Chapter 12 – Survival

Author's Note: Aaaaand... this is the Anakin's depression chapter as I like to call it. Lol. There's more bonding with him and Reva, and him and Owen, and he gets a much needed push in the right direction. :D

Warning: Substance abuse (alcohol consumption)

~ Amina Gila

It's the faint curl of distress into the Force that awakes him, and he comes awake all at once, half reaching for the blaster that he keeps next to him before he realizes that there's no danger.

Anakin lets out a quiet breath, turning over to look for Reva. She's not next to him as she always is, but he sees her figure not too far away, so he doesn't start panicking. Slowly, he sits up, trying to gauge her feelings in the near darkness. She's sitting near the entrance of their hut, knees pulled up to her chest, arms looped around them as she stares out into the blackness of the desert.

She doesn't move when Anakin slips off the sleeping mat and sits next to her, not saying anything for a few moments. "Nightmare?" he guesses finally.

Even now, three weeks after everything went down, they still struggle with it. They have good days and bad days, and today seems as though it will be the second. Maybe it's because they were trapped inside all day due to a sandstorm. Maybe – it could be a thousand things really.

"Mm." It's not really an answer, but in the Force, Reva flickers with exhausted grief.

Anakin nudges her shoulder lightly. "You can talk to me." He used to say the same to Ahsoka, when she struggled with her grief and guilt after missions gone wrong, where she watched the men under her command die. You can't protect everyone, Anakin told her, You are still learning. It had been different for him, of course; it has always been different for him. He is expected to succeed where others fail, triumph when others find defeat.

It was that burden that crushed him slowly, bit by bit, as the war dragged on. And now that it's over, he is left with a hollow sense of failure, knowing that everything he did was never enough to save the people who counted on him.

"If I had… fought," Reva says haltingly, "I could have saved them." She doesn't look at him, a cool gentle breeze blowing through the entrance, ruffling their hair and clothes.

"You were hurt," Anakin replies, "And a child. It was never your place to protect yourself – or others. It would have been an unfair burden to put on you. What happened is not your failure or your doing. Life is not always fair. We must make the most of it. The Force works in mysterious ways."

She makes a face. "You make it sound so easy."

He laughs emptily. "It is crushing," he replies matter-of-factly, "The knowledge that you survived, the questions of how you could have done better or done more. The truth of it is that we can never know. It is enough that you survived. You could not have saved them. It would only have prolonged the inevitable. They are – at peace. It is not… an easy thing to be the one who survives."

Reva tightens her arms, leaning against his side, and he tucks an arm around her shoulders, holding her small body against his. "We have each other," Anakin adds quietly, "That is not nothing."

It's minutes before she begins to relax, shifting sideways and winding her arms around him, burying herself in his embrace. "I'm glad you're here," she whispers.

Anakin cannot take her guilt or her grief from her, no matter how much he wishes he could. He can only be a support for her, letting her presence soothe him when he falters. And like he said, they have each other. It is not a small thing, when so many Jedi survivors are likely alone and being hunted. They are relatively safe, for now at least.

They sit there for at least an hour before the sky begins to lighten, heralding the start of a new day. Reluctantly, Anakin urges her up, so they can get a head start on their work. Because of the sandstorm that lasted nearly two days, they need to check their vaporators to ensure that they're still functioning optimally before they go to the Lars homestead; no doubt, Owen will be needing their help today.

Over the half month that they've been on Tatooine, they've fallen into a comfortable routine. After checking their vaporators each morning and eating, they head to the Lars homestead. Reva stays there, helping around the farm, while Anakin either aids Owen or goes to Anchorhead or Mos Eisley to find work. Given his skillset as a mechanic, it's easy to find well-paying jobs. Reva doesn't like being separated from him for extended periods of time, but they all have to make do – and truthfully, Anakin is equally on edge when they're apart.

The starfighter – once Grievous' – has been modified into a unique, solar-powered speeder. He redesigned parts of it, so it's still space-worthy, even though it doesn't look like a starship from the outside. But it's a reliable, trustworthy vehicle, and so long as it functions, Anakin intends to keep using it.

While they fly to the Lars homestead that morning, the early morning sunlight shining red gold on their backs, Anakin quizzes Reva on the Huttese he's been teaching her. Not only has he been working to teach her an Outer Rim accent, not too different from the one he had as a child, but also, he's been teaching her Huttese, since it's the second most common language here on Tatooine. Some people only speak it and don't even know Basic. It will help her blend in, which is of utmost importance.

"One of the vaporators isn't working," Owen tells him when they arrive, "And it'll need parts to be fixed. I need to make some repairs on the north side."

Fixing things. That he can do. Sometimes, it seems like that's the only thing he's still good at, amidst all the rest of his many failings and shortcomings. "Send me a list. I will have to go to Mos Eisley, probably." He doesn't want to, but then again, he never does.

