A/N: So, it's been a while since I've written fanfiction. This is also the first time I've written anything Star Wars related so, I'm a little nervous. The fic is written in first person and told from Anakin Skywalker's POV. Consider it a character study. I borrow heavily from James Luceno, Michael Stover, the prequels and The Clone Wars to shape Anakin's personality.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or its incredible universe. It is the brainchild of Mr. George Lucas and I extremely grateful to him for allowing me to borrow his characters for a short while.

Prologue

As I slowly regain consciousness, my first, true awareness is that something hard, angular and decidedly uncomfortable is digging into my left flank. I roll away from it with a low hiss of pain. My second awareness, which is infinitely more acute than the first (because pain has been my constant companion and that is nothing new) is that the distinctive, mechanical whoosh of my respirator does not accompany my sharp intake of breath. And that incredible realization triggers my third and final awareness…I am breathing unassisted for the first time in more than a decade.

The singularity of the moment ironically is what halts my breathing altogether.

I snap open my eyes and I'm immediately swallowed by the inky darkness that surrounds me. As I squint in the gloom, I recognize that the usual crimson haze that colors my world is conspicuously absent. I begin to assimilate slowly, painfully what the means. A violent, uncontrollable trembling begins to spread across my body.

Once more, the reality of it all crashes over me in unrelenting waves. There is no mask. No claustrophobic armor constricting my movements. No traces of my eternal prison at all, that hellish existence from which I had banished all notions of escaping long ago. Most remarkably, not only am I free, but my limbs are my own.

Experimentally and almost in disbelief, I wiggle my bare toes. I flutter my fingers. The motion feels alien and simplistic and yet, I cannot squelch the burgeoning pride I feel in my chest because the extremities and appendages are once again organic, living tissue. I'd almost forgotten I once had them.

My breath, which has been suspended these last few seconds, now quickens considerably and I can hear it reverberating in my ears. It worked! I cannot believe that it worked! I lie there simply overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. I'm stunned. Dumbfounded. Nearly giddy with disbelief. If it's possible at all for a Sith Lord to be giddy…

It is that rather ludicrous consideration that strangles my joy before it can fully blossom. Since when does a Sith ever have reason to be giddy? Rage, pain, and hatred is what they know and how they sustain their incredible power. It's what I know. And I know it well. I've nurtured those emotions for most of my life.

Consequently, as certain as I was of success an instant ago, I am now filled with wary doubt. Do I dare believe this extraordinary moment could be true? How many dreams have I had over the course of this last miserable decade that had also offered a similar, glittering possibility of hope only to be ripped away from my grasp the instant I reached out to take hold of it? Countless times. Over and over. Only to slip through my fingers like flowing water, leaving me again to drown endlessly in my own rage and failure.

I refuse to reenact that age-old farce now. I refuse to allow even a flicker of yearning to unfurl in my cold heart because I refuse to be left broken and desolate when it is over. That is pathetic and weak, and I am neither. I won't cower and weep and rage. I won't be broken. I will simply try again. And again. And again. Until I succeed.

Resolved, I clench my fists and grit my teeth and I wait, preparing for that predictable moment when I wake alone on the cobbled stone floor of a crumbling and forgotten Sith temple. I wait and wait but, nothing happens. The stillness remains. The darkness remains. I remain.

Slowly, carefully I relax my hands. The sound of my harsh breathing scrapes in my frayed nerves as the refrain sings through my veins. It's real. It's real. It's real.

I cannot say that this was exactly what I imagined when I'd knelt before that sacred altar and reached forward to cradle that primitive Sith artifact in my hands, immersing myself in the dark side as I had never done so before. I thought perhaps that I might be physically transported back in time to warn my younger self off his foolish and destructive course. I never considered that my consciousness would be transferred as opposed to my physical body. An unexpected outcome but not entirely unwelcome.

My eyes finally adjust to the pervasive murkiness and muted shapes begin to slowly reveal themselves to me. I can make out outlines of furniture and shelving in the dimness, but every square surface seems to be littered with various pieces of machinery and half constructed droids. Instantly, I know where I am. I am in my bed in my former quarters in the Jedi temple.

This is real. This is true. I am home.

That unbidden thought leaves me baffled. Home? Had I truly ever regarded this place as my home? If I had, it wasn't a sentiment I had ever been cognizant of harboring. In many ways, I hold the same amount of fondness for this place that I hold for Tatooine…which is precious little. And yet, except for the grand apartment that I had only sparingly shared with Padmé during our abbreviated marriage, the temple and Tatooine are truly the only homes that I have ever known. I cannot deny that I feel a measure of comfort here, even as I struggle to reconcile myself with the realization.

Now that I am finally convinced that this is no dream, I can let myself drink it in. Taste it. Smell it. Let it wash over me.

In tentative inches, I lift my right arm, the one that I lost so long ago to Dooku, still mulling over the shock that it is there at all. I turn it over for inspection, studying the protruding bones of my wrist, skim the fingers of my left hand over fine, pale hairs that cover my forearm, marveling that all of me is flesh again. My slight movements eventually cause low, filtered light to hum to life within the cramped confines of my quarters, illuminating the unrestrained chaos surrounds me.

