Once again, you readers/reviewers are fantastic. Another milestone reached with 500 – 500! – comments, all because you guys keep showing up and throwing me feedback bones. My hearty thanks to ScribeAnimal, Jedi Angel001, AmyMilo, phhsdj, Queen Yoda, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, TeresaLynne, Inspector Hambone, Skywalker's Phantom, WildHorseFantasy, Lilyssy, FireShifter, QueenNaberrie, Mireilles3, angie, YouCantSeeMe (but I can hear you), Dark Mistress of the Sith and Ashhole, all of whom were kind enough to comment on the last chapter.
This update was a real bugger: Too many people fighting and not nearly enough descriptive words for swordplay. But, please, don't go all quiet now; tell me what you think!
Off we go… Anakin would probably say this is where the fun begins, but I'm not sure I agree.
Chapter 37
Sandbagger. Barve. Low-down, filthy, piece of frackin' poodoo, son-of-a-Hutt Sith.
The insults keep churning as, emerald blade humming masterfully in his hands, Anakin repels a ferocious attack from the Dark Lord. His nemesis' blows come with the prowess of three Jedi, emboldened as the Sith is by the untamed hatred Anakin feels curling around them as if a jagged blanket waiting to sink its talons into his skin.
Red. The hazy patterns drawn by the crimson lightsaber are intricate and mesmerizing; Anakin's eyes follow each movement with a fascination that redoubles his desire to endure without being carved into scraps.
His concentration is tested every three or four strokes, when Sidious emits screeches of such piercing decibels that he thinks his ears may shatter. The inhuman sound, along with an array of expressions ranging from diabolical to downright crazed, half-convince Anakin that the Sith is not only the paragon of evil, but he has also been consumed by his own madness.
Lying, unhinged Sithspit.
Sidous' leg – the one the monster practically dragged from the throne as if filled with duracrete – seems to work well now, holding firm when the Sith lunges to strike, then dancing sprightly away from Anakin's countering blade.
Even as they scuffle, the Dark Side pulses with cyclonic energies, saturating the air in a presence that whispers of domination, of entitlement, of more.
You've always wanted more, my apprentice, hisses in Anakin's mind. You tasted the glory of Sith dominion once. It is only natural that you desire it again.
Eyes following the trailing glow of red, Anakin reminds himself to breathe, a reflex to stem not only Sidious' physical attack, but the Sith's more treacherous assault on his mind. It is unnerving, that constant pulse in his consciousness that he cannot halt with a decisive thrust of his lightsaber or a calculated taunt.
The stream of coercion seems endless.
You are angry, are you not? To be back on this planet where you disappointed so many. Separated from the wife who craves your warmth, your children who call for their father.
The ire rises despite himself, a backdraft of fire crawling through his veins, ignited by his primal instinct to protect his family at all costs.
Red; it flashes within Sidious' beast-like eyes. Satisfaction.
"Do not," Anakin grits, taking the offensive with a series of his strongest strokes as he backs the Sith lord against his garish throne, "speak of them." Though his voice is thready in the air, he knows his words resound clearly in the wretched bond they share.
It is a haunting connection that he will sever with finality. Now.
A current of light, soft and insistent, nuzzles him as Sidious side-steps ornate swirls of gold decorating the base of the throne, motions smooth and stealth as a serpent.
Stay focused, Anakin. Obi-Wan is ever-watchful, even as he battles the clone a floor below. Anakin isn't certain when he lost sight of him, only that he sensed Obi-Wan's peril, then a sensation of air carrying his master downward. He can only vaguely discern the clinks of clashing sabers and echoes of Obi-Wan's distinct profanities gleaned from the underworld of Coruscant, peppered with his guidance. Your calm will be Sidious' undoing. Remember the first rule of battle.
Survive, is Anakin's automatic reply. He also senses Obi-Wan's unease in fighting one whose resemblance to Anakin is as blatant as the glare of dual suns. Vader's sheer brawn and obsession to conquer are a potent mix; only Obi-Wan's superb skills allow him to repel the Sith valiantly, but their unseen battle adds to Anakin's tension.
Separate from his master, Anakin's inclination is to scramble by his side. Then again, Obi-Wan has handily defeated two Sith lords to Anakin's one, so perhaps he should focus on the task at hand.
Anakin telegraphs a thought even as Sidious swings his saber from above, a vicious onslaught that jarringly halts in a humming stalemate of ruby crossing emerald. See that you follow it, too, Master.
