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Chapter Text

It wasn’t like Darth Vader had dreamed. Not at all.

How many times in the nineteen years since being left to die on the black sands of Mustafar had he fantasized about exacting his revenge on Obi-Wan Kenobi? How many different ways had he imagined that he might one day find the bastard wherever he had gone to ground and destroy him?

An impersonal state execution or an “accidental” tumble into a sarlacc pit, say, would not be acceptable; the death had to be by Vader’s own hand. He was certain he deserved at least that much for all that he had suffered in the wake of Obi-Wan's betrayal. He probably deserved even more.

Sometimes he dreamed that Obi-Wan might die slowly, pieces of his body burned and then sliced away, little bits at a time, until his spirit was thoroughly broken. On other occasions he dreamed he might cut Obi-Wan in half at the waist after a long and glorious duel, as Obi-Wan himself had once done to Darth Maul long ago on Naboo. Or perhaps he would take him by surprise and stab him through the heart from behind so that the crimson blade of Vader’s lightsaber was the last thing Obi-Wan saw before the smug brightness behind those capriciously-colored eyes of his faded.

In most of his vengeful daydreams, though, Obi-Wan died by beheading—clean, simple…

…final.

Or so it should have been. But when the time came at long last, Obi-Wan had barely even put up a fight.

And then, sparing a brief glance at the stormtroopers standing just beyond the blast door, he threw Vader an enigmatic smile, closed his eyes, and stopped fighting altogether.

It hadn’t been a hologram, and it had definitely been Obi-Wan, although exile did not appear to have been particularly gentle. Vader had felt the slight but unmistakable resistance of his lightsaber slicing through the sinew and bone of a human neck. Yet no severed head rolled away, no body slumped heavily to the ground. All that was left of Obi-Wan were his lightsaber and a pile of dusty, tattered brown robes.

He was so shocked that he forgot his anger and lust for revenge. Distantly, he heard the sound of blasters; the stormtroopers had engaged the escaping Rebels in the hangar bay. He paid those insignificant creatures no mind. Where was the body? What fell sorcery was this? Impossible! The dead don’t just disappear. He tried stomping on the robes a few times to ensure that it wasn’t merely his eyes deceiving him—

<Anakin!>

Vader’s head shot up. He could have sworn he had heard…

<Anakin, I’m over here.>

Yes, Obi-Wan’s voice was unmistakable. As were the words being used to beckon him: No one else on this battle station could possibly know that name. The sound came from further back down the corridor. He whirled away from the entry to the hangar bay, ready to chase, corner, and kill the old man once and for all.

Except there was no one there. He could see a dozen more stormtroopers, armed and ready and sprinting at full-speed toward him; Obi-Wan could not have gotten past them undetected, and there was no one between them and Vader.

Behind him, he could hear shouting. The firefight was intensifying. Obi-Wan had been trying to distract him, and he had just fallen for it. Vader spun about to go and assist the troopers when the blast doors sealed shut—practically in his face. He rammed a furious fist into one of the panels. It buckled slightly but did not yield. Solid, reinforced durasteel. Thirty inches thick at minimum. Cutting through with his lightsaber would take too damn long. The Princess and her rescuers would already be making the jump to hyperspace.

Well, well. Obi-Wan was in league with the Rebel Alliance. He should have known. Once a traitor, always a traitor. Vader’s head dropped back down to the crumpled robes at his feet. Almost without thinking, he reached down to pick up Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and clipped it to his belt.

<Come and find me. I’ll be waiting.>

A whisper in his ear.

This time, Vader did his level best not to react. How absolutely fucking fantastic. He was hearing voices now. As if this day hadn’t already been maddening enough.

***

Vader sat in the center of his meditation pod aboard the Devastator.

His helmet and mask had been removed and were hanging suspended from an automated metal arm directly above him. All the better for focusing on his accursed pain. The pain made him angry; anger made him strong; and from this place of strength he was compelled to exact retribution for the recent slate of atrocities committed against the Empire.

So, Obi-Wan Kenobi emerged from exile to assist in the rescue of the Rebellion sympathizer Princess Leia Organa, and then some mysterious Force-sensitive pilot managed both to evade Vader’s pursuit and singlehandedly fire the shot that destroyed the Death Star? These two events couldn’t possibly be coincidental, Vader decided, but he was not able to divine the connection. He wanted answers. Unfortunately, the nameless Rebel pilot had disappeared, and for better or worse, no mysterious voice was obliging him at present. That left him with only one good option.

Force users did not ordinarily possess powers of psychometry, and in any case, the Jedi had been profoundly ambivalent about its destructive potential and never encouraged members of the Order to develop the skill. It was said they feared that the negative memories and emotions which sometimes attached themselves even to the most mundane items might tempt the unwary to the dark side. Vader, however, was no ordinary Force user—and while he had never attempted psychometry before, he felt assured of his success. He certainly wasn’t afraid of whatever psychic imprint Obi-Wan might have left behind on his lightsaber.

Said lightsaber now levitated horizontally in the air between the palms of Vader’s gloved, prosthetic hands.

Vader took careful note of what were apparently a few minor repairs, but otherwise, this lightsaber looked much as he remembered it. Obi-Wan had built it in the final months of the Clone Wars, and everything about the weapon, from the elegant external design to the ultra-slim internal plasma beam modulator, reminded him of the habits and sensibilities of the old Jedi. In another life, he had actually watched Obi-Wan, deep in the Force, assembling all of the components with the graceful, seemingly effortless precision of a true Master. In another life, he’d had numerous opportunities to wield this weapon himself, usually while saving the skin of its rightful owner, and its shape and heft had been nearly as familiar as his own lightsaber.

In another life, that was. Not this one.

Regardless, it would suffice. Vader closed his eyes and sank into his customary meditation. This was no Jedi meditation, where all is made transparent and the Force flows through the self like cool, crystal-clear water. No, this was Sith meditation: He concentrated on fanning the twin bonfires of anger and hatred smoldering in the depths of his heart. Hotter and hotter they burned, until that swirling, raging inferno of emotion burst free from the core of his being, seizing upon the natural currents of the Force around him and reshaping them to reflect his implacable will.

A momentary flash. The span of a second and the span of a lifetime.

He saw himself surrounded by the smoldering wreckage of over fifty B2 super battle droids. He couldn’t remember what had happened or how he had gotten here, but bizarrely he couldn’t be bothered to care…

He saw a cyborg general with four appendages and a collection of trophy lightsabers challenging him to a duel. He was vastly outnumbered by enemy forces, but he was confident of victory…

He saw the boy he had raised and the man he loved hovering on the brink of death. He heard the man scream, “I hate you!” as the flames consumed what remained of that beautiful body. Then everything that he had been died too…

He saw the first morning light touch the sand far below the ridge upon which he stood. The silence went on forever. And the loneliness. And the watching, watching, always watching…

Two suns rising over the Dune Sea.

Vader’s eyes snapped open.

Tatooine.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s hideout was utterly pathetic. It was also pathetically easy to locate.

On the other hand, finding time away from his responsibilities to the Empire in the wake of the Death Star’s destruction had not been quite as straightforward. The battle over Yavin IV had been nothing short of a disaster, one the entire Imperial Navy had been assiduously following up, covering up—or both, depending upon the relevant circumstance. As far as Vader’s Master was concerned, Obi-Wan was already dead by his hand; it would not have been proper for him to trouble the Emperor with the…oddities in relation to this private victory unless unambiguously warranted. Several cycles had therefore passed before he’d been able to act personally on what Obi-Wan’s lightsaber had shown him.

Vader had recognized that jagged sandstone ridge glimpsed during his psychometric reading: the edge of the Jundland Wastes as it fell away to meet the inexorable, erosive tides of the Dune Sea. It had been a simple matter to fly the modest, unmarked shuttle purchased upon his arrival to Tatooine and scout along this border region for any signs of habitation. Vader’s Force-guided intuition did the rest.

He found what he was looking for situated atop a high plateau. For all intents and purposes, it looked like an ordinary settler’s homestead. The characteristic high-domed roofs of the living quarters and eopie stable, along with the sturdy adobe walls enclosing both structures into a single compact, rectangular compound, suggested that it had been built long before Vader had been born. Indeed, it had probably been abandoned by its original owners fifty years ago or more; although boasting commanding views of the terrain from all sides, it was too far removed from any towns or settlements and much too vulnerable to marauding Sand People. Bad for ordinary beings, in other words, but perfect for Jedi Masters who didn’t want to be found.

Still, as Vader landed his craft on a convenient strip of flat ground beside the compound, he couldn’t help but marvel at Obi-Wan’s sheer audacity. To have hidden himself from Vader on Vader’s own miserable homeworld—! Never in a million lightyears would he have considered the possibility. After his mother’s death, he’d sworn never to return here. His former Master undoubtedly remembered that; he might as well have been mocking Vader to his face.

Vader stormed down the ramp of his shuttle. A small locked gate set into one of the compound’s exterior walls was no challenge, and he sliced straight through it with his lightsaber without breaking stride. All that was left between him and any mysteries within was a flimsy wooden door leading to the main living area…

Which abruptly opened of its own accord.

Obi-Wan stood behind it, blinking into the morning light and looking none the worse for wear since their last encounter. His face betrayed only mild curiosity.

“My goodness, this is a surprise,” he remarked. “I wasn’t expecting callers today. Or any day, truth be told. But please, do come in.” Seemingly oblivious to the way Vader loomed over him with the tip of his lightsaber pointed at his throat, Obi-Wan stepped lightly backwards and held the door open in unmistakable invitation.

They stared at each other across the threshold. Neither man spoke.

Nonplussed, Vader decided there was nothing for it, sheathed his saber for the time being, and followed Obi-Wan into his home.

“Would you like some tea? I was about to put a kettle on.” Obi-Wan gestured to a squat gas stove. Vader did not deign to respond, but Obi-Wan, without missing a beat, continued his prattle, almost as if he were talking to himself and only pretending to entertain company. The part about not getting very many visitors must be true. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. To what do I owe this pleasure? You really should come visit more often, Anakin.”

The sound of that name jolted Vader into action. “You will not mock me,” he roared. How had he forgotten his righteous fury, if even for a brief moment? “Draw your weapon now, or I will strike you down where you stand!”

“Now, now…” Obi-Wan held his hands up in a placating gesture but otherwise stood his ground. There were no weapons, not even a blaster, hanging from his utility belt. “I am unarmed, as you can see. There’s no call for violence here.”

“And where do you think your lightsaber is?!” A trick question. As far as Vader knew, it was still right where he had left it before embarking on this little excursion—safely aboard the Devastator.

But Obi-Wan just shrugged, his expression blithe and untroubled. “I seem to have misplaced it.”

Well, that might be one way of putting it. This was beyond pathetic.

“What happened to ‘This weapon is your life,’ old man?” Vader snarled, his always-fine strand of patience now very close to snapping.

“Hmm. Looks like you got me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said cheerfully, lips turned upward into a disarming smile.

Did he think they were playing some sort of game?! Obi-Wan began to wheeze and choke and clutch at his throat, struggling in vain to break Vader’s powerful Force hold. Vader lifted his right arm higher to finish the job, his hand tightening into a fist—

The hand he was holding in front of him was made of flesh.

Obi-Wan fell back heavily against a support pillar and heaved grateful, gasping breaths.

Vader stared at his hand. His two bare hands. He looked down at himself; he wasn’t wearing his life support suit. In its place were a simple, dark tunic, comfortable leggings, and leather boots. He felt up and down his legs; they were real too. The control panel at his chest had disappeared entirely and—his hands leapt involuntarily to his face—so had his mask and helmet. When his fingers dug into the abundant hair on his head, he nearly shrieked. Anger forgotten, abject terror now warred with exhilarated wonder in his heart, and without the benefit of his respirator, he began to hyperventilate.

