Dye splattered artistically across cloth, soaking into the darkening tangles of dirty strawberry blond hair.
It was beautiful, from a certain point of view.
In moments like these, the netted framework of reality fell away, letting him watch through gilded frames, couched with jewels. Beauty. It wasn't real. It was just a painting, a vignette, not his work at all.
It was the moments like these that kept him alive.
Cool gray eyes, oddly bright, unfocused, stared at him, expression vaguely confused. "A—" a once-familiar voice croaked, inconclusively. The killer bent down and cradled the pitiful figure in his arms, unsure of what made him do it, but feeling, somehow, that it was the right thing to do.
"I'm here," he whispered. A smile crossed the dying man's face.
"I forgive you," he whispered in reply. The killer's eyes burned with unshed tears. His victim's breath stilled at last—it had taken so long for him to die, and now the killer wondered if he should have tried to save him. Everyone you love dies, a taunting voice inside accused. But they don't just die, do they? You kill everything you love. The killer bowed his head. It was all too true.
I forgive you, the memory of the man's dying words echoed inside his mind, overwhelming and obliterating the mocking voice. The killer's back straightened.
Perhaps that is true, he conceded. But maybe I can change. He bent down, gaining resolve, and closed the dead man's eyes, an unwontedly tender motion. Then he rose and left, and did not look back. The simple words that had the power to change fate echoed in the silence still.
I forgive you, Anakin.