The Last Temptation of Anakin Skywalker
Timeline: Post Return of the Jedi
Pairing(s): Anakin/Obi Wan
Warnings: mystical spirit slash, blue ghost relationship dynamics, space wizard theology, general nonsense
Summary: Obi Wan gives, and Anakin takes.
And then all of a sudden, he is standing in a twilit clearing somewhere down on the surface of the Forest Moon, surrounded by towering trees and flickering torches.
He blinks in confusion. Everything around him is translucent, and staticky, and filter-blue, like a hologram. Nothing in the world seems real except for himself.
He wants to laugh, or cry but finds he can't. His body might look real, but it feels weightless and numb. He is trapped between worlds, in some sort of cosmic airlock, and the atmosphere is rushing back in...
Luke. Luke is here! And the princess, besides. He smiles. Like everything else, they seem intangible and far away. He hopes his children can see him. He hopes this one last look will be enough for all three of them. He wants to say goodbye, to say he is sorry, at the very least to say something.
But he is already out of time.
He is falling like a stone through a sea of pink and violet stars, being polished smooth by the ceaseless currents of impossible water. And everything is as millions of marzipan soap bubbles circling a colossal heavenly drain. He struggles to remember what he was before this, but his mind is full of helium, and every time he forms a thought, it is instantly carried away into space.
Everything accelerates, and then suddenly comes to a shattering halt. He opens his eyes to find himself lying prone in a field of jet-black grass under a blazing midnight sky. Sensation comes crashing back into him, as his body fills with weight, and volume, and warmth. He gasps, startled by the now-alien urge to breath, rolling and twisting insensibly in the grass, running trembling hands over his chest, and throat, and face. His body is whole again, and wrapped in fabric several times over. Even the arm he lost to Count Dooku has been restored. He kicks his new legs against the ground, madly licking and biting at his new arms like a wounded dog. Cold tongues of wind lap at his hair and clothes, and his warm flesh sparkles all over with feeling. He sobs like an infant, overwhelmed by the sheer fact of his own corporeal existence.
He clutches the fabric around himself, savoring its fine, knitted texture against his new skin. Grasping for control of his new muscles, he holds his body close and still until his wildly pounding heart relaxes into a strong, steady rhythm, and each new breath stops being quite so shockingly, terrifyingly pleasurable. After a few minutes of this, he is able to haul himself unsteadily onto his knees, at which point it occurs to him that he is shivering. Now that the sheer novelty of it is beginning to wear off, the cold registers as mildly unpleasant.
He starts at the crunch of footsteps on the frosty grass, peering fearfully into the semi-darkness. A figure is advancing towards him, hooded and mysterious, but bearing with it such an aura of benevolence and gentleness that he is moved to bow his head in surrender to it at once. It stands over him, its long robes fluttering in the constant wind, textured and shimmering, like the wings of a giant, blood-sucking moth. And at length, it whispers:
"Anakin."
At the sound of his own name, he screams, his body crumpling in anguish. His memories are like scraps of colored paper being buffeted about in the wind, offering him fleeting, stylized glimpses of his life before. The knowledge of what he once was, and what he became, and all that he lost, drives him to the ground.
"Anakin," says the figure, more insistently this time. And with a whimper, he dares to look up into the solemn, weathered, bearded face.
"Master?" he asks, in a voice he thought he had left on shores of Mustafar forever.
"I haven't been your master for a very long time, Anakin." Obi Wan kneels, carefully folding his hands in his lap. He is just as Anakin last saw him, a weary old man, but instead of his familiar Jedi robes, he wears the many-layered, dove-gray vestments of some still more ancient numinal order. "You forsook my teachings," he says, "and pledged yourself to another master." There is no reproach in his quiet voice. Only infinite sadness.
"I'm so sorry," says Anakin, only half-comprehending, but wanting desperately to please.
"I know you are." Obi Wan smiles feebly, surveying the wreckage of what was once, long ago, his pride and joy. "And I am prepared to forgive you everything, if only you will forgive me in turn, for failing you as I did." He turns to squint into the vanishing phlox-bright horizon, the raw air blasting his mournful, gray face, and says the only thing he reasonably can: "We have hurt each other very much, old friend."
