A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome back, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, and reviewed; and to those who followed: Welcome! I'm so glad you're here.

Side Note: I recommend that everyone go back and reread the last section of the previous chapter, as it has been edited. I was debating between two endings, and ultimately went with the other one.

Guest: I mean… It is canon that he never got over her death even a little. I suspect believing he murdered her might have contributed to not being able to properly grieve or move on at all. That would make it difficult. Kyuubi7: We discussed yours ;) SaintNick91: The code was an issue for Anakin in that it meant that he couldn't get any healthy support or advice, and additionally the fact that he had to sneak around further ostracized and separated him from the Order. More importantly, Ahsoka really has very little of the story. She knows that he came back because of his attachments, but anything else she thinks she knows is mostly conjecture. Remember: Anakin, who DOES know what happened, does not agree with changing the Code.

Also, she and Luke are slowly realizing that no one ever followed that part anyway, seeing as Luke is 100% maintaining contact with his family, and most Jedi always had friendships and other attachments. The only thing that rule ever accomplished was making things worse. Courtesy Trefflin: ch. 21: And that is why I have been careful to include plot that does move their relationship to a more even power dynamic. I don't think they really had a parent-child relationship for a lot of the war anyway. Honestly, it was never going to last in that form, they are only five years apart and she actually joined the Jedi a full year before he did. 14/19 is a large age and maturity gap 17/22-23 is not. And now, when they're 41/46? And they didn't see each other much at all in twenty years? That's not an age gap at all. But yes, I see your point.

Anakin is doing… better, yes. He still has a long way to go, and mental illness tends to be a roller coaster rather than a straight line. I'm so glad you like Rebels! So many people dislike it but I have no idea why. Hey, Ahsoka meant what she said. She didn't leave him when he was literally trying to kill her, she is definitely not going to leave now that he's back in the light. And hopefully things will be better for the Jedi moving forward. Ch. 22: Yes. The old Order had a lot of issues, most of which contributed to Anakin's fall or rise one way or another. He doesn't realize exactly how much information he really carries, both about the flaws in the Order, and the nature of the Force, the Dark Side, and those who become trapped in it. Read on! Hope you enjoy! I'm so glad you loved it! Ichigo urahara Shihoin: No, he doesn't. A lot of people don't know a lot of things. Some things won't be that much of an issue, and some things… well, let's just say some things can make Force Ghosts have a really bad day lol. ThisIsTheWay0804: Exactly. Ahsoka is someone familiar and comfortable, who is helping him through his crisis without judgement or anger. She's his anchor in all this, and it isn't unbelievable that feelings of craving comfort and acceptance could turn into something more. Although… she doesn't know everything, and she has been drawing her own conclusions about certain events that leave Anakin much more blameless and much more of a victim than he really was... Have a chapter! :)

Chapter 23

The first thing Anakin was aware of on waking was utter and complete agony.

His joints ached, the light hurt his eyes, but worst of all was the absolute pain of his burn scars that consumed his entire body.

He was floating in the large bacta tank in his quarters on Mustafar, specially equipped for him with harnesses and additional life support. It was one of the few places in the galaxy that he could sleep outside of the suit, or for any length of time reliably.

Awful as his pain was at this moment, it was a hundred times worse outside.

He sat there for a moment, meditating in the Sith fashion, focusing on the pain and the man who had caused it, driving himself deeper into the dark side. With enough focus and hate, he could overcome it enough to function.

Having prepared and braced himself to face the day, he pressed a button near his hand, triggering the machine to raise him from the fluid.

It was strange, confusing. He didn't know how he could have gotten here. None of it felt… right.

It was a large chamber deep in the castle, spartan and black. There was no bed, just the tank, a desk, and a closet recessed into a wall. Droids whirred about the space, readying the different pieces of the suit to dress him.

As the machine deposited him on the floor and droids removed the harnesses, he recalled where he was supposed to be.

Luke.

Luke had saved him.

Brought him to the rebellion.

Brought him back to the light.

Ahsoka had returned, alive and safe.

He had medical interventions. He had a working body again.

This was wrong. So wrong. There was an oxygen mask on his face, a temporary measure until he could apply the helmet, and in a panic he ripped it off and threw it across the room, desperate to breathe and escape.

A searing jolt of pain burned in his throat as he tried to run for the door, and he almost immediately collapsed to the floor, choking.

