Chapter 7: The Descent

The morning sun baked the dunes of Tatooine, its relentless heat rousing Anakin from his uneasy slumber. He stirred weakly, his face caked with sand and something darker. As he sat up, a wave of nausea gripped him. His fingers brushed against his face, and when he pulled them back, he saw it—blood. Sticky, dry, and smeared across his cheeks and chin. His mind, sluggish at first, began to catch up. The events of the night came flooding back with cruel clarity.

His wide blue eyes darted to the body lying beneath him. Shmi. Her lifeless form was sprawled in the sand, her blood pooling beneath her broken skull. A sharp cry escaped his lips as fresh tears spilled down his face.

"Why?" he sobbed, his voice cracking. "Why have you done that, Mom? It should've been me! We were supposed to stick together!"

He crawled to her side, his small hands trembling as they clutched at her cold shoulders. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his guilt. "I wasn't strong enough to protect you… I was too weak."

Burying his face in her chest, Anakin wept. The world around him seemed to dissolve, the relentless desert heat forgotten in the shadow of his grief. After what felt like an eternity, he lifted his tear-streaked face and looked at her peaceful, lifeless expression.

"I promise you, Mom," he said, his voice shaking but resolute. "I will never be weak again. I'll become strong. Strong enough that no one will ever hurt me—or anyone I care about. I'll make sure your sacrifice wasn't for nothing."

Anakin's solemn moment was interrupted by a raspy voice, hoarse and grating. "Eh… you done whining, kid? Then move your ass here and help me."

The Nikto.

Anakin turned slowly, his tear-filled eyes narrowing as they focused on the injured mercenary. The Nikto was propped up against a nearby rock, his chest soaked in blood. He clutched at the wound with one hand, his other arm limp at his side. Despite his injuries, his expression was as callous and arrogant as ever.

Anakin's gaze drifted to the Nikto's vibroblade, still clutched in his small, bloodstained hands. Then to Shmi's body. Then to the Nikto. A hatred so pure and overwhelming that it threatened to consume him flared to life in his chest.

He rose unsteadily, his legs trembling beneath him. The weight of the vibroblade felt heavier now, but his grip tightened as he stepped toward the mercenary.

"What the hell are you doing?!" the Nikto barked, his voice tinged with something Anakin hadn't heard before—fear.

'I will never be weak again, Mom,' Anakin thought, his young face set in grim determination. 'I'll make them all pay. It's their fault. All of them. Everyone who ever hurt us will die.'

The boy stood over the Nikto, his shadow falling across the wounded mercenary. The vibroblade rose, the weapon shaking slightly in Anakin's unsteady hands.

"No! Look, I'm sorr—"

The blade fell, its edge slicing cleanly through the Nikto's throat. Blood sprayed across the sand, pooling beneath his convulsing body as the light drained from his eyes.

Anakin turned to the camp, his gaze landing on the Rodian mercenary. The alien lay sprawled a few meters away, unconscious but still breathing. Anakin approached without hesitation, his steps slow but deliberate.

The Rodian stirred weakly as Anakin loomed over him, but it was too late. The boy drove the vibroblade into the Rodian's chest with all the strength his small frame could muster. The Rodian's black eyes snapped open in shock before glazing over, his final breath escaping in a quiet hiss.

Anakin pulled the blade free, his small hands now slick with blood. He stood there for a moment, staring at the bodies around him. The hatred that had fueled him began to subside, replaced by a cold emptiness.

'I did it, Mom,' he thought, his gaze drifting back to Shmi's lifeless form. 'I wasn't weak this time.'

Anakin dropped to his knees, his small hands clawing at the burning sand. It tore at his raw skin, mingling with the blood that smeared his palms, but he didn't care. The desert wind howled around him, carrying the smell of sweat, blood, and death. It felt as though the world itself mocked him, indifferent to the agony that consumed him.

Behind him lay her body. He couldn't bring himself to look at it again, not yet. His chest felt hollow, his breaths shallow and ragged as if the weight of the moment had crushed the air from his lungs.

"I have to do this," he whispered to himself, his voice thin and shaking, barely audible over the howling wind. "I have to. For her."

The thought of leaving her there, broken and lifeless, for the scavengers to find filled him with a dread he couldn't put into words. She'd sacrificed everything for him. He couldn't fail her again.