“What have you done to me? Why do I look like this?! Who am I??” Vader managed to whisper. He brought his breathing back under control only with considerable effort.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and began massaging it absentmindedly with his fingertips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You are Anakin Skywalker, and you, my former Padawan, look exactly the same as you always have. Well, more or less,” he qualified with a reproachful tilt of his head. “I would remind you that it has been awhile since you took the time to visit your old Master.”

Vader stared. He had the temerity to look aggrieved? Had they both gone insane? “What— What in all the Sith-forsaken hells is going on?!”

“Language, Anakin. Do remember to try to be civilized. Now then…” Obi-Wan smoothed down his robes and straightened the collar of his tunic. “I believe I offered you tea?”

***

Tea had been readily forthcoming, but Obi-Wan had not. Nothing—nothing—Vader could do or say seemed to convince Obi-Wan that he was anything other than a dear, if somewhat negligent, friend making an unexpected social call. He was deaf to questions about his disappearance on the Death Star and Vader’s miraculous transformation. It was surreal, and while Vader had lived long enough to know firsthand how much was possible with the Force, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more here...something he just was not seeing.

Whatever that something more was, however, Vader did not think he was likely to find it in what passed for Obi-Wan’s humble abode. It had taken him less than three seconds to fully assess the space, note that Obi-Wan was still as much of a neat freak as he had ever been, and conclude that that there was precisely nothing of remotest interest to a Dark Lord of the Sith to be discovered here.

No Rebel pilots hidden anywhere either. That would have been much too convenient.

Vader eyed the steaming contents of the ceramic mug dubiously. Obi-Wan had always taken his tea strong and black, but this murky sludge was taking tea to a whole new level. He took a tentative sip. Well, that explained it. No amount of bitter tannin was ever going to completely conceal the high concentration of mineral salts and insoluble particulate matter in this water. It was barely potable. The part of him that would always be a little slave boy from Tatooine was appalled.

“Where did this water come from?” he asked, the pitch of his voice lowering ominously. Any moisture farmer peddling water of such poor quality to gullible offworlder hermits ought to be executed in front of his family.

“I have a vaporator out back,” Obi-Wan said, drinking deeply from his own mug and looking unconcerned. He gestured vaguely in what Vader presumed was the general direction.

Vader slammed the unpalatable tea down onto the table. Obi-Wan flinched at the sound. But Vader merely turned in the direction of the door and stormed outside, pointedly ignoring Obi-Wan, who, after checking Vader’s mug for cracks and the table for scratches, followed right behind him.

The vaporator was more or less where Obi-Wan had indicated it would be, barely ten yards beyond the wall of the compound. It was a standard solar-powered homestead unit, an older model, to be sure, but not an obsolete one; nothing appeared to be out of order. Vader had to crouch to get down to eye level with the control panel; nothing was amiss with its program settings either. Then he popped the maintenance hatch open. It took some effort to bite back the string of expletives threatening to escape.

“Obi-Wan, when is the last time you’ve performed any basic maintenance whatsoever on this vaporator?”

Obi-Wan looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Ah, you see… I—”

“Forget it. I already think I know the answer.” Twenty years, or Vader was raised by the Hutts. Obi-Wan’d always been hopeless with anything mechanical. How had he managed to survive for so long on his own? Was he trying to die? “Just bring me a toolkit and some neutralizing fluid. You do have neutralizing fluid, don’t you?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, yes, of course.” Obi-Wan bustled back inside with alacrity. At least he still had the wherewithal, it seemed, to be embarrassed about such things.

The basic toolkit was wholly inadequate. Vader had to use brute force to open the collection tube, but the condenser coil was so befouled with contaminants that it practically snapped in half when he reached in to touch it. Vader did actually swear aloud then, and Obi-Wan, who persisted in hovering nearby and making himself utterly useless, admonished him for his foul language. In truth, this was as close to unsalvageable a situation as Vader had ever seen; most homesteaders would just replace the whole hydrostatic apparatus altogether and be done with it. Vader, however, was not most homesteaders. In the end, cleaning and servicing Obi-Wan’s vaporator took nearly five hours. Further adjustments to maximize optimal output added an extra three quarters of an hour, but by the time he’d resealed the maintenance hatch with a satisfying metallic snap, he felt considerably calmer. He had always been very good at fixing things.

“That should do it,” Vader rocked back on his heels, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked up at Obi-Wan with satisfaction. “No one on Tatooine will be condensing sweeter water than you.”

The first new harvest would be ready tomorrow. He could feel himself grinning. When Obi-Wan offered him a hand, he took it. Obi-Wan pulled him to his feet as easily as if he were made of air.

***

Upon their return indoors, Obi-Wan pointed immediately to a narrow archway curtained off from the rest of the living area and said flatly, “’Fresher.”

Vader shrugged and complied with the implicit command. Repairing the vaporator had been dusty, sweaty work—he’d ended up drinking several servings of that horrid tea to stay hydrated, the irony—and Obi-Wan had always been fastidious about his personal space. This hadn’t changed, apparently, even in exile.

Well, Obi-Wan hadn’t been spending that exile in the lap of luxury, that was certain. Maybe there was some justice in the galaxy for the mentor who had betrayed him after all. This refresher was far and away the most primitive Vader had seen in a long time. No running water, which was a given, but no sonic shower either. Just a low stool, a toilet pan, and a small cabinet with a basin and a narrow mirror mounted to the wall above it.

A mirror.

Vader approached cautiously. Odd. It was strange but not as dislocating an experience as he might have anticipated. In his heart of hearts, he supposed, the scarred monstrosity he had become was not him, not really, no more than the fearsome mask he wore. When Vader envisioned his physical self in his mind’s eye, which admittedly wasn’t all that often, he always remembered the face of the man he had once been—and this face in the mirror was much as he remembered. Wider and a bit more weathered, perhaps; age had etched several fine lines across his forehead. The moody, hollowed out shadows under his eyes had deepened, but the eyes themselves were still blue. And his hair was still styled in the same shaggy cut he’d preferred in the final months of the Clone Wars.

As he removed his tunic, he continued to study the parts of his body he could see in the mirror. His neck and shoulders had grown broader with age, his arms heavier and more thickly muscled. His skin and its soft layer of hair intrigued him, and his own hands, reliable and rugged after a day’s honest labor, fascinated him. The craggy hills and divots of his joints, the milky ovals of his fingernails—these had not survived with him into adulthood, and he’d never seen them before. The same joys of discovery were to be found once he’d removed his boots and leggings, starting with the delicate arches and deceptively strong bones of his feet, and ascending up his rounded calves, past his knees and toward his thighs—

His genitalia was intact. Of course. Vader grimaced. He’d never regretted losing this part of himself. It had been a weakness, a distraction from the true path of power…

Enough, he remonstrated himself silently, you are here to get clean.

There were a few jars of bathing oil and several exfoliating stones in the refresher cabinet. Vader went to work, rubbing the oil into his skin and loosening the grime so that it could be gently scraped away. He went slowly, making sure to be thorough. This was good, so very good. Lovely. He’d forgotten how wonderful ordinary care and maintenance of the human body could feel, and soon, in spite of his best intentions, the pleasure of bathing began to transmute into another, insistent and all-too-familiar, animal heat.

Oh well. What did it matter, really? Vader massaged a generous portion of oil onto his penis. It hardened quickly at his touch, lengthening to curve upwards toward his navel. He pumped the shaft with loose, lazy strokes, not to achieve orgasm but simply to luxuriate in the delicious sensation. With his other hand, he felt the tangled nest of his pubic hair and the vulnerable weight of his scrotum. His hips were undulating blissfully. The muscular ring of his anus was beginning to flutter. This was exquisite; Vader allowed his eyes to drift shut.  

“I thought you might want a towel—” Obi-Wan came to an abrupt halt.

Vader turned and looked. Obi-Wan seemed to have frozen solid. A towel dropped forgotten to the floor from an outstretched, nerveless hand. He looked two decades younger suddenly, blue eyes riotous, stormy, and fixed on Vader’s erection, mouth open and slack with inexplicable yet unmistakable yearning. This was a most unexpected development. No one had looked at Vader like that in a very long time.

The emotions he felt rolling off of Obi-Wan in hot, shimmering waves were infectious. Vader surged forward without warning, grabbed him by the shoulders, and slammed him backwards against the refresher wall so hard he was sure to have knocked the breath out of him. He had the advantage of height and weight as well as surprise, and he kicked Obi-Wan’s legs apart, pressing one thigh cruelly against the hardness he knew was already there hidden beneath those robes. As Vader proceeded to tear his clothing off and lay claim to every inch of newly exposed flesh with mouth and lips and tongue and teeth, Obi-Wan gasped and whimpered incoherently.

Those helpless cries further inflamed Vader’s desire and reignited his anger. Everything that he had lost, everything that had been taken from him—now he would use Obi-Wan’s body to take a measure of it back. He pushed his penis up roughly between Obi-Wan’s buttocks; he wanted to hear Obi-Wan scream.

He was too tight. Immediate insertion was impossible. He had never been used by another man, Vader knew, and had probably, for that matter, never before lain with anyone at all. Without ceremony, Vader rammed two fingers into Obi-Wan’s rectum. Obi-Wan’s body convulsed with surprised pain; his erect penis, trapped between their bellies, released a spurt of warm, clear fluid.

“Don’t— Please—!” Obi-Wan gasped, having evidently recovered the power of speech under such extreme duress.

“You would dare presume to deny me, old man?” Vader growled.

“No. No! It’s just—” He gasped again as Vader jabbed his prostate. “Not…not here. I’m begging! Please— Do this properly. Take me to bed.”

Leave it to the virginal Obi-Wan to be a secret romantic.

Vader wasn’t sure why he complied, but he did…albeit perhaps not with the spirit of the request. He simply dragged Obi-Wan to the bedroom and threw him facedown on his own bed. Then, pinning Obi-Wan’s arms above his head with one hand, Vader mounted him. Penetration proved much easier from this angle, and he succeeded in fully seating himself with one violent shove. Ah yes, the heat and the tightness were glorious. He pressed his chest against Obi-Wan’s back and raked his fingernails up and down Obi-Wan’s sides. Vader’s first orgasm came quickly, but he barely noticed it, save for the additional lubrication it provided as he resumed thrusting even harder and faster. Distantly, he heard the erotic slapping sound of their bodies coming together again and again. He felt his scrotum begin to tighten. The second orgasm took him by surprise with its intensity; his muscles seemed determined to squeeze every last drop of semen out of the tip of his penis and into the body beneath him. A whole lifetime’s worth of rage poured out of him along with it. Vader shouted and collapsed.

Some indeterminate amount of time passed before Vader realized Obi-Wan was still trapped beneath him and keening—a high, thin, wordless wail. Feeling suddenly remorseful, he sat up and rolled Obi-Wan onto his back. There were bloodstains on the sheets. Obi-Wan was drenched in sweat and weeping. His penis was weeping too, the glans swollen a near-painful purple. He canted his hips upwards toward Vader, a desperate plea for release. Nothing had ever been more beautiful.

“Shhh, shhh… I’ve got you,” he murmured to Obi-Wan.

