Return to the Point of No Return
Timeline: Revenge of the Sith AU
Pairing(s): Obi Wan/Darth Vader, Obi Wan/Anakin
Warning(s): time nonsense, dumb tropes, tawdry melodrama
Summary: The ever-popular time travel fix-it fic... with a bit of a twist.
"If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."
Darth Vader advances towards him slowly, red blade held aloft, divining, black mantis head tilting, cautious.
"You should not have come back," the Sith rumbles.
And it's not- because it can't be- regret which Obi Wan detects now in that synthetic voice. No, not now, at the end, after everything. Not in the middle of this scene, which he has worked so hard to engineer. Not seconds before his own scripted demise.
These thoughts are a distraction he can ill afford. In order to put Qui Gon's final lesson into practice, he must let go of everything which binds him to this world, and surrender himself to the Living Force entirely. His diversion only needs to last for a few seconds more- for the freighter to be boarded, for Padmé's children to escape, for the future to be won.
He breathes in, oxygenating his blood with a prayer.
He is ready. Ready for death, and for whatever comes next- apotheosis, damnation, oblivion. He is ready to accept the Will of the Force.
He is ready for anything, except what actually happens:
The next time their sabers clash, the world explodes. The buzzing, hissing point of contact between the two blades is the only thing which remains constant as the galaxy lurches to a halt and begins to reverse itself, respooling itself around that bobbin of light.
There is a blast of heat, of thick, sulfurous, almost liquid air, as the floor drops out from under them, and the walls crumple into nothing beneath a churning, pitchblende sky. In an instant, the recirculated atmosphere of the Death Star is sucked away, its chilly sterility replaced with great wafts of smoke, its tidy corridors with craggy bluffs. The polished floor of the hanger bay is now a bubbling lake of fire.
Obi Wan feels the pressure of blade on blade abate before he sees his opponent bounce away from him, hefting its (suddenly blue?) saber as if to strike again, only to drop its weapon and fall to its knees with a piercing, throat-tearing scream. At first, the Jedi master's eyes can hardly parse what is before them- Gone is the great mechanical dragon with whom he was, just seconds before, locked in mortal combat. Gone the billowing cape, the scarlet blade, the gleaming, chitinous shell. Instead, lissome limbs clad in dark linen, a scrunching, meat-red human face, a mop of sweaty, unwashed hair.
Obi Wan is frozen in place, his saber still drawn in self-defense, but the creature that was his adversary has given up the fight in favor of wailing, and thrashing, and tearing at its own throat in hysteria. The thing lurches and coughs, eyes huge with terror as it takes a deep breath- And then another and another, until it is hyperventilating, unable to stop.
"What-" the creature shrieks, a raw, discordant gurgling sound barely recognizable as human speech. Each word is punctuated by a rattling gasp. "What- is- this-?! How-?"
"I don't-" Obi Wan staggers back as the creature lunges to its feet, a sooty blur, and reclaims its dropped saber, bringing it down upon him in a savage, azure arc. The Jedi master blocks out of pure reflex, his body reacting to a threat which his mind is still struggling to comprehend. The creature advances, using its blade as a bludgeon, crashing it against his own again and again in a frenzy of powerful but artless strokes.
"How are you doing this!?" it screams. "Get out of my mind!" But as suddenly as it started, the thing stops swinging and hurls its lightsaber to the ground, rocking its body and grasping at its clothes in confusion and anguish. It looks up, eyes filled with tears of rage, and hisses: "You must know by now, your deceptions are useless. You can't win, old man."
"Anakin-?" Obi Wan hears himself blurt.
For indeed, it is Anakin Skywalker's face which looms before him now, all spittle and teeth- Though there can be no mistaking the crazed yellow eyes of the Sith.
Darth Vader is swaying like a stalk of grain in the wind, his brain scarcely able to assimilate the sensory information it is suddenly receiving from his... legs? Worse is this terrible, unrelenting urge to breathe. A feeling of suffocation, followed by intense relief- inhale, exhale, over and over, every other second.
It never stops! a part of his mind is screaming. It's never enough air! You have to keep swallowing more, again and again, forever and ever!
His skin feels raw and naked all over, defenseless against this punishing heat, this poisonous air. He is filthy with soot and sweat, shaking with fever and adrenalin. He brings this object, this smooth, immaculate hand up to his mouth and... tastes it, and it's- salty, coppery, like meat, like flesh. Like a frightened puppy, it curls away from him. There is pain, sharp, but minor. His teeth, he realizes, have drawn blood, his own. The hand is his own. Too, the arm, the shoulder, the legs below. Withal, the throat, the face, the belly, the breast. All his own, all members of the same.