His hands dug into the sand, his small fingers trembling as he began to scoop it away. The coarse grains burned his skin, tearing at his fragile nails, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Each handful of sand felt heavier than the last, and the shallow depression he managed to carve seemed impossibly small.

Eventually, he turned to her.

Shmi lay sprawled in the sand, her body twisted unnaturally. Blood pooled beneath her head, the dark crimson stark against the pale dunes. The jagged wound in her skull was still fresh, a grotesque reminder of the gaffi stick's brutal impact. Bits of bone and tissue clung to the matted, blood-soaked strands of her hair, and her lifeless eyes stared blankly at the sky.

Anakin's breath hitched. He clenched his fists, his small frame trembling as he forced himself to crawl toward her. Each movement felt like a betrayal of his own body, his muscles screaming at him to stop, to turn away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking as he reached her side. "I couldn't protect you. I wasn't strong enough."

His hand hovered over her face, trembling as if afraid to touch her. When he finally lowered it, his fingers brushed against her bloodied cheek, the coldness of her skin sending a shiver through him. He recoiled, choking back a sob.

"I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry."

His tears dripped onto her face, mingling with the streaks of dried blood.

He sat there for a long moment, staring at her broken body. He wanted to lift her, to cradle her in his arms, but he couldn't. She was too heavy, and he was too small.

"I can't leave you like this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I won't leave you here."

With shaking hands, he reached for her arms. The fabric of her dress was stiff with dried blood, and the smell of death clung to her like a suffocating shroud. He grabbed her wrists and began to pull.

Her body barely moved at first, her legs dragging limply behind her as the sand resisted every effort. Anakin gritted his teeth, his face twisting with the strain as he planted his feet and leaned back, pulling with all the strength his small frame could muster.

The gaffi stick's brutal wound made her head loll unnaturally as he dragged her. The sight of it made his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but it didn't help. He could feel her weight, the lifelessness of her body.

"She gave everything for you," he thought bitterly, tears streaming down his cheeks. "And you were too weak to save her. You let her die."

The thought burned, searing into his mind like a brand. His small hands tightened around her wrists as he dragged her inch by inch toward the shallow grave. The sand fought him with every step, clinging to her body, pulling her back.

Anakin's legs trembled. His arms ached, his muscles on the verge of giving out, but he refused to stop. His bare feet slipped in the sand, and he fell more than once, his knees scraping against the rough grains. Each time, he picked himself up and pulled harder.

When he finally reached the grave, his body collapsed beside her, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.

Anakin lay there for a moment, staring at her. The gaping wound on her head, the blood staining her clothes—it was all too much. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, his small hands trembling as he tried to steady himself.

"I'll make them pay," he whispered through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with hatred. "I'll kill them all. Every single one of them. I promise you, Mom."

Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees. He crawled to the edge of the grave and began to tug her body inside. The effort was almost too much; his arms felt like lead, his hands bleeding from the strain.

When she was finally in the grave, he collapsed again, his forehead pressed to the sand. Tears streamed down his face, his small frame shaking as he sobbed.

"You deserved better," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. I'll never let anyone hurt me again. I'll make sure no one ever hurts anyone I care about again."

His hands shook violently as he began to push the sand over her body. Each handful felt heavier than the last, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like the suns above. He wanted to stop, to scream, to undo everything, but it was too late. She was gone.

When the grave was finally covered, Anakin sat back on his knees, staring at the mound of sand.

The gaffi stick lay nearby, its jagged end still stained with blood. Anakin crawled to it, his small hands struggling to lift its weight. He dragged it to the grave, his arms shaking as he forced it into the sand.

With a final cry of effort, he drove it into the ground, the jagged tip pointing skyward like a grim, defiant monument.

He collapsed beside it, his body limp with exhaustion. The suns were sinking now, the desert bathed in hues of crimson and gold, but the beauty of the landscape was lost on him. All he could see was the grave, the crooked marker casting a jagged shadow across the sand.

Anakin stared at it, his blue eyes empty and rimmed with tears.

"I'll come back," he whispered, his voice hollow. "And when I do... they'll regret ever touching you."

The wind howled in response, carrying his words into the endless expanse of the desert.

Anakin didn't move. He sat there, his bloodied hands resting limply in his lap, as the shadows lengthened around him. He was too small, too weak, but the hatred inside him burned brighter than the fading suns.

