It wasn't about being an anchor, even though it kind of was. It wasn't about reminding the defender of the galaxy that they had one more person to protect, one more to be lost among billions if they weren't careful enough, because the truth of it is that there are some people who could never be misplaced. They stand out no matter how much the try to blend in. No matter how much the hunch of their shoulders or shuffle of their feet could be mistaken for any one of the people around them.
No, it's about making sure the person who always did the protecting was protected as well. It's about realizing that the one who was so unique that you'd never think they'd get lost among the masses was the easiest to lose. They didn't get lost in the way a child misplaces a favorite toy only to rediscover it at bedtime. It was more like the penny that faded into the depths of English Bay when you dropped it overboard just to watch it swirl into nothing. When it was gone there was no getting it back.
It was too easy to get lost beneath all the expectations. Labels were tossed around like dice at a casino full of gamblers with nothing left to lose. Hero. Savior. Defender. Murderer. Criminal. They were heavy things, those titles; even the good ones. They bowed backs and weighed down feet. They could suffocate someone who hadn't spent their whole life learning how to breathe in spite of them. They could shackle ankles and imprison a person's spirit as surely as the Alliance could jail an officer willing to make a hard call—an impossible call—even when it was the right one all the same.
That's why it wasn't meant to be an anchor, even when it was. It wasn't to add to the burden, but to take from it; a gentle reminder that there was one less thing to worry about, one less thing to be pulled under by. It was the twine of one finger, then another. It was the gentlest of touches, the softest of promises—that even when the galaxy was falling down around them there would be someone there to save the hero like the hero was saving them.