Inheritance


47.

Anakin Skywalker is a light burden to bear.

Or a crushing one, depending on your point of view. Here, dangling in my arms as Master Windu and I trudge back toward the Feorian village, the boy is nothing but a bundle of gangly limbs and bruised skin. He is small for his age. I was too. But something tells me he will grow larger than life, large enough to cast a shadow over us all. He could be a great Jedi. He could be a hero. Or he could…

"Nnngh," he mutters, stirring in my grasp. His hand is cut open, crimson ooze drying on my tunics, all over his sleeves. I did tell him to be careful with the knife. Why doesn't he listen to me?

"Sweet Force," Master Windu mutters beside me. "What caused that explosion?"

"Anakin ruptured a repulsor drive pressurizer….I think." I am not incompetent, but my Padawan's technical skill already far outstrips my own. I have never imagined that a bomb could be so easily manufactured from something as quotidian as a repulsor-drive. That such potential for destruction lies latent within the innocuous guise of a common everyday object – it is a chilling thought. It is as though a mere naïve child could somehow harbor all the powers of darkness within his bosom.

The boy is dangerous, master. They all sense it. Why can't you?

"Mnngh," the Chosen One sniffles into my tunics, soiling them yet further. I don't mind. The freezing air is a flail, cutting deep gouges where it whips against my damp clothing.

"He managed to destroy the entire ithyll cave, and with it the vergence. I'd say we have much to be grateful for – his ingenuity included."

"I'll… yes, Master. We have."

I am grateful for Anakin. A strange thought, one that slipped unnoticed beneath my guard. I accepted him, yes – out of gratitude to Qui-Gon. Out of loyalty. Out of – blast it, all right. Out of love. Forbidden attachment. I promised Anakin his Knighthood., yes. Out of duty, out of determination, out of obedience. Out of hope for the future, perhaps. But I did not want a Padawan. I wanted my master back.

Train the boy…. Obi-Wan, promise. He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance.

And this is what the Force gave me instead. A burden, too heavy for the humble shoulders that bear it… and yet, light enough in the present moment.

"So the monster… is gone? Forever?" I ask, tentatively. Could it be possible that the jabuur-weki is utterly vanquished? And all because of a young boy?

Master Windu nods, his eyes peering through the night to the boundaries of the village ahead. Torches flicker here and there, but no leaping flames rise to greet us. There are voices carrying on the wind, Feorians singing and weeping, but no longer gibbering with madness. "It is gone," he decides. "The vergence has been annihilated, and so there is no more projection. I think we may tell our friends the good news."

"Uugh," Anakin's eyelids flicker open, then droop shut again. Exhaustion suddenly claims my own limbs, in mute sympathy. The encounter in the cave was an extremity of nightmare, an ordeal beyond all imagining. And Anakin is young, and untrained.

A knot of Feorians hastens forward to greet us. The chieftain is with them, and Yonso. They stare at us with wide and fearful eyes.

"Lord Jedi! Lord Jedi! What hath thou done? The monster… has it fled?"

Mace Windu stops, his solemn features etched in mellow gold by their single upheld torch. "The jabuur-weki has been slain," he declares, in a booming voice fit to issue a royal proclamation.

A cheer breaks forth, carried across the square and taken up by the villagers, the women who stumble out of crooked doorways, the small band of children cowering near the ashes of the longhouse. "Caloooo! Callay!" they yodel, in the distinctive warbling manner of their people. The chieftain utters some benediction upon us, some praise of our might and worth.

"Take the boy indoors," Master Windu advises me quietly. "I'll see that the Feorians are all right."

And I am grateful for that reprieve, too. I stagger onward to the guest lodging, Anakin growing heavier with each step, until we are within the familiar confines of the hut and my shaking arms can barely manage to lay him down upon the low sleep-mat. I drop to my knees beside it, grateful for simple warmth and shelter.

"Master?"

I drag my eyelids open. Perhaps time passed… or perhaps not. I cannot say. "Anakin." I fumble for the medical supplies in my belt. His hand must be cleaned and bound, bacta applied…

"Master, I'm super really sorry. About – you know. I didn't want to attack you! The jabuur-weki made me do it!"

I treat the wound carefully. "That cave was strong in the Dark Side," I answer, cautiously. "I am not surprised that you felt overwhelmed." Should I be anxious on his behalf? Should I come away from this with some jewel of insight? Stars, I can barely think straight… I will meditate upon it later.

He winces as I smear bacta over the long gash in his palm. "I – master, I thought I was the jabuur-weki for a minute. Like it was me! What if it really got me, what if it was me and I turned into it or something? What would happen then? What would you do?"

"Anakin –" But his face is deadly earnest, and his eyes are glossing over with more unshed tears. Force, the boy wants me to tell him that I would love him anyway or somesuch maudlin sentiment.. I'm too tired for this. But he wants an answer.

"Would you hate me then?" he asks, voice wobbling. He's weary; he's beyond reason. This is not a conversation we should –

"Would you?"

"If you were the jabuur-weki, Anakin , you wouldn't be you, so I don't see really what the question –"

"But would you? Would you hate me then?"

For Force's sake! What does he want me to say? "A Jedi shall not feel hatred," I snap. I did not intend to be so – blast it, his feelings are hurt. "Anakin, forgive me. I would not hate you. There would not be a you. I would only hate the jabuur-weki."

"I thought you weren't s'posed to hate," he frowns at me, puzzled.

"Don't tempt me," I snarl, and instantly regret it.

But he laughs. He laughs. He …understood.

"Anakin, we are both far too tired to discuss this," I tell him.

"Okay. I care about you too, master," he says. "Can I have the blanket? Master Qui-Gon's, I mean?" He points to the magnificent tapestry folded on a crate across the room. The Force brings it flying into his outstretched hands a moment later. "You look pretty bad, master. I think you should rest. And you're covered in blood."

I am, at that. I really can't summon the energy to give a damn.

And the floor suddenly seems as inviting as the most luxuriant bed in any Core world mansion. The jabuur-weki has been slain, and there is only the Force, and peace, and the obliterating sweet call of slumber.

"Move over," Anakin grunts, bony knees and elbows digging into my side. What in stars' name… the blanket settles over both of us, lending a seductive warmth…

..outside the Feroians whoop and holler and cheer, nonsense syllables twining together, a woven song, a tapestry crafted by careful hands, a braid….

"Go to sleep, Anakin," I manage to slur, for he so obviously and badly needs it.