Ironic, he thought, that he had always thought his younger self weak, when he was so utterly helpless that he could not even breathe on his own.

He must have cried out in some way, because he heard a door slide open and boots click on the hard floor as someone rushed to his side.

"May I assist you, my Lord?" The voice was professional, but cautious and tinged with fear, asking permission before daring to come too close or touch him.

The fear was reasonable. Normally, he would not have accepted. Normally, he might have even killed or punished the clone for suggesting he was so weak that he needed help. But then, he also didn't normally nearly kill himself by ripping his life support off like an idiot.

He nodded, unable to speak, and having obtained permission the man picked up the mask from where he had thrown it and pressed it over his face again, before helping him to his feet.

Anakin recognized the man from his feeling in the Force, rather than his face. One had to, after all, with clones.

Commander Dogma, leader of the 501st clone battalion, Vader's Fist, the last clone division in use in the Imperial Army, immediately backed away to stand at a professional distance, his tattooed face unreadable, already fully committed to pretending that none of what had just happened had occurred.

"My Lord, the Emperor requires a meeting with you. He is already waiting on holo."

The panic was still mounting.

No. No. NO.

This was all wrong!

And the droids were slowly dressing him as they spoke, building his moving prison piece by piece.

"No. Sidious is dead." The words slipped out, barely more than a whisper. He could not resume this nightmare. This… hell of a life was over.

"I can assure you he is not, Sir." The grey-haired clone kept his voice carefully neutral, clearly uncertain of the correct emotional response to such a statement. Either a positive or negative reaction to the idea of the Emperor's death might be the wrong direction.

"I will meet with him shortly."

"Very good, my Lord."

The thought of seeing that monster again filled him with a cold dread, but if those last few beautiful, merciful months had only been a dream, he could not possibly delay him.

The lower part of the breathing apparatus had been placed around his neck. Anakin had to restrain himself from ripping it off too, the thought of being confined again unbearable.

"Was there anything else, Commander?"

"I have some paperwork that needs your attention."

Their conversation was interrupted momentarily as the two final pieces of the helmet were placed on his head. His breathing, automated by the suit, rasped in his ears, and his voice boomed back at him through the speakers, strange and unnaturally deep, accompanied by his real unfiltered voice inside the helmet.

Anakin spoke as he moved toward the door, "Leave it on my desk. I must not keep my master waiting."

He swept out of the room without waiting for a response.

He did not have far to go, but Anakin stared around him as he walked the halls of his home. It felt… strange, foreign, after his dreams of escape.

As quickly as possible he made his way to the… office, or whatever he could call the room that contained the massive holocommunications device he used to speak with the Emperor.

He knelt on the pad, the join between his thigh and prosthetic aching worse by the second from the pressure put on them by the position.

An outrageously large image of Sidious's face loomed above him, its size clearly scaled to fit his ego.

Anakin had always hated that thing. It was one of his dearest daydreams to hack it to pieces with a hatchet and a large amount of rhydonium

The unnecessarily massive hologram spoke. "Lord Vader, how nice of you to join us."

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

He was dead

Wrong

"Where is my son, you evil bastard?!" Anakin was shocked at himself. Never had he ever dared to speak to his master in such a way.

"Your son? What son?" Sidious paused. "Do you perhaps speak of Skywalker's offspring; the infant you killed?"

"What?!"

No, it couldn't be. It couldn't! He couldn't have imagined Luke. That good, sweet boy had to be real.

"You have no child, remember? You murdered the bastard along with its mother."

He hadn't killed her. He hadn't killed his children. He could not bear to go back to a world where that was true.

"No!" He yelled, choking the monster though the holo, lashing out in panic.

"You would dare raise a hand against me?!"

Sidious broke free, clearly furious.

"You worm!"

Anakin fell back as he was hit with lighting.

"You cretin!"

Another jolt set him writhing on the floor.

"A slave-" Jolt "-should never-" Jolt "-forget-" Jolt "His place!"

Anakin awoke with the sound of evil laughter ringing in his ears.

He was tangled in sweat-soaked sheets on the small bunk, his throat raw from shouting, oddly contorted from thrashing around, with his head at the foot of the bed.

The lights blinked on; he had pressed the button by the door with the Force without even thinking about it.

