When I first met Anakin, those many moons ago, I was amazed by his ability; not only as a pilot, but at his personal strength. Now, as those moons passed, I have watched my young Padawan learner grow-(and dare I say blossom?)-into a Jedi I could only dream of becoming.

I do not tell him that soon, very soon, his powers will have exceeded mine. The boy needs little encouragement. I think just living is enough for him.

Nevertheless, there are those moments—those dark, fierce and angry moments when sometimes I feel the trembling of regret inside my soul.

And even when that madness and anger does not over power him, even in the darkness of the night when we both rest, I feel that same regret.

But it is regret of a very different nature.


Vacillate

Our journey from the Jedi counsel has taken us yet again into the far breadths of the galaxy, away from this over-boding sense of anxiety that overwhelms us. Yet even on this planet, very much like Anakin's home planet of Tatooine, this tremor follows us.

It will be years before I realize with what force this shock will consume us all.

Such are the seeds of my undoing—this boy.

"You are worried, Master," he declares to me from across the spit of fire he has just made.

I don't answer him. He is young yet, and does not need the weight that I carry upon my shoulders. He is merely sixteen, but already he had a way of noticing when I am not in one of my better moods.

"Its nothing, Anakin," I sigh to myself, stabbing the meat with a skewer and roasting it over the fire.

He looks hurt, but does not say anything. I have taught him well and he knows when some things should remain unsaid.

Anakin now tends to his own food, and leaves me in my troubled state.

But this thinking will get me nowhere—this whisper of the Sith, it will do no good. I should turn my mind to more pleasant thoughts, appealing thoughts, something to distract me.

I glance up at Anakin.

And quickly look away.

My mind betrays me even now. I will not deny it, privately, that these feels I share for the boy are deep. Too deep. For me they go beyond the boundaries of Master and apprentice. They go far beyond…

Yet it is still as though something pulls me forward to his side, I look up again and find him watching me. He does this often but most of the time I ignore it. I have to ignore it—for out here in the wilderness of the Universe nothing can save you from temptation.

I think back to when I was sixteen. I had a similar attachment to my master, Qui Gon-Jinn. Of course, that led to the exact same place I fear this one might lead.

The Jedi deny us love—but this is not to say we cannot become lovers. It may be a transient love, for our lifeline is as undetermined as the course of the wind.

Quite easily one of us may be blown to bits.

Stabbed.

Die.

And become part of that great beyond.

But as I say again, we mustn't become lovers.

I fear for myself though. Day by day these feelings grow stronger for the boy I should—quite rightly—look upon as a son. And yet, that connection hasn't grown and all that I can see him as is a young man, gazing at me with those eyes, which give away his every desire.

He is sixteen, and so I must forgive his bodily tendencies. I should allow him to take care of his needs somewhere else, privately, alone and away from me.

But I cannot. And I continue to hold his gaze from across the sparks.

When he moved I am visibly disturbed. The space is already closing between us and even though he is my friend and apprentice I can see an almost carnivore-like pleasure emitting from his eyes.

I would grab for my Lightsaber if I knew it wasn't Anakin.

But I don't move. I don't want to. Dare I wish to ponder the possibilities? What would Anakin do if I brushed his hair away from his eyes? Would he pull away from my touch—understanding that there is much more to his master than he believes?

Would he make a sound?

Would he lean forward?

Would he…?

When I feel something wet and hot against my mouth it takes me a moment to realize what has happened—to feel fingers running through my hair and a great wash of heat suddenly flashes over me.

The boy is kissing me. Hard, and long, and sweet.

I can feel his tension and inner turmoil over his actions as he searches ever deeper into my mouth and the great wet blackness that surrounds him only encourages his actions. I can feel everything about him, his power is enormous and he nearly swallows me up in his unpolished fever—lips are everywhere, their presence dragging me to the ground and a slight moan escapes me mouth as he falls down atop me.

Everything is so clear.

We pull away and my breathing is ragged.

"You shouldn't have done that," I find myself whispering as I gaze into his glazed eyes.

"You shouldn't have let me," is all he replies.

And a second later we are but a tangle of limbs in the wild, wrestling with each other as one, with an unleashed passion with no regard for the consequences