angstpril day 19
prompt: “Don’t leave me.”
ao3
follow up to day 7 and sandstorm
The sandstorms have been howling outside him and his mother's hut for as long as he can remember.
Years ago, he remembers, he used to question it. Used to feel as if the winds were trying to tell him something. They felt like whispers, carrying weighty messages from above, trying to catch his attention. They were draining, too. Impossibly draining. As if they were stealing away his life's force with every whistling gale.
He's gotten used to them, now. His mother (who he still feels an ache in his chest when he sees, even though he can't remember why) is fond of reminding him that it's natural for the early winds of a sand storm to mess with their heads. That's just how Tatooine is.
Strange that he'd forgotten.
It's night, now, and he can feel in his bones that the winds outside will soon pick up. The storm hasn't started yet, but he's aching and exhausted in that way that can only mean one thing. The sands won't be still for much longer.
His mother isn't back yet. It's worrying.
He's tired. So tired. He lets himself sink to the ground; his metal hand clatters as it hits the wall.
Anakin squints at it. Something niggles at the back of his mind—something he should know, something he should remember—but suddenly the winds have started howling and he shoots up. Mom.
He wrenches open the door and shouts into the street. "Mom?" Anakin stumbles into the street. His ache has started up again and it's miserable—they've never quite figured out why the sandstorms cause him so much pain—but he can't let his mother get caught in the storm. He has to find her.
His knees buckle and he catches himself against the wall, hissing a Huttese curse when it sends a spasm up his arm. He doesn't have time for this. He has to find her.
He hears footsteps. He lifts his head only to find that his vision has blurred over. His head is swimming.
"Oh, Ani," he hears and he sags in relief.
"Mom. I was worried."
"You know I can take care of myself, Anakin," Shmi says, placing his arm around her shoulders to help him up. "You could have hurt yourself. You know how you get before the storms."
"I was worried," he says again, but concedes. Her presence is a blessed relief, a balm to his pain.
"Come on," she says, propping him up and letting him lean. "Let's get you inside."
Once inside, she herds him towards the cot, despite his protests. "I can help," he insists, over and over again. "I'll be fine."
"Shhh," Shmi says, brushing his hair out of his face. He leans into the touch. "I know you're tired, Anakin. Just rest." She smiles gently. "Rest. It will be alright."
Before he knows it, he's drifted off.
*
Anakin's eyes snap open to a deep-seated feeling of wrongness in his gut. The ache has passed, but there's a new one in its place—one that isn't physical.
He shoves himself up off the bed and stumbles towards the other rooms. He finds his mother by the couch. She's—hazy. Hazy. How can that be?
"Mom?" he asks quietly.
Her gaze snaps up to his. It's terrified. "Anakin," she says, "Anakin, I—"
She gasps as she catches sight of something behind him. He turns—
Everything is hazy. His mother, his room, their home—it's fading. And fast.
Shmi exhales shakily, and he turns to find that she's vanishing.
"Mom," he croaks, "Mom, no, please don't leave me—"
He closes his eyes and reaches out with the force, yanking to keep their reality intact even as it splinters before his eyes.
Anakin.
He ignores the voice.
Anakin, please, you must let us—
He shoves the other presence out with all his might. He blinks his eyes open only to see their little hut torn in two, the cracks showing not the Tatooine sands but a yawning darkness that's slowly swallowing everything whole. Everything—the walls, the floors, his mother—everything but him.
"Ani," Shmi gasps. She trembles. Her hands are melting away before his eyes. "Ani, help, please."
He rushes to her side.
It isn't real, Anakin, please—
"It'll be alright, Mom," he says, shoving back his fear. "I'd never leave you." The words feel poisonous on his tongue, but she smiles all the same; a smile of relief and endless love. He closes his eyes and tries to sense her, to heal her—
His eyes snap open.
"Mom," he whispers, "I can't feel you." It's like—there's nothing there. Just the same empty, howling darkness slowly eating everything else away as it advances.
She grabs at him desperately. Her arms pass through him like they're not even there.
"I need you," she begs, "Ani, please, you must stay."
"Of course I will," he whispers, "Of course I'll stay."
Her eyes harden. She looks around—at the darkness, the rug beneath them that's all that's left of their hut, the starless skies above—and steps back.
"No, you won't." Her voice is heavy with disappointment and it aches so terribly she may as well have stabbed him.
Shmi Skywalker fades away.
*
Anakin wakes.