Obi-Wan's retort is immediate, as always. Of course. Can't let you have all the fun.
x x x
This, Obi-Wan decides as he evades yet another plunge of Vader's eager blade, is definitely not where the fun begins. If he had a Checklist For Surviving a Fake Sith Lord, it would go something like this:
Defend, defend, defend.
Parry once, twice, then – shavit! – lose count, glide quickly to the edge of the invisible perimeter not thrumming dangerously with the sound of an active lightsaber seeking a target to dice into bits, get a little cut in here and there.
Then assess the seething, savage clone who uncannily mirrors the guileless boy you reared, in all but the nucleus.
It is ludicrous to be here, Obi-Wan thinks, locking sabers and trading grunts with Anakin's replica. Unsullied of skin but already damaged of soul, Obi-Wan finds he much prefers the original, dinged and scarred as Anakin has become.
The eerie duplicate mimics his brother down to Vader's unorthodox grip on his lightsaber – arse-backwards with left hand over right – as he swings the weapon with such gusto that Obi-Wan finds his vaunted footwork a bit slow and his cheek reddened by the radiant heat of a scarlet promise entirely too near his neck.
Except…
Underneath the flawless left eyebrow and arm of unmarred flesh, Vader is a bold, merciless brute; fights like one, too. His advances carry all-or-nothing bravado, relying on overpowering strength rather than cunning. The subtle adjustments Anakin has incorporated into his aggressive Shien style – lessons learned during the flurry of too many battles – are missing from Vader's repertoire. The feint Anakin pulls from nowhere to disrupt opponents' timing, that cross-step allowing for a fleet counter-strike, and the young Jedi's charming, effortless grace that had often drawn masses of spectators when he and Obi-Wan sparred at the Temple… absent.
Vader is Anakin unlearned, a prodigy with raw, genetically-honed abilities, yet none of the hard-gained maturity now possessed by the Chosen One.
Anakin. Maturity. Obi-Wan will have to remember the day he paired those two words and it actually made sense.
But, for now, he should focus on escaping this little skirmish without leaving something vital behind or getting crisped by Sith lightning. Since Obi-Wan already exhibits the acrid remains of singed hair near his forehead, he really must pay better attention to this pseudo-Anakin who fights with his padawan's untamed passion, but not a stitch of his heart.
The commotion of objects crashing and bodies toiling rebounds from the upper floor, with Obi-Wan recognizing another unmistakable phrase Anakin certainly did not pick up in the Temple even as the master ducks a vicious lunge from Vader. His attention diverts skyward for a micro-second, but the brawl is out of his sightline.
"Ah, those bothersome attachments," Vader growls with sardonic bite, his saber a blur of circular motions Obi-Wan artfully dodges without using his weapon. That will save precious stores of energy; he suspects he'll need every iota. "Yours seems more aggravating than most."
Obi-Wan stifles an outright laugh, which turns into a smirk as he steels himself for the next parry. You have no idea. Wait; this could actually be therapeutic, funneling his leftover resentment – because he's not naïve enough to believe he's released it all – toward one who represents Anakin's dark path.
"Twice as aggravating as the likes of you, anyway," Obi-Wan mutters, deflecting a trio of strikes with relative ease and positioning for a fourth, Vader's signature snarling in tandem with his distorted mouth. The Jedi's hands swing upward, using the saber as a vertical shield and absorbing the blow with an ill-sounding clank.
Oh… dear. Obi-Wan scrambles for cover behind an ivory pillar displaying a precious Globe of Peace relic from Naboo. The sound when his saber had been struck reminded him of the cheap metal Dex sometimes uses to patch kitchen tools in the diner, rather than the legendary might of a lightsaber, and he'd felt a fraction of give in the blade.
The cortosis from the Red Guards' weapons must have weakened it. Not good at all.
"Ahsoka!" The tone of Obi-Wan's voice normally hovers on "cautious," elevates to "concerned" on occasion and rarely rises to "urgent," where it now pointedly barks into his comlink. He twirls the saber in his hand, focuses his Force-energies on the battered hilt as if coaxing it to hold fast, Vader's presence a harbinger of dread. "What is your status?"
"Just hanging out with the bucketheads, waiting to be useful," she chirps back, all youthful verve in full bloom.
A wild, undisciplined swing registers in Obi-Wan's mind, thankfully, one second before Vader's lightsaber meets its target on his chest. He manages a partial-block, diverting the pathway so the crimson blade deflects, slicing through the pillar as he scampers away. The Nabooian artifact topples from its base, shattering conspicuously at Vader's boots.
"I have plenty for you to do in the throne room," Obi-Wan shouts into his comm, footfall too loud on the marble. He's at a dead run now, the need to retreat an indignant, but necessary tactic he's certain Anakin will find ceaselessly amusing.
