Night did not come gently to Varykino.
Anakin slept beside Padmé, but rest did not claim him. His breathing was uneven, shallow—hands curling into the sheets as his body tensed against something unseen.
"No…" he whispered into the dark.
The dream was fire and sand.
Chains.
His mother's voice cut through it all—raw, breaking, calling his name across an endless wasteland.
Anakin.
Pain wrapped around her words. Fear. Suffering so sharp it clawed through his chest.
Help me.
He tried to reach her. Tried to move.
He couldn't.
The dream tightened, suffocating—
Anakin snapped awake with a gasp.
Sweat clung to his skin. His heart hammered violently, the echo of her scream still ringing in his ears. For a long moment he just sat there, staring into the darkness, forcing air into his lungs.
The Force was still trembling around him.
This hadn't been a nightmare.
It had been a vision.
///
Morning came softly, unaware of the fracture it revealed.
Padmé woke slowly, warmth lingering where Anakin had been—but when she turned, the bed was empty. The sheets on his side were disturbed, still warm, but he was gone.
She sat up at once.
An unease settled in her chest.
After dressing, she moved quietly through the villa, sunlight filtering through the tall windows. The world outside was serene—birds calling, water glittering in the distance. Too peaceful.
She found him on the patio.
Anakin sat cross-legged near the railing, eyes closed, back straight, hands resting on his knees. He wasn't wearing his mask. The morning light traced the ridges of his face, catching in his dark hair as it stirred in the breeze.
The Force around him was… restless.
Padmé took a step back instinctively, sensing she was intruding—
"Stay," Anakin said softly, without opening his eyes.
She hesitated.
Then stepped closer.
Her presence eased something in him. He felt it immediately—like pressure releasing, like the storm in his mind loosening its grip. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.
"You should be resting," she said gently.
"I couldn't sleep," he replied. "Not after last night."
Padmé moved closer, kneeling beside him. "What happened?"
Anakin looked past her, toward the lake, jaw tight.
"I saw my mother," he said. "She was… in pain. Real pain. I could feel it. She was calling for me."
Padmé's heart clenched.
He shook his head, frustration and fear threading through his voice. "I've had visions before. Dreams. But this—this was different. Clearer."
He turned to her, eyes burning—not with anger, but helplessness.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I have to find her."
Padmé didn't hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. Anakin stiffened for half a heartbeat—then melted into her, gripping her as though she were the only thing keeping him grounded.
"I'll go with you," she said firmly.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. "Padmé—"
"I won't let you face this alone," she said. "Wherever she is, we'll find her together."
His voice wavered. "I'm scared."
She pressed her forehead to his. "So am I."
They held each other there as the sun climbed higher, the beauty of Naboo standing in quiet contrast to the dread growing in Anakin's heart.
Somewhere across the stars, his mother was suffering.
And Anakin Skywalker knew—Whatever waited for him on Tatooine would change everything.
///
Heat slammed into them the moment the ramp lowered.
Tatooine hadn't changed.
The air was dry and sharp, dust carried on every breath, the twin suns already climbing as the city churned with life. Merchants shouted over one another. Droids clanked past with crates and cables. Speeders roared overhead in uneven streams. It was chaos—familiar, ugly, alive.
Anakin stepped onto the sand first.
He was fully armored now, dark plates catching the harsh light, cloak shifting with every step. Revan's mask hid his face completely, its expression unreadable, ancient, and unmistakable. Power clung to him—not announced, not flaunted, but present in the way the crowd subtly shifted around him without understanding why.
Padmé followed close behind, wrapped in a heavy hooded cloak that concealed her face and form. To any passerby, she was just another traveler. Only Anakin knew how tightly her hand was clenched inside the sleeve of her robe.
Behind them came the droids.
HK-47 stalked forward with mechanical purpose, head turning in sharp increments as his sensors swept the street.
K2-SO followed at Anakin's shoulder like a sentry tower given legs, blaster rifle magnetized to his back.