And he did. Vader wrapped both of his hands around the shaft of Obi-Wan’s erection. The flesh was living shimmersilk, the veins the finest Chandrilan lace. Vader lowered his mouth delicately onto the glans, probing the urethral opening and swirling around the crown with the tip of his tongue as he went. Obi-Wan jerked spasmodically, his penis sliding abruptly down Vader’s throat until his nose was buried in damp, fragrant pubic hair. Vader had just about managed to bob his head up and down thrice on the full, throbbing length when Obi-Wan heaved a giant sob and came, semen salty, bitter, and sweet all at the same time as it filled Vader’s hungry mouth.

But Obi-Wan’s ardor still burned too hot to have been quenched so easily. Lips and hands roamed over every inch of Vader’s body, seemingly everywhere at once, eager to memorize the most minute detail. They writhed against each other as they embraced, their penises rubbing together provocatively. Obi-Wan moaned; he was close to another climax. Vader was as well. This time, however, Vader lay back, opened his legs in wordless invitation, and offered himself. He knew he’d hurt Obi-Wan and figured Obi-Wan would want to hurt him back.

He was wrong. Obi-Wan worked him slowly and with infinite care, anointing them both liberally with his supply of bathing oil so that, when he pressed into Vader at last, there was only the most profound ecstasy of submission. They hung together there in that moment, suspended in a paroxysm of pleasure, Obi-Wan’s light, hesitant fingers exploring the place of their joining like he thought it was a miracle.

“Move, dammit,” Vader gritted out.

The first thrusts were tentative and considerate, but soon he was gliding in and out of Vader with increasing confidence. Vader wrapped his limbs around Obi-Wan’s body and pulled him closer, matching the instinctive rhythm with thrusts of his own hips and flexing the muscles of his anus in time with each stroke. So intent was he on maximizing his partner’s gratification, in fact, that he momentarily forgot his own. Indeed, he took hardly any conscious notice of the way the pace of their lovemaking gradually accelerated until they were both shuddering with need.

“Oh, Anakin…my Anakin…” Obi-Wan repeated over and over again like a chant—or a benediction.

Vader silenced those cries with a scorching kiss—their first—and clung helplessly to Obi-Wan as the irresistible tempest of orgasm swept them both headlong into a weightless place where they were the only two living beings in the whole of the universe.

After an eternity, they were once again surrounded by ordinary whitewashed adobe walls, tangled in the well-worn blankets of Obi-Wan’s ordinary bed. Night had fallen. They stared at each other in the fading light with something like shock, neither able, or perhaps willing, to be the first to disengage.

“Stay inside me,” Vader begged. “Please. I don’t want it to end…”

Obi-Wan nodded.

Vader lay awake the whole night, holding Obi-Wan’s vulnerable, quiescent penis inside of him while the beating of their hearts and the pace of their breathing gradually synchronized. His body curled protectively around Obi-Wan, and he wished that they could stay this way forever. They were at peace.

***

But morning did come eventually, as it always does.

Obi-Wan, ever the early riser, was already out of bed. He pressed a tender kiss to Vader’s forehead and said, “Time to get up. There are clean clothes in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

Vader grumbled. There was a chill in the air. He snuggled more deeply into the fading warmth of the bed and inhaled the intoxicating blend of their sex and Obi-Wan’s own unique scent.

He could hear Obi-Wan beyond, busying himself with inconsequential household chores, the desert hermit happy at last to have a companion to relieve his solitude.

Nothing for it, he supposed. Vader stretched and got up to check the chest.

Inside were neatly-folded peasant robes of the sort favored by Humans on a thousand different worlds. Rough, well-worn cloth, in a standard size. Similar to a Jedi’s, as a matter of fact. No surprise, then, that donned and appropriately folded, they fit him perfectly. Strangely, this did not trouble him.

He stepped out of the bedroom—

—and as soon as he did, he knew.

A fine layer of Tatooine’s infernal sand covered every surface—the sort of accumulation that would take many uninterrupted weeks. A brief glance down to the control panel of his chest told him that he was once again imprisoned in his life support suit. Another glance back over his shoulder revealed a neatly made, and empty, bed. The main living area looked as if the owner had tidied up, stepped out for a spell, and then never bothered to return. There was no sign of any disturbance, no sign of Obi-Wan, nothing at all…except…

Placed in the middle of the table where they had taken their tea yesterday was a lone stoneware pitcher. Vader approached cautiously and saw that it was filled to the brim with clear, sweet water.

<Thank you.>

The merest rustle of air. Grains of sand blowing off the tops of the dunes.

<This is not the end.>

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Text

“This is not the end, Ani,” she said. “This is the end of the beginning.”

Vader sighed but did not turn to look at his wife. After twenty-five years of marriage, they could see straight into each other’s hearts without having to look each other in the eye. Instead, they lay in bed side by side in quiet companionship, watching the dawn of a new day spread its rosy, tapered fingers along the domed ceiling above them. Her body, a warm, solid presence beside him under the covers, should have brought him unadulterated joy and comfort; his many responsibilities to the Empire meant that they were too often apart. In fact, he had every reason to rejoice—especially on this day of all days.

Yet this particular morning he felt strangely restless. He’d sooner hold the wind in his hands than quash this nebulous sense of unease. Jittery eddies of nervous energy swirled about in the shadowy, far-flung corners of his mind. Every time he tried to focus directly on them, they seemed to hiss and blow away, like air out of a punctured balloon. They never went far, though.

Something wasn’t quite right. Vader tried telling himself it was his imagination.

“I just can’t believe our son is actually getting married,” he admitted, breaking the silence at last. “I remember holding him in my arms like it was only yesterday. Where did all the years go? It makes me feel so...”

“…old?” Padmé giggled and turned onto her side so that she could sit up slightly on one elbow and look down upon his prone body with a gently mocking appraisal. “Don’t worry. You’re not at death’s door quite yet, old man.”

“Did you just call me an old man?! I’m still younger than you are!” Vader growled. His worry was forgotten. In a flash he had knocked Padmé heavily back into her pillow and climbed on top of her, his legs straddling her hips and his hands holding hers high above her head. She grinned, her eyebrows lifting in challenge. Although her body had softened and thickened with age and her abundant brown curls were now shot through with strands of silver, Padmé was no less beautiful in Vader’s eyes than she had been when she had first appeared before him disguised as one of her own Handmaidens. She was—and would always be—his angel.

“You call this old?” he murmured. The stiffening length of his penis touched her left inner thigh suggestively.

“Save it for later. There’s a full moon tonight.”

“But we don’t want to distract Shiraya from our precious newlyweds, now do we?” He nuzzled behind her ear and began to lay a trail of hot kisses down the curve of her jawbone.

“You know full well that She blesses all beings who consummate their union under Her holy light. The music of the tides swells when the song is shared.” A lecture. She was pretending to be unmoved by his attentions.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. What kind of mother wants to listen to her son having sex, anyway?”

“Anakin—!”

Vader pressed his face firmly between the two slopes of Padmé’s breasts and made a long, loud farting noise. They both burst into helpless, gasping laughter.

“Stop that,” she admonished him when she finally had breath enough to spare. “I know you have little patience for Nubian tradition, but you will make an effort today…for Luke if not for me.” Her tone was light, but he knew she was fundamentally in earnest.

“Far be it from me to disrespect the Goddess, my love.” While his tone was placating, his eyes still twinkled with mischief. “This ‘old man’ is still young enough to go twice in one day. Shall I favor you with a demonstration now?” His penis was fully erect. He nudged the engorged little button of her clitoris with the wet tip of his glans. She was always so eager and ready for him. One tiny thrust and—

“Hmm. Tempting. Alas, I regret that I must decline your generous offer at this time,” Padmé said with mock formality. Pushing Vader aside and freeing herself from his grasp, she rose fully from the bed and made her way to her dressing room. “Come, we must get ready. The guests will begin arriving within the hour,” she said without looking back at her husband. “It’s time to face the day, darling Father.”

Vader heaved a second, and on this occasion symbolically frustrated, sigh. Then he climbed out of bed to follow her.   

***

The bride was radiant, of course, but Vader thought that Padmé was even more lovely still—a resplendent vision in silver embroidery and layered gray and white shimmersilk.

As the young Queen Amidala, she had worn traditional formal dress of the Nubian nobility as visible symbol of the dignity of her office and commitment to public service, but since then there had rarely been occasion to do so. Vader could not remember the last time he had seen his wife made up in the style of elaborate headdress, white face powder, and ruby lip paint that had so awed him as a boy. Today she would attend the bride-to-be as The Mother, one of the three Sacred Aspects of Naboo’s moon goddess Shiraya. Padmé’s mother Jobal was also in attendance as The Crone, and her youngest niece Pooja was The Maiden.

After midday, the three would join the bride in a meditative seclusion from which they would not emerge until the start of the marriage ceremony at sundown. But at the moment it was still morning, and the Naberrie women were bustling about like little silver whirlwinds around their charge, admiring her beauty, and showering her with excitement and affection. Said charge was, Vader reckoned, taking all this over-the-top, fawning attention with exceptionally good grace.

“You are to be congratulated for your continuing good humor, Daughter,” he said. “I was not nearly as patient with Padmé’s religious devotion when I was a young man taking his marriage vows.”

Padmé threw him an exasperated glance over the bride’s shoulder, but the bride herself merely inclined her head in respectful acknowledgment.

“It is an honor to be wed before the Goddess, Father. My homeworld has never had a moon orbiting it, but anyone can see how important the moon and its worship are to the Naboo. Luke has already endured the public scrutiny of a ceremonial life bond to the future monarch of Alderaan; that I return the favor is only fair,” Leia said graciously.

Vader felt that odd shadow of unease bobbing once more along the razor-fine edge of between his conscious and unconscious mind, but he forcibly shoved it back down. He knew his daughter-in-law had made a reasonable point. Although Bail had passed away tragically two years ago, Princess Leia Organa would not ascend the throne while a sitting Imperial Senator. Even so, the woman who had stolen Luke’s heart while he was still a cadet at the Academy was Alderaan’s rightful future queen, expected to assume the mantle of planetary power should she ever resign (or be recalled from) her governmental appointment on Coruscant. Leia’s official marriage to Luke had therefore been a month long—and very public—affair involving a planet-wide procession to all of Alderaan’s major population centers, witnessed in situ or via the Holonet by billions, if not trillions, of beings.

This ceremony on Naboo, in contrast, was purely for the sake of tradition and intended as a private affair for Luke’s side of the family. The majority of the guests arriving at the Skywalker’s summer villa in the picturesque heart of Naboo’s Lake Country, therefore, were members of the sprawling Naberrie clan. Vader himself had no blood relatives besides his son to speak of…and only three longstanding friends close enough to both him and his son to merit an invitation.

The first of these friends had arrived while Vader was speaking to Leia. As was his wont, he had arrived promptly, if not a bit early, to this important engagement.

“Uncle Ben!” Luke launched himself happily at the hooded figure and pulled him into a warm embrace. To outsiders they would seem an unlikely pair, Vader reflected, the young man wearing the sharply tailored dress uniform of a junior officer in the Imperial Navy and the old man in the threadbare, ill-fitting robes made of rough-spun brown and tan cloth.

Obi-Wan’s hood fell from his head as he patted Luke on the back awkwardly. They loved each other dearly, but sometimes Obi-Wan still had trouble showing it. After the treason of the Jedi Order two decades ago, it had been deemed politic for Obi-Wan to keep a low profile and assume a new identity. He had been known as “Ben Kenobi” ever since, living an itinerant, ascetic, and wholly blameless life on a series of isolated Outer Rim worlds. He’d become a benevolent sort of eccentric uncle figure to Luke, and Luke was inordinately, even irrationally, devoted to him.