Vader follows at a more sedate pace, the prowl of a predator sniffing the air for vulnerability.
Still on the move, Obi-Wan reaches gently into the Force, probing for Anakin's location. His padawan fights above, his signature a cataclysm of turmoil; the Dark Side suspends, coiled and waiting to lure the Chosen One from the light.
Hold firm, my brother, Obi-Wan urges, gripping the azure lightsaber that he's fairly certain cannot withstand another blow, blast it. He can throw the hilt at the Sith as an ineffectual last resort, but that's about all it's good for now.
Crouching under benches and skulking behind the solid frames of pillars, Obi-Wan closes his eyes, opens himself to the light. He's lost sight of the clone, but the malevolent tremors within the Force assure him Vader is frightfully near.
"Ahsoka, I need your assistance in the throne room. Now. My saber is next to useless, and Vader is… close." He hopes the crackle of his comm is fairly quiet.
Her reply is more of a sputter. "Stars, you broke Anakin's lightsaber?" Oh, this is rich. Even Ahsoka has endured the drone of Obi-Wan's favorite Jedi mantra, could chant it in her sleep for the times she's heard it drop from the older Jedi's lips. Her master isn't nearly so fastidious about repeating the lesson, but he is rather fond of the lightsaber he's modified to his uber-picky specifications. "He's not gonna take this well, Master Kenobi."
"Provided I am still breathing when he discovers it, I will be happy to build him a new one!" Ahsoka is running even as she hears his snappish reply, past Master Yoda and a still-twitchy Rex, whom she grabs by the arm as they clear the first legion of stormtroopers that has afforded her their rapt attention since Artoo's mastery of the Imps' central processing system. Jedi and clone leave a second battalion behind and swiftly approach a third when a dozen white-clad Imps transform from compliant to militant, a score of blasters jerking from holsters to handgrips in an instant.
Thank the stars for Jedi reflexes. Ahsoka skids to a knee-jerk halt, her boots digging into the plush carpeting a few standard feet in front of Rex, who, spotting a mess of upturned blasters at their twelve, creeps his hand toward his own.
Using the Force, the Togrutan depresses the talk button on her comm, as her formerly chummy bucketheads seem suddenly coltish. "Artoo, has something gone wonky, buddy? The situation's turned a little… cuddly, all of a sudden."
To Obi-Wan, she pledges telepathically, Hit a teeny snag. Just hang on; we're coming!
When the Imp commander's wrist jerks on his blaster, she wisely silences her comm, thinking any disturbance could set off the newly-unpredictable Imps like a torch tossed into a powderkeg.
At her elbow, Rex has already worked himself to full boil, fingers flexing over his blaster as each of five legions of stormtroopers raise their weapons toward the female they had, only moments ago, revered as "Madame Jedi."
Rex is unimpressed, cursing Artoo in a scathing mutter of Basic. "They'll fall under the Jedis' command, the little bolt-brain said. And the worst part is I believed you, because you believed him!"
Ahsoka is too occupied sending a soundless SOS to Quinlan Vos and Rahm Kota to bother with a rejoin. Glaring at the Imps, who seem to get more mercurial by the second, she nods at what Rex suspects is a telepathic Jedi directive, fingers wagging expectantly over her lightsaber.
"We have to get to Obi-Wan," she grates, wide eyes narrowed with determination as she returns the stormtroopers' unflinching helmet-stares with a beauty of her own.
"You wanted a little aggressive negotiations; now's your chance. On my call, got it?"
"Affirm." His mask turns ever-so-imperceptibly toward the young Togrutan. "Good luck, Commander Tano."
"Back at ya, Rexster." She faces the muzzles of more blasters than she can count with nary a flutter of an eyelash, readies for Master Yoda's command.
And registers a fleeting wonderment before the fiery blasts of a dozen Imp weapons erupt before her eyes:
Where the heck is Skyguy when you need him?
x x x
x
Red.
Lava that oozes burgundy, hosting torrents of flames with hints of silver and white-hot shards. Surrounding him. Surrounding them. So unbearably hot it is nearly suffocating, limbs heavy when they must be fleet. One stumble means hideous death, swallowed by a river of fire.
The last thing he registers before agony the likes of which he has never experienced courses through his skeleton is the emerald lash of a lightsaber, impeccably timed.
The exact lightsaber that now blocks another flurry of red from Sidious' hands.
Ah, yes… You see it, do you not? Sidious' intonation turns cruel, accusatory, punctuating certain words with disdain. Your peerless master, floating on fire as he uses every trick of the Jedi to conquer you, his own padawan.