Oh... he blinks, the pother of confusion lifting. Oh! I am alive!
His heart still hammers, his lungs push and pull. He straightens his back, and tries- moving, flexing, these muscles, these limbs. And it's- oh. He almost swoons, to suddenly find himself in command of this, this glorious animal. It feels so- Is this what good feels like-? It feels so good.
His gaze scatters around before coming to rest again on Kenobi. Not that imposter, that gray-faced old man from a moment before, but the real Kenobi, the object of his most sublime hatred lo these many years. Face to face at last with his Jedi nemesis- Oh, to taste the traitors' blood-
"You fool!" he roars, hefting his saber yet again. "You think to unbalance me with this... parlor trick of yours?"
But Kenobi is shaking his head and slowly backing away as his Force-presence roils with genuine confusion and fear. Whatever this is, it is not his doing.
Vader pauses, trying to breathe normally. Sensory overload has scrambled his thoughts. His eyes have looked, but they have not seen. "Is this-" he sputters, his mind catching up. "Are we on-?"
"We are on Mustafar," Kenobi says carefully, maintaining his fencing stance. "We seem to have... traveled."
Vader frowns. Traveled? Across time and space. Right into the middle of their previous duel.
"No-" he blinks. "That is- not possible. This must be-" he gestures vaguely, "some sort of shared vision."
Their eyes meet, and the two men stand in silence for a brief eternity, as the wild, igneous landscape churns and belches around them in all its incontrovertible physical reality, as their own changed bodies pulse with solid, undeniable life. The Force seems to encircle them both, watching, goading, prodding.
"This is no vision," Kenobi breathes.
"No matter," says Vader. "We are at saber points now, as then. Nothing has changed."
The attack is swift, but he is ready.
Vader is all raw power and frenzy, unused to his body, awkward on his feet, but so flushed with potent dark energies it hardly seems to matter. Obi Wan blocks him again and again, sweating under the constant assault, mind racing, serenity in shambles.
Even with all his discipline and training, the Jedi master is struggling for focus in the face of such impossible circumstances. For one thing, his body is a constant distraction. He can feel, as he sidesteps and parries, that the weight of two harsh decades has been lifted from his bones. He fights down a thrill, alarmed at his own... enjoyment of this, but it's impossible to deny. Strength is coursing through him like a drug.
The fight escalates as both combatants grow surer in their movements, surrendering to muscle memory, falling into practiced forms. Their twin blue sabers are a spinning blur, sparking and hissing with every rapid clash. Obi Wan grapples for control, the savage momentum of their swordplay threatening to smother the last of his reason.
"Stop!" he cries, repelling the Sith with a mighty Force-push. "What good can possibly come of this? We both know how this ends!"
He is bluffing, of course. His chances of winning this duel a second time are slim to none. His opponent possesses all of Anakin's physical prowess, along with all of Vader's knowledge and experience.
But he has to try. Stars, he has to do something.
"You would do it again, then?" Vader sneers. "You have no regrets about the manner in which we parted, my Master?"
"That's not what I meant," Obi Wan huffs, tears pricking at his eyes- Or maybe it's just the smoke.
"Of course, I would not be so foolish as to make the same mistake as before-"
"Please," he entreats softly. "I don't want this. I didn't want it the first time-"
How many times has he turned this scene over in his mind, rereading the script of their confrontation, reliving every heartbreaking gesture, expression, and word? Wishing he had said something else, done something else. If he is indeed here, now, again, then surely it must be for some purpose. Can he create a different outcome, now? Is it possible to set things right?
Vader snorts, or tries to, unaccustomed to having air travel through his nose. "I seem to remember that it was you who came to me in search of a fight. Both times, in fact. But your hypocrisy is such-" He freezes, his gaze fixing upon some point beyond the Jedi's shoulder.
When Obi Wan turns to look, Vader is already darting past him toward the object of his distraction. And then the Sith is on his knees again, screaming to the smoldering sky:
"Why would you show me this-?"he wails, tearing at his matted hair. "No- No, please- Spirits, have mercy- It is too cruel-!"
