Chapter Text
The world was quiet, but not in the way one hopes for after a battle.
It was the silence of the aftermath. The silence that lingers in the air like the ghost of a scream, still echoing faintly though the source has long since fallen still. Anakin Skywalker stood alone on a ridge that overlooked what remained of the battlefield below. The scorched plains of Geonosis stretched out before him in endless waves of ochre and rust, dotted with craters, burning hulks of destroyed walkers, and the scattered remains of droids and clone troopers alike.
He didn’t move. The wind tugged gently at his dark Jedi cloak, catching its frayed edges and swirling red dust into the folds. A thin veil of ash clung to his boots, his gloves, even to his face—though he did not seem to notice. His lightsaber, still warm from combat, hung deactivated in his hand, dangling from gloved fingers that refused to unclench. The blade had been active far longer than necessary.
It wasn’t over. Not really. Not for him.
The battle had ended hours ago. The final wave of Separatist resistance had collapsed under the coordinated assault by the Republic’s clone forces, backed by Jedi Generals Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Another tactical victory. Another step closer to peace, according to the reports.
But to Anakin, there was nothing victorious about it.
He could still hear the dying—an echo lodged in the space just behind his eyes. The sharp reports of blaster fire. The shriek of metal giving way beneath the cut of a lightsaber. The dull, sickening thud of a clone trooper’s body hitting the dirt. Too many of them had died today. Again.
He closed his eyes and drew in a slow, measured breath. Even the air here tasted of death—charred metal, burnt ozone, and something acrid that clung to the nostrils long after you left the planet behind.
Behind him, boots crunched softly in the dust, hesitant but approaching. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. There was only one presence in the Force that flickered with that particular mixture of light, heat, and concern.
“Skyguy?” Ahsoka’s voice was soft, almost uncertain. “The transports are ready. We’re starting to pull out.”
Anakin didn’t turn. He didn’t respond at first, either. The words caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Finally, after too long a pause, he said without emotion, “I’m fine.”
Ahsoka stepped up beside him, her lekku and montrals dusted with orange ash, her armor scratched and smeared with blood and grime. Her posture was tense but careful, like she was trying to balance respect with worry.
“You always say that,” she said gently. “Even when it’s not true.”
Anakin exhaled slowly, but he didn’t argue. She was right, of course. He always said he was fine. Because to admit otherwise would be to open a door he wasn’t sure he could ever close again.
“They were waiting for us,” he muttered. “That Neimoidian commander stalled for time. He pretended to surrender. Bought enough minutes for the droid reinforcements to encircle our forward units.”
Ahsoka’s eyes shifted. “I know. I saw the aftermath.”
“I killed him.”
“I know that, too.”
Anakin turned to look at her finally. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cold. It was just… weary. Too weary for someone so young.
“He was unarmed. I cut him down anyway. The clones around me—they hesitated. I didn’t.”
Ahsoka held his gaze. “He wasn’t unarmed, not really. He was dangerous in a different way. You did what you thought was right.”
“I didn’t think,” Anakin said. “I reacted. I always do.”
The silence stretched between them. The sun—a harsh, bloated thing—hung low in the sky, casting their shadows long and distorted across the jagged ridge.
“I don’t want to lose who we are,” Ahsoka said finally, voice small but steady. “This war… it changes people. I see it in the faces of the clones. I see it in the Council. I see it in you, too.”
Anakin’s eyes closed again. “I’m trying,” he said, barely audible. “But every time I try to do the right thing, I lose something.”
“You haven’t lost me.”
He looked at her. Really looked. There was sincerity in her eyes. She meant it.
He smiled, faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” he said. “But you haven’t seen how far I’ve already fallen.”
She blinked. “Anakin…”
He turned away before she could say more. His gaze drifted back over the ravaged battlefield. There was no glory here. No triumph. Just loss, and questions no lightsaber could answer.
But more than the carnage around him, more than the gnawing guilt in his chest, he was haunted by something else—something deeper.
Something watching.
It came in dreams. It whispered in moments of silence. A cold presence that lingered just beyond the edges of consciousness, waiting. It wore the faces of the people he loved. Sometimes it was his mother, reaching out to him with bloodied hands. Sometimes it was Padmé, her mouth moving in a scream he couldn’t hear. And sometimes—most terrifying of all—it was Obi-Wan.
The worst part was… it didn’t feel like an enemy.
It felt like a truth he wasn’t ready to name.