There and Back Again
Prologue
"What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise."
Oscar Wilde.
**
Fire. It was all he saw, all he felt. Fire in his skin, in his blood, in his eyes. As the flames licked at his skin, scorching and searing, he heard the distant sob of a former brother. Though immersed in darkness, he felt the unimaginable guilt and helplessness of the man responsible for his impending doom. The fire grew stronger, the heat unbearable.
He screamed.
Not for the pain, but for the realisation that he was wrong. So wrong. It wasn't meant to end like this; in fact... it wasn't meant to even begin how it had. Why didn't he just listen? Why didn't he just stay where he was told, like the good little Jedi the masters had so long strived to bring out in him. He sensed the anguish of his former master disappear, not because he didn't care, but because he was leaving. This time an hour ago, he would have been furious, he would have been blinded with anger at such actions of cruelty, that the man he came to know as brother would leave him as if he hadn't a care in the world.
But that was a different time.
This was his punishment, and he would have been deeply shocked if Obi Wan had returned and helped him. He'd destroyed the order, destroyed peace, justice and freedom for so many. And all to save her. A fruitless attempt, it seemed, because even if she survived his cold blooded attack, there wasn't a chance in the galaxy that his angel would forgive him. Not a chance at all.
It was over. He had lost. He hoped beyond hope that in his last moments of life the Force would in some miraculous act of compassion, forgive him. He didn't deserve forgiveness, no one who had committed such crimes did. So why was he asking for it? Did he in some way expect the Force to forgive him? No. He didn't. What was done, was done. He was paying for his sins with his life. Nothing could stop that now. Nothing. He allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the irony of it. Nothing could stop death, he knew that now. It was too late, yes, but at least he finally understood it. The pain was lessening a little. The flames were gone. He wasn't sure whether his eyes were open or not, it didn't matter. Darkness was all that he saw, darkness was all that he knew.
There was no hope for this young man.
'There is always hope'.
Was it real? Or was the voice of reason finally breaking through the shroud of darkness he thought had consumed him.
'There is always hope'.
Ha! Hope. What is hope? A silly, four letter word with no real meaning. There is no hope. No hope for anyone. In the end, the darkness always wins. It's always there, no matter what good we try to achieve. It's always there.
'There is still hope'.
You lie! There is no hope. If there was a shred of hope left in the galaxy, we would not be bowing to the very heart of evil itself right now.
'There is still hope'.
The pain was gone now. It seemed strange, but wherever that voice was coming from, be it from him, or from the Force itself, it had overcome the pain. The voice was all he registered. The pain was nothing.
Hope. What hope did he truly have. If by some crazy act of recklessness he did indeed try to take hold of that hope, he wouldn't get far.
But maybe, just maybe if he tried.
Gingerly, the burnt and broken body of a former hero began to move. The one hand that still remained, the artificial hand, clawed its way up the ashy riverside. The charred remains of his legs pushing the battered torso further away from the fiery river and towards what seemed an unreachable goal.
The pain returned. He felt as though the flames had returned, stinging and scorching through his skin.
He ignored it.
His breathing was harsh, and laboured, every breath sent white hot needles of pain to his lungs and throat.
He ignored it.
His eyes watered and bled, ash sticking his lids together, cementing them shut, blinding him for eternity.
He ignored it.
He could sense a dark cloud approaching, but he still had time. The cloud was beckoning him, teasing him and taunting him, trying to draw him back into its cold grasp.
He ignored it.
Light. Blinding, white light pierced his soul. From it he drew strength, he drew determination and he drew hope.
He didn't ignore it.
His arm worked of its own accord now, pulling him further and further away from the molten river, and closer to a lone starfighter perched precariously on a crumbling platform.
Harder and harder it clawed, dragging without hesitation, desperate to reach its goal. The dark cloud was nearing, but only in body. In mind and in soul, it couldn't have been further from this troubled young man.
The starfighter was close now. He could sense it. Still in perfect working condition. How he managed to climb into the cockpit, the young man would never know. In some way, he liked to think the Force was on his side that day. He liked to think the force was beginning to forgive him. As the broken body engaged the ship, using what little Force energy he could muster, the Jedi starfighter took off, and quickly slipped away from the fiery volcanic world.
Anakin Skywalker passed out, as the momentous duel finally took its toll on the young Jedi's mind, body and soul.
Yes... Jedi. He wasn't a Sith. Never. Not again. And though he didn't see himself worthy as to call himself a Jedi, he was. It was his dream, after all.
A/N: This is a re-write of a previous story posted on here a very long time ago under a different pen name. I hope you all enjoy what I have created, and all constructive feedback is more than welcome.
WalkerOfSky.