“My sincerest congratulations to you both. Your parents must be thrilled.” Obi-Wan smiled. He touched Vader’s thoughts briefly with fondness. It seemed to sooth a measure of the morning’s anxieties away. Grateful, Vader reciprocated the mental caress with one of his own.

“Why, Master Kenobi! I didn’t realize you were here.” C-3PO shuffled forward with a tray of drinks balanced between his polished golden hands. “Might I tempt you with a glass of wine?”

“Hmm. Don’t mind if I do. Is your Godmother here yet?” Obi-Wan asked Luke as he selected a glass of Nubian red from the tray.

“She is now!” Her bright voice rang out across the elegant semi-enclosed veranda Padmé had chosen for the festivities.

A slender figure with the easy, long-limbed grace of a plains grazil approached Luke and Obi-Wan. A blue and white astromech droid followed closely at her heels. “Nephew. Master Kenobi,” she greeted each respectively.

“A pleasure to see you again, Professor Tano. It has been far too long,” Obi-Wan replied. “And it’s just ‘Ben’ now.”

Ahsoka ignored Obi-Wan’s correction and immediately began to grill Luke with a thousand questions so fast that he barely had time to stutter a reply before she had moved onto the next one. “A princess’s hand in marriage, eh? How’d you manage that? It couldn’t have been your legendary charm. Did you rescue her from some castle? Has the fleet been treating you well? You haven’t forgotten what I taught you at Academy, have you?”

History had vindicated Ahsoka’s decision to leave the Jedi Order in the wake of the spurious accusations of treason made against her, and she was one of the few known Force users anywhere in the galaxy to retain full favor in the eyes of the Empire. Although her departure had initially strained her relationship with her former Master, by the time Luke had been born she and Vader had reconciled fully, and Padmé had asked her to be Luke’s Godmother. She had accepted. Now, Ahsoka was a celebrated instructor in hand-to-hand combat and field strategy at the Royal Imperial Academy on Coruscant, the galaxy’s most prestigious military school. As far as Vader was concerned, the student had long ago exceeded her teacher. He couldn’t have been more proud.

“Ah, Anakin. There you are!” Ahsoka stopped teasing Luke when she realized Vader had concluded his chat with Leia and come over to join the conversation. “I’ve returned Artoo, safe and sound, as promised. The trainee pilots loved his stories of the Clone Wars. You’ve kept him in such amazing condition, too—they had no idea he was such an old model.”

Vader rested a gentle hand on R2-D2’s dome. They had been through so much together. But after all he’d only ever been borrowing the droid from Padmé; the astromech properly belonged to their son now. Luke knelt down and murmured something Vader couldn’t quite hear to R2. With an agreeable whistle, he rolled away in the direction of C-3PO.

“You took some of my top students this past rotation for the 501st.” He returned his full attention to Ahsoka, who was still speaking uninterrupted. “They tell me you’ve transferred your flag from the Devastator to the Executor. I trust the handover went smoothly?”

“Absolutely. The Executor is, in every sense, a vastly superior ship. They’ll have plenty of opportunity to make good use of your training, I’m sure,” Vader said.

“So what’s the latest mission?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Worth a shot.” She shrugged. “We’ve been fortunate the insurgents haven’t risked open warfare. I’d hate to see my beloved nephew shipped off into battle right after his honeymoon.” Ahsoka reached out to ruffle Luke’s hair. He tried to duck, embarrassed, but couldn’t quite manage it. Luke took after his mother in height, while the Togruta youngling Anakin Skywalker had used to call “Snips” had shot up like a weed to grow as tall as Vader himself…and taller if you counted her curving montrals (which he didn’t).

“Begging your pardon, Master Anakin.” C-3PO had appeared at his side. “I thought it wise to inform you that the guest we discussed yesterday is due to arrive shortly. It appears that he is traveling unaccompanied.” 

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed.

But Vader simply nodded. “Thank you, Threepio. Now,” he addressed the others, “if you’ll excuse me?”

***

In any other place, on any other world, Emperor Palpatine’s arrival would have been greeted with awe and fanfare. In this place, on his homeworld of Naboo, and on an occasion such as this one, however, his presence barely registered. Indeed, it was deemed only natural that he would be present for the wedding; he had accepted certain legal as well as ritual responsibilities when he agreed to become Luke’s Godfather, and as far as the Naboo were concerned, these responsibilities were sacred and superseded even his responsibilities to the Galactic Empire.

The passage of years had been kind to Sheev Palpatine. He looked much the same as Vader remembered him from his own youth—thinner and frailer with age, perhaps, but kindly still, clear blue eyes full of warmth, patience, and good humor. Today he looked very much the part of the Nubian elder statesman, wearing bright, richly embroidered clothing of azure and purple in lieu of his more usual, somber dark robes. He had also elected not to bring along his retinue of Imperial Guards, so Vader lingered close to his side, protective but not overbearing.

It was well into the afternoon now. A lavish buffet had been laid out along one side of the room, featuring gustatory delights from Alderaan, Naboo, Coruscant, and beyond, all of them specially selected by the bride and groom. Leia had already taken her leave with Padmé and the other Naberrie women and was, presumably, being initiated into some ridiculous, secret rites associated with the Moon Goddess. He’d never bothered to inquire about specifics. Probably something to do with optimizing feminine cycles of fertility, Vader figured. To think that he might soon have grandchildren! Even now, he could barely believe he had a living, breathing son—

Palpatine was speaking softly to Luke. “The moonsong should be good tonight, I trust.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a believer, Your Majesty.” Luke blushed furiously. He never had fully reconciled the sensuality of the Naboo with the self-restraint and discipline required by the Empire.

“All Nubian politicians revere the Goddess, Luke. She brings order to society as well as to our hearts. Love known beneath Her light is to be celebrated. Surely your mother taught you this…?”

Luke seemed at a loss for words but continued to squirm, respect for his Godfather warring with the understandable embarrassment which came with being compelled to discuss sexual matters with him.

Vader decided to take pity on his son and intervene. “Our son reveres Shiraya. Padmé would have it no other way,” he assured Palpatine. Then, turning to Luke, he said, “Unfortunately, the Empire makes many pressing demands upon His Majesty, and he must depart directly after you take your wedding vows.”

Luke picked up on the significance of Vader’s statement immediately and relaxed. His relief was palpable.

“Of course. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on the former Senator Amidala. May Her light bless and keep both you and the Princess on this joyous day,” Palpatine said. Mollifying, to be sure, but a clear dismissal. “Now, if you will excuse us, my boy— I must needs speak with your father in private.” 

With a low bow for Palpatine and a grateful smile for Vader, Luke stepped away and headed off to chat with some of his cousins. 

Vader felt a tingling against the small of his back. It was Obi-Wan, looking in his direction from a spot in front of the buffet. He frowned and made to join them. Vader shook his head in warning—Palpatine wanted his undivided attention—and after several long beats, Obi-Wan acquiesced with an eloquent shrug and returned to examining the food.

That dealt with, they retired to a quiet corner where Palpatine could ease back into a comfortable armchair. Vader crouched close beside him. No preliminary discussion was necessary; their spirits resonated too harmoniously to require it. Together, they wove a curtain of Force energy tightly around themselves. It was subtle magic designed not to make them invisible but rather to make them uninteresting, unworthy of any casual attention that would be more profitably directed toward other nearby beings. Everyone present knew right where they were—and nobody cared.

Assured now of privacy, Vader spoke, low and intimate. “What is thy bidding?”

Palpatine’s eyes flashed with a glint of feral gold, and his rich orator’s voice became a dark, sepulchral rattle. “I grow concerned of late with Moff Jerjerrod’s lack of progress, Lord Vader. Tomorrow you will make for Endor forthwith and prepare our battle station for my imminent arrival.”

“It will be done, my Master.” And it would be. There was nothing more to be said.

To secure the lives of his wife and then unborn child, Vader had long ago pledged his loyal service to the Dark Lord of the Sith. Darth Sidious had kept his promise, and the Jedi who had abandoned the Order to take up the secret mantle of Darth Vader had seen his family prosper with the rise of the Empire. In subsequent years, his Master had shown him only strength, to which Vader had responded with unstinting obedience…and no small measure of enduring affection.

Vader lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor at Palpatine’s feet. They had not been together in this way for a long time. The shadowy veil of privacy persisted around them, and Vader allowed himself to relax, to lower his guard, to watch without being watched. Palpatine’s fingers twisted through the curls covering the nape of his neck and massaged slow circles into his scalp. His senses drifted. The passing hours went unremarked. All was as it should be…

Padmé’s father Ruwee, who would be officiating the oath-taking, had appeared, clearing a space for himself in the gathering crowd of guests. “The ceremony is about to begin,” he announced above the lively chatter. “Please join us outside at the West balcony at this time.”

Vader emerged abruptly from his reverie. Now this was what this day was for. His beloved family and friends—they were all waiting for him. He stood and stepped forward into the gentle, lengthening light of the Nubian evening.

R2-D2 let loose an enthusiastic, high-pitched whistle and nearly knocked Vader and several other guests off their feet in his haste to reach the balcony ahead of the bulk of the crowd.

“Your Majesty,” Ahsoka said, offering her arm to Palpatine. They followed the path R2-D2 had blazed outside to take their assigned places at the head of the procession, as befitting the bridegroom’s Godparents.

The bride emerged from enforced seclusion, now in full wedding regalia, like a shining revelation. The Aspects of Shiraya were three points of silver light arrayed in perfect formation around her. Her soon-to-be husband looked on, near to bursting with pride and joy. Several guests began to sing the Nubian marriage hymn with slow, ritualized decorum.

Suddenly, Vader felt paralyzed. Stricken. His presence was required, so why couldn’t he move? Something wasn’t right. The room seemed to sway. He doubled over.

“Father?” Luke asked.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice, tense with concern, seemed to reach him from across a great distance.

Leia turned back to look at him, and he saw her—truly saw her for the very first time. She was resplendent in her simple, sheer white gown. A long, embroidered veil had been draped over her head, artfully covering the twin braided coils of her hair. It was held in place by a silver skullcap filigreed with an intricate lunar motif.

My homeworld has never had a moon orbiting it.

You are wrong, Vader thought. It did. For one day, that is, on the very last day of its existence—

Vader gasped and retched as a blistering bolt of agony cleaved the space behind his eyes.

The Death Star.

The destruction of Alderaan.

How could he have forgotten?

“Ani?! What’s wrong?!” Padmé was at his side in an instant, but when she tried grasping his shoulders to steady him, her hands passed straight through his body.

His thoughts blazed. Crimson agony set his mind aflame. Distantly, he heard roaring. Like thunder. His own voice. Consciousness was starting to break apart, cleaved away with the searing burn of a plasma blade. A thousand little pieces. Pain mounted, higher and higher, white and brilliant, until the very core of him disintegrated into motes of stardust and finally, thankfully, he blacked out.

***

“Uuugghhhh…”

Consciousness returned gradually. Strangely, nothing hurt. In fact, he felt…warm. Safe.

With considerable effort and not a small amount of trepidation, Vader cracked open one eye. He lay prone, cradled in Obi-Wan’s arms. He must have begun to fall as he passed out, and Obi-Wan had caught him. Now he was dabbing sweat and tears from Vader’s face with the sleeve of his robe, touch as light as a feather. And, it seemed, he was speaking.

“—the Force has always been so strong with you. It took me nearly thirteen years to advance as far in the training. You are a wonder.”

Obi-Wan smiled down at Vader and leaned in close. Lips parted slightly, the barest hint of teeth behind them. His body was a curve of excitement; his expression was suffused with soft desire. He was going to kiss him.