R2-D2 beeped nervously as he rolled along, optics swiveling at the hostile familiarity of the place.
Padmé leaned closer to Anakin as they moved through the crowd.
"You're certain he's still here?" she asked quietly.
Anakin didn't look at her. "If anyone knows where my mother went, it's him."
They turned down a narrower street—less crowded, more worn. The buildings here sagged with age, patched together with scrap and desperation. The smell of oil and scorched metal thickened the air.
Then Anakin stopped.
Across the way, beneath a crooked awning, a Toydarian hovered low over a workbench, tools clutched in his clawed hands as he worked on a battered protocol droid. His wings buzzed unevenly. His skin had lost some of its luster, and his eyes were dulled by years that had not been kind.
Watto.
Anakin stepped forward.
He spoke in Huttese, his voice filtered and distorted through the mask—but fluent, precise.
"Still fixing junk that doesn't want to be fixed, Watto?"
The Toydarian froze.
Slowly, he looked up.
For a heartbeat, he didn't seem to recognize the figure before him—just the armor, the height, the presence. Then his eyes fell on the mask.
His wings stuttered mid-beat.
"No…" Watto breathed. "That mask…"
Anakin inclined his head slightly.
"It's me."
Watto stared.
"Annie?" he said softly, disbelief and something like fear threading his voice. "The little squirt finally comes back."
He forced a laugh, but it didn't land. "You grew. Big. Dangerous-lookin'."
Anakin didn't indulge the reunion.
"Where is my mother?" he asked.
Watto's expression shifted immediately. His wings fluttered faster, nervous.
"Oh—ah—listen, kid—Anakin—I mean—"
"Where," Anakin repeated, the word cold and absolute.
The Force rippled outward, subtle but unmistakable. Padmé felt it press against her chest like a held breath.
Watto swallowed.
"I sold her," he said quickly. "Long time ago. Good price. Good people."
Anakin didn't move.
Watto rushed on, voice pitching higher. "The one who bought her—he treated her well! Married her even! Freed her! She had a life, kid, a real life, I swear it!"
The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.
"Who," Anakin said, "bought her?"
Watto wiped his brow. "A moisture farmer. Lars. Cliegg Lars."
Padmé felt Anakin's hand tighten into a fist.
"Where."
Watto hesitated—then pointed weakly. "Outskirts of Mos Eisley. Homestead beyond the dunes. That's the last I heard."
Anakin turned away without another word.
Padmé followed instantly, heart pounding.
Behind them, HK-47 tilted his head.
"Observation: The organic merchant appears to have narrowly avoided termination. Curious."
K2-SO glanced back at Watto, then at Anakin's rigid posture.
"I recommend we leave before he starts charging for directions."
R2 whistled anxiously.
They moved quickly now, leaving the noise of the city behind as the buildings thinned and sand reclaimed the land. Anakin said nothing as they walked, but Padmé could feel the tension radiating from him—tight, controlled, barely contained.
She reached out and took his hand beneath the cloak.
He squeezed back.
///
The homestead sat low against the dunes, half-buried in sand and sun-bleached time.
They had set the ship down a short distance away to avoid drawing attention—engines whining down into silence as heat shimmered off the hull. Beyond the landing struts, the desert rolled outward in pale gold waves, broken only by the squat outline of moisture vaporators and a few wind-worn ridges that made the horizon seem jagged.
Anakin descended first.
The sand felt different here than it did in the city. Less trampled. Less alive. Quiet in a way that made the mind too loud.
Padmé followed close behind, still cloaked, her hood pulled low. Even out here, she wore concealment like armor. Anakin's two tall shadows—K2-SO and HK-47—stepped down behind them, metal feet sinking slightly into the sand as they scanned the open expanse.
R2 rolled after, chirping softly as though complaining about the grit already coating his panels.
Anakin began toward the homestead without hesitating, his gait brisk, purposeful—like he could outrun the fear rising in his chest.