"Then I'll expect you back by sunset," Owen replies. They've done this enough times by now. Mos Eisley is a distance away from the homestead, and it doesn't make sense to spend the whole day going to and from. Instead, Anakin will go there, get the parts, and find an odd job or something to make better use of the cost of going.

"Reva, be good until I get back, okay?" he says, turning to her. She looks as unhappy as he feels, and she throws her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pressing her against him, stroking a hand over her hair. And as he does, he can't help but think that this must be what it's like to have an actual daughter. Ahsoka was – she was his. He was tasked with raising her and training her, but they were at war. All he could do was teach her to protect herself.

But with Reva, it's different. With her, he can give into the overwhelming desire to protect her and keep her safe.

(He does not let himself think about his own child, the newborn who is on another planet, maybe even on the other side of the galaxy from him, his own flesh and blood who needs him. He ought to be there. He ought to –)

"Of course," she murmurs into his tunic. Both of them wear the simple, gray garb of farmers and people on Tatooine. It's cheap, light, and durable, protecting them from the elements while not trapping the heat.

Anakin squeezes her again and lets go, checking that his canteen of water is filled, before getting the list of parts and supplies to get from Mos Eisley. He glances back at her as he fires up the engine, speeding away from the homestead. He goes into town quite regularly, but it never really gets easier. Maybe it's not… good, that he and Reva are so attached to each other, but he cannot imagine it being any other way. They are survivors, and all they have left is one another.

When he reaches the town, he estimates that he has three hours of daylight before the suns reach their zenith, and all sane individuals seek shelter from the sweltering heat. First, he gets the parts they need, and haggling over the prices takes time. His tunic is sticking to his back with sweat by the time he's done. Force, it is hot today.

The cantina is nearby, though, and he ducks into the darkness of the interior, immediately being overwhelmed by flashing lights and music. After a moment, he adjusts to the dimness, and the coolness, and he moves to the bar. He has made contacts here, and he might as well check in with some of them while he's here.

"One shot of your strongest," Anakin says, dropping credits on the counter.

The bartender, a Rodian named Idhi, complies, sliding the glass to him. Anakin downs it, feeling the burn of the alcohol. He doesn't drink much, mainly because it's so pointless. He can't get drunk – he has tried before, once when he was newly Knighted, when he was trying to forget the feel of death in the Force, the scent of blood and mud and the stickiness of it plastering his body, after a particularly difficult mission. Nothing had come of it.

He glances around, leaning forward. "Did you get my order?"

He could deal with the Jawas for this, but… well, he would rather remain more inobtrusive. If he pays well, Idhi won't ask him any questions and won't sell him out, either. Most people don't request pieces of durasteel armor, made to certain specifications. Maybe it's foolish, but Anakin wants to do something of use. He's designed a prototype of a spacesuit, and even if he can't get his hands on nanodroids, he can at least experiment with what he can get to see if the design is actually space worthy. Maybe he could sell it for a high price when it's done – get more credits that way. They all need to survive somehow.

"I did," Idhi answers. "The pieces are out back. The freight was extra this time – no questions, you said. I had to get a smuggler involved."

"I said I'll pay you," Anakin reminds, calculating how many credits he has, and how many he can afford to spend on this trip without dropping the balance to a critical point. "You still owe me for fixing your cooling unit. And your speeder."

Idhi grunts. "I'll balance it out," he agrees grudgingly.

Anakin raises an eyebrow. "I think you still owe me some credits."

The Rodian rolls his eyes. "Get a few drinks then, on the house."

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He should be more responsible than drinking in the middle of the day, like one of the scum here who wastes away their lives and credits with alcohol. But he thinks about the oppressive cloud of guilt dragging him down, the deep yearning ache to be with his family again, to be with his child. He thinks about how badly he failed, how many people he failed, how close he had come to defeating Palpatine… and becoming like him.

Most of all, he thinks about how badly he wishes he could stop thinking about everything.

"Sure," he says. "Bring it on."

And when Anakin downs his second shot, he deliberately refrains from tapping into the Force to keep the alcohol from dulling his senses. He doesn't let himself use his power to filter the alcohol from his blood. If he'll drink, he wants to feel it.

Maybe it's useless and impossible, but Anakin wishes that he could forget everything that he's lost, if only for a few hours.

He doesn't know how long it's been when Idhi informs him, over yet another refill, that it's his last free one. "How are you still standing?" the Rodian asks, grumbles really. It's not a serious question, and he doesn't really care either. He and Anakin have an arrangement, and Anakin pays him not to ask questions.

"High-alcohol tolerance," Anakin slurs, tripping a little over the syllables. "Unfortunately."

He leaves the cantina after that, flinching when the brilliant sunlight outside sends pain stabbing through his head. Ouch. Alcohol-induced migraines are awful, because they not only drain away his energy, but also, they completely dull his senses. But. That was… kind of the point?

Anyone else would be too drunk to walk, possibly too drunk to move at all. But he is not most people, and he feels a certain frustration at his inability to – to let go or forget or anything. It seems like a curse, almost, that he cannot ever forget, even temporarily, what has happened. It's been such a short amount of time, and yet – and yet… when he closes his eyes, he can still see the dead bodies in the Temple. He can still smell the smoke, blood, and ash.

