Homecoming

I.

He sets the ship down, a gossamer touch upon the Temple's undisturbed pool, and instantly feels the inviolate plenum shudder beneath him, inky ripples spreading from him, from the black knot in his solar plexus, across the hushed tympanum of their expectation.

The whole kriffing lot of them are waiting. Wondering.

Anakin balls his fists into his eyes, as though the eruption of crimson and gold fireworks behind his lids will somehow obscure their omnipresent, penetrating regard. His shields are useless, crumbled to ruin. They know it. He knows it. He is unworthy to be a Jedi – so they say. So they think.

Maybe it's true.

He doesn't care. He shouts it aloud, a hoarse imprecation directed at the Force itself, and he slams the cockpit doors apart, storming back through the ship's bowels, letting its misery swallow him, envelop him in a sickly embrace. Here, in the aft compartment – lightless to spare its occupant undue stress, cycled air hot and musty because the filters were past optimum to start with – he is spared the Force's mockery, the subliminal itch of other Jedi's curiosity. Raw, concrete fact rivets his whole attention to the present moment.

"Master," he chokes out. "We're home."

"I know."

At least Obi-Wan is speaking. But there is a disturbing undertow of desperation in that parched voice, a sign of human weakness seldom if ever revealed , at least in present company.

"Look, I'll – "

His efforts to maybe – what? Help the Jedi master sit up? – are rebuffed with a grunt and a pressure of shaking fingers around his wrist. "No… let the healers." A short pause, in which wounded feelings slop messily over the rim of Anakin's control. Then, as an afterthought, an apologetic side note: "You've done enough."

It wasn't meant to hurt. It was intended to reassure. But it burns, all the way down to his marrow. Because the Force is mocking him again. It is true, bitterly ironically true, that he has done enough. He has wrought this disaster with his own hands, through omission and inattention and neglect and … pride. He straightens, chastised by the gentle words, and licks his cracking lips. He also is exhausted and worn thin, and desperate.

He is supposed to turn to the Force for succor at times like this.

He snorts. E'chuta. The kriffing Force let this happen. Light and Dark – it cares only for itself. Its so-called servants are just collateral damage in a sempiternal war, a clash of totalities beyond mortal reckoning or control.

He wipes moisture from his face with his flesh hand. You will bring balance.

But how? He doesn't trust the Force. Obi-Wan does… and look what it did for him.

There are no obscenities vile enough. He clenches his fist and something shorts out behind the bulkhead.

"Anakin," his ailing friend pleads. It is a plea, too, a tremulous and pained supplication. Stop. The barest penumbra of dark emotion, and Obi-Wan is panting and sick. Anakin can hear his breath coming short, each exhalation too wet, too labored. He sets his jaw. Now is not the time. Now he should –

The access hatch wrenches open, hydro-pistons wheezing in protest against the near-violent use of the Force. Harsh light floods in; Anakin squints and ducks his head, instinctively avoiding that accusatory glare. The tall, silver-maned figure that charges in – flows in, two long strides and a sweep of cloak – spares him a brush with one hand, the most fleeting of salutations, before it sinks down upon one knee beside the inset bunk.

"Master," Anakin rasps.

"Master," Obi-Wan breathes.

Qui-Gon seems only to hear the latter. "Who?" he asks.

"Ventress," Anakin supplies.

"… don't know," Obi-Wan whispers. "… shadow." An unwonted edge of frustration sharpens his tone, lending strength to the halting declaration.

"He's delirious," the man's former padawan insists. "It was Ventress, that pus-scabbed pu'utala."

The elder – their master, both of theirs – raises brows at him over one powerful shoulder. Grey eyes hint at compassion but the two fingers held up in a clear sign of command – be quiet- bespeak impatience. Anakin falls silent, smarting inwardly. The Force has closed, wrapped itself in a golden cocoon about the other two. He is on the outside looking in, the messenger boy dismissed, the liveryman standing voiceless in the corner, the extraneous one.

Qui-Gon used to think he was the Force's Chosen One – but it is abundantly clear who is the Jedi master's personal favorite. Anakin will never live up to Qui-Gon's standards, because he can never attain Obi-Wan's lofty pinnacle of favor. He can never please his master, he can never please his grandmaster… only the Force has deigned to find him special - and even that benison is but a dubious title, a nebulous weight of responsibility.

He will bring balance. Yeah, right.

Other footfalls are sounding on the deck outside – a parade of anxious inquirers, passionless Jedi awash with relief, concern, jubilation, fear.

He scowls and shoulders his way out and down the hatch, striding purposefully across the hangar bay, diagonally across the docking berths, avoiding the influx of newcomers.

"Skywalker!" Mace Windu's baritone rings out, authoritative enough to bring a lesser man up short in his tracks.

Anakin merely holds up a hand, acknowledging and refusing the summons in one curt gesture, and stalks implacably onward. He is equal to anyone in this Temple. And none of them truly care about him, anyway. Windu especially does not trust him – he is only tolerated by the Council because he is sheltered beneath Obi-Wan's aegis. And because they all hope he will prove a good investment, the boy who fulfillied his destiny.

The one who will bring balance.