightsaber wound on Anakin’s left leg with sterile water. His face is screwed up in pain, metal hand gripping the side of the bed hard enough to bend the metal.

Obi-wan snaps, “Why haven’t you given him anything for the pain yet?” He knows his voice is coming out overly aggressive, but he can’t bring himself to calm down. It feels like the guilt is smothering him. (Anakin is his padawan, for all that he’s been knighted for years, and he couldn’t protect him, he failed him–)

The droid is as unflapable as ever as it finishes its task and applies a thin layer of bacta paste to the wound. “Without limb extremities, optimal access points for intravenous infusion are inaccessible. The next-most desirable location is the sub-clavacle vein below the collar bone, which cannot be accessed until clothes are removed.” 

It begins to wrap the leg snugly in gauze. “Bleeding of the residual limb must be taken care of immediately. Then clothing removal, dressing of dorsal burns, and then IV insertion. Fill up a cup of water from the sink.” Obi-wan stares dumbly for a second, feeling a ripple of sadness and anger both at the unfairness of it. ( Why does Anakin need to suffer like this? (Why couldn’t he protect him?) )

“‘t’s okay, Master.” Anakin’s voice is a strained whisper and Obi-wan remembers sickly ‘ laryngeal hemorrhage. ’ “I c’n handle it.” He’s no longer crying, but his earlier tears have left marks through the soot on his face.

The older Jedi sucks in a sharp breath, lays a hand on the other’s head again for a moment, and goes back to the sink. While he's filling the plastic cup, R4 announces that they’re about to make the jump to hyperspace.

When he returns, the droid meets him with a pill and a small bacta bandage. “Inti-inflamatory and medium strength NSAID,” it says, handing over the pill. Obi-wan accepts it without arguing (the sooner they get this done the sooner Anakin can be helped), and allows the droid to paste the bandage over his left eye.

(He knows enough about medicine to know that this will probably guarantee that his eye won’t be able to be saved, but without immediate specialist care that they don’t have on a near-uninhabited Rimworld, it was likely already a lost cause. At least this will reduce scarring and the likelihood of infection.)

“Sit Patient-One up and administer water. Drink slowly. I will gather tools.” Obi-wan turns back to Anakin’s bedside as it moves away. His eyes are closed as he breathes carefully, limp hair damp from sweat. His arm dangles off the side, and Obi-wan knows that the position is probably pulling uncomfortably on the prosthetic anchor-points in his stump. He looks so small like this . Obi-wan notices that the remains of his legs end before reaching his knees, and has to stifle a sob. ( He’s already lost so much, and stars he’s only twenty-two– )

Obi-wan blinks hard, and sets the cup on a nearby counter. After a moment of thought, he carefully folds the sterile sheet up to Anakin’s waist, over his legs. There’s no need for him to see the wounds right now, especially not by accident.

The younger man opens his eyes when Obi-wan touches his shoulder, looks up with focused, but exhausted and hazy-with-pain eyes. “Time to sit up, Padawan,” he says quietly, and waits for the other’s nod of assent before carefully slipping one hand under his shoulderblade, the other gripping his right arm above his prosthetic. He groans as he’s slowly levered upright, face pinched, but they make it without complication.

Thankfully, the cot is wide enough for him to sit down on Anakin’s right. He keeps an arm around the other’s shoulders to support him and reaches for the water. He lifts the other’s oxygen mask to the side and brings the cup carefully to Anakin’s lips. “Not too fast.”

There’s a small flair of indignation through the bond ( he knows how to drink water when he’s injured, thank you ) but the knight complies, carefully swirling each sip around in his mouth before swallowing slowly, the way he has always done when in situations with limited water. He tries to lift his hand up to hold the cup, but it’s clumsy and uncoordinated, either due to his physiological state or from damage to the limb’s internal mechanisms.

Once the cup is empty, Anakin sighs, eyes fluttering closed again. Obi-wan refits the mask over him, and he turns his head to rest his chin on Obi-wan’s shoulder.

The droid returns with a hovertable of tools and supplies, and also another cup of water, admonishing, “Patient-Two is also dehydrated.” Obi-wan feels Anakin huff a breath out his nose, another faint flicker of amusement in his presence preventing Obi-wan from complaining. (He doesn’t dare do anything to take away any lightness Anakin can find right now.) 

He sips his water as the droid approaches with a large scissor-like tool. “I must cut away the layers of clothing over your abdomen to access the injuries.” Anakin nods, but it continues, “We will need to remove the integrated prosthesis, to minimize excessive movement that might aggravate the wounds.”

