Disclaimer: Star Warsdoes not belong to me. I'm just borrowing it.
I Burn
I turned my back on him. I looked away. I left him to his suffering. I turned and walked away even as the flames devoured him. I had to do it. I had my orders. I carried them out. My task was finished.
I flipped the switch in my mind – one flick, and I am no longer human. I feel nothing, just as they say I should. I just do. I am a mere instrument, a machine that destroys when ordered to. When did I become a warrior? Was it not peace we were fighting for?
I do what I must. No, that's not right. I do what I am told to do.
That's the difference between us. It's all that matters. It's what separated me from my long dead Master. It's what separates me from my former apprentice, my brother, my failure. Anakin was never the slave.
Anakin is dead. That is what they would want me to believe. There is nothing left of him. He was consumed by the fires of his hatred and lust for power – they burned white-hot, bright enough to blind him, deadly enough to burn him to ash. I don't believe it. I can't afford to.
When I walked away, I walked on fire. Each step was a betrayal. I did not know who I was betraying most. Each breath was agony blossoming deep inside, like a cruel bloody-hued bloom. Each passing moment was crushing. My heart was made of lead.
Mustafar's sweltering, blistering heat was intense enough to melt lead.
I couldn't leave him. I couldn't just leave him there, lying wounded on the fiery shore, clinging so desperately to coarse, smoldering black sand. I couldn't leave him to suffer and die alone. I was never strong. Perhaps I am weak, a pathetic excuse of a man. But I do not have it in me. I cannot do such a thing. I am not so cruel.
oOo
The molten rivers hiss like angry red vipers, ready to strike. Their fangs can wither flesh, blood and bone in a heartbeat. They cannot be tamed, no more than one can move the bleeding black mountains. Their bite is almost always fatal.
The universe loves irony, therefore the river's fangs have spared his life. They have brushed him gently, not enough to strip his flesh off his bones and then devour his burned carcass. They have been merciful to one who has not.
Because fate does not care about equality. Some are fortunate. Others are dealt a lesser hand. And one does not receive what they give – that is the essence of giving. That is the quality of mercy.
But the viper's fangs are still deadly, and it takes but a single, fleeting touch, light as a feather but hot as a star, to wound its prey. One gentle, loving caress can scar one forever.
Does it have feelings? Does it know its own destructive power? Does it revel in its massacre, or does it bleed like the mountains afar? Does it wonder why it hurts everything it touches? Does it wonder what it has done to deserve its fate? Does it ever get lonely?
These thoughts only flit through Obi-Wan Kenobi's mind, not taking the time to linger, drowned out by the ominous pounding of the blood in his veins.
And there he is, lying on the shore, broken, deader than he is alive, one remaining arm clawing at the dry scorched black rocks and sand, like a metal spider fighting for its life.
This isn't Anakin. This isn't Anakin's burned, broken, mutilated body at his feet. This isn't Anakin, staring at the sooty sky, waiting for death to swoop down, envelop him and relieve his agony, in his presence yet all alone. No, this isn't –
His eyes snap open, fiery eyes that do not belong there. They do not belong on any living thing. What have you done to yourself, Anakin? What has become of you?
I hate you
Flames engulfing him, savagely ripping at his skin, consuming his body, mind and soul, he's in hell, he's lying on a star….
Everything dies. In time, even stars burn out
Words spoken so long ago that they've been long forgotten, so long that they've been disowned. Yet they've found their way back…
I hate you
His – Not Anakin's – face speaks volumes. Eyes so hateful, yet so empty, sucking at the world with the blackness of their despair. His face is damaged, almost destroyed, but no amount of future scars can mask the loneliness.
"Obi-Wan…"
Barely audible, barely discernable, fainter than a child's whisper. Full of hatred and love, forgiving and remorseful. Strong yet plaintive. And Obi-Wan's heart sinks , and he feels it tear and bleed, and the dreadful landscape coalesces into blurs and splotches, oranges and blacks dancing in front of his eyes, and -
And Anakin speaks.