For sprawled across the metallic surface of the landing platform, about thirty meters away, is a battered, unconscious, and very pregnant Padmé Naberrie. And Vader is slumped over her, a wretched, miserable, wrung-out thing.
Obi Wan swallows. This is his chance.
"It's not a vision," he calls, thinking quickly. "She is alive!" He dashes up to stand above them, as close as he dares. "Listen, help me get her on the ship. We can still save her!"
"No..." Vader moans. When he looks up, tears are streaming down his face- No longer scrunched and twisted by anger, it is rendered smooth and handsome again by despair. "We cannot," he whispers.
His eyes are a heart-stopping blue.
With legs folded as for meditation, and sabers clipped to belts, civility comes remarkably easily. While Padmé lies inside the sealed sleep-chamber, and Threepio pilots the skiff, there is little to do but sit on the floor of the cockpit and wait. It is difficult, Vader reflects, to stay angry when nothing seems to matter or make sense. This new state of affairs is sheer nonsense to his mind, but pure bliss to his body. The texture of clothing against all this smooth, sensitive skin- That alone is enough to drown out every other concern.
His attention has been riveted, for several silent minutes, upon that space between Kenobi's high, brown collar and his beard, that centimeter band of milky throat. His pulse quickens as he considers that- beneath that uniform, that Jedi husk- Kenobi is all flesh.
There is no substance in the universe like flesh. Nothing else which resonates with the Force the way it does. Plastics and metals can be imbued with intelligence, and even emotion- but only the flesh rings with spirit. How precious, how singular it is. How he has missed it. He hadn't even realized how much until now.
And Kenobi's flesh- So warm, and firm, and clean, and chaste, so rich with midichlorians. He feels a hot wash of desire. It's uncanny how little difference there is between this feeling and his rage to hunt the Jedi down. But then, he reflects, the thirst for vengeance is really just another form of longing.
He thinks of Padmé, poor thing. Her kisses and caresses seem eons ago and lightyears away. It was awfully foolish of her, to follow him to Mustafar. And foolish of him, to elect such a fragile vessel for his hopes. But there is no sense in dwelling upon it.
"She will die," he says simply. "There is nothing we can do."
"How can you say that?" Kenobi rasps, his voice pinched with unshed tears. "All you cared about was saving her, and now, given the chance-"
"But that's just it." Vader gives a distant, mournful sigh. "There is no chance."
"What do you mean?"
"Since last we met," he scowls, "I have learned a great deal more about my powers of foresight than the Jedi ever saw fit to teach me. The future is always in motion, true, but it is not without its patterns." He tilts his head back against the plasteel panelling behind him and closes his eyes as if in sleep, palms open atop his thighs. "It was my very mania to save Padmé's life which killed her. Her death is an inevitability, now. A closed causal loop. If we had come back even moments earlier, perhaps it could have been averted. But we are too late, by design I suspect."
"I don't understand."
"Only because you know nothing of the Dark Side," he says sharply, though it is unclear whether his recrimination is intended for his Jedi nemesis, or for himself. There is enough, in any case, to go around.
"Tell me then, oh, Scourge of Worlds," Kenobi raises an eyebrow. "The Darkness- Is it everything you hoped it would be?"
"Impertinent fool," Vader gnars. "I thought you wanted an explanation!"
"Oh, by all means."
He squirms as the silence stretches on between them, crackling with familiarity and strangeness. The natural, cozy way their bodies seem to want to be around each other coats everything in a confusing and frustrating warmth which constantly derails his train of thought.
"I more than killed her," he says quietly, looking away. "I... undid her. She is undone. I reached inside of her and- The power was so new to me then, I- I didn't realize what I was doing-" He struggles for a moment, caught off guard by fresh sadness. All his wounds are so old- They always ache, but seldom sting. "I cut the tether which grounds her in this life. She is slipping away."
"I suppose I'll have to take your world for it, Darth, being ignorant of such things. It would never have occurred to me that the Force could be put to such a grotesque purpose."
"How innocent you are," he hums wistfully, peering out at the Jedi from between fluttering golden lashes. "It's quite charming." He leans forward until a thin blue stripe bisects his face, a shadow cast by the overhead grille. "Can you believe there was a time when I thought you knew everything?" His scorn is tempered by weariness. He stretches his arms over his head, determined to enjoy the illusion of wholeness for as long as this peculiar vision lasts.
"You cannot undo it, then?"