Vader snapped his head to the side and pushed Obi-Wan away. Hard. Both men scrambled to their feet.

The room was empty. Though still painted in the soft-focus lilac and rose hues of a perfect summer sunset, there was no trace of the crowd that had filled it but moments earlier, no evidence of the day-long celebration marking the intimate union of two of the Empire’s most favored subjects. All of it—gone, like it had never existed. Only Vader and Obi-Wan remained.

“This is a dream. None of it was real,” Vader said. He did not phrase his words as a question.

“Well…” Obi-Wan hesitated. “What is ‘real’ is often a matter of perspective. But yes, you are, strictly speaking, asleep.”

“And you, strictly speaking, are dead. I killed you.” He’d given this a lot of thought since the strange events on Tatooine over a year ago, and, however improbable, it remained the only logical explanation.

Obi-Wan inclined his head in acknowledgment but did not speak further. Instead, he turned and stepped outside toward the balcony where Luke and Leia would have made their marriage vows. He put his elbows on the railing and leaned forward, as if contemplating the view. The water of the lake immediately below shimmered and rippled, and the waterfalls, so distant that the roar of their waters could not be heard, were a misty haze. The handsome silhouettes of trees and rolling fields of wildflowers were colored nearly black in the gathering darkness. The sky was endless, and although the horizon line looked like it had been set aflame, the dome of the heavens overhead was already lit with cool speckles of starlight.

Vader joined him at the railing. There was so much he wanted to know. What was the right question? “Why are you here?” he asked finally.

“You let me in.” A faint smile played around the edges of Obi-Wan’s lips, and the cerulean of his eyes seemed to deepen in the fading light.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist, soft lips against his throat, sweet erection plunging inside him…

Oh.

Obi-Wan actually flushed pink, and he wouldn’t meet Vader’s gaze. “It happened before that,” he admitted quietly. “You never were good at listening to warnings about the risks intrinsic to the use of certain Force abilities.”

“This should not be possible, whether or not I touched your lightsaber. Those whose lives are extinguished return their energies to the Force. There is no consciousness after death.”

“And yet here I am.”

“‘If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine,’ you said. So this is what you meant.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Obi-Wan did not answer.

“Get out of my head, old man.”

“I cannot, now that we have started down this path. The good in you, the compassion, has begun to reawaken, and today you have proven that you recognize what cannot be changed, no matter how much you might wish the past were otherwise. You have a destiny, Anakin—”

“Don’t call me by that name.”

“—which you have yet to fulfill. It’s not too late. The third and final trial will be the hardest, but—”

“Get out of my head.”

“—I know you have it within you to succeed. You are the Chosen One. And your son—”

The last traces of sunlight faded, and the balcony was cast into darkness. The moon had not yet risen. Vader felt anger well up from the pit of his stomach like hot magma through thick earthen crust. Of course. That was what this was all about. The boy who had saved the Princess on the Death Star, for whom Obi-Wan had chosen to sacrifice his life. Vader’s son was the one he had been watching all those years from his lonely cliff on Tatooine. Obi-Wan had willfully hidden him from the truth that was his family; Luke had come of age yearning for a father who would have loved him had he but known of his existence.

Lies.

Too many lies. Deception. Betrayal piled on top of betrayal. There was no restitution for loss of this magnitude. And now the boy had been turned into a weapon to be wielded against Vader and the Empire.

“How dare you speak to me of my son?!” he snarled. “You, who turned my wife against me, who stole my child from me—?!”

The landscape beyond the balcony shifted, and the gentle lake waters of Naboo morphed into a glowing, yellow-orange lava sea. Hot sparks and foul-smelling vapors swirled around them. They had returned to the nightmare of Mustafar, and his hatred was boiling over. He would make Obi-Wan pay for his crimes.

Vader pressed Obi-Wan tightly against the railing, bending him pitilessly backwards so that he was hanging practically upside-down above the inferno. They were chest to chest; Obi-Wan would not be able to dislodge him. “I was paying more attention to your lessons than you seem to understand, Master.” His use of the honorific dripped with scorn. “And I know that this psychic bond that has been forged between us runs both ways. I let you in, but you also let me in.”

Vulnerable flesh melted away, reformed into cold durasteel and hard, black armor. Vision sharpened as it darkened, tinted subtly crimson. His breathing slowed, rhythmic, mechanically synchronized. He was back in his life support suit, but at this time, in this place, it was not a prison. It was both shield and sword, and it made him powerful.

He didn’t bother with a Force hold. He simply wrapped leather-gloved hands around Obi-Wan’s neck and squeezed. For a moment, he considered dropping Obi-Wan into the lava and watching him burn as he had once watched Vader. But no. Vader’s own suffering was not sufficient punishment for the crimes Obi-Wan had committed—had continued to commit. The suffering of others, however… Yes, that would do nicely. He focused the dark side, and every one of Darth Vader’s memories of wild, black rage poured forth into that helpless form.

A starburst of agony in Leia’s mind. Tarkin’s exultation at this display of power. The ecstasy of an entire planet’s presence in the Force being abruptly snuffed out…

Slaughtering Twi’lek pacifists hidden away in a cave, including one he had earlier spared, who had trusted him. Now eliminated. All to prevent foolish, insolent rebellion against righteous order…

Keening wails of sorrow, of despair. The Imperial subjugation of the Wookiees on Kashyyyk, civilians massacred, entire villages enslaved for Palpatine’s pleasure…

At the beginning, it was almost fun. Practically a game. Jedi younglings hidden behind the seats in the Council chamber, so trusting, so vulnerable, oh so very easy to strike down…

The first thing Vader remembered upon awakening was the sound of Obi-Wan Kenobi screaming.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Text

She had been strapped to the interrogation chair for several hours. Sweat and tears were streaming in undifferentiated rivulets down her face. After several rounds of enhanced interrogation—which Vader and his Master had overseen personally—it had fast become apparent that she would be of no use to the Empire.

“No, I will not join you, Your Majesty. Never. I would rather die.” Her vocal cords were strained from earlier screams of pain and terror, but it was clear that she was still in full possession in her cognitive faculties.

There was nothing for it.

“A pity it has to come to this,” his Master said, shaking his head regretfully. “Lord Vader, kill her.”

Vader said nothing and did not hesitate. He was already standing directly beside her, so he simply ignited his lightsaber behind her back. The blood red plasma blade emerged through her chest, piercing her heart. Her body arched forward in convulsive agony, her face twisted in shock. She was dead in seconds.

“Such a shame. We could have made good use of her.” His Master was studying the limp form still secured tightly to the chair. Vader joined him to look one last time upon the face of the traitor—

—and saw Luke Skywalker. Dead, by his hand.

Vader awoke with a jolt and a sickening sense of dislocation. A nightmare. It took him a few moments to recall that he was not in a secret interrogation cell beneath the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. He was, rather, in the seat at the center of his meditation pod aboard the Executor, which had been docked to the secret battle station orbiting the Sanctuary Moon for the past cycle while he whipped Moff Jerjerrod and his engineering lackeys back onto some semblance of a schedule.

He still remembered all too well what had happened to Anakin Skywalker’s old apprentice turned Rebel operative. Grand Moff Tarkin had managed to apprehend her several years ago during a routine sweep of the Lothal System. During the subsequent interrogation, she had been offered a full pardon on the condition that she would renounce the Rebellion and enter the Empire’s service. She had chosen death instead. Vader had killed her himself.

Luke would come to them; his Master reported having foreseen it upon his arrival yesterday. Then the boy would be given a second chance to join them. But why would Luke choose any differently than the Togruta Rebel? Vader felt profoundly uneasy.

<It’s not too late, you know. You still have time to do what is right.>

He didn’t need to be asleep to see Obi-Wan anymore. Since that dream of the wedding, he was seeing him even when he was awake. The visitations had become a relatively frequent occurrence.

In the Force, Obi-Wan was an intelligent assemblage of pure energy. Using mundane vision, he appeared translucent and faintly limned with blue light, but otherwise he looked much as he had during those long years between the Battle of Naboo and the start of the Clone Wars. His Jedi robes were impeccable, his hair was long and full, and his shapely jawline was concealed by a neatly-trimmed beard. Sensing, perhaps, that Vader was plagued by nightmares, Obi-Wan looked on him with an expression suffused with pity.

“Spare me your hypocrisy. It’s not like you’ve never tried to kill a former apprentice.” Without the vocoder installed in his mask, his voice was barely more than a harsh, thin rasp. He felt his lips twisting into an involuntary snarl that pulled painfully at the scar tissue around his mouth.

<Selfishness blinds you.>

The words themselves were a harsh reprimand, but Obi-Wan’s ghost made no other attempt to chastise him. Instead, he placed a tender hand on the top of Vader’s bald head. It didn’t feel like an ordinary flesh touch; instead, a subtle, low-frequency vibration seemed to undulate through his body, soothing the constant aches and pains that plagued him whenever his life support suit was not fully activated.

He couldn’t kill Luke, he finally admitted to himself, even if his Master demanded it. His resolve wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t know why, and it didn’t matter. What was he going to do?

<The hardest part is yet to come. You must prepare yourself.>

What was that supposed to mean?! The crushing weight of his fear was beginning to suffocate him. Vader closed his eyes and fervently wished the world away.

When he opened them again, the world was still there, just as it had always been. Obi-Wan, however, was gone.

***

His Master was facing the viewport dominating the far wall of his private quarters, a small smudge of darkness framed against the vastness of Endor’s blue-green luminosity. He did not bother turning around to face Vader before beginning to speak. The tone was gentle, resigned. “It was simply not to be, my old friend. I am sorry. This time it will be different.”

Over the years, Vader had become accustomed to his Master’s penchant for addressing thoughts he had not chosen—or dared—to speak aloud. To the unenlightened observer, it may have seemed as if his Master had read his thoughts like words on a datapad, but no one, not even a Sith Lord, was capable of such feats. No, his Master merely combined a Force user’s empathic powers with a genius politician’s intuition…and it was marvelously effective. Indeed, they generally understood each other so well now that they needed only the most superficial of words to communicate profundity across a vast spectrum of subjects.

“She meant nothing,” he said. His Master would sense the lie, he knew, but it didn’t matter. Vader had not come here to talk about Anakin Skywalker’s apprentice. He had come to talk about Luke.

Sure enough, his Master recognized his intentions and did not bother with any further reply. Instead, he merely waited for him to get to the heart of what was troubling him. The silence was both invitation and warning.

A warning he did not heed. “And if he cannot be turned?” he asked.

His Master’s reply was immediate. “I trust that you will do what must be done.”

Vader felt his throat close convulsively. An execution. That would be what must be done if Luke could not be turned. He could not go through with that again. Not after Ahso— Not after the other one. He could not. He could not. A hot wave rolled up from his chest and set painful sparks skipping about inside his head. His artificially regulated breath could not quicken, yet he knew what this was nonetheless: He was panicking.

“But it won’t come to that,” his Master continued in a voice as sweet as honey. He had always been so quick to sooth him when he fell into such a state. “We will do it together. You will have your son.”

These were more than just words. So much more. The intentions behind them reverberated with truth in the Force. This was a promise, a pact, a definition of the rules of engagement, not from a Sith Lord to his Apprentice, but from a man to his friend, to his chosen partner—to his lover.

All of his fears melted away. He didn’t understand why he has been given this gift, but it didn’t matter. A very different fire had begun to burn inside of him.