At this, Anakin is abruptly alert. He blurts out, “No!” the word practically tearing out of him. He leans away from the droid, to the point where Obi-wan has to scramble to keep him from falling over. Renewed pain leeches over his presence, his body upset from the movement, but it is overtaken by cold terror, at such a pitch that Obi-wan can’t help but shudder himself.

“Anakin,” he says out of surprise, no plan on how to continue, and the younger man turns wide, pleading eyes on him.

“No, Obi-wan, please .” He’s shaking with abrupt fear. “I don’t want– I can’t–”

(Obi-wan is confused. Integrated prosthetics like Anakin’s, those that are connected to the organic nervous system, have to be taken off regularly to allow the residual limb time to rest. As much as Anakin tended to forget to let his stump air out over the last four years, he’s never seemed overly anxious about it.)

But Obi-wan feels frantic spiraling thoughts through their bond–( His limbs are gone , all of them, without his prosthetic he’ll be completely helpless, he can’t do that, he can’t , what if something happens, maybe they’re safe right now , but what if ) – and his heart squeezes painfully at his child’s distress. He reaches up to cup the back of Anakin’s head, and gently pulls him down to press their foreheads together. 

(During his year spent on Mandalore as a teenager, he grew incredibly used to the ways many Mando’ade showed physical affection. Jedi are generally quite reserved with their touch, but Anakin had never grown out of being incredibly tactile, and in attempting to acclimate himself to his padawan’s needs Obi-wan had largely defaulted to offering a mirshmure'cya, a keldabe-kiss, to the boy in times of distress. Working with the clones–their own unique microculture developed as an offshoot of their Mandalorian heritage–during the war and acquiring a grandpadawan that he was also half-raising had really only cemented the habit.)

“It’s alright, Anakin, it’s going to be okay.” Anakin takes a wet, shuddering inhale and grabs Obi-wan’s robe again.

The droid says quietly, “Arm may be reintegrated as soon as Patient-One is lying down.” Obi-wan appreciates its reassurance. 

“It’s just for a few minutes, dear one, I promise. I’ll be right here the whole time.” Anakin, eyes closed, wheezes a few shaking breaths, swallows hard, and then nods slightly.

The med-droid carefully lifts the scissors to Anakin’s right sleeve, cutting it up to the shoulder and giving Obi-wan access to the arm’s connection port. The droid supports Anakin’s back and shoulders, freeing Obi-wan’s hands. He’s had plenty of practice helping Anakin don and doff his prosthetic, especially in the first few weeks of him adjusting to it, before he’d been knighted.

He reaches up and presses the three simultaneous-release buttons, Anakin’s breath hitching a little when the neural link disconnects. He twists it into the release position and carefully pulls the arm out of its base, the endoskeleton strut sliding out of the socket embedded in Anakin’s humerus bone. Obi-wan sets it in his lap, then wraps his left arm over his padawan’s shoulders again. He lifts his right hand, thinking to set it on Anakin’s knee, but then he realizes his mistake and just hovers awkwardly for a second before resting it back on the prosthesis in his lap.

Anakin keeps his eyes closed, breathing deliberately, and Obi-wan recognizes his attempt to settle into a light meditation. It doesn’t really work, anxiety and tension pulling harshly through his face and posture, but at least he isn’t outright panicking anymore. 

The droid makes quick work of cutting first up through the collar of Anakin’s tunic and outer layers, then from just inside the joint of his shoulder straight down to the bottom hem at his waist. It tugs the fabric aside to expose his back and holds it in place with an auxiliary limb. From his position, Obi-wan can’t see the injuries there. The droid applies a few of the same type of bacta bandages as the one put on Ob-wan’s face, for small but deep injuries. Anakin winces, but then relaxes a little at the relief the cool gel begins to provide.

It says, “Be still,” and then begins to cut upward from the outside edge of Anakin's burned left sleeve, carefully not touching the lightsaber wound. Then it guides Obi-wan in slowly helping Anakin lay back down on the cot. Without waiting to be asked, Obi-wan lifts the metal arm, reattaching it with gentle, efficient motions. Anakin sighs in relief and opens his eyes when the neural connection is reestablished, testing the movement of his fingers.

Obi-wan runs another gentle hand over his hair. The med-droid slowly guides Anakin to lift his left arm, allowing it to pull the opened sleeve out from under it. Then the rest of the fabric is drawn away from Anakin’s chest, and Obi-wan has to swallow a burst of horrified nausea at the gristly sight. Nearly the entirety of the skin on his chest is a deep mottled red, patches of shiny, swollen blisters dotting across it. Some of the blisters have burst, and weep a clear liquid. Others bleed slowly.

