#mstranakin

the council’s decision about not letting emotions exist… was because they were being ruled by their fear of emotions…

like i’m not even going to say arguably it’s straight up fact that love does save anakin in the end. luke’s love for him, anakin’s love for his son (and his love for padme) destroyed the sith. like that’s not debate, that’s just what happened. 

true that the sequels are Not Valid

there’s literally no validity in them. they’re especially not valid because not only are they just objectively bad, and an easy way to point out how disney makes art a product to sell to the public, rather than like a story that stands on it’s own two legs. 

❝  you  look  like  you’ve  got  a  story.  ❞    elsie  sits  down  across  from  him  and  smiles  ,  resting  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  smiling  brightly  even  though  he’s  EXUDING  this  air  of  don’t  talk  to  me.  there’s  something  dangerous  about  him  that  she  frankly  loves.  it  sounds  like  adventure  and  she  hasn’t  had  one  of  those  in  a  long  time.  things  have  finally  calmed  down  and  even  if  she’s  been  happy  about  it  ,  she  feels  like  something’s  missing.

𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐘  are the hours that pass between anakin’s sleep and fitful waking.  he sits slumped against the wall,  or in a chair,  or leaning on the bacta tank,  time crawling by in the silence.  there is no rest for him here,  as there is no rest for anakin.  no words are spoken.  there are none.  there is only the sound of life - sign monitors and the wretched breathing mask and obi-wan’s heart beating a death march against the inside of his ribs.

padme doesn’t come here,  but she installed holotransmitters after last week’s incident.  obi-wan’s neck still bears the blackened bruises. 

he does not notice when anakin stirs,  not for several minutes  —  he still aches where the bond was cut,  somewhere deep in his mind.  only when pained groans punctuate the steady in - out of breathing machines does obi-wan raise his head. 

by now he has learned to approach anakin like one would a wounded animal.

‹ anakin, ›  he whispers,  voice hoarse from disuse.  ‹ anakin,  be still.  you’ll hurt yourself. ›

it is only a customary greeting at this point.  he knows that the man before him is past the point of caring if he injures himself or others.  still he says it,  words gentle and practiced from saying them each time anakin regains consciousness.

oh,  how he cannot stand to look upon his burned face,  the way his eyes flit open and shut,  glimpses of sickened yellow beneath scarred lids. 

‹ . . .  hello,  anakin.  are you in pain ? ›

another line rattled off the script.  he can’t summon his smile any longer,  can only stand over him where he lies on the medical cot,  and watch,  and wait for the breaking point.  it doesn’t take long,  it never does. 

obi-wan watches the man  —  the boy,  his brother,  his most beloved  —  cry out and writhe as his ruined body protests,  as his still - broken mind swirls with smoke and rage.  even without their bond,  he senses it,  feels it thick and cloying,  layering in his lungs until it’s hard to breathe.  anakin,  weeping angry tears that obi-wan can only reach for a gently dry with the tips of his fingers.  anakin,  hating him.  obi-wan,  knowing that he is right to do so.

DON’T GO OUT ON YOUR OWN,  savi said. don’t take a ship and leave batuu without someone knowing where you’re going, savi said. you’re not safe out there, savi said. what did garr do ?

everything savi said NOT TO. like many rebellious teens on the cusp of adulthood, the blond had to go against his elders, and as quickly as savi had warned him he had a bag packed, his saber clipped to one side and his blaster at his other. with a stolen ship in his possession (he’d call it more borrowing) and the galaxy at his fingertips, lightspeed was hit. 

what he didn’t expect was to come out of lightspeed in the midst of a battle, fighters from both sides flying past and blasts being exchanged, one nicking the side of his small fighter, giving him no choice but to try and navigate to the planet’s surface without completely crashing, any hope of hitting lightspeed again more of a deathwish than hanging around an ongoing space battle.

he didn’t crash, thankfully, but he wasn’t out of the fight yet, and he snuck through the dark brush, bag slung over his shoulder, listening, trying to sense anything around him, telling himself not to be afraid.

It has been many years since she last visited A Galaxy Far Far Away, and it seems the years had not been kind to either of them. Darkness reigned supreme, its iron clutches grasped around the many planets, snuffing out any traces of light, of hope, that remained among the people. These dark forces, she learns, are called the Galactic Empire, ruled by one so knowledgable in the darkness none could oppose him. It reminds her of own situation. Sure, this Emperor is no Xehanort, but it’s obvious his ambitions are among the same vein, something she can respect. He is even rumored to have his own small group of elites, much like their Organization XIII, along with the mass army of grunt soldiers, Stormtroopers to their Heartless and lesser Nobodies.

Clad in the usual black coat, hood up and face concealed, any identifying feature hidden from those mingling around her, Larxene wanders the streets of some backwater planet, so insignificant she does not bother to even learn its name. Its streets are crowded with civilians and troopers alike, a large gathering celebrating something called “Empire Day”. Worthless theatrics, yet she remains, intrigued to see all that has changed since the Empire’s rise. The fear is tangible in the air, the worry and hesitation plain on the faces around her, leaving her blood bubbling with anticipation. Oh the chaos she could bring, the excitement. 

The celebration continues around her. As she has no destination, she frequents the main center of festivities several times, enough to finally be noticed by an Imperial Officer. He approaches her, a hand held up, signaling her to halt, which she obliges to with an unseen scowl.

“This is a restricted area. Please leave immediately,” he orders. An almost silent laugh escapes her.

“Do you not know who I am?” Larxene replies, her voice laced with poison, yet just sweet enough to charm. “I’ve been sent by the Emperor himself. Surly you’ve heard. If not, I can easily let you speak to him personally.” 

The officer’s face fell. Oh how easily the weak minded were manipulated. She must look the part as well, for he shakes his head and allows her past. And yet, unbeknownst to the nymph, as she continues on her way, a com is sent, alerting the Emperor’s right hand man of a possible infiltration.