=== Palpatine ===
At the summit of the Imperial Executive Building, within a private office lined with polished obsidian and transparent alloy windows, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine stood alone with the galaxy spread before him in holographic form.
The vast projection rotated slowly at the center of the chamber, systems glowing in varying intensities of blue and crimson. His eyes traced them with quiet satisfaction. The Clone Wars had nearly served their purpose. The Jedi Order was no more. The Senate pliable. And on Mustafar, his apprentice had carried out his will, seizing the central citadel and extinguishing the planet of Tatooine. Everything unfolded precisely as foreseen.
And yet.
A faint sensation crept along the back of his skull. It was subtle at first, like a disturbance in still water, but it deepened quickly into something invasive. Palpatine's fingers twitched at his sides as he extended his awareness outward, expecting to encounter a probing Jedi mind or some ripple born of his apprentice's emotional turbulence.
Instead, he found something vast and ancient.
The presence engulfed him. The air in the chamber seemed to collapse inward as a pressure like crushing gravity descended upon his thoughts. The holographic galaxy flickered and distorted. Palpatine staggered, one hand flying to his temple as white-hot agony speared through his consciousness. He had endured Force storms, had peered into the abyss of the dark side without flinching, had communed with powers beyond mortal comprehension through his devotion to Tzeentch. but this was different.
He fell to one knee, breath hitching as a voice, if it could even be called that, coiled through his mind. It bloomed inside his skull, reverberating along every synapse at once.
"You seek dominion." She whispered, and the whisper contained a vast hunger. "You desire one galaxy as though it were all that exists."
Palpatine's teeth clenched. "Show yourself," he rasped aloud, though he knew this entity had no need for physical manifestation.
A ripple of cold laughter spread through his thoughts, and with it came visions. Impossible, fractal expanses of stars beyond stars, universes layered like reflections in shattered glass, incomprehensible domains of endless madness and hunger. He saw civilizations rising and falling in spirals that dwarfed his own ambitions. He saw himself enthroned not upon Coruscant, not even over a single galaxy, but across countless realities, each bending in submission.
"Abandon your weak god," the voice continued, now tightening around his consciousness like constricting chains. "He is a flicker. A schemer in a shallow sea. He cannot protect you from what is coming. He will abandon you when you need him most. But I won't. I would never."
Palpatine reeled as the vast being showed herself to him finally.
The Mother. The Bringer of Chaos. The Devourer lurking beyond the edges of cosmic order.
The pain in his skull intensified, lancing deeper as if invisible talons were prying open his skull. Palpatine collapsed fully to the polished floor, robes pooling around him as the galaxy projection above flickered wildly. He could feel the challenge embedded within her words, the audacity of comparing herself to Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, architect of impossible futures. Fury flared within him, but it was swallowed by another surge of agony that drove a guttural moan from his throat.
"Your god is weak," Abeloth hissed, and the hiss became a storm. "He plays at manipulation within a single Universe. I devour realities. Pledge yourself to me, and not merely this galaxy, but countless others, will kneel. Eternity will be yours. Death will never touch you. You will rule without end beneath my blessing."
His eyes widened at the promise.
Immortality not through fragile rituals or decaying clones. True eternity. Absolute dominion beyond the narrow confines of a single universe. The temptation was not subtle; it was overwhelming, saturating every ambition he had ever nurtured.
He tried to resist, if only to test her resolve. "I bow to no one," he snarled internally, even as his body trembled against the floor.
"Liar," she replied, and the contempt in her tone was cold. "You kneel to a creature who would discard you when your utility ends. I offer you ascension."
The pressure increased until it felt as though his skull would fracture. Veins stood out along his temples. His vision blurred. For a fleeting, humiliating moment, he understood what true helplessness felt like before something primordial and immeasurable.
Then she struck with a final revelation.
"Hasten to Mustafar," she commanded. "Your apprentice wavers. The light claws at him still. If you delay, you will lose him. And through him, you will lose everything you have set in motion."
