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It’s dark and his heart is heavy in his throat.
He’s tired of it all. Exhaustion runs deep in his veins. It steals his breath away, hides it down below at the bottom of the ocean, daring him to drown so he could truly be alive.
He doesn’t dare think he is secretly searching for death. It’s not death he seeks; it has never been. Ever since he has been young and capable of understanding that the galaxy is so much larger than his mother’s embrace, he has wanted nothing more than to be alive.
He wants to see the world again for the first time without having to wonder about the bloodshed and the horrors he might find. He knows there are people out there capable of looking at a meadow and think of all the flowers blooming there without their vision being overtaken by images of barren wasteland.
He can’t.
He doesn’t know how to.
The darkness that keeps tearing at every fiber of his being sinks its teeth deep into his mind and every time he tries to escape it, he is left with a gushing wound, bleeding out on the cold floor.
The water keeps rising.
It is only a question of time until he will be lost in its depths.
He doesn’t mind as much as he ought to, but the part of him that remembers warmth protests that he’s become so used to shivering in the cold. It’s funny how much he adored water until his Master showered him in it, dunking his head beneath it to teach him that he has no wants of his own.
He will be what his Master needs him to be and only that.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It feels like giving up, giving in, but if that were the case, he wouldn’t be fighting against it still. His limbs are growing heavier by the minute and he knows he can’t keep this up forever. His Master says that he is the strongest Force-user ever born, calls him a sun with the knowledge of someone who has seen what destruction a star can bring.
His Master doesn’t know that even stars burn out.
And his light is so close to fading, it is a miracle that it’s still strong enough to cast any shadows at all. It bears fruit to desperation within him. He swallows mouthfuls of water when he tries to speak, but he forces out the words anyway.
Please.
The art of begging is nothing unfamiliar to him. He has done nothing else in front of his Master. He lashes out with the expected anger and rage, though nowadays, he can’t even tell anymore whether those are his emotions or just a reflection of how he knows he should behave. Underneath that exterior, he begs his Master not to hurt him again, not to take away the last comfort he has, not to violate the memories of his mother, of a childhood bound in chains that was still so full of light he scarcely recalls the bomb beneath his skin.
The hands that reach for him a warm, kind. They do not smell of sacrifice and decay, and he wants to weep because of how careful they are.
He closes his eyes.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The world around them is silent as he’s pulled close to a body, his bloodied face leaning against an unarmored chest. A heartbeat thrums beneath the skin and it would be so easy to reach for a lightsaber, to summon the Force and kill this person. It is what he has been created for. The destruction left in his wake is his purpose, his singular goal.
He can’t bring himself to lift even a finger.
He curls up as much as his injuries allow him to, thinking himself so much younger than the years he actually counts. The gentle hands of before began to comb through his hair, messy golden curls covered by ashes. The sensation is soothing, calming. His breath stutters and the motion stops, hands pull away. The lack of contact draws a pitiful whine from his throat, but he doesn’t dare to open his eyes and see what expression the other makes. He might lose whatever resemblance of control he has if he allows himself to examine his situation further, to be drawn out of this sweet lullaby of a moment.
Don’t leave me.
A warm hand returns to his cheek and he thinks it might be burning him with the fires of Mustafar.
“You don’t need to beg.”
The so familiar voice, his salvation and nightmare, is just loud enough that only he can hear it.
“I’m not your Master. I do not demand obedience. I only need your permission.”
You have it, take me with you, please, please, please—
He starts crying in earnest now, hides his face in the chest because he can’t face the world outside of the bubble he created. His shoulders tremble and he holds onto whatever warmth he can find with an iron grip.
“Can you tell me your name, dear one?”
Inevitability, his mother named him in the dead of night, blood covering her thighs. She never told him whether she had the same gift of foresight as him and bestowed upon his fate one last prophecy.
Anakin.
His chance at freedom hums as sweetly as the winds that used to tousle his hair during dawn, then he stands up. He carries Anakin as if he weighs nothing, and perhaps after months on the run, he doesn’t. Anakin still continues sobbing even when his mind is wrapped in the same warmth as his mind, spring sunlight shining through suddenly shallow waters as his body is lifted out of the ocean. Unconditional love and acceptance flood the fledgling bond that gives his soul wings and allows him to look at the pit below.
It’s still there and he is terrified of sinking into the darkness.
I don’t want to go back.
You won’t, I promise.
He is carried out of the Sith temple, whose ghosts scream and attack his fragmented shields. They are incapable of reaching him, his new guardian already protecting him with a ferocity Anakin can’t remember witnessing before.
His mother had been too tortured herself to offer him this sense of safety.
It’s even colder outside than it was within the building and his protector takes a deep breath, steadying himself. They are barely a few steps away from the gateway, but the world already feels so much more alive. The stars above are as loud and bright as the souls wandering outside this desecrated hall.
“General Kenobi—” One out of thousand identical voices rings out.
His shield stops and Anakin fears this is all a lie, a trick, but comforting melodies and featherlight brushes against his worries reassure him.
“We have apprehended Darth Vader,” his savior says with a steady voice. “Get a secure comm to the Council and tell them I have taken Anakin Skywalker into my custody. He will remain there until his former Master is apprehended.”
You will keep me?
For as long as you want me to.
And if I don’t learn to let go?
“Then I will spend forever teaching you,” Obi-Wan Kenobi says. Nothing in his voice allows for Anakin to doubt him.
Anakin gathers what strength remains within him and throws himself into a running leap, trusting that he will not crash back into the dark ocean below, but that Obi-Wan will catch him.
(He does. Again and again, even years after his Master’s death.)