“Master…” The quiet mumble cuts through his horror. With effort, Obi-wan tears his eyes away from the massive wound and looks at Anakin’s face. His eyes are half-lidded, energy finally beginning to fail him. “...’s bad…isn’ it?”

Obi-wan can’t lie to him. (They promised no more lies.) “Yes.” He keeps stroking his hair. “But you’re going to be alright, my dear. You know the Temple Healers are some of the best-trained doctors in the galaxy.” Anakin hums and closes his eyes. He doesn't argue, but Obi-wan can still feel his doubt and worry. He passes love into the bond. “You’re going to be just fine…”

The droid returns from disposing of the ruined clothing, bringing a soft, wettened cloth that smells of antiseptics. It offers Obi-wan the cloth. “You may clean Patient-One’s face.” He accepts it with a nod.

Anakin makes a face at being cleaned by his former master, like he’s still a child . But he doesn’t protest as Obi-wan begins wiping away the ash and dirt (and sweat and tears). Their bond hums softly with gratitude and a small, fragile contentment . He hisses when the cloth passes over the burns, even with Obi-wan working as gently as he can. He sends a pulse of apology, and receives it’s-okay and not-that-bad .

On the other side of the bed, the droid begins to prepare the IV bag and line. It asks if Anakin has any allergies or intolerances to medications, and Obi-wan says he doesn’t. It leans over Anakin’s bed, holding a sterilizing wipe and an IV cannula.

“I will clean the area, then insert the catheter. It will sting,” it warns them. Obi-wan tosses the filthy cloth onto the counter beside them, then moves to hold Anakin’s hand. Prosthetic interfaces are less sensitive than real body parts, even without synth-skin worn over the casing. They can’t detect temperature or texture, but they can feel pressure fairly accurately, and Anakin squeezes Obi-wan’s hand back in thanks.

The med-droid wipes down a small spot just under Anakin’s collarbone near where it meets the cartilage of his shoulder joint, an area of skin that is thankfully mostly undamaged. Obi-wan looks away when it uncaps the needle, never having liked seeing injections, and watches the flashing lights of hyperspace outside the viewport until the droid moves away again. Anakin sends him another tired twinge of mocking amusement at his squeamishness, and he responds with the mental sensation of suppressing the desire to roll his eyes.

The two remain quiet as the med-droid finishes fiddling with the IV bag, exhaustedly taking comfort in just sitting in each others’ Force presences. Obi-wan continues to hold the other man’s hand even after he feels him finally slip unconscious, relaxing into the sweet embrace of intravenous morphine, until the droid starts pestering him to get off the bed.

He settles into the chair beside it, unhappy that it’s too far away from the bed for him to comfortably still hold Anakin’s hand. The chair is bolted to the floor, because they are on a spaceship. Despite the irrationality of the thought, he still finds himself wishing it wasn’t. He watches Anakin’s face as the med-droid starts efficiently addressing his other injuries, cleaning and wrapping his left arm and right leg. It cuts away the tattered remains of his pants, leaving his underwear, then uses the last of the ship’s small store of bacta paste to cover the burns across his chest and the tops of his thighs. It lays large bandage sheets over them, to protect from infection during the trip to the Temple.

He’s so tired, he doesn’t realize he has zoned out until the droid is suddenly standing in front of him, holding an electrolyte drink and a ration bar, one of the nice ones that tastes like food instead of cardboard. “You may remove your ox-mask for the time being.” It helps him take the thing off, then stows it away. “Consume your fuel, then rest.”

He, for once in his life, is too tired to argue with the medic. He says instead, “Have R4 alert me ten minutes before we exit hyperspace.”

“Acknowledged.” It goes to Anakin’s bedside long enough to settle a blanket over him, then returns to its charging dock to, presumably, monitor them with the ship’s built-in sensors.

Obi-wan eats slowly, mechanically alternating between the ration bar and the drink, too worn out to think much of anything. He stands to throw away the drink container and nearly collapses from a wave of dizziness. Part of him wants to use the refresher, but a much larger part of him thinks he would cry if he tried to walk that far. He also doesn’t think he could stand to leave Anakin’s side, even for just a few minutes.

As he’s about to doze off, it finally strikes him; it’s over . The Sith Master is dead, and so is Grievous. Dooku is still out there, but with his Master gone, he may be far more likely to negotiate ceasefire terms. And with Palpatine, leader of the Senatorial faction most committed to continuing the war, disgraced as a traitor, the Republic leadership might even be willing to listen.

This could be the end of the war.

He looks over at Anakin’s lax face, scarred but oh so alive.

All they need to do now is get themselves home.