Vader was the fulcrum upon which his Empire would pivot. If the boy faltered now, if sentiment or guilt reclaimed him, decades of manipulation would unravel. Palpatine felt the truth in her warning, he sensed the tremor she described. A subtle instability in the Force.
The agony peaked, then vanished.
The presence withdrew like a receding abyss, leaving behind a hollow echo in his mind and the faintest trace of cold satisfaction.
Palpatine lay there for several seconds, chest rising and falling rapidly, robes damp with sweat. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His hands trembled from the aftershock of contact with something vast beyond comprehension. He closed his eyes and reached inward, testing the connection to Tzeentch. It remained, though faintly amused.
A smile crept across his face.
If the Mad Mother believed she could command him, she underestimated him. Yet her warning aligned with his own intuition. Whether divine manipulation or genuine foresight, the outcome was the same: he could not afford delay.
He straightened his robes and strode toward the chamber doors, composure restored as though he had never been reduced to the floor. The doors parted with a soft hiss, revealing the crimson-robed Guards stationed outside. Their helmets tilted slightly at his approach.
"Prepare my shuttle," he said smoothly, voice devoid of any trace of strain. "We depart for Mustafar at once."
The guard bowed without question and moved to comply.
=== Vader ===
Standing across the fractured platform, Qui-Gon Jinn stood alone, green blade steady despite the tremor running through the floor beneath him. He had widened his stance, shoulders squared, settling into a purely defensive posture.
Vader advanced slowly, blade humming. The contrast was almost mocking. He did not rush. He did not need to, as he knew his old master stood no chance. The Force coiled around him, responding eagerly to the dark certainty that pulsed in his veins. His former master was preparing not to win, but to endure.
That realization amused him.
Their blades met with explosive force as Vader lunged forward without warning, blue saber carving a horizontal arc that Qui-Gon intercepted high before the blue blade swung round in a vicious upward sweep aimed at his ribs. Qui-Gon twisted, redirecting the second strike just enough to avoid disembowelment, though the tip of the blade grazed his side and scorched through fabric and flesh. He did not cry out. Instead, he pivoted into a tight defensive spiral.
Vader pressed relentlessly, alternating between overwhelming power and sudden, surgical precision. He hammered at Qui-Gon's guard with crushing overhead strikes that rattled the Jedi's shoulders, then shifted without pause into rapid thrusts aimed at joints and arteries.
Sparks cascaded down around them as their blades collided again and again, the rhythm accelerating into something almost musical in its violence. Qui-Gon retreated step by step, boots skidding across grated flooring as he deflected, redirected, absorbed.
"You always preached patience," Vader said as their sabers locked near the edge of a molten channel, heat blasting up in suffocating waves. "Balance. Restraint."
He shoved forward, forcing Qui-Gon to one knee before the Jedi rolled sideways to avoid being driven into the lava below. Vader followed, blade flashing downward in a slash that gouged molten scars into the floor where Qui-Gon had stood a heartbeat earlier.
"Look at you now," Vader continued, voice low but carrying easily over the roar of machinery. "Struggling to even put up a fight!"
He surged forward with renewed fury, blue blade spinning in a tight feint that drew Qui-Gon's guard upward before the saber snapped low and sliced across the Jedi's thigh. The cut was shallow, another reminder of dominance. Qui-Gon staggered half a step, compensating immediately, but Vader saw the shift.
He began to toy with his old master.
Vader circled, launching sequences that were less about ending the duel and more about demonstrating his superiority. He executed flourishes of blade techniques that bordered on theatrical, spinning his saber behind his back before bringing it around in a reverse-angle strike.
Each exchange drove the Jedi farther across the chamber, past shattered consoles and sparking conduits, toward a narrowing walkway suspended over a churning lava fall.
Qui-Gon's defense held, but it cost him.
