Summary:A flashback in which Anakin relives Mustafar and realizes that he didn't really hate Obi-wan.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I don't own the setting, I don't own the plot... I don't really own much of this story at all. Props to George for giving me something to play with.

Rating: I realize the rating isn't that high, but I did get slightly descriptive with one part, just to warn anyone who's the least bit queasy. It's not all that detailed though.

It's been years since that terrible day. It was supposed to be my greatest triumph, the destruction of the powerful Jedi Order. I and my master defeated all of those wretched warriors, even that backwards talking little troll. Many masters were killed by my blade. The raid on the Temple proved to be quite successful. It was supposed to be my finest moment, my shining hour of glory.

But I lied. I defeated all of the masters… all except for one.

Him.

It was all going so perfectly before he showed up. That man who I used to refer to as my master. It would have worked. My precious Padme would have come to her senses eventually, I would have a family, a son. Instead, he ruined it all. Him and his frustratingly great timing. He was supposed to be dead. T

he clones said he fell, but everyone knew how hard it was to kill that man. They should have checked for a body even though no one should've been able to survive a fall like that. But he did. Of course he had to. He always called it luck, the fact that he should have been killed so many times before. I hate to admit that luck had absolutely nothing to do with it. He was just that good at what he did.

I wonder if it would have been easier to forget about him had he died. I know I sound as though I hated him, which was probably true when I had been an arrogant, foolishly blind, padawan with an ego the size of a hutt. But I didn't hate him, deep down. I was always looking for someone to blame for all my faults and he was always in my line of fire.

Yes, if he had died during Order 66 I do believe things would have been much easier for me.

He annoyed the crap out of me. Always the perfect Jedi, he could pretty much do no wrong, though he would always be the first to criticize himself. His modesty was almost as annoying as that stupid beard of his. He only shaved it off once during all of the years I knew him, and I had been amazed at how young he looked without it.

Vulnerable is the right word. I never listened to him, really. It was a lot easier to disobey someone who looked that young, though. With the beard, it seemed like I was disobeying Yoda himself. I had always claimed that he was as wise as Yoda, and I still uphold that claim. His wisdom, unfortunately, fell on deaf ears.

I smile at the image of him during one of my emergency landings. Those were the fun days, when I would watch his face transform into a stone mask of concentration that occasionally turned a shade of green. He hated flying. He always claimed flying was for droids. Him and his sayings. He was really an amazing pilot; almost as good as I was… almost. That was one area where I had the edge; probably the only area actually, and only because he had such a dislike for it. Had he liked it even remotely, I can guarantee he would have been the better pilot.

I started hating him when he joined the Council. I never had a right to hate him, but for some reason I made him the cause of my suffering. He put up with it just like he put up with all of my other obnoxious traits. I'm fairly certain that he was the only human being in the entire galaxy with the ability to survive being my master, and not just because of his renowned patience.

He was a hypocrite, a big one. He taught me that attachments were bad, that a Jedi could not love or have a relationship. He said it led to the dark side. What he failed to tell me was that he loved me like a son. He shouldn't have had to tell me, though. I should have seen it from the way he stuck up for me when no one else would.

I was always yearning for those three words: I love you. Subconsciously, I had known that he loved me, but for some reason I needed to hear him say it. I never understood that he was a man of action rather than words. Words are spoken through action; he taught me that, but I already told you I was deaf at the time. It took me until Mustafar to open my ears.

Mustafar. It haunts my dreams at night. It haunts my thoughts during the day. I still don't know why I chose that planet. I remember killing a bunch of people there, because my master told me to, but I don't know why I stayed there afterwards. Perhaps I felt some sort of connection with the environment. Its volcanic eruptions and molten lava somewhat resembled my heart, I believe. I remember crying. I cried a lot during the Clone Wars, and I've cried a lot since.

He never cried. He was always the stronger of the two of us. At Mustafar, though, he finally looked beat.

His posture was slumped, his wrinkles were more prominent, and there were bags under his eyes. He looked old, and this time it wasn't the beard. He had finally decided to release everything that he had been holding inside.

I remember that day more vividly than any happy time in my life. It was the day I killed him. We fought against each other, brother against brother. Neither of us gained the upper hand. I was enraged, giving it everything I had, yet he was as calm as he'd ever been. This was a different calm, though. It wasn't a calm that came from knowing you're going to win; it was a calm that came from knowing that there's still good in the best friend that just betrayed you. It was a calm that resulted from believing a terrible lie.

But he believed it to be the truth. The moment that truth was shattered was the moment that I killed my brother.

He could have killed me many times during that fight with how reckless I had been. But he didn't. Even in the end when I wanted to die, he still wouldn't kill me. It was his undying love for me that held him back, but I still refused to see it.

He cut off both my legs and my good arm, leaving me only with my metal appendage to grip at the black earth that I was lying on. That was when I told him I hated him. That was when I killed him.

I yelled at him with every bit of rage within me, belting to the galaxy that I hated my best friend and mentor. I glared at him with sick yellow eyes filled with both pain and betrayal. I wish I could take it all back, undo everything I've done, all the hurt I caused anyone who ever cared for me. Did I tell you Padme died? Guess who I blamed.

It hurt something awful when my legs touched the lava. The fire crept up my legs at an agonizingly slow pace, burning through every layer of skin I possessed. That was the worst pain I have ever felt. There's nothing quite like being burned alive. It's one of the worst deaths you could ever experience.

Slow, painful, and smelly. Burning flesh smells something terrible, and it's even worse when you know it's your own. Then the burned flesh starts peeling off. It looks like a s'more, only there's not a sweet gooey center underneath. There's only another layer of even more tender skin for the fire to eat away at.

I screamed like I had never screamed before. And I blamed him for it. He just stood up there, but he couldn't watch. He turned away from me… because he still loved me.

He turned back after I yelled those horrible words at him. He was crying. No. He was sobbing. It was like every tear he had ever wanted to cry was finally being released. That's when I knew I had killed one of the only friends I had ever had. This strong man who had shed maybe ten tears in his entire life was sobbing like a child, and it was all my fault. I realized then that the pain I was experiencing was nothing compared to what he was feeling.

He had broken too many bones to count during the war and had seen more death than anyone should be able to tolerate, yet he had never shed a single tear. He had lost countless friends in Order 66, yet he didn't cry, I'm sure of it. This man had a frighteningly high tolerance for pain. That was why I knew he was hurting something terrible to be crying like that.

He said he loved me after that, but he didn't need to. I finally knew the truth. He loved me and I had killed him. Burning was a terrible death, but at least in the end you died. He was a dead soul in a live body.

It was I who was burning, but it was his heart that was breaking, and the thing about broken hearts is you can't fix them yourself. They can only be mended by the one who broke them.

I wanted to rush after him, but he had taken my legs from me. I think he did it on purpose, not as a reflex to save himself. He didn't want me to run after him. I know why, too. I told you I blamed him for all of my suffering? Well, I didn't need to… he already blamed himself. He took the blame so others wouldn't have to. I sometimes wondered if he blamed himself for everything bad that ever happened to anyone.

I watched him pick up my lightsaber as he walked away. He gave me one last guilt-ridden look and then turned away from me for the last time. Ironically, even as I killed him, he saved my life. He made me look for the small spark of light that was still burning in me somewhere. He was the only one to ever believe that terrible lie until he showed me the truth hidden beneath it. He wasn't as wise as Yoda… he was wiser. And I took him for granted. I treated him like the dust beneath my feet.

Yes, I remember that day. It would have been a whole lot easier had those stupid clones actually killed him.

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