The room was small and messy. What few possessions he had, mainly tools and mechanical and electrical scraps, were stacked in boxes and haphazardly tossed on every surface. There could not be a greater contrast between his current surroundings and the grand, emotionally cold emptiness of the Mustafar castle.

He was in his quarters

On the rebel fleet

It was real.

Sidious was dead.

He was safe.

Anakin stumbled to the bathroom to quickly splash some water on his face. He took a second after that, just breathing, just confirming that he could still breathe, feeling the cold wetness on his face before straightening to stare at the blank wall above the sink.

He had seen the sad looks people shot it whenever they noticed. It felt odd to him as well, to have that spot blank, and it was such a clear and obvious sign of his self-hatred.

He was suddenly very aware of the mirror shoved behind the dresser, as well as the box of Jedi robes Ahsoka thought he didn't know she had hidden under his bed.

You are a weak fool, afraid of a reflection and a few scraps of cloth.

Anakin walked away to take stock of himself and the room. Everything seemed… largely fine. There were no obvious threats, his pain wasn't bad, and the only hallucination he had right now was the familiar feeling of Obi-Wan in the Force.

He wasn't visible this time, just a Force presence, but Anakin still cursed and grabbed a bottle off the table, shoving some antipsychotics into his mouth.

Blast it. The doctor had said these would work. They had already switched once.

He went on ahead and took the rest of his large assortment of pills, wanting to make sure he didn't miss a dose of anything, then inexplicably found himself drawn back to that blank wall.

He had been only twenty-five the last time he saw himself, and that had been by accident. The horrifying image of his own face was still seared into his mind; gold eyes staring out of a deformed, demonic heap of scarred, burned flesh.

The man responsible for placing that mirror was long dead.

People had already commented on how much he had improved. The doctor was apparently so impressed that she even wanted to write articles about it. Ahsoka seemed… less uncomfortable around him, though that could have simply been due to her growing more accustomed to it.

But the thought of his reflection still filled him with fear and dread.

Maybe he could check R2, double check the repairs and make sure everything really was fixed.

Oh wait, no. He remembered that he had sent R2 with Luke and Ahsoka, just in case they needed the help.

Sighing, he walked over to the small pile of clothes on a chair, starting to get dressed.

Falcon it was, then.

Clone Barracks - Mustafar

"All he had to do was stay alive and everything would be fine!"

Commander Dogma sat at his slightly dilapidated desk, a long-range communicator behind him emitting a continuous staticky ticking as his brother paced the tiny room.

They had been largely taking turns at meltdowns ever since receiving news of Endor, and it was Kix's turn. It was warranted. The General had been the only one in the Empire who gave a damn about them (even if it was only because he considered them the only competent forces at his disposal) and with him gone the small army of surviving clones was stranded. The Empire had sent soldiers to Mustafar (only hours after the disaster at Endor, they later learned) and confiscated all useful supplies, including weapons and ships, claiming that Vader had ordered upgrades. Nine days later, trapped on a volcanic rock, Vader's Fist learned of his death.

Order 66 was over two decades ago now, and much had changed in the clone army. It had been hard immediately after, when they all woke up with days of horrific memories in an entirely changed galaxy. General Skywalker (or Lord Vader as he evidently now wanted to be called) was barely functional, secluding himself in his quarters and seemingly in shock. Commander Rex, next in command, was missing and presumed dead, and his replacement during 66, Captain Grimes, succumbed to the guilt and killed himself less than a week after recovering control from the chip.

There had been many clone victims of Order 66 over the years.

Kix and Dogma had been the ones to find him, hanging in the showers, and all the clones quickly decided something had to be done. Someone had to take charge before things spiraled.

Never Another Krell; that was their main goal. The General had fallen to the dark side, that much was plain, and therefore he needed to be handled and kept away from the men. So the clones reorganized themselves, in the end dividing leadership between the two, Kix cared for the clones, and Dogma dealt with Vader.

General Skywalker had always been a very hands-on leader, interested in every facet of his clones' lives and leadership; Lord Vader, thankfully, was not. He now seemed content to let them largely organize and lead themselves, so long as his orders were carried out, and in the days after 66 he numbly signed the order promoting Dogma and Kix (and generally reorganizing the 501st) without paying much attention to the split command. Nor did he ever question why the supposed commander of the troops spent most of his time seeing to Vader's needs, performing secretarial duties, and mostly just relayed Vader's orders to the clones via radio. Perhaps Captain Rex having been so ever-present made this less suspicious. Perhaps he had noticed and just decided that he didn't care. Regardless, the plan was a success, and while there were many Krells encountered by other clone divisions, the 501st had now not had a man killed by their general in almost 18 years.