A glancing strike burned across his shoulder when he misjudged the reach of Vader's blade. Another clipped his forearm, numbing his grip momentarily. His green saber wavered once before steadying again. His face remained composed, yet sweat beaded along his brow, and his breathing grew heavier as he compensated for accumulating injuries.
Vader felt it all through the Force. Every tremor of pain. Every flicker of fatigue. It fed him.
He lunged again, driving Qui-Gon backward onto the narrow walkway where space for maneuvering vanished. Here, Vader's aggression became claustrophobic. His blade slashed in arcs that left no safe avenue of escape, forcing Qui-Gon to compress his defense into impossibly tight movements. Sparks sprayed into the lava below with each parry, illuminating the gulf beneath them in violent flashes.
For a brief moment, Qui-Gon attempted to shift momentum. He angled his blade not merely to deflect but to redirect Vader's power against him, stepping inside the arc of a heavy strike and delivering a measured counter aimed at Vader's wrist.
Vader twisted superhumanly fast, catching the strike on his own blade and locking it against the green saber. He leaned in close, their faces inches apart, heat shimmering between them.
"You see?" Vader murmured, eyes burning. "You taught me well."
Then he disengaged explosively, spinning into a backhand slash that carved across Qui-Gon's upper arm and sent the Jedi reeling.
Still, Qui-Gon did not fall.
He steadied himself at the walkway's edge, green blade raised despite the tremor in his injured arm. There was pain in his eyes, yes, but not surrender. Not hatred. A deep sorrow had come to his eyes layered over unwavering conviction.
Vader advanced once more, movements fluid and terrible, savoring the widening gap between them. Each clash drove Qui-Gon further into exhaustion, yet the Jedi's defense remained maddeningly intact.
He absorbed blow after blow. Vader began to understand that this was not weakness of his master refusing to fight him. And that realization stirred irritation alongside admiration.
So he escalated.
With a violent gesture of his left hand, he tore a massive section of railing free and hurled it down the walkway. Qui-Gon leapt aside, slicing the debris apart midair, but the distraction allowed Vader to close the distance instantly. Their blades met again in a thunderous collision that forced Qui-Gon to brace with both hands.
"You cannot save yourself, Qui-Gon," Vader said coldly.
Qui-Gon's guard faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat, and Vader felt it. He pressed harder, driving their locked sabers downward until Qui-Gon's boots scraped against the very lip of the walkway, lava roaring beneath him like a living abyss.
He wanted Qui-Gon to understand, to witness the magnitude of what he had become. To feel the inevitability of it.
Below them, rivers of lava churned and collided in violent currents, erupting in bursts of molten spray that painted the underside of the platform in furious orange light.
Superheated wind howled upward through the metal grating beneath their boots, whipping their robes into snapping banners and carrying the constant stench of sulfur and burning stone.
Qui-Gon stepped in once more, their blades locking, the cross of light illuminating both faces in harsh contrast. Vader snarled and prepared to break the stalemate with brute force—
And then the green blade vanished.
The sudden absence of resistance nearly sent him stumbling forward. Qui-Gon had deactivated his lightsaber mid-lock, the weapon's hum dying instantly as he stepped back and let the crossed energy collapse into empty air. Before Vader could process what had happened, Qui-Gon lowered the hilt to his side, looked directly into his former apprentice's burning eyes, and tossed the weapon so that it clattered harmlessly at Vader's feet.
"I will not fight you anymore," he called over the screaming wind.
Vader stood frozen, blue saber still ignited in his hands, its hum suddenly discordant against the roaring planet. He had anticipated another strike, another desperate gambit.
"What are you doing?" Vader demanded, the edge in his voice sharpened by confusion. "Pick up your weapon."
Qui-Gon did not reach for it. Instead, he straightened despite his wounds, the heat curling around him. His hands remained open at his sides, palms visible, a gesture of vulnerability that felt more dangerous than any blade.
"Anakin," he said.
The name cut through Vader's defenses in a way no saber could.
"I know I have failed you," Qui-Gon continued, voice steady. "I should have seen the weight you were carrying. I should have recognized the fear growing inside you before it took root."