Vader fell to his knees before his Master, not in graceful obeisance, but with a fierce and tender joy. “Master,” he murmured, “my Master,” and he could hear the possessive intimacy in the mechanized rumble of his own voice. He grasped the deceptively simple yet luxurious fabric of his Master’s robes, lifting and parting them to expose the pale nakedness beneath. The quiescent penis was there too, exactly as it was in the cherished, secret spaces of his memory. Once, long ago, a boy had dared to touch this flesh and take it into his mouth, to wallow in the heady scent and taste of a lover’s pleasure. Vader could not do that now, and what he could do— For that, he found himself pleading.

“Please. Let me.” The words were heavy with need, with craving of both spiritual and physiological desperation. He had not been denied before. Would his Master deny him now, after all these years? Desire threatened to immolate him.

The stillness—the silence—seemed to go on forever.

Finally, his Master nodded.

Once. That was all that was necessary.

Vader took hold of his Master’s penis. Through his prosthetic hands, enhanced by a neural mesh integrated into the synthleather of his gloves, he could feel the silkiness of the skin, the warmth of lovely, pristine flesh marvelously untouched by the energies of the dark side that had deformed and scarred much of the rest of his body. He rubbed the foreskin gently between a thumb and forefinger and felt the shaft beneath beginning to harden in response. After a minute of playful caresses, it thickened and lengthened until the glans was fully exposed.

Now he began to touch in earnest, using one hand to pump up and down with strong, regular strokes while the other roamed. With his other hand, he tugged gently on the soft nest of pubic hair and combed through its tangles. He probed the urethral slit with the tip of a finger and traced underneath the flared ridge of the glans. He cupped the scrotum, testing the weight of the testicles encased within. His Master sighed with pleasure.

But when Vader’s fingers wandered further back to brush against the wrinkled pucker of the anus, pushing one finger inside to explore that warm channel, his Master seemed to lose his breath. A small bead of fluid dropped unnoticed from the tip of his erection. His hips thrust forward once, convulsively, and his knees buckled. He remained upright and off the floor only because Vader held him there, pressing his Master’s back hard up against the transparisteel of the viewport.

A memory floated briefly to the surface, of another place and another man, in a sweet, half-forgotten dream. Vader forced it back down quickly, but not before it gave him an idea about how to please his Master next.

He did not dare ask for permission. The tiniest application of the Force allowed him to keep the involuntary muscles of the anus and rectum relaxed, and in no time at all Vader had inserted another, and then a third, finger. He pushed his fingers further in and forward, palpitating the prostate gland with slow, rhythmic movements. The sensation was making his Master tremble and grind down on those fingers with wanton need.

Suddenly, all five of his fingers were buried inside his Master’s rectum; he could scarcely believe what was happening. Vader froze immediately, but his Master gasped and pitched forward against the kneeling form before him, hands clutching tightly to the plastisteel plates protecting his shoulders. That action pushed his body down deeper on Vader’s hand until it was engulfed all the way to the wrist.

The muscles around his hand fluttered with every beat of his Master’s heart. It felt amazing, electric. Intoxicating. He couldn’t believe he would be trusted in this way, when with but a twist of his fingers he could rip into vital organs—maim, mutilate, even destroy. He was burning so bright with joy, and as joy always had, it made him gentle. With the most considerate, deliberate of motions, Vader clenched and unclenched his hand. Once, and then twice.

His Master threw his head back, wide eyes like golden discs, and cried out.

Orgasm arrived like the crash of a tidal wave and, improbably, swept Vader away too in a wash of wet, ecstatic sensation. All the while, his other hand had been stroking that beautiful penis, and now it poured thick white semen over onto them both. His Master whimpered and sobbed with relief. The exquisite feeling seemed to go on forever.

At last, Vader released his hold on his Master and removed the hand from his rectum. They sank slowly to the ground, each in the other’s arms, lost in an enchantment of languorous delight. By the light of the moon, they both seemed to glow.

“If only— I wish—” He clutched the fragile body nestled against his more tightly.

His Master’s hand rose to trace the lines of his mask, from eyes to nose to mouth to chin, as if memorizing each minute detail by touch alone. Vader knew that his Master regarded the suit’s design as his finest masterpiece. “Do not dwell in the past, my Lord,” he said quietly. “You have never been more magnificent.

“This battle station is fully operational,” he continued. “These Rebel vermin will not be around to trouble us for very much longer. We have ignored the true calling of the Sith for too long. Soon you and I will be freed from the trivialities of Galactic politics, and together we will unlock all the secrets of the Force. Power beyond your imagination. Power over life and death. Immortality—a reign that will last ten-thousand years.”

His Master’s voice was fervent, his excitement palatable. They had not spoken of such things for many years, and Vader was unsure of how to respond.

“I love you,” he said.

His Master seemed not to have heard. “What happens here is but a distraction. We will complete our journey along the true path of power, you and I, after this battle is won.”

Vader did not speak again.

***

<How long?>

So, Obi-Wan had become a voyeur in the afterlife. Somehow, it figured.

Vader pretended to ignore the ghost and walked faster. An individual claiming to be with the Rebellion had just been apprehended by ground security on Endor. The Rebel had not resisted arrest but was reportedly asking to speak with Lord Vader personally. It had to be Luke. He had come to them—exactly as his Master had predicted.

<How long have you loved him?>

Vader skidded to a halt just short of the entrance to the hangar bay. He could feel that luminous presence inside his mind, rifling through old and deeply-buried memories until, abruptly, it found something kept carefully hidden that made it recoil with horror and disgust. Obi-Wan’s expression was stricken.

<You were a child. What Palpatine did was evil.>

“It was what I wanted. Now leave me alone.” Fortunately, the small detail of stormtroopers following closely at his heels was too well-disciplined to question why their commanding officer seemed to be talking to himself. The psychic touch withdrew fully before Vader could force it away. He continued into the cavernous hangar bay of the Death Star and strode toward his personal shuttle. In anticipation of his immanent arrival, it had already been powered up and prepared for launch.

But Obi-Wan was not quite done with him yet. The ghost followed him up the ramp and into the shuttle.

<I should have protected you. I am so very sorry.>

Vader did not reply. This apology did not interest him. He climbed into the pilot’s seat and strapped himself in. In moments the shuttle was speeding its way toward the Sanctuary Moon. Soon he would be reunited with his son. And finally—in spite of everything—all the sacrifices he had made in the name of love and loyalty would be vindicated.

<Sometimes love is not enough, Anakin.>

The ghost’s voice was mournful but firm. Almost against his will, Vader remembered Obi-Wan’s last words on Mustafar: I loved you.

He was barely able to credit it, but…

<When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.>

“Go away, old man.”

He did.

***

Fear of loss, and the anger it engenders, is necessary. But alone it is not sufficient. As his Master sometimes liked to say, the dark side of the Force is first and foremost a choice, and to achieve one’s full potential one must rise above petty sentiment and grapple it into submission.

No act is more reviled by more species and in more cultures across the galaxy than premeditated, cold-blooded murder. Therefore, the taking of a life that is helpless in one’s hands is, for a Force user, to pass a point of no return. The murderer has put his own selfish desires ahead of the natural bend of the universe—and that, fundamentally, is what it means to tap into the power of the dark side.

When Supreme Chancellor Palpatine ordered Anakin Skywalker to kill Count Dooku after having decisively defeated him in battle, the only being in the room not to understand the consequences of obedience had been Anakin himself. “It’s not the Jedi way,” he had bleated foolishly, ignorantly. In subsequent years, however, and through study and contemplation of the ancient, hallowed philosophy of the Sith, Vader came to understand the importance of the decision Anakin had made that day: The act itself, the actual beheading, was inconsequential; the touch of the dark side came that split second immediately prior.

In the moment he chose to act.

Now his son would face the same choice.

The stage had been set, and once again there were three actors. But this time, Vader understood the role he was to play. He must be for Luke what Dooku had once been for Anakin. Like Dooku and Anakin, Vader and Luke would fight, and Luke would be compelled to channel his anger in order to gain victory. Even in victory, though, the aspiring Jedi could be expected to disarm his opponent only, not destroy him utterly. So Vader would be alive, but he would be (seemingly) defenseless. His Master would then order the son to execute the father. The moment Luke acquiesced, he would be theirs…forever.

Of course, there was some element of risk involved in their little pantomime. Vader was not particularly concerned. And indeed, when the time came, it was almost too easy. The boy unwittingly performed his role perfectly, and his desperation to protect his friends and especially his sister (he has a twin sister?!?!) from the Empire fueled his rage. Vader neither flinched nor cried out when Luke severed his right hand at the wrist.

In fact, he barely noticed the amputation. He didn’t even bother yet to get up off the ground. He was too busy fuming inwardly about that latest revelation. He’d known that Luke bore a profound love for the Princess Leia Organa and had assumed, reasonably, that it stemmed from romantic infatuation. She was, after all, the sort of young woman Anakin Skywalker would have appreciated in his youth—competent, beautiful, and possessed of an indomitable will. Much like Padmé, if he were honest. He should have known! He had always thought the baby would be a girl. How could he have been so blind? Somehow, Obi-Wan had been able to deliver the children before, or perhaps even after, Padmé’s death, and then he had conspired with Bail Organa to keep them both hidden. Where was that damnable ghost when Vader actually wanted to talk to him? Force forbid Obi-Wan materialize when it was convenient for anyone other than himself.

His frustrated ruminations were interrupted by a dull clatter. Luke had tossed his lightsaber aside.

And within a half-dozen breaths, Vader’s worst fears were being realized. They boy was refusing, and if he refused to join them, he must die. It was like Ahso— like Anakin Skywalker’s apprentice all over again.

Lord Vader, kill her.

No, he wouldn’t do it!

But this time, his Master did not issue any commands. He must have intended that as a mercy; his mind brushed reassuringly against Vader’s own. “If you will not be turned, you will be destroyed,” he said to Luke, lifting his pale hands to attack.

As inexperienced in the use of the Force as he was, Luke was still able to partially absorb and dissipate the lightning. It was no small accomplishment. What would have been instantaneously fatal to any other being became prolonged, agonized torture.

Belatedly, Vader struggled to his feet.

“Young fool. Only now, at the end, do you understand,” his Master said and struck again. And again, and again, and again.

Luke’s screams went on and on and on.

Vader took his customary place at his Master’s side. It was where he belonged. Still. No matter how terrible it became, he would see this to its inevitable conclusion.

“Father, please—!” Luke was begging. His cries became louder and more desperate as his resistance began to crumble against the brutal onslaught. He writhed and twisted. His flesh was starting to smoke. It wouldn’t take much more.

“And now, young Skywalker, you will die,” his Master said, sepulchral voice almost kindly.

Vader watched as he summoned forth the full power of the Sith lightning to his fingertips, and he watched Luke. He looked at his Master again, and he looked at Luke again. He took in the sight of his Master yet again, and—

What was this feeling?

Pity. He felt…sorry for the boy.

Before him, he realized suddenly, was a choice: a choice between a man he’d loved since he was a child and a child of his loins he barely knew. No, that wasn’t true. The real choice was between the tyrant he still served and the foreshortened futures of the countless children of the galaxy whose faces he would never know. Not to mention a few he would be ordered to kill personally. In this brief, eternal moment, to Vader, Luke was all of those children, and for the first time in his life, he understood the true meaning of compassion. Nothing was—had ever been—worth the untold destruction in which he was complicit, not even the most desperately beloved people he’d kept dearest to his heart.

<Sometimes love is not enough, Anakin.>

Those same words again. Now Obi-Wan was here too.

Really, it was no choice at all.

***

In the end, Luke’s faith, his unconditional love, and his readiness to sacrifice himself for the sins of the Father, had redeemed him.

