In a way, twenty years wasn't such a long time.
Vader liked the steady, rational tempo of military life. He liked having clearly defined goals, and he liked accomplishing them. He liked being taken seriously, and treated with deference- though he had mixed feelings about being regarded with such fear. His work was his life, and it was simple, orderly, mechanical, and pure (while still providing him with plenty of opportunities to exercise his flair for the dramatic.)
He could only turn to the Dark Side once- all at glorious, frothing, violent once. Twenty years spent living out the consequences of this decision were nothing- An epilogue, an afterthought.
He had fought himself to a stalemate. The constant, blunted ache of loneliness subdued him, while his thirst for vengeance spurred him on- And wasn't that balance, after a fashion?
He seemed to remember that Anakin Skywalker had been an extremely impatient young man, stirred by ravenous desires, and prompted by a kind of blustering, directionless ambition. He remembered pacing vaulted temple hallways like a caged nexu. Counting the hours until he could bury his face in his wife's perfumed hair. Tossing with nightmares in his narrow bunk on many a Force-forsaken, war-torn world. He had dreaded a great many things back then, and looked forward to others, but always he had drunk of the sour nectar of the future with all the reckless thirst of one who regarded his past with no small measure of shame. As Anakin Skywalker, he had anxiously marked each moment which stood between him and his destiny.
But as Darth Vader, he hardly even seemed to notice as days, months, years- and finally two decades- flitted quietly past him, like moats of dust out of the corner of one's eye.
"What are we looking for, exactly?"
They are standing side by side at the edge of the tangling black forest, gray cloaks whipping in the ceaseless freezing wind.
"The source of the conflict," says Obi Wan, arms folded, one hand stroking his beard in thought. This gesture is so painfully familiar, so utterly charming, that it makes Anakin want to hold the Jedi master down and murder him with kisses, but he settles for leaning a little bit closer so that their shoulders just brush.
"And what will it look like?" asks Anakin, trying and failing not to sound impatient. He finds it difficult now to modulate his voice and facial expression, having concealed them both behind his mask for so long.
"You will know it when you see it," Obi Wan smiles.
Together they wade into the dense foliage, mostly making their way by touch through the shuffling dark. The occasional shaft of star-light filtering down through the leaves of the trees reveals them to be just as inky and gleaming as the grass in the meadow. Everything that would be green is black. Thorny branches snag their clothes and tear at the skin of their hands and faces, the knotty, uneven ground tries to hinder them, the cold air stings their eyes and paralyzes their mouths, but they are both strong, and young, and sure-footed again, and they make fine progress all the same.
In this body, Anakin reflects, even pain feels good, like a thrilling test of fortitude which drives him on instead of grinding him down. What a miracle they are, these clambering legs, these grasping arms, this hungry, pulsing core. So far, for a hell, it could be much worse.
Soon they come upon a river in a clearing, its sloping banks covered with slippery gray stones, its black surface leaping with rainbows like a puddle of spilled fuel, like an inverted mirror of the sooty auroras in the violet sky above. It vanishes into the distance in both directions, visible only as scatters of glitter in the frustratingly low light. Its sound is a low, haunting chorus of whispers, cataloging a lifetime of hopes and fears, daydreams and nightmares, and deeds good and evil.
Anakin or Darth Vader gives a short, barking laugh at this, ruination or salvation poured out in a path at his feet. The symbolic architecture of his own subconscious is appealingly literal. They will find the source of the conflict at the source of the river.
Obi Wan, too, is chuckling softly and shaking his head.
"Hey," the former-Sith quips, "I never claimed to be a poet." He turns his gaze back towards the water, abruptly sobering. "Just follow it? That seems far too easy." He takes a deep breath, as if to remind himself that he can, and catches the thick, loamy scent of the forest.
"There is no telling what trials you will face along the way."
"Right," he frowns. Only his full mouth and dimpled chin are visible beneath the hooded veil until he lifts his head, revealing guileless, jewel-blue eyes. "But I have you to help me, don't I? And so, I cannot fail. It was only when we were parted that things went wrong for us- Together, there was nothing we could not accomplish. I was a fool not to see it before." Hesitantly, he reaches out to take the other man's hand and is rewarded with a gentle squeeze.
"I have the utmost faith in you, Anakin."
He peers into the illegible blackness, trying futilely to read what lies beyond the bank of stones. A frisson of nervous excitement inspires him to press his master's hand to his lips in a gesture of mock-chivalry. They are knights of no realm now, wandering off into a dark eternity together without even their swords to light their way. (Perhaps he has a bit of poet in him after all.)
"A mission," he grins. "Just like old times."
And so they walk, against the course of the river. They walk and walk, for what must be days, though the sky never changes, and the night never ends. They walk through thickets, and starlit clearings, and long, dense stretches where they can't see anything at all. They feel their way along, steadying themselves against the trees, and against each others' bodies, scratched-up, bleeding, frost-bitten fingers clasping shoulders, skimming over purpled lips, and sometimes reaching shyly inside folds of soft, gray fabric to find smooth, warm, healthy flesh.