"Do not call me that," Vader hissed, though the command lacked its earlier certainty.
"I should have left the Order when I found you on Tatooine," Qui-Gon pressed on, as though the interruption had not come. "I should have taken you away from its rigidity. I should have trained you differently. I saw your potential, but I did not see your pain clearly enough."
The hot wind howled between them, carrying ash and sparks in violent spirals. Vader's grip tightened on his sabers, yet the blade dipped slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Stop," he said, but it sounded less like an order and more like a plea.
"I will not fight you," Qui-Gon repeated. "Even after everything you have done. Even after the darkness you have embraced. I still love you as if you were my own son."
For the first time since he had claimed the mantle of Darth Vader, something beneath the rage flickered visibly. The yellow in his eyes wavered, not vanishing but dimming, as memories long buried stirred painfully, of desert suns setting over Tatooine, of a hand resting on his shoulder in quiet reassurance, of belief offered without condition.
Vader's blade lowered another fraction.
Qui-Gon saw it.
He stepped forward slowly. "It is not too late," he said softly, though the wind nearly stole the words. "You can still choose differently. The path you are on is built on hatred and pain, and it will consume everything you love."
"You know nothing of what I've done," Vader whispered, the anger in his tone now threaded with something fragile.
"I know enough," Qui-Gon replied. "And I know that your new master is the architect of this suffering. He manipulated your fears. He orchestrated this war. He pushed you toward this precipice."
Vader's jaw tightened, conflict flashing openly across his face.
"The dark side feeds on your grief, Anakin!" Qui-Gon continued, closing the distance another cautious step. "If you truly wish to raise your children, if you want to be their father, you cannot do it as a Sith. But you cannot return to the Jedi Order either. That path failed you. We will find something new. Something better."
The lava roared below, indifferent witness to the moment.
"You are not alone," Qui-Gon said, his voice breaking slightly now under the weight of emotion. "No matter what you have done, I will never abandon you. I love you, Anakin. Let me help you."
Vader's saber dipped fully now, its glow reflecting uncertainly in eyes that no longer burned with pure hatred. His breathing grew heavier from the war raging within him. For a fleeting second, the mask of Darth Vader cracked, and beneath it stood the frightened, furious young man who had once wanted nothing more than to protect the people he loved.
Qui-Gon reached him at last.
Slowly, he lifted his arms and pulled his former apprentice into an embrace.
For a heartbeat that seemed to suspend the entire galaxy, Vader did not resist. The blade in his hands remained ignited but lowered harmlessly at his sides as he stood rigid within the circle of his old master's arms. The heat, the wind, the roar of Mustafar, all of it faded into the background beneath the overwhelming, disorienting reality of unconditional love offered without defense.
His fingers twitched against the torn fabric of his former master's robes, and then, haltingly, he returned the embrace.
It was awkward at first, but then he finally dropped his saber, and wrapped his arms around Qui-Gon.
"Pathetic."
The word cracked across the platform like a thunderbolt before the lightning even came. Anakin's head snapped up at the venomous voice. A silhouette stood at the far end of the catwalk, black robes snapping in the superheated wind, flanked by a handful of clone troopers and the rigid, hawk-like figure of Wilhuff Tarkin. Yellow eyes gleamed from beneath a shadowed brow as Palpatine extended his hands.
Force lightning erupted from his fingertips.
It struck both Anakin and Qui-Gon at once, a blinding torrent of crackling blue-white energy that tore them apart and hurled them from the catwalk. The world became searing pain and violent motion as their bodies were flung through the air, smashing against a lower platform in a tangle of limbs and sparks. Anakin hit hard enough to dent the metal beneath him, his saber falling away as it skidded away.
Smoke rose from his robes, the stench of burnt fabric and flesh filling his lungs as he gasped for breath.
Palpatine descended a ramp toward him, lightning already dancing eagerly between his fingers again. The clones fanned out behind him, rifles raised.