"I don't know how," he sighs. "I don't know how I did it in the first place. I did not even learn of her fate until my master explained to me what had happened- And that was much later." He strokes the flesh hand over his linen tunic and leather tabards, savoring the contrast of textures. "There is nothing to be done."
"But surely- it's worth a try. Isn't it conceivable that the Emperor might have lied to you?"
"Oh, no," he gives a mirthless laugh. "My master never lies. Lying is for amateurs- like you, Obi Wan. When you are as powerful as he is, you can afford to tell the truth."
"But you didn't kill her on Mustafar," Kenobi says softly, gazing helplessly into his lap. "At least, not immediately. She lived long enough to deliver the children. And I've always thought that maybe if you had beenthere-"
"What do you mean children-?"
"Oh yes, of course," he looks back up. "You never learned of them, and so you wouldn't have known. There were twins."
Vader freezes, "And they- They survived-?" he mouths, almost soundlessly, his breath growing short.
"Indeed, they flourished. They were... remarkable children. Padmé would have been infinitely proud."
In an instant, his eyes turn murderous and flashing, and the entire ship is vibrating with his rage. "You- knew them-? You- kept them-?" he chokes out, a few syllables at a time. "The Jedi- hid them- from me-? My own- children-?" Before Master Kenobi can so much as confirm or deny this, the Sith Lord is on top of him, and there is a durasteel hand around his charming, milky throat.
(When the sounds of a death-struggle erupt in the cockpit behind him, Threepio has the sense not to turn around and look.)
Vader is insensible with fury. Yet another betrayal to add to the list! Yet another reason why Kenobi must be made to pay in blood! At long last, his hated enemy is writhing beneath him, struggling for air. Do it! some part of his mind is screaming. Take his breath, as he took yours. Oh, those silver eyes- judging him, condemning him, even now! Those cruel, deceitful lips.
That smooth, white neck.
And then something in him shifts. And some other part of his mind is interjecting: You are so close to him- His body is beneath you- He is all flesh- and before he knows it, he finds himself bowing down in order to taste, in order to kiss- And it's so- It's- oh! It feels like- Is this what pleasure feels like?
"You," he is gripping Kenobi's pretty skull with both hands, as he brings their faces centimeters apart. "You took this away from me. And now..." He bites at the high collar, paring it away. "You are going to give it back."
Vader is pressing hard into Kenobi's body, hungry for the bright energies that swirl within- For a Sith's Force-sense is drawn to power like a nexu's terrible maw to the scent of blood. He reaches out with his mind- And what strikes him is unthinkable, though perhaps it should have been obvious.
"We- We are bonded," he says breathlessly.
But of course they are. Their bond it still intact, for the simple reason that he hasn't yet destroyed it- That came later in their duel, during their shouting match above the molten sea. He remembers pulling it out by the roots, carelessly maiming both of their souls in his rage. But now- That hasn't happened yet. In fact, it need not happen at all. He leans cautiously into it, the bond, and it's- oh, Stars-
And suddenly, the body beneath him is reciprocating his touches. Suddenly, there are shy hands stroking his hair, a soft hum vibrating against his chest. Arms are wrapping around him, a bright, sentient mind is embracing him.
"Anak-" Kenobi sobs, but before he can say the name, Vader's mouth is on his, drinking his breath.
The bond is slightly frayed, but largely whole, and as they both lean into it, it hurts like pressing on a bruise. But it's a good kind of hurt, like healing, and the more they both press, the more the frayed parts are smoothed over again. And it's like muscle fibers, the way the tissue tears a bit, and then grows back stronger-
Darth Vader's mind is reeling. This can't have been what it was like. Being bonded with Obi Wan can't have felt this good. He was angry about this? He wanted more than this? Impossible! What arcane knowledge, what dark power could have been worth the loss of- this?
No, there is no way Obi Wan's mind ever felt like this against his, because if it did- It would mean he had been loved all along. And if he was loved all along...
It was all for nothing. You destroyed everything, for nothing.
"Threepio!" he calls hoarsely. "Set a course for Naboo."
"Very good, Master Anakin," the droid replies, his synthetic voice tinny with distress. "Do forgive my presumption, but- Mistress Padmé. Will she be alright?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Oh dear. I am terribly sorry."
And with that, Darth Vader, perhaps the galaxy's foremost authority on terrible sorriness, closes his eyes and buries his face in the join of his former-master's neck and shoulder, as the rush of hyperspace shimmers over their excellent bodies, and considers the possibility that this might not be a dream.