Archive of Our Own

He had heard it time and time again - he needed to let go of the past, needed to forgive and forget. He needed to move on, needed to push past it all. He needed to be better, to do better. He needed to bleed his pain into the Force, never mind the fact that he was the Force and when he bled his pain into it he was just bleeding, never anything more. Never mind the fact that he still had nightmares about it all.

He couldn’t do a lot of things - he was pathetic, like that. He couldn’t let go of his past, couldn’t be the Jedi he was meant to be, couldn’t save the ones he loved from dying…

He couldn’t eat what was in front of him, either. He wanted to - he was starving and even the sight of the ration bar was making his mouth water - but he couldn’t. He didn’t deserve it. He deserved to go hungry, to feel the pain he brought upon himself. He deserved to suffer because suffering was what he caused, and as much as he had tried he couldn’t change that. He was entropy’s Midas, destined to destroy everything he touched, everything he laid his eyes on. People, objects, ideals, anything he ever wanted but never deserved - it all rotted away, decayed beneath his palm. 

He didn’t deserve to eat. The others, the clones who fought tooth and nail for a Republic that didn’t appreciate them, worked through a task many thought them either foolish or brave for doing, who were fiercely loyal and kind and brave - they deserved it. They were hungry enough as it was, and they deserved it far more than he ever did. So, when nobody was looking, he snuck his rations to them, hiding it among their things so that nobody except him would ever know. 

He didn’t deserve it.

Part of him snarled and rioted against the act, hissing that he needed to hoard and consume as much as possible because he didn’t know when he would next be able to eat. Part of him, that part that was still left over from Tatooine, scolded him for not taking advantage of every resource he was handed. So, he was at war with himself - one half was screaming for him to consume as much as it as he could as fast as possible, while the other part was snarling that he was unworthy of it all and that even looking at it would be a sin. 

He was falling, spiraling down into a pit of despair so deep he feared he would never resurface. There was darkness all around him and warning signs blaring in his face, but he could do nothing but drown in his own self-loathing. 

There were nights that were worse than others, nights where he would wake up aching for the touch of his clan, longing for the loving embrace of his flock. Nights where he would lay awake and try not to cry as he thought about them, about his friends and family. Nights where he would look out and see his men, eating and training and living together, and he would have to try and suppress the jealousy he felt, had to try and shove away all the bitter envy he held. They didn’t know. They deserved that happiness, that joy, that small comfort in a time of war. They deserved it, and apparently, he didn’t.

There were nights when he’d glance out at his men, at Ahsoka, and he’d be jealous of the way they had each other. He’d be jealous of how they lived and laughed and loved, how they all fit together like the pixels of a photograph, or like the fibers of a woven tapestry. He’d resent that simple joy they had, and then he’d resent himself for being so selfish and stupid. They deserved the love that they held, they deserved that sense of belonging and community. 

There were nights where he would try not to cry, nights where he wished so desperately that his brother was by his side. Nights when he just wanted Kitster to wrap his arms around him and whisper to him that everything would be okay, that he’d protect them because he was his older brother and that’s what brothers did. Nights where he ached for the comforting weight of his siblings piled on top of him, where he so desperately hungered for the softest of whispers shared among them. The others had died when he and Kitster had been young, but they still remembered them just as clearly as if they had grown up right alongside them. They still felt the loss of their other three siblings as vividly as if it had happened just the other day, no matter how much time passed. There were nights when he saw the clones together, brothers in flesh and in spirit, and he’d feel nothing but hot rage at the injustice of it all.

There were nights when he went over every decision he had ever made, every failure and mistake, and he’d yearn for his grandmother’s wisdom. She’d never make half the mistakes he did. He remembered her soft eyes, her voice that gently rumbled like distant thunder. He remembered her advice, wordless and without name, how she guided him without speaking. There were nights when he desperately needed the advice. More frequent were the nights when he even more desperately needed support.

On nights like those, he missed his Aunts, missed how they were always there to care for him when his parents could not, how they were always willing to step in and offer him the knowledge that even when his parents were away, he wasn’t alone. He missed Bright and Scarab, missed how they would treat him as if he were one of their own. He missed how they would tell all of them stories and share with them the tales from their youths.

There were nights when the prophecy repeated over and over again in his head, crushing him, choking him. There were nights when one line in particular burrowed its way under his skin and refused to leave no matter how much he itched. The Jedi thought he had no father - it was true that the Force was his other technical parent, that he had no biological father, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one at all. Those nights, he thought about Windsire, the closest thing he ever had to a dad. Windsire was his clan’s sire, which meant he raised the children of the clan as if they were his own, regardless of if they were or weren’t. All of Anakin’s siblings were Windsire’s biological spawn, all except him. But Windsire hadn’t cared - he had treated Anakin the same as the others, had called him his son and told him how much he loved him. And he did. Windsire loved them infinitely and unconditionally, and if it were possible to surpass infinity Windsire would have done it, would have loved them to that impossible number.

But Windsire was gone, killed by the Jedi as they helped the Hutts suppress the seeds of revolution. 

