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Chapter Text

Grains of sand spilled through black leather fingers as Vader tilted his prosthetic. It caught on the breeze and drifted over the remains of speeder, recently excavated from the grit. 

The vehicle stank of Kenobi's presence, oddly warped, but it wasn't the source of the disturbance. That lurked further in. The Jundland Wastes. So the rusted trash meant nothing to him, except perhaps a whisper of vindication in his heart. 

So Kenobi had survived, had hidden from him here. 

So be it. Let the old man huddle in a hut on a rock furthest from the bright center of the universe. Let him know the misery his apprentice had grown up in. 

Vader rose. The troopers who had excavated the thing had spread its paltry cargo on a tarp around it, and he scanned them mechanically. Nothing among them seemed consequential, but he committed them to memory anyway. Then, without bothering to raise a hand, he levitated the three chunks of speeder into the air a foot, and crushed it into a ball of durasteel and synth oil.

When he turned, the four members of Death Squadron behind him snapped to attention, ready to receive orders.

“Return to Anchorhead and await my orders. Do not contact me unless I am summoned by the Emperor.” Without hesitation, all four turned, mounted their speeder bikes and departed. Cold satisfaction flared in his chest at the sight. Sidious' Empire may be bloated with corruption, incompetence and lack of faith and conviction but the 501st was not similarly blemished.

Vader eased his leg up and over his own modified speeder, designed with a reinforced frame and repulsors claimed from an Imperial Combat Speeder to account for his bulk. Kenobi's presence led further into the deep desert, tainted and mingled with some presence he could not define. A second being? No, not a being, a vergence of some sort. He squeezed the throttle and shot off over the sands, chasing a ghost.

A sandstorm blotted out half the horizon like some great apocalyptic wave, but Vader sped forward undeterred. Fear of such things belonged to those who lacked the power to bend the world to their will, and here Vader's will was iron. The disturbance he sought was further in, somewhere at the heart of the storm. Kenobi was further in.

As the storm reached him it parted. No grain of sand or blistering wind would touch his armor. A flicker of will and the HUD in his helmet began displaying readouts on the storm. Wind speed and direction and an orbital synoptic chart of the storm cropped up, along with an infrared filter over his vision to track heat signatures in the storm. Splitting his focus, the Sith Lord began casting his senses out allowing the currents of the Force to guide him towards his ultimate goal. 

The world went white as a bolt of dry lightning struck the sand before him. Pain landed through Vader's skull, eyes burning. Artificial tears from the suit flooded his visor, laced with a numbing agent. Vader drank in the pain and channeled it into rage, and forced it out into his shields. 

Not an instant too soon, either, as the next bolt of lightning struck him directly. Sense memories of his Master's punishments forced themselves to the front of his mind, ghosts of old pain dancing down natural and artificial nerves alike. But this was not Darth Sidious's doing. Vader need not suffer such indignity, for fear of inciting further damage. So he simply batted it away with the Force. 

As it always did, the galaxy threw everything it had at Vader. Several more strikes flashed in rapid succession, and he was forced to draw his crackling red blade and parry them manually. Each supernaturally swift swing left an arc of burning red glass in the haze and a burst of light as the energy dispersed.

Sand coated the exterior of his armor as his focus failed him, split too many ways. It collected in the joints of his limbs and the microscopic cracks in the composite, fueling his hate further. It became a feedback loop, hate fueling rage fueling hatred in turn. He began to sense something… more. This was not simply the storm's doing. Some will, some great presence in the storm did not desire Vader to reach the center.

“NO!” A great burst of power poured from him, contesting with the buffering winds and sharp, tearing sands. Whatever will drove the storm opposed him, as a wall resists a surging wave. He could not simply sweep it away, but around him an eye formed. It felt like grudging acquiescence, as though whatever entity opposed him had either thought better of it or recognized his power as greater than its own.

In the center of this clearing, surrounded still by raging sands, was a tear. Vader approached it with something near to wariness. Once more he reached out with the Force.

When he brushed against the suspended rift, a great vibration seemed to shake the desert. Or simply shake him to his bones. Snarling into his vocoder, Vader pressed forward with his will, gritting his teeth and enduring the sensation even as it intensified. He strode forward and touched the thing, attempting to rip it wider so he could gain entry or see through. He bore down with as much might that his focus would allow. 

