Author Notes: This story was written in response to a "second person, future tense" challenge. It is not an ABH or "choose your own adventure"-type story. The "you" being addressed by the narrator is an unspecified character in the Star Wars universe, not the real-world reader.
Also, this story was written before RotS came out, and the film rendered things slightly AU. The world is still recognizably the prequel Star Wars world, however.
Although you don't know it, you walk over the site of your grave every day. You are approaching it now as you head for the electronic jungle that lies outside the Jedi Temple doors.
Right up there--where the Master and his young Padawan are standing, is where you will be stationed during the last stand, guarding the massive blast doors which are never closed now and which you hardly ever notice. You will be facing outward, of course, toward the city, listening in the eerie silence that will follow the dreadful pounding from the captured Star Destroyers hanging in low orbit.
You will call on the Force to slow your breathing and your heart rate, even as sweat causes your palms to slip against the handle of your lit saber. You won't be thinking of the threat to yourself, however. Instead, your thoughts will be with the billions of frightened beings whose last hope is no more substantial than the thin line of green and blue saberlight that is reflecting off the floor. You will also remember the little ones upstairs, and the infirmary filled with broken Knights who may never fight again. At these thoughts, you will drop lower into your fighting crouch, as if you could dig your feet into the very floor.
It will never occur to you that you are facing the wrong direction.
When you begin to hear the sound of marching feet behind you, your first reaction will be a stab of hope. You will turn to Master Windu, drawing breath to exclaim that some of the troops have stayed loyal after all. The look on his face will kill the words on your lips. It is the look of a man who has foreseen the death of his own children.
"Turn around," he will say quietly.
You will obey, as you must, but you won't understand the order. Cries of "Turn around!" will be echoed by others in the small band of defenders, until you are all facing the interior of the Temple. It will occur to you that the Temple's blast doors effectively cut off any escape, and that the Jedi have been trapped by their own fortifications.
A feeling of terrible dread will come over you as the marching grows louder. You will not yet grasp what has gone wrong, but the Force will be telling you that this is a disaster.
Finally, the white-armored shock troops will round the corner and march into view, their every movement in disciplined lock-step. A tall, dark figure will stride in their midst, its dark robes swirling. Evil will radiate from it, like waves of cold rolling off an object brought in from deepest space.
"Force defend us," a very young Knight will whisper, only to be ordered into silence by a veteran warrior.
The dark figure will make a simple hand gesture, and the troopers will stop, lifting their force pikes with a deadly snap. The glittering business ends will be pointed straight at the Jedi's eyes. The dark figure itself will continue forward, slowly, almost lazily, like a lover relishing a first caress.
"You have been found guilty of high treason against His Majesty, the Emperor," a strangely familiar voice will say. "Drop your weapons."
Next to you, Master Windu will shake his head. You will glance at him and see his face transformed with grief; for an instant, he will look like an old man.
"No." The Master will speak with simple finality, and what will sound to you like infinite sadness.
"Then you will be destroyed."
After a moment, the dark-robed man will fling back his hood and reveal a face you almost know. The wild twists of wheat-colored hair will jar something in your memory, but the eyes will confuse you. You will be sure you have never seen eyes like that before—blue sickles with abysses of darkness at their centers, narrowed with some emotion you cannot recognize.
"I finally woke up from this . . . pitiful dream and recognized the truth." The man will make a cursory gesture that takes in the Temple and all it stands for. "If any of you do the same, you will be spared."
You will only grip your saber handle harder, twisting your hands so that it is braced against the bones of your wrists. You would never take the man up on his offer even if you believed him—this "pitiful dream" has been all that has ever mattered to you since you can remember.
Yet something about the man's inflection will eat at you. It will seem so familiar, and yet it will not be a classic Coruscanti accent. It won't quite seem to belong to any of the neighboring worlds either . . .
"This is not the future Qui-Gon saw for you. This is not what Obi-Wan sacrificed so much to bring about." Master Windu's words will stir up vague memories, and suddenly, you will realize that you don't want to understand.
"Qui-Gon is dead," the dark man will snap, "and Obi-Wan will be too, before the day is out."
The moment you hear him say "Obi-Wan," you will place the voice. One name will always trigger the other in your mind, like "Republic" and "duty;" "peace" and "justice." The word will be out of your mouth before you can stop it.
" . . . Anakin?"
Anakin's gaze will snap to your face, and you will feel like you have been pinned by twin tractor beams. The only difference will be that he will move toward you.
"Sorry," he'll say, a smirk revealing even, white teeth. He'll hold his hand out and his saber hilt will fly into it. The blade will slide out—red as fire, red as blood.
"Don't know him."
The red blade will be on you before you know it, and only Master Windu's lightning response will keep that first blow from taking off your head. The Councilman will keep Anakin engaged with a furious exchange of blows while the rest of the Jedi battle the encroaching crowd of shock troopers.
It will be hopeless, and you will know it, but you will fight on because you are a Jedi. You were never trained to surrender. Many of your opponents will fall before you, but soon your companions will begin falling too.
Soon, you will be almost alone.
Here—the spot you are stepping across right now—is where a deadly bolt from a shock trooper's pike will strike you in the back, driving you to your knees.
And here is the stretch of floor where you will half-run, half-crawl, trying to get to the sealed blast doors. You won't be attempting to flee; instead, you will be fueled by the mad thought that you can somehow lead your attackers away from the Temple, and away from the helpless ones inside.
Now you have reached the spot where the young Darth Vader will step in front of you, blocking your progress like an ebony wall. Here you will take the blow that will extinguish both your blade and your life.
Now, you have placed your foot on the spot where your head will strike the floor. Now your left boot heel is covering the last terrestrial thing your eyes will ever see.
As you pass the spot of your death, your movements trace the future path of the Dark Lord. His cloak will billow in the firestorm that will consume any survivors, and will turn your bones to carbon scoring on a calcined stone floor.
As you exit the Temple, you take a moment to stop and look around you. It occurs to you that this is a particularly nice day. Dry breezes have blown away a recent muggy spell, and the sky looks blue and limitless behind the near-solid grid of the traffic pattern above. While you stand and enjoy the weather, you can't help but overhear some of the conversation between the young Master and his little Padawan who are standing in the doorway.
"I know I'm supposed to give up attachments, Master, but what if I can't?" the child asks plaintively.
"Don't worry about it so much, Ani. The ability will come, I promise you," the Master assures him. He places his hand on the young one's shoulder and says gently, "All you need is time."
END