Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [194]
There had been no metaphor in his dreams of his mother. Screaming in pain. Tortured to death.
I knew you would come to me, Annie … I missed you so much.
He could have saved her.
Maybe.
It had always seemed so obvious to him—that if he had only returned to Tatooine a day earlier, an hour, he could have found his mother and she would still be alive. And yet—
And yet the great prophets of the Jedi had always taught that the gravest danger in trying to prevent a vision of the future from coming to pass is that in doing so, a Jedi can actually bring it to pass—as though if he’d run away in time to save his mother, he might have made himself somehow responsible for her death.
As though if he tried to save Padmé, he could end up—blankly impossible though it was—killing her himself.…
But to do nothing … to simply wait for Padmé to die …
Could something be more than impossible?
When a Jedi had a question about the deepest subtleties of the Force, there was one source to whom he could always turn; and so, first thing that morning, without even taking time to stop by his own quarters for a change of clothing, Anakin had gone to Yoda for advice.
He’d been surprised by how graciously the ancient Jedi Master had invited him into his quarters, and by how patiently Yoda had listened to his stumbling attempts to explain his question without giving away his secret; Yoda had never made any attempt to conceal what had always seemed to Anakin to be a gruff disapproval of Anakin’s very existence.
But this morning, despite clearly having other things on his mind—even Anakin’s Force perceptions, far from the most subtle, had detected echoes of conflict and worry within the Master’s chamber—Yoda had simply offered Anakin a place on one of the softly rounded pod seats and suggested that they meditate together.
He hadn’t even asked for details.
Anakin had been so grateful—and so relieved, and so unexpectedly hopeful—that he’d found tears welling into his eyes, and some few minutes had been required for him to compose himself into proper Jedi serenity.
After a time, Yoda’s eyes had slowly opened and the deep furrows on his ancient brow had deepened further. “Premonitions … premonitions … deep questions they are. Sense the future, once all Jedi could; now few alone have this skill. Visions … gifts from the Force, and curses. Signposts and snares. These visions of yours …”
“They are of pain,” Anakin had said. “Of suffering.”
He had barely been able to make himself add: “And death.”
“In these troubled times, no surprise this is. Yourself you see, or someone you know?”
Anakin had not trusted himself to answer.
“Someone close to you?” Yoda had prompted gently.
“Yes,” Anakin had replied, eyes turned away from Yoda’s too-wise stare. Let him think he was talking about Obi-Wan. It was close enough.
Yoda’s voice was still gentle, and understanding. “The fear of loss is a path to the dark side, young one.”
“I won’t let my visions come true, Master. I won’t.”
“Rejoice for those who transform into the Force. Mourn them not. Miss them not.”
“Then why do we fight at all, Master? Why save anybody?”
“Speaking of anybody, we are not,” Yoda had said sternly. “Speaking of you, and your vision, and your fear, we are. The shadow of greed, attachment is. What you fear to lose, train yourself to release. Let go of fear, and loss cannot harm you.”
Which was when Anakin had realized Yoda wasn’t going to be any help at all. The greatest sage of the Jedi Order had nothing better to offer him than more pious babble about Letting Things Pass Out Of His Life.
Like he hadn’t heard that a million times already.
Easy for him—who had Yoda ever cared about? Really cared about? Of one thing Anakin was certain: the ancient Master had never been in love.
Or he would have known better than to expect Anakin to just fold his hands and close his eyes and settle in to meditate while what was left of Padmé’s life evaporated like the ghost-mist