It was unfair how he was jealous of the clones, how they never felt the pain that he had. He knew he shouldn’t envy them for something they didn’t even know they had, something they didn’t even realize they were blessed with - their clan was whole. They knew loss and pain and grief, but at the end of the day they still had each other, still were able to hold the survivors and be able to say ‘we made it’ to each other as they did so.

Anakin’s clan was dead and gone and there was nothing he could do about it except hold himself. There were no whispered words he could say to change that fact, no quiet comforts that could soothe the pain he felt. 

He was jealous. He was alone.

His clan was gone. All of them were dead or missing, shattered and fragmented across the Galaxy and he was never going to see them again .

He would never be held by his mothers, would never be able to see their dark eyes or hear their laughter as they embraced each other at the end of a  long day. He’d never see his mom’s weathered face light up with love or hear his ma’s shitty jokes. He’d never be able to feel the touch of their calloused skin against his as they held him. He’d never hear the lullabies they sang to him and Kitster whenever they had trouble sleeping. He’d never be able to hear their voices again, never be able to tell them again how much he loved them. He’d never be able to cuddle up to Windsire, would never again hear his grandmother’s stories or see the awe in his family’s eyes as they listened with rapt attention. He would never be with them again, forever torn away from them. In their place was a wound that was raw and bleeding and festering, painful and slick with infection, blood, and tears. 

He wanted them back, if only for a moment. He wanted to see them one more time just so he could say goodbye, just so that he could hold them and tell them he loved them. But he couldn’t; they were gone, and they were never coming back.

Anakin felt the murmur of pride and victory shuffling through the men after each battle won, felt the dedication and satisfaction they felt. Justice , their rippling ranks said. Vengeance .

There was something deeply, disturbingly wrong with Anakin, because instead of feeling something normal all he felt was searing, crushing jealousy. Instead of feeling happy for them (and he tried to - really, he did), he envied them, and a bitter, foul taste lingered in his mouth at the thought. 

How come they get justice? How come they get revenge? A little voice in his mind hissed, venomous and intrusive. How come they get to go to sleep at night knowing they were doing their part to avenge their kin?

Revenge isn’t the Jedi way, he’d remind himself, but the words sounded hollow and empty even to him. It left much to be desired, being the pathetic excuse that it was. 

You helped their murderers , that horrid little voice reminded him. The bastards who killed your family still live in luxury and you’re partially to blame for that.

“Shut up,” he pleaded quietly to himself as he retreated into the dark, lonely depths of his room. Tears were burning his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. 

You hate them for what they did, yet you do nothing. Do you hate them for their actions as much as you hate yourself for your own inaction? Or does it not hold a candle to your self-loathing?

Anakin burrowed into his blankets, his hitching breaths piercing the oppressive silence. This voice wasn’t his. He wanted it to stop.

The man who stands by and does nothing is as much to blame for a death as the man who swung the blade. You had your chances and you blew them. What would your family think, if they were still alive to judge you?

“Shut up, shut up,” he hissed, digging his fingers into his scalp until he felt blood well beneath his nails.

You don’t deserve the life you live. You don’t deserve the bed you lay on, the clothes on your back. You don’t deserve to be a Jedi, don’t deserve to be a General. You don’t deserve any of this.

“Shut up, please!” He couldn’t take any more of this. His pillow was damp with tears and blood as he scratched his forearms until he bled, but the voice continued to pulse its poison through him with each word.

You don’t deserve the food you eat, the water you drink. You don’t deserve the medicine you’re given, or the supplies used on you. You don’t deserve anyone’s attention or affection, you don’t deserve respect or love. You deserve only isolation and guilt and grief, because that’s what your actions have caused. You’re selfish and greedy for accepting all of what you have after everything you’ve done, after all the damage you’ve caused.

Anakin sobbed, unable to hold it in anymore.

You don’t deserve the people in your life. Rex, Padmé, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan, the Chancellor - you don’t deserve any of them. All you’ve done is hurt them. They’d be better off without you. Your family would have been better off if you had never been born, because at least then they wouldn’t have died waiting for you to come back and save them, would have been avenged by someone else, someone who cared enough to save them.  

The small blade he kept in his bedside drawer cut into his flesh, carving thin, accusing lines into his skin. The voice went quiet, finally, and he kept going. It was right - he didn’t deserve anything he had. He never would. But the pain of the blade kept the worst of it all away, left him feeling like he could control at least a small part of himself. The sting of his wounds drove away the intrusive thoughts, giving him precious breathing room. And, though he doubted it, perhaps the drops of blood he shed meant something - maybe, if he didn’t deserve what he had, he could fix that little by little by way of self-sacrifice. Each crimson bead was a sin, a mistake, a regret, and if he bled himself dry then maybe, just maybe , he’d be able to forgive himself. But as the days passed and the list of his mistakes grew ever longer, he found himself bleeding more and more, unable to make up the distance, unable to even taste the possibility of redemption.

The scars on his skin spoke volumes, his silence screaming in the absence of his usual noise. His pale skin, dark eyes, and jutting bones clung like flesh to a too-thin frame, highlighting his guilt as he struggled to do the simplest of things. He was the sole survivor of the Skywalker Clan, but whatever this was, it sure as hell didn’t feel like survival.