With a sound like two ships grinding against each other at Mach speed, Vader ripped a hole about a foot and a half wide in the fabric of the world. The energy he'd poured into it lashed back, slamming into him as if a bomb had gone off. 

The last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness was an overbearing sense of amusement. As though the desert itself were laughing at him.

Chapter Text

When Anakin came to his senses he was staring up at a dimly lit gray durasteel ceiling. The cloying aftertaste of Bacta in his nose and mouth added a second piece to the puzzle of his whereabouts.

A second dimly later, the rest of the pieces were dumped into his lap all at once

“Skyguy! You're awa-” his padawan's voice was cut off by a prim coruscanti one that settled over him like an old cloak. Obi-Wan

“Ahsoka, mind your volume!” She was chided, not particularly quietly. “Anakin has had severe brain trauma. I'm sure quiet would serve his aching head better.” As if waiting for its cue, his head started pounding.

“Thank you so much for the reminder Master” he moaned, grinding his palms into his eyes. 

“How are you feeling, my young friend? That crash was quite spectacular” Obi-Wan likewise hid his affection .

“I…” He wanted to respond to Obi-Wan in kind but wit failed him. Something was wrong. “I don't remember a crash. I don't even remember flying anything..” 

“It wouldn't be the first time, Master.” Ahsoka quipped at him. Something twisted in his gut. Why did her doubt feel so personal? It was just lighthearted banter, she didn't mean anything by it. She never did, it was just… an attempt to imitate his relationship with his own master. 

His good mood soured remarkably fast, and both of them sensed it. Ahsoka's cheer faded from the room, and a little light left Obi-Wan's eyes. 

Why did that feel like victory? He was a Jedi, he lov- he was close to Obi-Wan, they were like brothers. Why did watching the pain in his eyes cause Anakin such vile satisfaction. He reached for the Force to release the alien emotion and re-enter himself, but when he did the Force felt twisted and strange. Immediately the bitterness swelled in his chest. Anakin opened his mouth to utter something, another bard or some dismissal, but his old master cut him off.

“I commed your wife, Anakin. She should be here any moment.” He was dead. That was the explanation, the crash had killed him and this was some Force-conjured reward for his time as a Jedi. 

You don't deserve a reward. 

“M-my what? Master I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh come now Anakin, Padme would want to hear that would she?” Obi-Wan chuckled, his good mood returned, but Anakin felt neither bitterness nor joy. His thoughts had room only for Padme, and of this inexplicable acceptance of their marriage.

 Biting back his urge to interrogate Obi-Wan was a herculean effort. He longed to demand answers. How did he know? How long had he known? Instead, Anakin simply nodded, terse and silent. His long service to the Empire had taught him the value of patience. Most beings revealed what they knew without being prodded, if you gave them the rope with which to hang themselves.

The Republic. His service to the-

“Padme!!” Ahsoka crowed over the sound of a door sliding open. And his angel walked into the room. Anakin's eyes shot to her, as though seeing her for the first time in centuries. She was in peak form today. 

Padme wore her Sable hair up in an elaborate triple bun that ran down the middle of her head like a crest. On anyone else he would have found it comedic, but Padme Amidala could make banthashit shine like Kyber. 

Her outfit was pragmatic, more spacer than Senator. It consisted of tan leather breeches, a white shirt of some type of natural fiber, and a leather vest. The knee length boots she wore over the pants were fastened up the sides with thick buckles. He was staring unabashedly at this point, but it went unnoticed.

“Ahsoka, how is your preparation for the Trials coming?” Trials? Anakin's head must be worse than he thought. Ahsoka was nowhere near ready for the Trials, last thing he remembered anyway. He tried to think of the last part of her training they'd gone through together but came up blank.

When he refocused, the conversation had moved on. 

“Master Kenobi, I have a message for you actually. I met with Duchess Kryze not a week ago and she told me to tell you she sends her love. And also,” she paused and leaned in “this” and she pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek. Despite his typical serenity, Kenobi blushed. The older Jedi stammered some response but Anakin couldn't hear it through the blood pounding in his ears.