And then he stopped.
A figure stood at the edge of the property working on a nearby moisture vaporator.
A protocol droid.
His plating was darkened silver, weathered by sun and sand. One arm carried faint scorch marks repaired with mismatched metal. His posture was stiff with practiced politeness, but the way he angled his head toward Anakin—almost like recognition—made Padmé pause.
The droid took a step forward.
"Greetings," he said, voice bright with manufactured cheer. "I am C-"
"3P0?," Anakin finished, stunned
The droid blinked—an unnecessary but very human affectation, as if the word had jarred something old and familiar loose.
"Oh, the maker. Oh, master Annie, I knew you would return."
"C-3PO," Anakin said again, voice quieter now, and for the first time since stepping onto the sand, something like warmth slipped into it. "Stars… it's you."
C-3PO straightened, almost vibrating with emotion he didn't technically possess.
"Maker!" he cried. "Oh my goodness gracious, it is you! I hardly—well, of course I did, the mask is terribly dramatic but I would recognize your presence anywhere, sir!"
K2-SO leaned closer, his voice dry.
"Anakin, I had forgotten your childhood included building socially anxious décor."
HK-47's head snapped toward the protocol droid.
"Derogatory observation: The annoying one has returned."
R2 gave an approving series of beeps that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
C-3PO blinked at the droids as if they were a sudden headache.
"Oh dear," he said. "You brought friends."
Anakin let out a short laugh through the mask—genuine, brief—and then the weight returned to his shoulders.
"Take us to them," he said softly.
C-3PO nodded quickly, eager to be useful.
"Yes! Yes, of course, right away! Please follow me—do mind the sand, it gets into everything and it's absolutely dreadful for joints!"
Anakin stiffened at the words, but didn't comment.
They walked down a shallow slope toward the entrance, the homestead's doorway carved into the earth like a burrow. The air grew cooler as they approached, the shade offering a small mercy from the suns.
Inside the entryway, the scent changed—dust and moisture, faint traces of food and machinery, the lived-in smell of a real home.
C-3PO ushered them in with anxious efficiency.
"Master Owen?" he called. "Miss Beru? You have visitors!"
Footsteps answered.
A man stepped into view—broad-shouldered, sun-weathered, hair pale from years beneath the suns. His expression was cautious, but not hostile. Beside him stood a young woman with warm eyes and steady posture, her hands wiping unconsciously on her apron as she looked at Anakin with open curiosity.
"Owen Lars," the man said, extending a hand. "And this is my girlfriend, Beru."
Anakin took Owens' hand, shaking it.
"Anakin Skywalker," he said.
Owen's mouth twitched as if unsure whether to smile.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I guess Im your stepbrother."
Anakin nodded once.
But his patience was already fraying, threadbare.
"Where is my mother?" he asked.
The air in the room shifted.
Beru's smile faded.
Owen's hand tightened.
Before either of them could answer, another voice cut through the moment—older, rougher, thick with grief that had settled into the bones.
"She isn't here."
A man emerged from the back room.
He hovered over to them, his leg missing, damming him to never walk again. His face was lined, and his eyes—those eyes—held a hollow that only loss could carve.
"Cliegg Lars," he said, voice heavy. "Shmi's husband."
Anakin's throat tightened.
Cliegg looked at him for a long moment, taking in the mask, the height, the armor that made him seem more warrior than man.
Then he gestured toward the table.
"Come inside," Cliegg said. "Sit. It's… better said with walls around you."
Padmé stayed close to Anakin as they moved deeper into the homestead. Owen and Beru followed, tense but quiet. The droids hovered at the edges like sentinels—K2 stiff and watchful, HK disturbingly casual. R2 rolled near Padmé's side, chirping softly.
They gathered around a simple table.
"It happened a month ago," Cliegg began.
Anakin's hand curled slowly beneath the table.
Cliegg stared down at the wood grain as if he could find the words there.
