Disclaimer:Just borrowing SW. Move along.

A sweet, metallic tang hangs in the dry, dusty air of the savannah. Blood. She smells blood. Blood means wounds, death. Blood means easy prey. Blood means life. She can almost taste it. The lands are desolate for lack of rain; the grass has withered to crisp brown strands, the earth under her paws is hard and cracked. There is only the oppressive heat and cries in the distance. This year has been harsh. She has not eaten in days; she survives on pitifully small creatures that she would have deemed not worth the effort. She has been walking for as long, and still she presses onwards, in a feeble hope of finding a sanctuary.

She's left her family behind, taking with her only their young. She cannot go back; the invaders will kill them and rape her. Either way, death awaits them all. Her cubs are starving; she can see their ribs, their skin stretched tight over them. They prowl the grasslands, searching desperately for some flesh to sink their fangs into. Sometimes they even feed on rotting carrion. She smells blood, lots of it.

There is always blood after the battles. Sometimes, the tall, furless beings that walk on two legs, some with carapaces, come to kill each other. They set the fields alight with the terrible, searing light that blackens trees and eats you alive. They bring the thunder down from the sky. It is over now and it is safe to return, though the fatal light is spreading with the scorching, savage wind.

She has only seen two, but she knows that prosperity follows them. Perhaps the Sun-God has granted them salvation. Death is life.

Their dead are strewn across the grasses, but their hard shells cannot be penetrated. They hurt your fangs. She still smells blood, strong, not far from her. She approaches one of them, and a satisfied purr rises from her throat. Almost without fur, this one has no shell, just a curious soft, flimsy thing that is not part of its body. She has yet to figure out what these are.

It did not die long ago; it's still warm and pulsating. She is about to tear at its hot, still-bleeding flesh, when it twitches, slightly. Still alive, then, but easy, she can just close her jaws over its throat…its eyes snap open. Strange, clear-water eyes. What a shame.

It's odd, how their eyes leak. She's seen it before, in the aftermaths of their wars. Sometimes a few stay behind, and the water drips onto their faces when they look at their dead. Why do they do it, then? Maybe it's the same way with them. Maybe they have enemies, too. She's heard that their intelligence is far superior to even that of her kind. Why, then, are they not too smart for enemies?

She looks down at its face. Still blinking, its lashes clumped together. They blink too much – how do they see? She lowers her head to crush its throat – death is life – but wait…A tendril of something brushes her mind. It too can reach things with a thought…It too can suffer as she does. It has a cub. She wonders if, were she one of its kind, her eyes would leak.

It smells like death. Like smoke, raw flesh, parched soil and burning grass. His senses have not yet left him. The air is hot, dry and as deserted as the battlefield. He lies among dozens of others. He sees the armor of the man next to him, filthy, covered in soot and streaked with crimson. He sees the air trembling in the heat. He sees the fires in the fields, greedily devouring all that lay in their path, leaving all behind them in devastation, slowly creeping closer…closer…They will likely murder him before anything else does.

It is woefully silent. Just the snapping of flames and the crunch of twigs, of small creatures fleeing their homes. And in the distance, the shrill cries of birds. He hears himself breathe, of course. He feels the shards of his bones against each other, the inflammation of his own torn tissues and the sticky wetness of his own blood, warm and cleansing. No pain, just a drunken serenity.

An angry, foul wind blows, reeking of burned corpses. Nothing else, just the wasteland around him. Anakin has left him. Where he's gone, he doesn't know. Doesn't want to know.

He contemplates the futility of it all. With all he's faced in his still-short life, he could never have guessed that he would go out in such an ironic way. No, it is not as meaningless as it seems to be. It is in fact the essence of his life. Every time he goes into battle, he is aware of the possibility of…something like this. He cannot call it death yet. He had known what he was risking.

Maybe he will have another miracle. This is not the first time he's thought such things. He has more than once gotten a sense of the brutal finality. Never one this strong…but that is what he always says to himself. It is better than false hope.

Something is moving, and it is not him. Its steps are light, but the grasses rustle as it moves closer. Some sort of animal, he decides. He hopes that it hasn't come for him. Then he catches a glimpse – and a sense – of it: feline, female, black-furred and lean, almost spindly.