The sky above them is the color of plum-skin, swirling with dark auroras of ionized dust. Anakin tries to follow the line of the old sorcerer's gaze into the distance, but the roaring vastness dizzies him, and he is forced to look away. He winces, reaching down into the cool, moist dirt, the lush, tangling broadgrass, crusted with frozen dew. Bending over intently, he flexes his smooth, golden hands, marveling at their strength and beauty. Now that his initial disorientation has passed, he is able to examine himself more deliberately. His body is just as it was before Mustafar- More perfect, even. He finds he is dressed in the same plain, yet elegant clothes as Obi Wan: a snug inner-layer of soft thermal material, a slate-gray tabard and leggings, a coal-gray cloak of fine angora wool. On his feet are leather slippers, and his hair is covered by a delicate gray veil.
"Where are we, Master?" he whispers, as if he were nine years old again, his fate uncertain. "What has become of us?" In the boiling pan of death, his soul has been cooked down like sugar beets into its essential syrup, a sticky black molasses of loneliness and despair.
"Oh... nowhere in particular," says Obi Wan, with just a hint of his old humor.
"Is Master Qui Gon here?"
"No. He, and Master Yoda, and all of the other Jedi... have transcended into the Netherworld of the Force. You and I are the only ones who remain. For you see, Anakin," he sighs, "you are not permitted to go where they have gone. The Force will not accept a soul at war with itself into the fold."
Anakin's eyes widen in panic. The howling boreal wilderness stretches out in every direction. To be trapped forever in such a place-! To wander the dark forests alone, for all eternity, contemplating what he has done- This is to be his punishment. Physical pain he can endure, but this-!
"You mustn't think of it as a punishment," says Obi Wan, gently. "It's really more of a... test."
"No-" Anakin sobs, until he makes himself lightheaded, unused to lungs capable of drawing such deep breaths. His throat burns with gall, his head throbs with blood. For what good is his new voice, if there is no one to talk to? What good are his new limbs, if there is no one to hold? "I can't bear to be alone anymore," he keens.
"Perhaps," Obi Wan ventures, "you needn't be." Somewhat sheepishly, he bows his covered head. "I know we've had our difficulties with one another. And if you say the word, I will join my brethren at once, and never bother you again. But if my company would bring you solace- I will remain behind, with you, for as long as you wish."
"Please," Anakin moans against the cold, sedgy ground. He is far too frightened and sick with longing to worry about how pitiful he has become. He looks up to find the only one he has ever been glad to call master furrowing his brow in sympathy, and slowly unfolding his soft, wrinkled hands, and gingerly reaching...
And then- joy of joys!- he is being held. For the first time in almost a quarter-century, he is feeling the touch of another being. Oh, the magnetic warmth of another creature's flesh! He had all but forgotten that such pleasures even existed. He shudders, weeping into his master's chest, utterly wretched and lost.
"Shh..." Obi Wan hushes, stroking his hair through the gossamer veil. "I won't leave you, my beloved padawan."
"Never alone again-" Anakin pleads. "Never alone- Always with you-"
Despite Obi Wan's assurances to the contrary, he is certain this desolate world is intended to serve as his personal hell. To spend eternity here, alone with his own thoughts, trapped in his own hated mind-! It would be the worst torment imaginable.
But an eternity wrapped in his master's arms? That doesn't seem so bad at all.
He smiles wolfishly to himself, as he leans in, nuzzling his face against his master's neck. Once again, good Obi Wan has interceded on his behalf, and once again, the rules have been suspended for him, because he is special. Yes, he is beginning to feel more and more like his special self by the minute- To remember what it was like to live in this body, with all its thrumming power and insatiable desire.
"You are Luke's Obi Wan," he says, low and close. "I want my Obi Wan."
And the elder Jedi gasps, to suddenly find himself in his most excellent thirty-six-year-old shape: Hale, and strong, and copper-haired, because this is how Anakin prefers him. The change which overtakes his form is not unpleasant, but he cannot entirely suppress a thrill of fear. He is placing himself at Anakin's mercy so long as he remains here, for this is Anakin's twisted dream. And though he loves the erstwhile Sith Lord dearly, he cannot trust him.
"Look at you," Anakin coos, caressing the smoothening face, the reddening beard. "You are just as I remembered you- Just as I dreamed of you-"
That these were dreams of vengeance, he does not mention.