"Just before dawn. Shmi woke early like she always did. Went out to collect mushrooms near the vaporators. She did it every morning—every single one. She knew those fields like the lines on her hands."
His voice faltered for a fraction before he forced it steady again.
"A hunting party of Tusken Raiders came out of nowhere," he said, jaw clenching. "No warning. No sound. Just… gone. We followed her tracks; she was halfway back. Then they disappeared into the sand."
"I gathered thirty men," he said quietly. "Farmers. Neighbors. Anyone with a rifle and the courage to follow."
He swallowed.
"Only four came back."
Silence swallowed the room.
Padmé felt the grief in Anakin like heat radiating off a forge. He didn't speak, but the Force around him began to press—subtle at first, like a storm gathering far away.
Cliegg looked at Anakin then, eyes glassy.
"If I still had my leg," he muttered, bitter, "I'd be out there still."
Anakin's voice was low.
"There was supposed to be someone protecting her."
The words were careful—controlled—but they cut the air like a blade.
Cliegg blinked. "What?"
"A bounty hunter," Anakin said. "A crew. They promised they'd watch her."
Owen stiffened. Beru glanced at him as if she'd heard pieces of this before but never spoken it aloud.
Cliegg's face tightened with reluctant recognition.
"I knew," he admitted. "About Fett."
Anakin's head lifted slightly.
Cliegg continued, voice heavy with irritation he'd never allowed himself to show while Shmi was alive.
"Jango and his people… they came and went. Every few months one of them would show up, sit outside with a blaster like they owned the place. It annoyed me," he said bluntly. "But Shmi insisted. Said it was… family."
Anakin didn't move.
Cliegg's gaze dropped.
"Jango left years ago," he said. "Took his daughter with him—big job. The others kept doing it anyway. Rotations. Shifts. Always one of them here. Always."
Padmé felt Anakin's hand tighten.
"And when she was taken?" Anakin asked.
Cliegg's expression darkened.
"It was Krrsantan's turn," he said. "The big Wookiee."
Anakin's breathing changed—one sharp inhale.
Cliegg leaned forward slightly.
"A week before Shmi was taken," he said, "a couple of Jabba's goons came. Said Krrsantan was wanted at the palace. Some job. Some demand. He argued—didn't want to leave."
Cliegg shook his head, bitterness resurfacing.
"We didn't think he'd be gone more than a few hours," he said. "But he never came back."
Owen muttered a curse under his breath.
Cliegg spread his hands helplessly.
"No word from him," he said. "No word from Aura Sing. No word from that Gendai. No word from anyone. Just… silence."
The room seemed to tighten.
Anakin's fist clenched so hard the table creaked.
The Force surged.
A cup trembled, then rattled across the tabletop. Dust fell from the ceiling. The light above flickered. Even the very air seemed to thrum with pressure—like the desert outside had begun to vibrate in sympathy.
Padmé's breath caught.
Owen stared wide-eyed.
Beru's hand flew to her mouth.
Cliegg stiffened, eyes widening in alarm.
And then Padmé reached across the table and took Anakin's hand.
Her touch was warm.
Firm.
Anchoring.
The rumble eased—not gone, but restrained, like a beast forced back into a cage.
Anakin's eyes lifted to hers, wild for a heartbeat—then controlled again. His fingers tightened around her hand, not gently, like he was holding onto the last solid thing in the world.
He stood abruptly.
Owen rose too, wary. "What are you doing?"
Anakin's voice was quiet, deadly calm.
"I'm going to find my mother."
Cliegg's chair scraped back as he stood with effort, anger and grief crashing together.
"She's been gone a month," Cliegg snapped. "She's dead."
Anakin didn't answer.
He simply turned and walked out.
Padmé followed immediately, cloak sweeping behind her, heart pounding.
Outside, the suns were high now, heat shimmering across the sand. The vastness of the dunes looked endless, hungry.
Anakin strode toward the speeder parked near the ship, hands moving with practiced efficiency as he checked the power cell, the stabilizers, the fuel.