Utterly irrational anger blanketed his thoughts like a thick layer of cotton. He should say something, tease Kenobi about his girlfriend, but all he could think about was the kiss. He felt sick to his stomach.

“And who is this imposing fellow?” Padme turned towards him, and her question cut his rage off at the knees. She proffered her had towards him, and when Anakin reached out to take it his hands were covered in black synth leather. “I don't believe we've met before, that's quite odd armor for a Jedi, isn't it?”

“What are you saying, Padme? That's your husband. Leia's father. Don't you recognize him?” Obi-Wan's tone was mild and confused.

“No, you must be mistaken Master Jedi. Anakin Skywalker is dead.” Horror gripped him. “So who are you- Gurk” Padme's immaculate hands shot to her throat and she slowly started rising into the air. That black leather hand, which Anakin had vaguely recognized as his own, was clenched into a fist. 

Blood ran from her eyes, and her face turned first red then purple. Anakin tried desperately to unclench his hand, to release the grip on his angel. It was hopeless.

With an awful crunch, her neck broke. Suddenly she was pregnant, dressed all in white. 

Grief

Rage

Hate.

To each side of her stood his Master and Padawan looking years older, and each fell to the stroke of his burning red blade. He rose from the med-table and strode out into the temple. 

Anakin slashed through the doors to the Temple, then blew them inward with a thrust of his will.

Cin Drallig and his padawan died easier in this place then they had the first time. 

Shaak Ti fell blade in hand this time, but without putting forth much of a showing . 

Yoda didn't even raise a blade to him, a single tear slipping down his aged face. Vader simply strode past.

In the council chambers, he expected -hoped- to find Mace Windu, to end the man himself or finally have his own suffering ended.

Instead there was a single youngling.

It was the child he'd ended there, Sors Bandeam.

It was his own child, as they’d have looked if he hadn’t killed them in the womb.

It was little Ani Skywalker, still dusty and windburned from the desert. He had his mother's cloak wrapped around him, shaking slightly from the cold. 

Vader raised his saber high, and-

Awoke.

Chapter Text

The desert cared nothing for status, power, or importance. A Master will die of sun poisoning as quickly as his slave.

It was one of the first lessons that Shmi had imparted on her son and he had learned it well. Vader was reminded of it now.

When Vader came to consciousness he was in incredible pain. This was not a new occurrence. He had spent much of the last decade in agony. Between burn scars, lightsaber wounds, Sith lightning, poor-quality prosthetics and his own increasing detachment from his physical form, Vader's body was a nightmare to inhabit.

This particular pain was exceptional even by his standard. Vader struggled into a sitting position, noting through his fugue the damage to his armor. The life support unit in his chestwas straining to keep his vital functions as its servos overheated. The temperature control was cooked, ironically. The odor of burning flesh crept past the respirator's failing, sand-clogged filters.

Vader rose.

Rather, he attempted to. Between damaged prosthetics and shifting sand, all he managed to do was tumble onto his front.

His armorweave cape sheltered him somewhat from the sun. Small mercies. Some small piece of his mind begged him to just lie there a moment and meditate, attempt to purge some of the pain from his body and heal. Vader crushed the impulse, and took his feet. His body refused to answer his commands so he wrapped himself in the Force and removed the possibility of failure from the equation.

When even his own flesh failed him, the Force would provide.

The saddlebags on his speeder contained a deployable shelter that provided a meager degree of shade, and he retrieved a small toolkit to accompany it. Over the next hour, Vader was able to eliminate the primary faults in his life support, wrap the breached points in the armor with a black cling-tape that sealed it airtight once more, and place a comm to the Executor to relocate in orbit over his current location.

Only once it had done so and the area he stood was bathed in shadow did Vader notice the rift.

He had forgotten it. Where once stood a thin crack now stood an uneven hand-span wide. Nothing could be seen through it.

He would need to change that. Vader knew little to nothing of Sith Sorcery. That was likely his Master's express intention, seeking to hamper his development to prevent.. ambition.

Vader wasn’t naturally inclined to subtler applications of the Force. He had never found an aspect of the Force he was incapable of, but never had seen the appeal of such passive, remote tactics. Why create dark creatures when no such pawn could rival his own killing ability? Why attempt to divine the future when the Force fed him visions when he required them?

