Title: Recurring Nightmare

Timeframe: unspecified period between Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith

Rating: PG

Character(s): Anakin Skywalker, mention of Obi-wan Kenobi

Genres: General, Angst

Warnings: angst

Summary: Nightmares and dreams interweave, and both predict future- but not in a way Anakin interprets them.

A/N: Allusions to the endings of Episode 3 and 6. Also 'a small hint of implied' Luke (i.e. you'll notice it if you look hard)


"Recurring Nightmare"

There is a scorching fire; the burning, spreading power of it overwhelming your strength and senses. The flame bursts in you, eating at your heart and thoughts.

It's neither red nor yellow from where you're looking, not that it's strange as you've never seen the consuming fire from such a minuscule distance. Rather it's a void of colour, feeding on you to fill it.

A greedy thing, fire. You wonder at having been described as 'full of fire' when you were still alive, and how wrong everyone got it.

Now the fire is full of you.

With a shudder, you wake up.

Wake up to stand by the cool windows of a balcony, watching the winds and lights of the ever-awake planet, to muse with a forehead pressed tightly against said cold windows about the hot nightmares of sleep.

Funny how you'd felt the branding fires of your own funeral pyre wash over you as if you were burned- sacrificed- alive.

You shudder, awake.

You ask the stars that night- the Force within you interwoven with them in this primal way of old rituals and beliefs, the ones Obi-wan has scoffed at just this side of too often to make it matter to you- if this is how death feels like, this blazing heat that consumes your thoughts and feelings, and yet basically leaves you alive?

Then you wonder if it'd really take your death to finally make Obi-wan feel and admit. 'You were my brother, Anakin. I loved you.' If it's the Force's last gift that- even though you'd be already dead when the words were uttered- you could hear them nonetheless.

Anakin shivers, again the child of the hot suns and scalded sand, cold in this pre-dawn certainty he has of the future. What will be there left of him after the fires are through?

He scoffs at the idea of people- nameless faces- crying at his deathbed, after him, because of him. He hasn't made them cry in life, and some way or the other, he will make sure that they won't cry at his death.

The callous smile curves his lips when he imagines the fireworks and wild dances, he dreams of a celebration and tribute to a selfless hero who defeated a true evil.

Burying his head further into the glass, he exhales, broken between nightmares and dreams.

Somehow, he will find a way to make it so. And then death will seem less terrifying.


You know the drill, right? ;)

Yen