Padmé caught up to him and grabbed his arm.
"Anakin—"
He didn't look at her.
"You have to stay here," he said, voice tight. "These people are kind. They'll keep you safe. And K2—HK—they'll watch you."
Padmé's eyes flashed. "You think I'm letting you go alone?"
"I'm not asking," he said softly. "Padmé… please."
For a moment she fought him—then she saw it.
Not arrogance.
Fear.
A boy on the verge of losing the last piece of his past.
Padmé swallowed hard and nodded once.
"All right," she whispered. "But you come back."
Anakin finally looked at her.
"I will," he said, but his voice didn't sound certain.
Padmé stepped closer, hands rising to his mask.
He froze—then allowed it.
She lifted it just enough to bare his mouth, his jaw, the scars near his cheek. The raw honesty of his face in the desert light made her chest ache.
She kissed him deeply.
Not cautious.
Not restrained.
A promise.
When she pulled back, she whispered, "Bring her home."
Anakin's eyes softened.
Then he lowered the mask, sealing himself back behind armor and purpose.
He swung onto the speeder.
The engine whined.
Sand kicked up in a harsh spray.
Padmé stepped back, cloak snapping in the wind as he accelerated, racing toward the dunes—toward Tuskens, toward uncertainty, toward a pain he could already feel waiting for him.
She watched until he became a dark speck against the desert.
Until even that speck vanished.
And then, in the silence he left behind, Padmé Amidala held her breath and prayed the sands would not swallow him the way they had swallowed his mother.
///
Anakin Skywalker tore across the deserts of Tatooine like a living storm.
The speeder screamed beneath him, repulsors whining as it skimmed over dunes and cut through valleys where the sand lay in rippling waves. Wind tore at his cloak, grains of sand pelting his armor like shrapnel. The twin suns dipped toward the horizon, staining the sky in bruised reds and dying golds.
He did not slow.
He felt her.
Not as a clear voice anymore—no words, no clarity—but as pain. Raw. Fading. A tether stretched thin across the Force, vibrating with agony and fear and a desperate, maternal love that clawed at his chest.
Mother.
He stopped only when necessary.
Jawas scattered as he approached their sandcrawler, chittering nervously. He dismounted, towering over them in armor and mask, his presence alone enough to send them into a frenzy. He spoke quickly, sharply, mixing Basic with Huttese, offering credits, parts—anything.
They gave him the information he needed. The paths to avoid, the last Tusken sighting, where they hunted.
The Jawas pointed, babbling over one another, finally indicating a distant mountain range jagged against the horizon.
Anakin was gone before they finished speaking.
Night fell as he reached the outskirts.
The camp was larger than he expected.
Not a small hunting party, not a cluster of tents—but something closer to a town. Fires burned low between structures made of hide and scavenged metal. Banthas snorted in their pens. Armed silhouettes moved slowly through the camp, unaware that death had already found them.
Anakin dismounted far from the lights.
He stood still, eyes closed behind the mask.
He reached.
The Force answered—not gently, not kindly.
Pain flared in his mind, sharp enough to make him gasp. He staggered, then steadied himself, breath coming hard. Her presence was faint now, buried beneath layers of fear and suffering—but he knew where she was.
A tent near the far edge of the camp. Hidden. Guarded.
Anakin moved.
He became shadow and sand, slipping between structures, his armor muted by the Force itself. A Tusken passed close enough that Anakin could hear its breath rasping through the mask—but it never saw him.
He stopped before the tent.
Inside.
He could feel her.
Anakin ignited no blade. He did not kick the entrance open.
Instead, he reached out with the Force and cut—a precise, invisible incision through the bindings and seams. The entrance parted silently.
He stepped inside.
The smell hit him first.
Blood. Sweat. Rot. Pain soaked so deeply into the air it felt thick enough to choke on.