The Force runs increasingly cold, clutching at Anakin in hindrance, rather than a conduit of his fluid movements that have become second nature. His muscles, achy from two previous fights with scant restoration, begin to compress, fast-twitch fibers growing lax with fatigue. The sensation of readiness slackens down to his fingertips, which cramp painfully around the hilt of his saber.
How fares your beautiful wife, my apprentice? On the heels of the vision of fire – obviously planted by Sidious – Anakin's thoughts jumble. His movements quicken, rallying for defensive parries with a fractious edge. Mention of Padme or his twins from lips that have spewed so many falsehoods rankles him, spurs his impulses to forever seal Sidious' mouth of poison.
Is she but a breathtaking mirage? Forgiveness falls easily from lips so fair, but can one ever pardon a transgression such as yours?
She is no mirage, Anakin vows heatedly. Rather, his wife has always been a breathtaking oasis, her love more sustaining than the hollow trapping of power. True might is an angel who can birth two healthy newborns, despite a fractured heart. Power is a brother who forgives when retribution seems just.
Sidious merely laughs, taunts. You chose well. Regal nobility commingled with Sith'ari blood. Your children will be revered.
Calm, Anakin tells himself, emotions teetering even as he reaches for his center. His old enemy, the one that has been his bane since childhood, flickers from dormancy, flares with reckoning.
Fear. My family is not your bargaining chip, you parasite.
Their sabers remain crossed, crystals radiating halos of heat that crawl through their blood. Drops of perspiration from Anakin's brow dissipate with a sizzle on the crimson of Sidious' blade. Then, the right palm of each adversary extends, fingers of Anakin's black glove splayed against Sidious' ghostly hand, each projecting a Force-push with every gritting ounce of their abilities, which serves only to anchor the deadlock.
Sidious' face, its reptilian contours carved by the blood of millions, hovers close to Anakin's, yellowed eyes fever-bright, exhilarated by the prospect of one more kill. This particular kill. His misshapen jaw leans toward the Jedi's in arrogant provocation.
Your children will be splendid prodigies. When their powers ripen, I will have them fight each other for the privilege of being my servant. Pity their parents will be long dead.
Anakin can banish this wretched disease right now, garner the energies swirling around them with a siren's call for dark guidance, summon the charges into a single, deadly command. Just a firm, invisible throttle of that throat thick with deceit, then a torturous squeeze will quiet the evil. He could do it slowly; watch those murderous eyes widen as the trachea narrows, then thieve Sidious' breath one puff at a time.
It would be easy. Then, silence. Preservation. Freedom.
Red. It is the pinnacle of his fiery indignation, his desperation, his desires. The same shade that flooded his vision seconds before he swung his blade mindlessly at Mace Windu.
There is a sudden rumble of the ground beneath them, as if the inanimate foundation has become agitated in the span of seconds. Obi-Wan's lightsaber has always been light, but now it is weightless, pulsing of its own accord in his palm, and eager – no greedy – to cleave a pathway through skin, blood, bone.
Your daughter is clever, is she not? She will be a cunning Sith, able to twist those who defy her with her tongue, then her saber. Like her father.
A tingle of fire burns on the pads of Anakin's durasteel digits, a blaze of power clamoring for escape, for purpose.
All he can see is volcanic, consuming red.
I sense your son. A beacon of untapped power, he is; so needy, so earnest. Like his father before him. Soon, the light will be but an unpleasant memory, but the darkness will make him invincible.
Protect them. Save her. Red. Rescue Obi-Wan. Stop the tyranny, staunch the blood-letting. Red. Be the Hero With No Fear. Fulfill your destiny. Avenge them – Shmi, Qui-Gon, the countless lost in the turncoat wars. Red. Red. Red.
Anakin's hand, rigidly extended just inches from Sidious,' jerks. His wrist rotates and fingers curve with such deliberation that he can actually see them bowing by infinitesimal degrees until his hand holds nothing but the cusp of dark power on the edge of explosion.
Eyes bleeding red, Sidious raises his chin with deliberate slowness, exposing the milky folds of his neck as he spits with undisguised rancor, "Yes, my apprentice. Use your hatred." Then, the hiss grows seductively kind, words lazily drawn from a silken tongue. "Every creature has a sworn enemy, Anakin. It is a natural law of survival. Relieve your fear. Protect your family."
Enact your revenge. Do it now.
The Sith's demand rings through Anakin's mind with the slap of old entitlement he well remembers from the likes of Gardulla, then Watto.
But never, not even once, from Obi-Wan.