If he could go even a day without remembering, that would be just as well.

When he gets back to the homestead much later, the suns are close to setting, and despite his detour at the cantina, Anakin still managed to get everything on his list – as well as picking up the delivery for his little project – in addition to fixing a couple speeders which broke down from the sandstorm that just ended. All in all, he thinks it was pretty successful day, even if he feels a little unsteady still from the alcohol.

"You've been drinking," Owen states flatly once Anakin returns.

He huffs out a breath that isn't really a laugh. "That obvious?" He's still slurring his words, and his head feels foggy. That makes it harder for him to focus on – on the things he wants to forget. But still, it's not enough. It's not what he could get if he wasn't so strong with the Force, if his body didn't metabolize things so rapidly.

Owen presses his lips together, and Anakin pokes at him through the Force; he's radiating annoyance and most of all, concern. "Go clean up," he orders. "You don't want Reva to see you like that."

Hm? Well – no. Probably not. He… hadn't thought about that. Maybe it wasn't one of his best decisions, but oh well. If it helps him cope…

He does as he's told, though, and after a short shower – and silently promising to pay Owen extra for the use of the water – Anakin feels a lot more clear-headed. His grief and depression weigh him down, though, no matter how much he struggles to hold them off and ride through the never-ending storm.

When he leaves the 'fresher, Owen is lingering nearby, working with a broken vaporator part. "Do you have a moment?" he asks.

Anakin hesitates, looking towards the rest of the homestead where he can feel Reva's presence. It's nearly sunset now, and he wants to check in on her, even if, through their bond, he can feel that she's alright.

"She's with Beru," Owen adds, obviously seeing Anakin's glance.

"Sure," he agrees, giving Owen his full attention, already suspecting what this is about. "What is it?"

Owen hesitates slightly, before straightening, meeting Anakin's gaze head-on, determination and resolve settling over him in the Force. "Look, I know it's not easy for you right now," he begins, and it takes all of Anakin's willpower not to instinctively tense up. "You've lost a lot, and… I understand that. I do. But you can't let it get to you like this when you have a child depending on you, Anakin."

"I – I'm not…" His voice trails off as words fail him. He doesn't know to put his thoughts into words, but Owen is waiting patiently, giving him time, and he appreciates that more than he can ever say. "I… had someone," he says finally, quietly, looking down at the floor. "We were supposed to marry. I have a child now, that I may never meet. I left the galaxy in ruin and ran away. I – I failed everyone, Owen. I can't – I do not know how to – let go of that."

"No one is perfect," his stepbrother offers. "You're too hard on yourself. You're only one person. It's not on you to save the galaxy from its own stupidity. You're not alone. Don't forget that. I know it's hard, but you can't let it destroy you like this." He nods to him, the implication clear. Owen doesn't want to see Anakin turning to alcohol to drown out his problems.

It's one thing to hear it, but Anakin has no idea how to actually… put it into practice. He has always felt the burden of being the Chosen One, the one destined to destroy the Sith and bring balance to the Force, the one who would, somehow, make things right. And Anakin has never known how to do that, but that has not stopped him from trying. He always tries – he has to. He is nothing if he does not try and give it his all, even if it destroys him in the process.

"I know," he replies, a bit belatedly. "Thank you."

Owen reaches out, unexpectedly, squeezing Anakin's shoulder. "You don't like sitting still, staying in one place, do you?"

Anakin makes a face. "I am no longer accustomed to it, after the war."

He hums. "Shmi said that about you." They're both content to pretend that Owen's voice didn't waver on the name. "She said that you could never stay still, that she always knew you were meant for something… bigger. Something greater."

Despite himself, tears prick at Anakin's eyes, but he swallows down the emotion. "I am no longer certain I am meant for… anything."

"You're a Skywalker." Owen's tone is a little harsh, sharp, and maybe it stings, but Anakin lets it be, because he knows he needs to hear this. If he can't keep his head straight, it helps to have someone that he trusts, someone who is family to remind him. "Skywalkers never break. When the masters beat them down, they always stand up and keep going. You know this."

Anakin blows out a breath, feeling, for the first time, as if the world is settling into place around him. He knows. Of course, he knows. His mother told him that so many times over the years. Having been away from Tatooine, he had… forgotten. It had become less – it was something he did not think about much, and Owen has reminded him of what it was like, to be the slave child who could face anything without bending. That is who he was. He tried to leave that behind, but… in truth, maybe he was always destined to come back here, to the sand and the suns. To survive, he has to become that person again. Resilient.

"I – thank you, Owen," he whispers. There is so much more that he doesn't know how to say, more that he doesn't even need to, because Owen understands.

His stepbrother nods. "It's nothing," he answers gruffly. "You need to find a purpose, Anakin, your purpose, wherever that leads you."

Somehow, those words feel a little ominous. They feel… final.

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