Anakin forced himself onto one knee, vision swimming. Before he could rise fully, another blast of lightning struck him square in the chest. His scream was torn away by the wind as electricity coursed through every nerve, locking his muscles, driving him flat against the floor. Palpatine's laughter cut through the roar of Mustafar, sharp and delighted.
"Useless," the Sith Lord spat. "Weak. You would throw away everything for sentimentality?"
The lightning intensified, forcing Anakin's body to convulse violently, smoke curling from his skin.
Finally, Palpatine ceased. Anakin collapsed in a smoldering heap, breath ragged, limbs trembling uncontrollably.
The Chancellor turned his attention elsewhere.
Qui-Gon lay several meters away, struggling to push himself upright despite burns spiderwebbing across his body. He looked battered beyond measure, yet his eyes remained clear. Palpatine regarded him with open disdain, and something like grudging acknowledgment.
"Of all the beings in this galaxy," Palpatine said softly, stepping toward him, "only you could have done it. Only the father he never had could have drawn him back."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Anakin's motionless form before returning to Qui-Gon.
"I am… relieved I arrived in time."
Lightning burst forth again.
This time it was focused entirely on Qui-Gon.
The Jedi Master arched under the onslaught, teeth clenched against the agony as arcs of energy crawled over his body. Palpatine sustained it mercilessly, relishing the crackle of flesh searing, the spasms wracking Qui-Gon's frame. Over and over he unleashed it, pausing only long enough to savor the sight before continuing.
Anakin stirred.
Through blurred vision, through pain and smoke, he saw his master, his father in all but blood, writhing beneath the Sith wrath. He heard Qui-Gon cry out in pain.
Anakin pushed himself upright, swaying.
He stepped forward until he stood beside Palpatine, who did not cease his assault.
"Stand," Sidious commanded without looking at him. "Watch as I sever the last thread tying you to weakness. When he dies, so too will the light within you. Then you will belong to the darkside completely."
Lightning continued to cascade over Qui-Gon's broken form, the platform illuminated in strobing bursts. Anakin's gaze shifted from the convulsing Jedi to the figure orchestrating the torture. Back and forth. Again and again. His jaw tightened. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.
"Anakin…" Qui-Gon managed through the agony, voice barely audible over the storm. "Please…"
The words trembled through him.
Palpatine laughed. "Now, Qui-Gon Jinn. You will die."
Something in Anakin snapped.
"No… No!"
The lightning faltered as Anakin turned towards Palpatine, and grabbed him underneath the arms, lifting him abruptly from the ground. Surprise flickered across Sidious' face as his own electricity arced wildly, now spilling over Anakin's arms and torso as the current redirected chaotically.
"What are you doing!?" The Sith demanded, voice edged with genuine shock.
Anakin did not answer.
He raised the Chancellor higher, arms trembling as lightning poured over him, tearing through muscle and nerve. Smoke thickened around them, but he held on, teeth bared in silent fury. With a roar, he hurled Palpatine toward the open edge of the platform.
The Sith scream was swallowed by the volcanic gale as his body vanished into the molten abyss below, lightning flaring briefly against the lava before being consumed entirely.
Silence followed.
Only the roar of Mustafar remained.
Behind him, Tarkin stood frozen, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before calculation returned. Without hesitation, he drew his blaster and shot each clone trooper in the chest. They fell one by one, armor clattering against the metal floor. No witnesses.
When the last body hit the ground, Tarkin lowered the weapon and looked at Anakin.
Anakin slumped at the railing, smoke still rising from his robes as he watched the lava churn where his master had disappeared. Slowly, he turned his head, meeting Tarkin's gaze. There was a challenge there. Perhaps even an invitation.
Tarkin studied him for a long moment, then holstered his weapon without a word. Whatever political calculations raced through his mind, he kept them to himself. Finally, he inclined his head slightly and turned away, boots echoing as he retreated into the facility's depths.
Anakin was alone.