Something tickles his cupped hand, winds through his palm with a coolness that quiets fingers ready to act with malice. Smooth and sanguine, tiny grains that should debride, but calm instead. Sand. Hidden from his eyes, he feels it there nonetheless, particles of sand from his home planet that have no business on this one, in this place.
Blue. The first time he'd spied his son in the daybreak of Tatooine, Luke's little feet had been crusted with sand. The last time he'd kissed his boy's cheek in the dark of Alderaan, he'd left a little smudge, a meld of Luke's sweaty brow and fine crystals of sand that had, somehow, followed them to another planet. A sleepy eye had fluttered open, blinked, then held for a timeless moment, one Skywalker to another, bonded by blood and eyes the exact same shade. Blue.
Anakin Skywalker was born of the desert, a child of purity under suns that bathed him in red. Whether he is the Chosen One of Jedi or Sith'ari legend will never be ascertained. But, sure as he is that there will always be a grain of sand in his boots, he realizes his destiny is neither foregone nor captive to ancient prophecies.
His fate is of his own determination. Red or blue.
He chooses.
Anakin manages to bend the light to his will with a burst of power that enhances his Force push, sending an astonished Sidious stumbling back. Before the dark lord collides violently with a wall adorned in Nabooian draperies, Anakin has summoned the Sith's crimson lightsaber to his flesh-hand, triumphant, as he surveys a disoriented dictator in a crumpled heap.
When Sidious' faculties return, his former protégé towers over him, spears of green and red poised absolutely still above a golden head, a heartbeat from fulfilling a prophecy that has haunted the Chosen One far too long.
"Surrender," the Tatooine boy demands in a harsh whisper. "If you choose to fight, I will end your life not in hatred, but in preservation. It may not be today, but know that I will not stop until you are brought to justice, milord. And you will not be afforded this choice again."
Sidious' alabaster mouth, the originator of so many deceptions Anakin is certain the Sith cannot possibly have kept record, twists into a smile brimming with such depravity that it unnerves Anakin to look upon it. Whether the Sith's expression signals capitulation or instigates renewed attack, the Jedi will never know.
The next sound Anakin hears is a scream of reluctance, and pain, and self-disgust that such a cry is emitted at all.
Obi-Wan.
Finis. For now.
I know, I know. It's kind of trite that Anakin was tempted by Sidious again, what with the last 36 chapters of him white-knuckling it back to the light. But the Sith was stomping on all of his hot buttons, and Anakin is desperate to sever the bond that torments him. So, I went all "one-more-chance-my-apprentice," but our Ani resisted. * plays Luke's hero theme in my head *
You chat, I chat:
Ashhole: I'm still smiling over your comment. But QueenYoda won't be happy that Obi-Wan died at the hands of a cloned Anakin. Run! :)
You Can't See Me: I'm not planning a sequel, but this humongous fic was only supposed to be a one-shot, so who knows? I wasn't enamored of Obi-Wan when I started my fic, but he's grown on me. My plan is to tend to another fic I one-shot-ed, "Duty," after I finish this, but start whispering sweet, Obi-Wan-centric nothings to my muse and we'll see. I'm not particularly a fan of either CW Ani or PT Ani (though I'm a huge fan of Hayden Christensen); I much prefer some of the Anakins that have appeared in stories on this site, especially in the AU vein where he never turns (surprise!). Can't help it; I think of Ani as a hero, and while ROTS is a nice piece of cinema, there is no "feel-good" you can take away from it. It just leaves me in the dumps and wanting to call Hayden's agent to see why he doesn't line up some bad guy roles, because I think HC's Vader is way more interesting than his Anakin. You can send me those cupcakes anyway. :) SPOILER: You really, REALLY want to stick around for the epilogue of this fic, because I'm pretty sure you'll dig what I have in store for some characters you mentioned.
Angie: If I ever publish anything, I'll keep you in mind. Thank you for your nice comments.
Lilyssy: I labored over those combat scenes, because action isn't my forte, so thank you for your compliments. They made my day!
Dark Mistress of the Sith: If you thought Ani was conflicted in the last chapter, I'm wondering what you think of his completely messed up (but virtuous in the end) head in this one.
QueenYoda: I think Ani/Obi's banter before/during battle is their warped way of blowing off serious steam. Let's face it; these boys are not normal. They're always two steps from bada**ery and would probably explode if they didn't have some way to release the tension. I've spent some time around RL military boys, and the silly things they talk about while getting ready for/engaging in combat would astound you. Maybe I should do the Jedi boys a big favor and write an "Ani-and-Obi-go-on-vacation-with-no-blasters-Delta-7s-or-cackling-baddies-in-sight" fic. We'll see!