Anakin gathered what supplies he could—water, scraps of food, the vibroblade—and set off. He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't return to Mos Espa, to slavery, to Watto. His legs carried him across the endless dunes, the harsh wind whipping against his face.

As the hours passed, exhaustion began to take hold. The heat of the suns burned his skin, but it was the gnawing pain in his stomach that finally brought him to his knees. He clutched at his abdomen, the ache intensifying with every passing moment.

Suddenly, the desert seemed to shift. The scorching heat faded, replaced by an icy chill that cut through him like a knife. The emptiness of the desert deepened, and then he heard it—a voice, faint and distant, like a whisper carried on the wind.

More whispers joined it, overlapping and echoing, until they grew into a cacophony of incomprehensible sounds. Anakin pressed his hands to his ears, but the voices seemed to come from within his mind.

The world around him dissolved, replaced by a vision.

Anakin saw a small town—mechanical buildings, bustling people, and children laughing as they played in the streets. It was a scene of serene peace, almost dreamlike in its simplicity. But then, from the horizon, a shadow began to spread.

The darkness expanded slowly at first, then faster, consuming everything in its path. The laughter turned to screams as the shadow engulfed the town. People withered and crumbled to dust in seconds, their dying cries swallowed by the abyss.

The scene shifted. Anakin now saw the shadow standing alone in an empty field. At first, it did nothing. Then, slowly, the plants around it began to wilt and die. The shadow expanded, its darkness swallowing everything in its path until the entire planet was a lifeless husk.

"You are broken. Hollow. You seek to become," a words echoed, unspoken but deafening.

"I don't understand!" Anakin shouted, his voice trembling. "What do you want from me?!"

The vision dissolved, and Anakin found himself kneeling in the desert, his small body trembling. Ahead of him, a shadowy figure appeared, shifting and flickering like a mirage. It wasn't a person or a shape—it was an absence, a void that seemed to consume the light around it.

Follow.

The whisper slashed through his mind, and despite his fear, Anakin felt an undeniable pull. His small hands tightened around the vibroblade as he forced himself to stand.

The journey was grueling. The dunes seemed to rise like jagged teeth, the shadows twisting into grotesque shapes. The sand beneath his feet shifted and writhed, dragging him down with every step.

The pain in his stomach grew unbearable, spreading like fire through his veins. He stumbled, falling face-first into the sand, but the whispers surged in his mind, dragging him to his feet.

"You are weak. You must feed."

After what felt like an eternity, Anakin reached a cave nestled in the mountains. Despite the darkness, he could see perfectly. At the center of the cave was a small, palm-sized object—a gray and red cube etched with glowing green lines.

The whispers stopped. The pain faded. The world became deathly silent.

Anakin approached the object, his small hands trembling. "If only I had the power of this shadow I have seen…" he thought. "No one would ever oppress me again. No one would hurt me. Mom… you'd still be alive."

Anakin's fingers brushed the surface of the cube, and the world erupted.

The object flared violently, its faint green glow exploding into a pulsating, blinding light that painted the walls of the cave with shifting patterns. Shadows writhed and clawed at the edges of the light as though alive, their jagged shapes twisting into grotesque forms.

A wave of cold slammed into Anakin, so intense it felt like his blood had frozen in his veins. He gasped, his body convulsing as he fell to his knees, his hand still bound to the holocron. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull away. The object was no longer just cold—it burned, an impossible contradiction that seared through him.

Then came the voices.

Not one or two, but thousands, flooding his mind all at once. Screams, whispers, guttural snarls, and inhuman roars surged together in a cacophony of pain and power. They weren't words—they were hunger given sound, a primal need that devoured every thought in his head.

"Everything dies."

"The strong devour the weak."

"The void calls to you."

The sheer volume of the voices made Anakin's head feel like it would split apart. He pressed his free hand to his skull, screaming, but his voice was swallowed whole by the onslaught.

The object pulsed again, brighter this time, and the light from its surface fractured into jagged beams that danced across the cave walls. Wherever the beams touched, the shadows shrank and hissed, only to grow back stronger.

Anakin's vision blurred, the cave around him dissolving into a kaleidoscope of light and darkness. He could feel the voices digging into him, tearing through his memories, his fears, his anger.

"You are broken. The void will make you whole."

"You are nothing. Become everything."

"Devour, or be devoured."