But opening that portal and immersing himself in and controlling such wellsprings in the force were worth his time. If he need learn Sorcery to do so it was a simple cost.

Vader would need to return to Tatooine. He may need to return here regularly, to attune himself to the thing, and build some sort of structure around it to prevent the storm-entity from returning to it or closing it. Perhaps even build his own Temple on the site.

Vader would have to return to Tatooine.

His heart was like the void between stars.

He immediately began drawing up plans to purge this world of Hutts and Tusken raiders. Just as rapidly he stopped himself. A purge would be obvious. It would reveal his interest in his homeworld to Sidious. Vader was in no hurry to surrender this vergence to his master. It was his. When it surrendered its secrets it would be to him.

The inability to simply scourge the scum and parasites that infested this dusty rock galled to the bone, but Vader had lived a life full of humiliation and indignity. His master seemed to savor humbling him more than any of his other vices- and Vader had learned much of his Master's vices.
.
Sidious had not yet contacted him, neither through his suits internal comm nor the ship. There was time to ponder next steps. Vader contacted his 501st and issued orders for a shuttle to descend to his current coordinates.

….

Beru cleaned and she fretted. Owen was out checking the vaporators and wouldn’t back back for hours. Luke was napping in the den, where it was a few degrees cooler. There was nothing to distract her except sweeping sand out of the homestead.

All cleaning on Tatooine was essentially a pointless act. They were doomed to endlessly struggle to claim and reclaim their homes from the desert. There was nothing for it. The work was better than sleeping in sandy beds and eating sandy meals.

It was also better than running herself ragged worrying about Ben. A voice in the back of her mind kept insisting to Beru that something was wrong out on the Jundland Wastes. She should have seen him travel by yesterday afternoon on that deathtrap of a speeder, even if he didn’t stop to speak with her and tell little Luke stories of adventures. Stories of Anakin.

Perhaps it was better that he hadn’t. Despite being raised Amavikka, Luke had yet to learn discretion. It was a side effect of being free-born, and Beru wouldn’t take that from him for all the galaxy. But he had an unfortunate habit of repeating things he shouldn’t in front of Owen. Like the stories Ben had told him about his father.

Owen was a good man, but he was not Amavikka. He couldn’t know what it meant for Luke to know his family’s story. The Lars family farm had belonged to a Lars since the settling of Tatooine. Perhaps this is why he felt so comfortable telling their child lies about his father.

Beru wouldn't openly defy that decision. Obviously Owen was correct about the danger. But Ben Kenobi was Anakin’s last real family, and she wouldn't deny him the chance to spend time with Luke.

A soft boom echoed in the distance, shaking Beru from her reverie. Wind howled outside rattling the array built into the roof. An explosion? She hurried to the window and saw it.

An Imperial Star Destroyer breaking atmo off over the Dune Sea.

She ran for the comlink in the den. A sandy blond head popped up from the basement, drawn by the noise.

“Luke, get down into the Singer’s rooms in the cellar, now!” There weren’t any runaways down in that little sub-basement at the moment. Imir Moonspinner stopped by with her little cargo speeder three rotations ago and retrieved their last guest.

“But Aunt Beru, what was that noise?” By Ar-Amu freeborn children could whine.

“Luke! Cellar. NOW.” She rushed past him into the kitchen, no time to look back and make sure he had obeyed.

The commlink was stashed in a wall safe and used only for emergencies. It had three frequencies programmed into it.

One that corresponded to Owen’s, which was concealed in the control panel of his moisture harvester.

One that went to Ben Kenobi’s Commlink, which neither Ben nor Owen knew she had.

And one that went to some offworld friend of Anakin’s, the man who had decided to send Luke to them. She’d never even met the man. Ben has slipped her a scrap of flimsi with the frequency scrawled on it, then hissed to burn it after it was programmed in.

First she commed Owen, warning him to leave off the harvesting and make a beeline back to the homestead.

Then she commed the third number. The call connected and she heard breathing on the other end but no words were spoken.

“...hello?” She initiated hesitantly. No response. “Is. Is this Bail Organa? My name is Beru Lars. I have a problem.” There was a sharp intake of breath

“Lady Lars, what can I do for you?”

“There’s an Imperial Star Destroyer in orbit over Tatooine. Over my house.”