She lay bound to a crude support frame, her body thin, bruised, broken. Chains bit into her wrists. Her head hung forward, hair matted, skin gray with exhaustion and torment.
"Mother," Anakin whispered.
Her head lifted slowly.
For a heartbeat, her eyes did not focus.
Then they widened.
"Anakin…" she rasped, disbelief and joy breaking through the agony. "You've… grown."
He rushed to her, hands shaking as he tore the bindings apart, catching her as her body sagged forward. He pulled her into his arms, holding her as gently as he could, as if afraid she might shatter.
He tore off his mask.
Her hand rose, trembling, fingers brushing the ridges of his face as though she needed to feel him to believe it.
"My beautiful boy," she breathed. "I knew you would come."
Tears streamed down his face unchecked.
"I'm here," he said desperately. "I'm here. I love you. I'm taking you home."
Her breathing hitched.
She smiled—soft, peaceful, impossibly calm after everything she'd endured.
"I love you," she whispered, voice barely there. "I'm… so proud of you."
Her hand slipped from his cheek.
Her body went slack.
"Mother?" Anakin whispered.
No answer.
He shook her gently. "Mother… please…"
Nothing.
The Force went silent where her presence had been.
Anakin screamed.
Not aloud—but inside, a soundless howl that tore through his soul. He collapsed to his knees, clutching her body to his chest, rocking slightly as tears fell onto her hair, her shoulders, her still face.
He stayed there, grieving, longer than he should.
The camp went on around him, unaware.
Then—slowly—Anakin's sobs faded.
He lowered her body carefully to the ground, arranging her as gently as if she were only sleeping. He closed her eyes with trembling fingers.
He stood.
His face was empty now.
He pulled his mask into his hand with the force, securing it to his head.
Outside, the night air felt colder.
Anakin stepped into the open, and the Force screamed.
Lightsabers ignited—two blades snapping to life with violent clarity. One burned violet, humming with restrained power. The other was wrong—black at its core, edged in red, a wound in the air itself.
Tusken Raiders turned.
Too late.
Anakin moved like death given form.
He did not rage wildly. He did not shout.
He butchered.
Blades flashed through flesh and bone. The Force hurled warriors into walls, crushed them into the sand, snapped spines with invisible hands. Blaster fire died in midair, frozen and sent screaming back into those who fired it.
Men. Women. Children.
The camp burned.
Tents collapsed. Fires flared. Screams echoed across the dunes, then cut off abruptly.
Anakin waded through them, unstoppable, merciless.
The dark side surged around him, not whispering—roaring. It wrapped around his grief, his rage, his love twisted into something sharp and absolute.
By the time the last Tusken fell, the camp was silent.
Anakin stood alone amid the ruins, sabers extinguished, chest heaving.
He looked up at the stars.
And the galaxy felt it.
///
On Coruscant, far away beneath endless city lights, Master Yoda sat in meditation.
The Force shattered around him like glass.
His eyes snapped open, ears flattening as he gasped.
Pain. Fear. Sorrow.
So intense it stole his breath.
"Skywalker…" he whispered.
The door to the chamber slid open.
Mace Windu stepped inside, instantly sensing the disturbance. "Master Yoda—what is it?"
Yoda's voice trembled.
"Great pain… young Anakin feels. Great fear. Great loss." He bowed his head. "The dark side stirs around him."
On Kamino, rain hammered the transparisteel as Qui-Gon Jinn stood suddenly, hand pressing to his chest.
The Force rolled through him like a shockwave.
Jango looked up sharply. "What's wrong?"
Obi-Wan felt it too—cold dread creeping up his spine. "Master?"
Qui-Gon closed his eyes.
"Anakin," he said quietly. "He's in great pain."
Jango's jaw tightened.
"Something's happened," Qui-Gon continued, grief shadowing his voice. "Something terrible."
Across the stars, Anakin Skywalker knelt in the sand beside the ruins of a camp, the weight of his mother's death pressing down on him—and the dark side answered his grief with open arms.