The voices merged, becoming deeper, more resonant. The air around him grew impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like the weight of a collapsing star. The holocron pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, its rhythm growing louder and faster until it was all he could hear.

And then the shadows surged.

They exploded from the walls, spiraling toward Anakin like a storm of black tendrils. Each one struck him with the force of a hammer, sending shocks of freezing pain through his body. His limbs trembled, and his small frame was wracked with spasms as the tendrils wrapped around him, constricting tighter and tighter.

The voices shifted again, no longer chaotic but singular, unified:

"Devour. Consume. Endure."

The words pierced his mind like daggers, leaving no room for anything else. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor, his hand still fused to the holocron. It glowed brighter than ever now, its energy coursing through him, filling the void in his chest with something alien and terrifying.

He felt it then—the void.

It wasn't his, not yet, but its presence surrounded him, vast and infinite. The holocron offered no comfort, only a terrible, silent promise: to know the void was to surrender to it. It wasn't a force to be wielded, but a truth to be understood—a reality in which nothing existed but power and emptiness.

Anakin's small frame trembled violently as the shadows pressed into him, their tendrils coiling tighter around his body. The voices surged louder, an unrelenting cacophony of screams, whispers, and guttural cries, each one clawing at the edges of his mind.

"To take is to live. To feed is to endure."

"Strength is not given—it is taken."

"The void calls, and you will answer."

The holocron pulsed beneath his hands, its jagged light fracturing the shadows into writhing shapes. Anakin tried to hold on, but his thoughts began to unravel. His fear, his grief, his hatred—all were swallowed by the void's cold, unrelenting pull.

"I can't..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. His small fingers trembled, clutching the holocron as his tears streaked the blood and dirt on his face. "I can't stop it."

The memory of Shmi burned through him then—her broken body, the blood pooling beneath her shattered skull, her lifeless eyes staring at the sky. He saw her face, felt her warmth, and then the icy finality of her death.

"I'll do anything," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. His tears blurred his vision as he clutched the holocron tighter. "Anything to make them pay. Anything to make sure no one hurts me again."

The void surged forward, and Anakin felt the coldness seep deeper into him. His hatred flared, burning brighter with each thought: the Tuskens, the slavers, the filthy mercenaries—they were all to blame. He saw their faces, heard their laughter, their indifference, their cruelty.

"I'll kill them all," he thought, the words tearing through his mind like a storm. "I'll make them pay for her. I'll become strong, stronger than anyone, and I'll destroy them."

The holocron flared, its green light flooding the cave, and the shadows exploded into motion. They struck him with the force of a hammer, their cold tendrils burrowing into his mind, his soul.

The voices unified, their command absolute:

*"Know the void. Become the void."*

The light grew blinding, the shadows suffocating, and Anakin's body convulsed violently. His eyes rolled back, and his small frame collapsed to the stone floor, his fingers still locked around the holocron.

In the stillness of unconsciousness, the holocron's power seeped into him. The void's truth unfolded within his mind—a primal, infinite hunger that transcended the physical, devouring not just life but the very essence of existence.

And then, it happened.

The air in the cave grew deathly cold, the holocron pulsing with a rhythmic, sinister light. A faint hum began to vibrate through the stone, barely perceptible at first but growing louder, deeper, like the resonance of a distant, colossal bell.

Outside, the desert stilled. The wind died, and the creatures of Tatooine—small rodents burrowing beneath the sand, insects hidden in the crevices of rock, even the sparse, resilient desert plants—seemed to pause as if sensing an impending doom.

An invisible force rippled outward from the cave, silent and unseen. It spread across the dunes, through the rocks and crevices, consuming everything in its path. The small animals closest to the cave shuddered and collapsed, their life essence ripped from them in a flash of unseen energy. The hardy desert plants withered and blackened, their leaves curling into ash as their vitality was drained. Even the insects, so insignificant in the vastness of the desert, fell lifeless to the sand, their tiny forms crumbling into dust.

The force reached farther, stretching beyond the cave's entrance, its hunger unrelenting. It was not deliberate—it was instinctual, the holocron's power manifesting through Anakin's unconscious body.

Inside the cave, the object pulsed brighter, its energy funneling into Anakin's small form. His breathing steadied, his trembling ceased, and a faint green glow radiated from his skin, the shadows retreating into the corners of the cavern.