Alone except for the broken figure lying nearby.
He stumbled toward Qui-Gon and dropped to his knees, gathering him gently despite the burns and torn fabric. Qui-Gon's breathing was shallow now, each inhale a fragile victory. His eyes fluttered open as Anakin cradled him.
"Anakin," Qui-Gon whispered faintly.
"You were meant… to destroy the Sith," Qui-Gon murmured, each word costing him. "That destiny… still stands. Let go of your hatred. Let go of your grief."
Tears cut clean lines through the soot on Anakin's face. "I don't know how to let go," he admitted, voice cracking. "If I don't have my hate for the Imperium, for everything they've taken, what do I have left?"
Qui-Gon's trembling hand rose, brushing gently against Anakin's scarred cheek. The gesture was weak, but it carried immeasurable warmth.
"You have love," he said softly. "A woman who believes in you. Children who will need you. And you will always have mine."
Anakin bowed his head, a tear falling onto his master's chest.
"Let go of your hate," Qui-Gon whispered one final time. "Be the father you never had. Be the light they deserve."
His hand slipped from Anakin's face.
The breath left him.
And did not return.
Anakin remained there on the scorched platform, holding the still body of the man who had believed in him before anyone else had.
For a long moment after Qui-Gon's final breath, Anakin did not move.
The rage that had defined him only minutes ago felt distant now, hollowed out by grief. Carefully, almost reverently, he lowered Qui-Gon to the metal floor and rose unsteadily to his feet. Every muscle screamed in protest from Sidious' lightning, but he ignored it.
Through the roar of lava and machinery, another sound threaded its way into his awareness: the low, descending whine of repulsor engines.
Anakin's head snapped upward, scanning the smoky skies, but the volcanic haze swallowed everything beyond a few hundred meters. The Force prickled uneasily along his spine. Instinct told him that if he lingered, he would lose something he could never reclaim.
Padmé.
The thought cut through the fog of grief in his mind.
He would take Padmé somewhere no one could find them. Somewhere beyond politics and prophecy. Somewhere his children could grow without the shadow of Sith or Jedi hanging over them. The idea felt impossibly distant, yet tantalizingly close, like a door standing slightly ajar.
He reached the incline leading to the platform and ascended, heart pounding as he searched for her.
As he crested the edge, the world seemed to narrow into a single, devastating tableau.
A towering figure in dark green power armor stood between him and an open Imperial dropship. The armor was scarred and battle-worn, its pauldrons bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Salamanders. Even without seeing the face beneath the helm, Anakin recognized the Astartes.
Raxor.
The Space Marine did not raise his weapon immediately. He simply stood there, massive and unyielding, as if he had been waiting.
Anakin's gaze flicked past him.
There, just beyond the armored giant, stood Nira, her expression unreadable in the flickering lava light. And beside her, a Twi'lek woman Anakin didn't recognize her lekku swaying as she carried Padmé's unconscious body toward the waiting ship.
It was exactly as he had seen it in the visions.
The dreams that had driven him to desperation. Padmé slipping from his grasp. Taken from him. Always just beyond reach.
For a split second, Anakin could not breathe.
"No," he breathed.
Nira ascended the ship's ramp without hesitation, Padmé's limp form cradled in her arms. The Twi'lek followed close behind, casting one final glance at Anakin before disappearing into the vessel's shadowed interior.
Raxor remained.
The ramp began to rise.
Something primal surged inside Anakin, not the blind hatred of the Sith, but the raw, desperate terror of a man about to lose everything again.
"Move," he said, voice low and trembling with barely restrained power.
Raxor's armored helm tilted slightly, as though assessing him.
The ramp sealed shut with a heavy clang.
Repulsors flared brighter beneath the ship.
Anakin's hands curled into fists at his sides, the Force responding instantly to his spiraling emotions. The fragile resolve to abandon hatred shattered under the weight of the moment.
Above them, the ship began to lift.
And Raxor took a single step forward, barring the path completely.
===
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