Kilometer after kilometer the river runs, its uncanny chorus of whispers growing ever more tortured and dissonant, as its source draws ever nearer, and still along its slippery shore they walk, and walk, and walk. They walk until finally one day it begins to rain, a freezing, bitter, mercury-colored rain, and they are forced to seek shelter, or be soaked to the skin.
Deep inside a knot of trees they make themselves a bed of soft, dry fronds and lie there, cradling each other close, attempting to rub away the miserable, unrelenting cold. Unfastening their tabards, they lay their bare chests against each other, pulling their cloaks around them both like blankets.
Anakin shudders involuntarily, and not from the temperature. It's just such a treat, such an absolute joy, to feel the press of velvety, naked flesh against his own again after so many lonely, desolate years. He mouths artlessly at Obi Wan's face and throat, long-forgotten urges suddenly overwhelming him.
"Need- Need to feel more of you-" he groans. Remembering the solace it once offered, he reaches for their bond... only to be met with an impenetrable wall of psychic granite. "Master, what is this?" he whimpers, pawing at Obi Wan's face in the dark. "Why can't I touch you?"
"I built these shields to protect myself from Darth Vader."
"Well, take them down now," he demands. "Let me in!"
"I would very much like to do that, Anakin," says Obi Wan, gently, wearily, sounding immeasurably old despite his physical youth. "But I must warn you... Our connection in the Force never had a chance to gradually fade in the natural way. Instead, it was violently ripped out all at once. It has been an object of bitter resentment for you, and of terrible remorse for me, for longer than it was ever a healthy bond. It has festered and decayed inside our hearts. During my long exile, my shields served not only to conceal my whereabouts from you, but also to protect us both from the consequences of the severing. If I remove them now, there will be... pain."
"But, what if it's something I need in order to be healed?" says Anakin, desperately. "It might even be a part of the test."
"If you think it will help you," Obi Wan sighs, "we can try to repair our bond. It can be done- But it must be done very gently, and it will take time."
"Please, Master. I need to able to touch your mind. If there is any love for me left in you- I need to feel it."
"Very well," says Obi Wan, wistfully. He closes his eyes, buries his face in Anakin's hair... and lets go.
The flood of agony is instantaneous. Anakin cries out, deliriously grasping for his master's presence, twisting and moaning in confusion and anguish when a touch which used to give security and comfort brings him nothing but pain. Of the fine, silvery stem which once bloomed between their hearts, only the gnarled, raggedy roots are left. He presses their chests together, trying to make these pulpy stumps connect, but it's like grinding two open wounds against each other. He is only making things worse.
"Anakin-" Obi Wan gasps, "Anakin, stop this-!" He seizes his padawan's head with both hands, forcing the other to meet his eyes. "The remnants-" he grinds out, hardly able to speak through the suffering, "contain within them- the moment of severing-"
"I can't bear it, I need to feel you-" Anakin sobs.
"If you don't stop this right now- that moment- the memory-"
But Anakin doesn't listen (as he didn't listen then) and again, he is burning alive. His screams shake the trees, bring the ice cold river to a rolling boil. His body is perfectly intact, there is no fire in sight- But he can feel it, peeling his flesh away, raping, consuming.
"Anakin, you must let go of me!" Obi Wan urges.
But he can't. He won't. He just presses harder and harder, screams louder and louder, begging for a relief that just won't come.
Resigning himself to the fact that he won't receive any cooperation, Obi Wan grits his teeth and reaches into the bloody, throbbing, psychic mass between them. With deft mental fingers, he painstakingly forges a single invisible strand- The brittle skeleton of a brand new bond. Working calmly through a haze of agonizing pain, he sends the very first trickle of affection over the virgin link.
Anakin ceases his violent thrashing and screaming as these soothing particles of thought hit him, like quicksilver dewdrops, instantly dousing the imaginary flames. He collapses, trembling, and weeping, and grasping blindly for that raw new filament as if it were his only lifeline in a treacherous open sea.
Obi Wan falls beside him, limp with exhaustion. He too is shaking with need. The lone thread offers a meager taste of their old closeness, but its not nearly enough, and in a way, its worse than nothing at all. Worse, because of how it promises, how it teases-
"More- Oh please, more-"
"No, Anakin," he says forcefully, wrapping his arms around the younger man and holding him still. "Slowly. It must be done slowly."
And so they lie for hours together in this way, waiting out the storm. Sharing chaste kisses, and searching caresses, and carefully, tenderly, ever-so-gradually, knitting their bruised souls back together again, one gossamer, candy-floss thread at a time. This is hell, Anakin thinks, this is torture. But each time another fine, silver loop connects, winding itself around the others and pulling itself tight, he sighs in ecstasy, nuzzling Obi Wan's beard with the flat of his cheek. Each time the touch of that familiar presence grows a little bit warmer, a little bit sweeter, and his existence grows a little bit more bearable. Not for the first time, Darth Vader wonders: How can it take so long to repair what took him only moments to destroy?
And still it rains, and rains, and rains.
"You know, I never stopped loving you, Master."
"Yes, you did."
"Well, I never stopped thinking about you."
"That's not the same thing, Anakin."
And at last, too late, he sees:
It's not.