The rest of what little remaining of Vader’s life passed in the detached haze of a half-forgotten dream. He saw his son’s face. His son saw the ruin that was his beneath the mask. They spoke to each other. Truly, Luke was his own source of light.

As he exhaled his last breath, as the weight of his broken body fell backwards, he felt that light tug the essence of him forwards through a boundless, unfathomable space. A glorious rush, faster and faster, a dizzying spin, tighter and tighter, until abruptly, the wheel of the universe seemed to judder to a halt, and—

—he stepped out of the bedroom.

He saw the ordinary whitewashed adobe walls of a settlers’ homestead on Tatooine. It was morning.

Obi-Wan turned to face him. There was a large pitcher in his hands.

Their eyes met. Without breaking their gaze, Obi-Wan set the pitcher carefully down on a nearby table and approached him. They did not speak. He came closer. Their bodies were so near that the hems of their robes brushed against each other.

Then Obi-Wan placed both hands on the back of his head, pulled him down, and crushed their lips together. His mouth opened automatically, and Obi-Wan immediately took advantage of the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It was awkward and unpracticed—too much too fast—and he instinctively seized control from Obi-Wan in order to sweeten it. He licked gently at Obi-Wan’s lower lip, suckling and then nipping at it playfully; their tongues twined and caressed. Passion, wetness, and warmth. Each soft touch was a starburst of effervescent joy rocketing through his nerves, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Obi-Wan’s whiskers tickled his mouth and cheeks.

Obi-Wan broke the kiss finally with a tiny moan, pulling away just far enough so that they could look at each other full in the face. He could see clearly now that this man before him was at once everything and always as he had known him: the lonely old man of the desert and the mischievous, clean-shaven youth grown up too quickly and the great but self-effacing Jedi Master in the prime of his life and much, much more. He was simultaneously all of those things…and none of those things…and each one was profoundly beloved.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears, but his smile was radiant as he said, “You made it. Welcome home.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Text

“I’ve died and gone to Tatooine. The Force must be punishing me.”

Obi-Wan hugged him tightly and laughed, a glittering, crystalline burst of sound. “While your crimes are considerable, this is no punishment,” he said. “You succeeded in your trials and achieved the power to survive beyond Death’s Veil.”

“But— Why?” He didn’t understand. “I thought— I never wanted— Why not let me go to my rest?”

“Not everything is about you, Anakin.”

That name again. How many times did he have to remind the old man—?! He summoned the reliable, liquid anger to fill the dry, desiccated spaces within him… And nothing came. There was only clear, clean emptiness. With a heady rush, he realized that he was Anakin Skywalker once more. Darth Vader was gone, with the utter certainty of the night that gives way to a new dawn.

“Besides,” Obi-Wan continued, soft and intimate against Anakin’s ear, his whiskers tickling delightfully, “we’re not actually on Tatooine. This is the place where life’s energies converge upon their absence: the Netherworld of the Force.”

Obi-Wan’s artful dodge of his question had not gone unnoticed. Anakin pulled back from the embrace so that he could take in their surroundings more clearly.

“Don’t you recognize it?” Obi-Wan asked with an expansive gesture. “You’ve been here with me twice before.”

“I don’t— Wait. The dreams…?” Those dreams of Tatooine and Naboo. They hadn’t just been a trick of the mind? Anakin felt his world tilt.

Obi-Wan steadied him with hands placed firmly on his shoulders. It was a strange sensation. On some level, he remembered what had happened on the Death Star in orbit above Endor with perfect clarity. He remembered the final battle; he remembered Luke. But it all felt oddly remote, unimportant, and if he didn’t keep his focus upon it, the life he had led for the past two decades began to fade from view, and there was only Obi-Wan and this place with its recently-repaired vaporator and that aching, sweet night they had shared in his bed. There was only the face before him, expression suffused with love and compassion.

“It’s all right. You don’t need to understand everything just yet. Suffice it to say that we’re in a place shaped by our immanent desires.” Obi-Wan tapped Anakin’s cheek with the palm of his hand. “And what I’m desiring right now is breakfast! What do you think?”

Actually, food sounded wonderful. Would it be so bad to let go?

***

Obi-Wan had neither running water nor electricity in his home. The former’s absence was not uncommon, for frugality was a virtue to Tatooine’s rugged frontier settlers, but the latter, on a planet with eponymous twin suns and ubiquitous imported solar generators, was a virtual parody of privation. On the other hand, Anakin reflected ruefully, it was probably fortunate that Obi-Wan had never bothered installing a power hookup. If his evident failure to maintain his vaporator was any indication, he probably would have blown himself up before Luke was out of diapers.

The kitchen boasted a stove, an oven, and a storage larder beneath the floor, moderately cool in temperature and well-stocked with several dozen sealed containers of various foodstuffs. Anakin selected a handful at random and passed them to Obi-Wan. Two flatbread loaves garnished with aromatic herbs were already done baking, filling the air with a mouthwatering aroma.

It had been a very long time since he had taken any nourishment by mouth and longer still since he had eaten a meal in the style of his homeworld. With the exception of selected meat and dairy products, all food was imported from more agriculturally-hospitable systems. Bread was the main staple on Tatooine, as it was for many Human societies throughout the galaxy, and typically supplemented by nutritional preparations which could be made in large quantities and stored indefinitely. Most of his humble meals as a child had featured his mother’s fresh cheese and pickled vegetables.

Obi-Wan, though, had elevated local cuisine to a veritable art form. Every item from the larder was complex and radically different: root vegetable cubes wrapped in shuura leaves and soaked in rosé wine vinegar; salty cheese curds mixed with caramelized crushed pino nuts; fermented beans ground into satiny paste; and yogurt strained so thick that it was bluer than a cloudless afternoon sky. And the bread itself—so spongy and fragrant that even the master chef of an exclusive Core restaurant would have wept with envy. As was custom, they ate with their hands, scooping up mouthful after mouthful directly from the containers that had been opened and laid out between them to share with torn off hunks of flatbread. It was delicious. Heavenly. And the fresh, newly-harvested water from the vaporator made it even better. Perhaps dying and going to Tatooine wasn’t a punishment after all, Anakin thought as he licked his fingers clean.

Obi-Wan watched him with a bright, sharp hunger that had nothing to do with their now full stomachs.

The day continued easefully, in companionable silence. Obi-Wan tidied up after their meal and polished non-existent dust off of every horizontal surface—apparently the only man in the whole of the cosmos who enjoyed doing chores in the afterlife. Anakin, meanwhile, prowled through Obi-Wan’s meager possessions and discovered personal journals covering virtually the entire nineteen years he had spent in hiding. Poring over each exhaustive, handwritten entry, it surprised him to discover that Obi-Wan had seen Luke briefly almost every day, watching over him and keeping him safe from Tatooine’s many indigenous hazards. Yet it was only with the rarest exceptions—the time Luke delivered a Solarnen gift from his aunt to the door of the local recluse, for example—that Luke ever even spoke to Obi-Wan during his childhood.

“You practically became a stalker,” he remarked to Obi-Wan, who had appeared at some point to peer over his shoulder.

“Indeed. The good people of Anchorhead and Mos Eisley thought me a pedophile on the run from justice. The Jawas and the Tuskens thought I wanted children too, but they seemed to assume I was some sort of wizard or shaman and the children were for ritual sacrifice. On the bright side, it meant everyone kept quite the respectful distance.”

It was funny, but it wasn’t.

“Thank you,” Anakin whispered, “for protecting him. You didn’t have to. Not like that.”

“He was yours,” Obi-Wan said simply and wrapped his arms around Anakin’s waist in an affectionate embrace.

Anakin leaned back and pressed his lips against Obi-Wan’s neck, tasting the flutter of his pulse. They continued to nuzzle and pat each other tenderly, their thoughts mingling, swaddled in the comfort of unconditional forgiveness. This was what they had needed; this was what it meant to come home.

An indeterminate amount of time had passed. Suddenly, Obi-Wan straightened and said, “I think I’m going to take a bath. Would you like to join me?” He stuck his hand through the neckline of Anakin’s tunic, rubbing his chest coyly.

Anakin snickered. “Why, because you interrupted my bath the last time?”

“If I recall correctly, my beloved former Padawan, what happened was entirely your fault.” That playful, devious hand in Anakin’s tunic found a nipple and tweaked it.

With a sarcastic, long-suffering sigh, Anakin dropped Obi-Wan’s journal and followed him into the refresher. It was just as primitive as he remembered. They undressed quickly and with efficiency, falling readily back into the habits of another lifetime, with Obi-Wan collecting both of their garments and folding them into a neat pile.

His body was also as he remembered from his dream—perfect, whole, and completely impossible. “Why do I look like this?” he asked. “I don’t even have the scars from before I fell anymore.”

Obi-Wan, who in his nakedness still looked like the careworn old man he had been when he died, sucked on his teeth as he considered his answer. “Partly, it’s because you aren’t yet certain of how you want to be. But also…” His voice seemed to bleed from open, festering wounds. “Oh, Anakin, it always hurt me to see you hurt. Would that I could have protected you from the world. If there are no scars, then maybe…maybe I can pretend I never failed you.”

Obi-Wan’s admission of vulnerability made Anakin’s heart ache. What was there to say? Nothing would ever come close to being sufficient. Turning away awkwardly, he fished through the refresher cabinet and pulled out a jar of bathing oil and an exfoliating stone. “Here, let me wash you.”

They ended up washing each other. The delicate scent of the oil, reminiscent of Alderaanian evergreen honey, was soothing, and touching and being touched was lovely. There was no rush as they rubbed every inch of flesh until it was soft and supple, the slow scrubbing motions hypnotic. Obi-Wan’s treatment of Anakin’s body approached reverence. Anakin, meanwhile, spent particular time on Obi-Wan’s back, tracing along the jut of shoulder blades and the bumps of vertebrae down toward the sweet rise of his buttocks, massaging tense muscles into pleasant relaxation with firm, intelligent fingers.

As they toweled away the excess oil, Anakin eyed the nearby toilet pan. “We eat and bathe, yet I’ve felt no need to relieve myself. Why is that?”

“We don’t need to do anything. As I have told you before, the Netherworld of the Force shapes itself around our immanent desires. Do you want to relieve yourself?”

“Absolutely not!” He didn’t care to remember Darth Vader’s catheters and colostomies.

“Well, I can think of something else that might bring you relief…” Obi-Wan cupped his groin and squeezed.

“Gods, no wonder you died a virgin. You’re beyond hopeless at seduction.” But he arched into the hand anyway.

“All the more reason to start redressing those deficiencies immediately.”

This time, when it happened, Anakin was consciously aware of the change. The years melted away from Obi-Wan like dew dissolving off of blades of grass in the Nubian morning, and he stood transformed: a man of strong middle age, thinned and hardened by the desert but not yet diminished by it. There were lines on his face and scattered gray hairs at his temples and in his beard that had not been there for that fateful battle on Mustafar. The lines of his body, however, remained athletic and strong…and he was fabulously beautiful.

Obi-Wan’s gaze, hot with desire, held Anakin captive as, with deliberate slowness, he poured oil into one cupped palm, slicked his hands, and spread his legs so that he could reach behind to open himself. His penis twitched as he scissored and pumped his fingers, moaning suggestively while grinding backwards on the self-imposed intrusion. Anakin began to masturbate, delighted by the unexpected (and, he would have thought, uncharacteristic) display.

“I want you in my bed, inside of me. I want you to fuck me and make me scream,” Obi-Wan said, lewd and unashamed.

