Burn
The suns burned, peeling the flesh from his bones. The sand—sharp, black daggers of superheated obsidian—dug into his skin, cutting through every inch of his body.
I hate sand. It gets everywhere.
Anakin Skywalker closed his eyes; Lord Vader opened his.
Even in the suit, the black monster that had eaten him alive, the face of the dragon that lurked in his soul, he could still feel the flames.
Nine years old again; Ani stood by the burning wreckage of Watto's podracer. The twin suns heat made his skin crawl. He squinted at the sky. Next time, I'll win.
The sunburn hurt worse than the bruises Watto gave him.
Ten years later, Anakin stood tall at Padme's side, a smoldering candle in pressing darkness.
Padme…
Anakin is still a Padawan Learner, not a Knight.
She brushed him off, his insignificance plain in her tone. His face burned; his heart burst into flame.
And the fight with Count Dooku--the pitiful battle in which he had lost his first limb, the lightsaber's red kiss that cauterized the stump where his arm had been.
Lord Vader flexed his right arm. A mechanical whirring reached his hearing sensors.
Three years later, the remaining limbs shorn by Obi-Wan.
Master.
The dying flames in the old man's eyes; the young, promising Jedi, eaten alive by the dragon that lived in his heart.
His skin healed, slowly, with scabs that left him numb.
But he could still feel the lava, the ravage of the flames that danced across his skin.
And the burn of the last words that had left Anakin Skywalker's mouth.
I hate you.