I note the scattered piles of mechanical parts with a grimace and wonder vaguely how I had ever managed to function in such disordered confusion. At 9 years of age and as a 22-year-old young man, I can recall finding such appalling circumstances tolerable, even welcome. Now, however, at 33, the mess feels as suffocating as that damnable suit had once been.

Truthfully, though, these shambles, while deplorable, are the least of my concerns. I squint in the low light, fascinated by the sight of my own hand, admiring the slender elegance of my flexing fingers, reacquainting myself with the bronze, healthy glow of undamaged skin. Wherever the Force has chosen to hurtle me in time, clearly it is before that ill-conceived duel with Count Dooku on Geonosis. Before the war. Before Padmé and our marriage.

And perhaps that is for the best, though the thought causes me pain. After all, hadn't she been the catalyst for this far-flung endeavor in the first place? She and Obi-Wan. Wasn't my all-encompassing need to undo her death, to somehow redeem myself in my former master's eyes despite the years I had spent convincing myself that I did not want or need his approval, and the impetus that drove me to wipe away my numerous, bloody sins the very reasons I had sought so earnestly to control time and space in first place? And I had succeeded. My perseverance was rewarded.

So, it was better this way. Better that Padmé, my beautiful, fierce, perfect angel, never fall in love with me at all. Better that I make some feeble attempt to be the loyal Padawan that the great Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi deserved. And all the better that none of us ever become hapless pawns in Palpatine's grand machinations, never to be touched by the incessant tragedy it seemed I was destined to bring to us all…

I quirk my lips at the thought. Not this time. Never again. This time I will choose my own destiny. I will write my own future. And no one will ever make me a slave again.

It is a rather lofty pronouncement coming from someone who cannot even muster the coordination needed to roll from his own bed. I wasn't expecting that challenge either. Directing my own body is harder than I anticipated. A fine sheen of sweat dampens my skin as I make the attempt to shift upright again and again but, I'm left spent with the effort. I would laugh at my own ineptitude if it weren't all so maddening.

I can't get my legs to respond in accord with my desire. Commanding their movement is infinitely more difficult than bringing up my arms behind me to brace my weight. It's almost ridiculous because I've grown so accustomed to the solid weight of my durasteel prosthetics that moving my own flesh limbs should require no effort at all. Yet, it feels very much like trying to manipulate wet clay. They are loose tendrils, flopping and flailing with no direction. I can feel them, and I know that they are there, but they don't feel tethered to my body at all.

After what seems like an indeterminable amount of time, I manage to scoot into a seated position and the effort leaves me weak, winded, perspiring… If it takes this much strength to sit, how can I possible muster the energy to stand, let alone walk? Surely wielding a lightsaber at all is far beyond me even with the Force currently pulsating around me like a shining beacon. Perhaps, I am being too greedy to expect more than this…

But as soon as that humbling thought asserts itself, I crush it into ash. I do expect more, and I make no apologies for it. I will have what I seek because I have come too far and sacrificed too much not to accomplish my purpose, no matter how impossible it seems or undeserving I may be. I will stand. I will walk. I will take my life back. And I will make Sheev Palpatine curse the day he took me as his apprentice.

With that renewed determination, I rise to my feet on unsteady legs. For a moment, I fear my resolve may not be enough to keep me standing but the Force is with me, and it is strong. Still, I teeter. I wobble. I desperately grope for some sturdy surface that will ground me as I stumble towards the fresher.

Tools and machinery tumble haplessly from their precarious perches, scattered by my hands as I make my slow advance. Despite the clattering they cause as the fall to the floor, thankfully the dissonant crescendo doesn't bring anyone running to my quarters. Perhaps it should but I'm certain that those in the temple have come to expect the noise and clatter that follows me. I breathe a sigh of relief both for that small miracle and over having finally reached my destination.

When I'm straight and steady, I brace my hands on the edge of the small metal sink and, for the first time, I am confronted with my reflection. Instead of the black, obsidian mask of Vader that I've grown accustomed to, it is the youthful face of Anakin Skywalker that stares back me. I'm not quite prepared for the image of my teenage visage again. It feels as if I'm looking at a stranger.

I suppress a small, scoffing laugh over how fresh-faced I appear. Angular cheeks, rosy and taut with just the barest hint of baby fat, high, chiseled cheekbones, plump, pink lips, and that ridiculous braid, the signature feature of a Jedi padawan draped over my shoulder. It is the handsome, unmarred countenance of an unassuming teenaged boy, a mere child. I snort again.

It is only my eyes, filled with the jaded cynicism and cold efficiency of a ruthless murderer and burning a sulfurous, sickly yellow ringed by crimson betray the truth of what I really am…what I am hoping to escape.

"Well…that certainly won't do…"

I close my eyes briefly and when I open them again the yellow is gone, replaced by a limpid blue that I had once imagined would never return. However, despite the change in color, the shroud of darkness never completely leaves me, and the implacable hardness of my gaze remains.