Anakin could only swallow convulsively and nod as a sympathetic flash of heat nearly undid him, right then and there.

They were more than ready now, hard and aching even before they left the refresher. Anakin showered Obi-Wan with kisses and bumped their bodies together with erotic purpose. Obi-Wan reciprocated enthusiastically, but after a few moments, he placed a restraining hand on Anakin’s stomach, eliciting a frustrated moan. “No, we’re going to do this my way,” he said, steering Anakin toward the bedroom. Gently yet inexorably, Obi-Wan urged him to get into the bed and lie back with his head against the pillow.

Obi-Wan climbed into bed along with him, straddling Anakin’s body and leaning on his heels so that they could see each other clearly. Obi-Wan, breath heavy and flushed pink, changeable blue eyes turned gray-green and dilated with need, looked irresistible. And he was probably thinking the same thing about Anakin as he brushed Anakin’s unruly curls away from his face, murmuring, “If you could just see yourself now…”

“Stop teasing!” Anakin exclaimed as he tried to pull Obi-Wan down to him.

Obi-Wan, however, captured both of Anakin’s hands in his own. “My way,” he reminded him.

Anakin glared at Obi-Wan. Unmistakable, silent challenge. Their penises, untouched and ignored, wept beads of clear fluid. But Obi-Wan was relentless, and eventually Anakin relaxed and placed his hands at his sides. “Okay. Your way,” he conceded.

Obi-Wan was gracious in such easy victory. Free now, his hands roamed everywhere, and he ran his lips over the sensitive shells of Anakin’s ears, along his jawline, and down his neck toward his collarbone. He tugged on the hair in his armpits and suckled on his nipples until they were tight and numb. Anakin fisted the sheets and arched into the sensation. Then Obi-Wan kissed and licked and nipped his way down the midline of Anakin’s chest, a short detour to dip his tongue into the wrinkled crevice of his navel, and stopped at last at the place where Anakin was so thick and hard for him.

Their eyes met from across the expanse of Anakin’s sweating, heaving chest. Obi-Wan grinned so widely he looked practically smug. Anakin, well beyond caring, moaned and canted his hips…and Obi-Wan swallowed his erection whole. Anakin groaned. His mouth was warm and wet, the suction exquisite. Obi-Wan bobbed up and down a few times, humming his delight, and laved his tongue along the sensitive underside and around the tip of the glans. His fingers rubbed the loose skin of Anakin’s scrotum and probed teasingly at his anus.

Anakin could feel Obi-Wan’s penis brushing against his inner leg, leaving a widening smear of wetness to testify to his intense arousal. Anakin was already very close, and Obi-Wan wasn’t even touching himself. He hadn’t allowed Anakin to touch him either! Anakin placed his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and tugged him upward. “I want—” He lost his voice temporarily as Obi-Wan sank all the way down to the root of his penis yet again. “Oh Gods— Please! Let me touch you…!”

For one breathless, eternal moment, Anakin was sure Obi-Wan would ignore his pleas. But then, with a grunt and without, somehow, removing his mouth from Anakin’s erection, Obi-Wan shifted his body around so that his groin rested beside Anakin’s face. Finally. Anakin reached around to grasp Obi-Wan’s penis with both hands, stroking up and down along the hot, silky shaft. He buried his nose into the fragrant pubic hair, savoring Obi-Wan’s uniquely spicy, astringent scent, and guided the weeping tip to his own lips. Soon they were deep into each other’s mouths; both were shaking from the ecstasy of it.

Obi-Wan managed to pull off and away from Anakin before either of them could come. Anakin barely had time to grumble his renewed frustration when Obi-Wan was straddling him once again and guiding his penis inside him. Entry was easy this time—he had prepared himself well in the refresher, evidently—and the hot, wet slide was deliciously tight but not painful for either of them. “Yes, oh yes…” Obi-Wan whispered. His eyes were half-lidded, his head thrown back, neck exposed, wanton. He began to grind, rotate, and bounce up and down experimentally.

Anakin placed his hands on Obi-Wan’s hips to steady him and meet his thrusts. They found their rhythm in short order, and it was fluid, sublime. Obi-wan controlled it, lifting nearly off of Anakin’s penis entirely before falling back down, anus contracting against the base as he bottomed out. Every stroke was intense and perfect, striking Obi-Wan’s prostate and making his erection, which he still refused to touch or allow Anakin to touch, throb against both of their chests. Anakin had never been so deep in any partner before, and watching Obi-Wan watch him heightened their mutual pleasure.

The pace quickened gradually, harder and faster, until Obi-Wan could no longer keep his balance. He fell forward, one hand on the bed near Anakin’s head to brace himself and the other resting on Anakin’s chest. Their faces were close; each heaving aspiration mingled. “I used to dream of this, you know. Every night. This is my dream come true,” Obi-Wan said, trembling as his thrusts connected with Anakin’s again and again.

Anakin replied to Obi-Wan’s confession by pulling him down for a searing kiss.

When Anakin came, inevitable, unstoppable, Obi-Wan rode him remorselessly right through it. Every muscle in Anakin’s body contracted, even as he maintained his rhythm, and he felt like he was going to ejaculate forever. It was gorgeous; it was agony. Anakin tossed his head back and forth and sobbed, fingers digging hard into Obi-Wan’s flesh. It could have been five seconds or just short of eternity—he wasn’t certain. All he knew was that Obi-Wan was still racing toward his own completion above him and that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop until he had satisfied him.

“You’re mine, Anakin, mine, mine forever,” Obi-Wan chanted, his eyes devouring every flicker and twist of expression on Anakin’s face.

“I’m yours, Obi-Wan, yours, yours always,” he agreed between rapid, panting breaths.

Their lovemaking continued until they were both writhing against each other, lost in a place far beyond any coherent thought or speech. Obi-Wan had finally taken himself in hand and was gasping, whining, moaning as each long stroke opened him wider—until at long, long last he froze against Anakin in orgasm, his penis lashing them both with stripes of warm white semen as he shouted his release. He was wild, primal, magnetic, and the universe itself seemed to quake around them as Obi-Wan’s delight reached its crescendo.

They returned to themselves gradually. After such frantic intensity, they now knew only lazy contentment. Obi-Wan had tucked himself securely against Anakin’s body, Anakin’s lingering fullness still quivering so wonderfully deep inside of him. They embraced and wrapped their limbs around each other, pressing affectionate, happy kisses to each other’s faces.

“I love you.” Both men said the same words in perfect unison. Rejoicing in this one simple truth, Anakin and Obi-Wan clung tighter together as they eased into some much-deserved rest.

***

Pitch black. His face was wet with tears. He could feel but not see Obi-Wan’s warm body beside him. He reached out.

“I had the most horrible dream,” Anakin said.

He felt Obi-Wan reach back for him, to wrap his arms around him. “Tell me about it.”

“I killed everyone I ever loved.”

“…”

“I killed you.”

“Ah.”

“And Padmé. And Ahsoka. And—”

“And?”

“My Mast— The Empe— Sidious.”

“Yes. They have all become one with the Force.”

“It wasn’t a dream…was it?” A new sob was rising in Anakin’s throat, threatening to tear its way to freedom.

“No. You fulfilled your destiny and destroyed the Sith.”

“I-I thought… I loved him. Truly. For so long. How could I…?”

A fraught pause. Then Obi-Wan began to stroke his head. “It is possible that he loved you too, in his own way,” Obi-Wan admitted. “He certainly did go to extraordinary lengths to preserve your life. And he trusted you implicitly. That was his downfall in the end.”  

“I betrayed them all,” Anakin moaned.

“I am so very sorry, Anakin. As I’ve already told you, sometimes love is not enough.”

Spare me your hypocrisy. It’s not like you’ve never tried to kill a former apprentice.

“Like it wasn’t enough for us.” Anakin recoiled from the realization, from Obi-Wan’s embrace, but Obi-Wan held him closer and would not let him escape.

“No. No.” Obi-Wan shuddered, the harsh vibration reverberating through them both. “You were right, you know. I was a hypocrite. I thought I knew the future: My duty was to watch over Luke and keep him safely hidden from the Empire because someday he would take up the mantle of The Chosen One. But when I learned that you were still alive— I faced the darkness inside myself and realized— I was glad. And I wanted you back. I may have lost you to Sidious, but you had been mine. Mine.

“I spent years—years, Anakin!—wishing for a different outcome. Imagining that we were still together, that we were reunited, that you had never left. Dreaming that you…” He sobbed. The words were pouring out of him now. Undammed, they flowed fast and free. “That you loved me as much as I had always loved you. Such seductive, intoxicating visions. Night after night after night, while I slept. I knew none of it was real, but it felt so good, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want it to end. If it hadn’t been for your son, I would have let my regrets swallow me whole. I nearly succumbed to the dark side! But he— Luke kept me in the light. I went to my death happily, knowing he would live on and fulfill his destiny.

“Yes, I believed it was Luke’s destiny to destroy you. Your anger was justified—I encouraged him. And at the very same time, I was attempting to train you in a power that I had only just realized for myself. What could have been more foolish than teaching a Sith Lord the secret of immortality? But I didn’t care! You had unwittingly reached out when you tried to find me, and I’d been alone for so long. I thought, surely, after everything I had sacrificed, that I deserved…” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked and broke, and he began to weep inconsolably.

After all the hurt, Anakin thought, maybe this is where the healing could begin. There was nothing between them anymore, no illusions of place or space or time, and when he reached out for Obi-Wan a second time, seeking pleasure, seeking union, it was like nothing mortal, nothing Human. All the pain, the darkness, was swept away, and the very essences of Anakin and Obi-Wan, pure, distilled down to what was good and true and giving about them, came together in ecstasy. Shining tendrils of energy cast out and penetrated each other, wove themselves together, tighter and tighter, until they were bound. This could not be undone. Past touch and sight and sound, their joy burst free. And so it would be for them—eternity.

***

Anakin awoke abruptly to a pile of clothes being dropped with an unceremonious thump onto his chest.

“Get dressed.” The voice of command: It was Obi-Wan. For a moment, Anakin thought he was a youngling back at the Temple, trying his Master’s patience and late for morning lessons after a sleepless night of mischief.

Then he opened his eyes to a whitewashed adobe ceiling and remembered everything.

Obi-Wan loomed over him, an old man in tattered robes, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently. Anakin leapt to his feet and, while Obi-Wan made the bed, rushed to dress himself in what appeared to be the same items he had left behind in the refresher.

“Master Yoda tells me that there is a victory celebration on the Sanctuary Moon. Your children are in attendance, and I’m sure Luke will be very happy to see you,” Obi-Wan said by way of explanation, regarding Anakin appraisingly. “Come. I need to look at you in better light.”

“Yoda told you…?!” His mind boggled. Dazedly, he allowed Obi-Wan to push him out of the bedroom.

Anakin had no idea how he looked, but Obi-Wan, after straightening the folds of Anakin's undertunic and combing his fingers through the most tenacious knots in Anakin’s hair, gave a nod of supreme satisfaction. Like maybe he was still a youngling who needed tending after all. Well, in some ways. Anakin leaned forward and pressed a passionate, openmouthed kiss to Obi-Wan’s lips. Obi-Wan responded enthusiastically, and—yes!—that bright energy at the heart of them pulled tight and began to vibrate like a plucked lyraharp string. It was a promise reverberating through the celestial music of the Force: They would always be a part of each other. Now and forever.

“Enough.” Obi-Wan broke the kiss. “We must hurry. We’re already late.”

So, he didn’t like being late. Some things never changed. Fortunately, other things did.

Anakin laughed incredulously and followed Obi-Wan out the door.

END