"Kill…me…should've…" But he's too weak to speak. His voice cracks and vanishes.
He shouldn't do it. It goes against all he stands for. It is everything he isn't. But if he refuses, Anakin will never gaze upon anything without seeing the blood he's shed. He will never hear a word without hearing their death cries. He will never be forgiven. He will never be home again.
So he nods, wearily, and raises his blade.
What will happen to me now?
And the blade begins its inexorable trajectory downwards. He mouths one last word.
Sorry.
But the blade has already pierced his heart.
oOo
Padme is lying motionless, but he knows that she will be fine. He can hear her breathing, slowly but steadily – it won't stop. She has always seemed steady as a rock – nothing would shake her. She was as much a rock as I was.
She is awake.
"Obi-Wan..? Is Anakin alright?"
Glaring, accusatory silence. The floor is carpeted in dead, soulless grey, and it does not do the bleakness justice.
No words are left to say. His hand drifts across her forehead, and she's asleep again. She will not sleep forever.
He exits the room, and he's alone again.
Almost.
I don't know why I came to see him. I must love to suffer. But I don't love anything. I don't cling to anything. My eyes don't linger on anything for too long a moment. I don't feel anything. Not anymore.
I love to tell lies. I love to lie so much that I don't limit myself to deceiving others. I love to delude myself. I love to pretend. I love to be something I am not.
I suppose I want to say goodbye. What good is that? He won't hear me. If he did, would it matter?
It's just a shell. There is no soul in there. And Force, I wish someone would take mine away.
Something must be wrong with the machinery. That, or we've hit a small asteroid field.
The flight is not smooth. I don't hear much. Only the almost inaudible sound of the ship's engines and something rattling. The floor is not very stable. Everything shakes, including me. Including him.
The glow panels flicker. Do I see him twitch? No, just the light…just the light. The ship jolts. His scorched, ash-encrusted metal hand slips off the bunk. He's looking right at me.
I did not realize that I've sunken to the floor. We're at eye level. I don't feel my head meet the wall, but the sound it makes rings in my ears. It's too bright in here. There's no shadow to hide in.
There's no shadow to shield him from my eyes, to shield my eyes from him. The sight is unbearable. This was once a human being. A living, breathing, feeling entity with hopes, dreams, passions, flaws, fears…And what is left of him?
Even stars burn out
It's what he left behind. Just a disfigured carcass. Just the ruin of a life past. A monument. It's just his blackened, shredded flesh. Just his shattered bones. Just a battered, broken form.
I have failed you, Anakin.
Now, futile as it is, I break for you.
His body still smolders. Soon the warmth will leave him. He will grow cold and hard as a stone. A stone does not move, no matter how hard you plead with it. A stone will not forgive you. A stone is indifferent to tears. Stones have no feelings. And they outlive us all.
oOo
Whatever Anakin did to her, it was more damaging than it appeared. She was so beautiful. It was a beauty that flowed from her in her entirety – from her very core. Too kind, too compassionate, too naïve for this world we live in.
All that beauty wasted, defaced, desecrated. For the umpteenth time, I want to hate him. I would do anything to hate him. Why must I love him?
She asked me not to let this destroy me. I dishonor her memory. She's not there to see it. I don't know whether to be distressed or relieved. I choose to be nothing.
The babies were born dead. I killed them. They were tiny, shriveled grey things, minuscule faces blank yet tormented. Their eyes were still open, foggy, colourless and hollow. They spawned a cold draft that turned everything to ice. The chill hasn't left.
I was a fool to believe that light would always prevail. Whatever that is, I am no longer certain. I was a fool to believe that things can live forever. Things die. People die. Love dies. Hope dies. I was a fool to believe.
I clench my fist and watch the thin red streaks run down my wrist. I wonder why I bleed.
After all, I died. I burned and I died. I'm just an image, traced in the ashes. Trapped in my frozen solitude.