She studies him through three eyes narrowed to glowing amber slits and purrs in delight, not a good sign. His pulse spikes, speeding up the blood loss. That makes little difference now…She paws at his clothes. He is grateful that he cannot feel anymore. She lowers her snout to his face, giving him a full view of the predatory gleam in her eyes. She sniffs; he can smell the decay on her breath – will she snap his neck or toy with him? Will she rip him apart, forgetting that he still lives?

Fear lances through him, and he touches her mind – anything to make her leave, anything to deceive her…and then she retreats, as if understanding, in search of another carcass. In search of a carcass, he corrects.

Anakin does not see anything as he races through the battlefield. He does not hear much, either, save for the ground flowing under his feet and the blood pounding in his ears. He does not feel the heat or the exhaustion that will surely catch up with him. His thoughts do not come in words; they have been reduced to basic instinct. There is only his goal and the wild, beastly aggression that possesses him. And the fear.

Only when he stops does rational thought come back; only then does his vision clear, does he hear the deafening silence, does he become fully aware. After all these years of fighting, he is desensitized, more or less. It is easier to think of the dead as mere pieces of organic matter. Never mind what they once were.

Then he sees him, sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, eyes open but unseeing. The grass under him is stained darkly in red. He doesn't truly adhere to the code. More often than not, he finds himself believing the opposite. This is not peace. Emotion, he knows. Passion he knows; forget serenity. Always more questions and answers…There is no Force; there is death.

It's different when you know who the person was. More so when you love them. More still when so much is left unsaid. When they go, they leave you behind; they coldly forget you. Feelings become worthless. Words mean nothing – there is no one to hear them. There is nothing to prove that you said them. If you are alone, are you truly living? Who can tell you so?

Why, then, does he feel the need to say it all? Perhaps it is just a selfish desire to get it all out, to separate himself from it. Or perhaps he still thinks Obi-Wan can hear him.

"I bet you think you failed me by leaving me here. Guess what? I'm not what you thought I am. I think I failed you. You probably don't care anymore. You don't even know you once existed." This he says with a hitch in his breath. He swallows painfully.

"I married Padme after Geonosis. She's always in my thoughts. You know what else? When my mother died, I massacred an entire tusken camp. Every one of them, without remorse. I hated you afterwards, for ordering me to stay on Naboo. I think I always did. I still do…I can't help it." His voice is wavering, but who is there to witness?

"You know what's worse? I'm secretly glad that you're gone. At least you won't see me for what I am. You're dead!"

He doesn't see the other blink; he doesn't see his arm twitch.

"You're dead. Dead, Obi-Wan."

He doesn't see the other's lips move - the ghost of a whisper, lost on him as he walks away.

Strangely, the confession does not affect him, not as much as he would have guessed. The numbness extends beyond his body. Anakin's harsh tone echoes across the wilderness, in vain belying torment. That word, it doesn't fail to make yet another appearance. It is too absolute for comprehension. Were he able to feel his spine, shivers would have run down it.

There is nothing to say…there is too much to say. How very relative. This he says deliberately. His mind screams.

I'm alive. I forgive you. Nothing (everything) to forgive. I'm sorry. You were just a duty…Just a promise, just a failure…I never wanted you…Not right. Love(d) you. You are so full of hate. I'm alive. You disgust me. Love you…Sorry…

You're dead, he says.

I live.

…

Who are you to deny me that?

…

I'm not dead, Anakin. I'm not dead… Don't be afraid…Don't leave me... I'm not dead.

…

…

…

…

He does not remember losing consciousness. Above him drift in dark clouds heavy with rain; the air is charged; the flames will soon be put out. Black birds are circling in the sky. The silence announces the coming storm. Lightning flashes, too far to be heard. Is that a raindrop on his cheek?

The gaunt, shadowy creature with dazed, igneous eyes has returned. Why so surprised, she seems to ask – Am I not a treacherous dweller of this plane? Another drop falls, cool on fevered skin. She stares long and hard…Tentatively, she licks his face. He blinks, and she has vanished.