Disclaimer: read the previous chapter.
Yes, this scene in the trailer is depicted here, and, though I'm not entirely sure that Anakin was on Mustafar, it's a pretty good guess and it fits into this fic's plot.
Enjoy. I debated with myself between the titles A Tortured Soul and Twisted By The Dark Side. I liked Twisted better. Live with it.
Chapter Three
Twisted By The Dark Side.
Anakin stood on a balcony in Mustafar, overlooking the burning, seething lava. It reminded him of the burning, seething, anger and hate within him.
Devoid he was, of light. Of any emotion, save the anger and hate that clashed within him whever he stood still, whenever he thought . . .
Padmé. What would she say, if she could look upon him now? What would she think?
Anakin shuddered as a wave of anger flooded him. She would not recognize him. She would not recognize her husband: the twisted, hating features, the cold, hard eyes, the emotionless expression. She could not recognize him, ever.
She was dead.
He knew that his Angel was dead. She had died in childbirth, bearing her children. Or child. It didn't matter. Not truly. He had no wish to look upon Padmé's child. Not after what he had done, all he had done.
Padmé. His Angel. She was dead. She had died, as he had forseen. She had died alone, screaming his name. He could hear her voice, in his ears, though he had never witnessed her cries . . . "Anakin, Anakin!"
She had died, and he was powerless to prevent it. In a burst of anger, he slammed a gloved fist onto the rail. For all the power the Dark Side had brought, it could not bring his Angel back! Her death was his fault!
My fault . . .
For all the things he had tried to do to prevent her death, for all the deeds comitted, she had stilled died. And it was his fault. She had died, after all, bearing his child.
His fault.
Anakin stood, shrouded and hidden in black, staring out into the lava. Red wave cashed into red wave, forcing one under, melding together. The heat burned his face, hidden as it was by his hood.
He lowered his head, feeling the rage. If Obi-Wan had not held him back, all those years, maybe, maybe, he could have flown to his Angel's side and saved her. Maybe he could have heard he voice, felt her cheek, kissed her lips . . .
Was it Obi-Wan's fault, or his own?
He stood, his dark soul twisting and writhing with hate and anger, overlooking the lava. Twisted by the Dark Side.
A tortured soul.
Note: I have no idea as to when Padmé died. Some say it was before Anakin donned the black mask, some say it was after, some say it was the exact same time. For the purposes of this fic, it was before, and he learned of it.
The tension grows . . .
Reviews welcome, flames too, but please be nice.
