Here was a sweet song in the lost days, a silent cry in the morning of my despair. I looked at you with my heart in my eyes and you turned away.
I let my sadness fall into the Force, but could not crush my despair. You do not love, you do not love me - the words echo through my veins. Yet at last through the pain of your loss, your turning away, your silence in the face of my confessions, I found peace.
No, I shall not be loved.
But perhaps I might be remembered. I am your padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, your padawan, and you break me with your words.
Powerful? So the rumors say. I find in myself only weaknesses. I cannot do what I wish to do, I cannot be who I need to be. I can only be myself, and I can only do the things I do.
The future flashes in front of my eyes every so often, don't you know? Vivid dreams, a black mask and deep breathing resounding in my ears. Pain. And your voice above it all, whispering, "more machine than man, twisted, twisted and evil, twisted and evil, more machine, twisted, more machine, evil, twisted..." The madness wakes me screaming.
You feel the pain through the connection that ties us, but you cannot feel my pain. You know nothing of what or who I am, what I've been through, how I've loved so much and lost so deeply. You only see the person you are trying to make out of me.
I still loved you, even knowing that.
I debated the methods of my death, delaying, for a year or more. But now...you hand me the chance, and I will take it. Shall you understand, or be left wondering? Do not think this a mere accident, Master. I die for you.
"Cover me!" The words were quick and simple, words I had heard a thousand times before, on missions and off. The Laconians fight with a fierce agression, but they are not really shooting to kill us. If they managed to destroy one of us, it would shock them into surrender, so unused are they to seeing death. They only want to hem us in and make us pause.
See, Master, I do my mission research. Or perhaps I take the thoughts out of their minds as they think them. How would you know, or is there any difference?
Cover you? Oh, yes, Master. Yes, of course.
I swing round for a sharp swift glance at you, watch you leaping, turning, for just an instant.
Then I switch my lightsaber off, fling myself into the line of fire, deliberately, and fall crumpled to the ground, felled by at least six laserbolts.
The universe pauses and shifts course. The Laconians stop shooting, terrified by the fact that I have fallen. You turn, stare. And rush to me.
You are making tiny sobbing noises under your breath as you lift my upper body in your arms. "No, Anakin, no," you are saying, words hardly coherent in your mouth.
Lift a hand to your face and let a finger trail down your cheek.
"Master," I whisper. "Love."
And I die.