Kix meanwhile took on the day to day running of the division. He handled food and medical care, kept track of (and approved or rejected) identifying marks such as hair and tattoos, and interpreted and distributed orders when Dogma passed them down.

On promotions they collaborated. It took a very specific set of qualities to be promoted in Vader's Fist. Upper Command, the inner circle of officers, had to be fanatically loyal to the General and protective of their brothers, able to tell when an order was abhorrent and wrong but carry it out anyway, and varying degrees of the same applied all the way down. They could not risk either a well-meaning mutineer nor a psychopath gaining power.

Then came the Kaminoan Rebellion, 16 years ago. Cracking under years of mistreatment, abuse, and guilt many clones from other battalions joined, determined to strike a blow against the Empire even if it was guaranteed to fail. The Empire, of course, viewed aliens as inferior, and considered clones mere military supplies the same as a blaster or speeder, and so simply ordered the "defective assets" destroyed. After conferring, the 501st agreed that they had to do something.

The General dismissively gave his permission, and his men went to Kamino, in Kix's pocket orders for the Imperial officers that they were not to be interfered with, on pain of Vader's wrath. Again they did whatever they had to, fighting on the side of the Empire, gunning down their own brothers in order to rescue whoever they could from the massacre. Once the rebelling clones understood what they were doing all worked together, successfully passing along infants and cadets through seeming chaos. After the rebellion, the clone army was officially retired. Vader had always favored clones over "human" soldiers, and the remaining supposedly loyal soldiers from other clone divisions were also transferred to Vader's Fist.

The pair had worked tirelessly for 23 years to keep their brothers alive, through four genocides, countless massacres and battles, and despite the entirety of the Imperial army and navy hating them. Now, with the General dead, that all ended. No firing squad, no paperwork, no fuss, they had been stripped of resources and left to starve to death, abandoned along with Vader's other possessions. It took a lot of resources to keep over a thousand men healthy and marching. It would not take long for them to die.

"Blast them!" Kix kicked a footlocker before striking the wall with his fist and resting his head against it. "Blast those kriffing Imp sons of bitches!"

The rant seemed to have found a break at last, so Dogma took the opportunity to respond. "What happened?"

"Just took stock. Checked what we have left. As of today, we're out of medkits, and rations are… we're gonna have to limit them even more."

"There has to be something we can do."

"Like what? We're trapped like fish in a barrel on this blasted rock! No way off, no one to call, nothing to even scavenge besides lava." He paused. "I know it's not likely after this long, but I have to ask… has anyone responded to the distress call?"

Dogma glanced at the communicator and then shook his head. "No. I think there must be orders to ignore signals from Mustafar." Kix sat down across from him, and in the silent understanding of long friendship Dogma pulled a flask from his desk drawer and handed it to him. "Careful, there's only a few bottles left." He continued, "What about those fuel mines? Did you look into them?"

Kix nodded. "Yeah. Not an option. Fully automated, so no supplies or ships, and there's no way we could get to them anyway, hiking. Besides, like I said before, they wouldn't be likely to answer any calls from us."

There was still mining on Mustafar, however it was limited to the opposite side of the planet… and the companies that owned them kept a very close eye, in order to abandon them at the drop of a hat if there was ever any sign of Vader expanding into the area.

The grey-haired medic looked pained. "We need to start thinking about what to do with bodies. You know… In case we can't get out."

"The lava will do fine for that, assuming anyone has the strength to get them there."

The pair lapsed into defeated silence.

Dogma finally broke it. "You know, it's not really that bad. I never thought I'd live to see twenty. And here we are, white hair and all. Couple of geezers."

Kix smiled, "I caught one of the kids calling me 'grandpa' the other day. Who woulda thought." He paused, sad. "They don't deserve it though."

"Yeah."

More silence.

Kix shook his head, leaning forward in his chair. "It can't end like this. Not after everything. There has to be kriffing something we can do."

"Pretty sure we're all just going to Coruscant, but I'll keep looking."

A/N:

*"Going to Coruscant":

Slang

Culture of Origin: Vader's Fist

Definition: We're kriffed