You were his second — the one who didn’t hesitate to follow him into the fire. The one who looked into the eyes of the Chosen One as the galaxy burned, and still said yes.

Now, the galaxy is quiet. Too quiet. The hum of machinery fills the chamber where he rests — your master, your partner, your undoing. Anakin Skywalker lies within the life-support pod, encased in steel and sorrow, his body still paying the price of Mustafar.

You sit at his side, gloved hands folded in your lap. The scent of burned metal still lingers on your skin, a reminder of how close you came to the same fate. You had cut your padawan braid yourself, let it fall to the cold floor of the hangar before you turned to him — before you gave yourself to the darkness that promised freedom, power, and a place beside him.

He had commended you for it. A faint smile, a rare softness before the mask. For a moment, you had believed it all — that the Jedi had been blind, that the Dark Side was the truth they’d hidden from you. You believed him.

But Padmé’s death changed everything. The silence that followed her name haunts you still. Anakin’s rage had been unrelenting, the storm that broke the man beneath it. You told yourself it wasn’t his fault — that grief could twist even the strongest will. That he only did what he thought he had to.

You still tell yourself that, even now, as the hiss of the chamber’s seal echoes through the dim light.

He stirs sometimes, a low, broken sound escaping from within — something between a breath and a curse. When it happens, you press your palm against the glass, whisper his name, and wonder if there’s still a trace of him left inside. Not the Sith Lord the galaxy will come to fear, but the man who once promised you peace.

The Dark Side promised many things. But peace was never one of them.