Pleasurable darkness
The Keeper's Claim
The rage was a clean, purifying fire. It burned away the suffocating ash of shame, leaving behind the hard, diamond certainty of purpose. From the shadows of the training salle doorway, Anakin watched Mace Windu’s hand slide down Depa Billaba’s spine. He saw her pliancy, her focus on another man, another master. And in that moment, the universe simplified. There were no Jedi. There were no friends. There was only property, and there were rivals.
He didn't return to Padmé’s apartment. The memory of the fear in her eyes was a distant, irritating noise, drowned out by the roaring furnace of his new obsession. He couldn't be her husband, not when his true purpose was being threatened. His property was here. In the Temple. And it was being poached.
He moved through the hallowed halls like a disease, a shadow of wrongness that the ambient light of the Force seemed to bend around. He was a ghost in his own home, haunting the place where he had once been a hero. He didn’t know how long he stalked the corridors, his mind a looping replay of Mace’s hand on her back. He was waiting. He knew she would be alone eventually.
He found her near the Archives. The great bronze doors were closed, the hall before them empty in the late cycle. She was walking with a steady, measured pace, her head held high. She had found a fresh tunic, the standard cream-coloured fabric of the Order. It made her look like a Jedi again. The sight was an affront. It was a costume, a lie. He knew what she was underneath. He had made her.
He stepped from an alcove, blocking her path.
She stopped. Her eyes, which had been fixed on some distant point, slowly focused on him. There was no surprise, no fear. Only a cold, weary recognition. It was the look one gave to a storm cloud on the horizon. Inevitable. Unwelcome.
“You’re in my way,” she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the tremor he remembered.
“You belong in a cell,” he replied, his own voice a low growl that was more Keeper than Anakin. “Not wandering the Temple pretending to be something you’re not.”
A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed her face. “I am a Master of the Jedi Order. I suggest you remember your place, Knight Skywalker.”
The name was a deliberate insult. It was a rejection of his authority, of their true dynamic. The fire in his gut flared. He closed the distance between them in a single, silent stride. His hand shot out, grabbing her arm, his fingers digging into the muscle. He spun her around and slammed her back against the cold stone wall. The impact was hard, jarring.
“My place,” he hissed, his face inches from hers, “is your master. And your place is on your knees. Have you forgotten your lessons so quickly?”
He expected her to flinch, to cry out, to show the fear that was his due. She did none of those things. Her eyes, cold and clear, held his. He felt a sudden, sharp pressure against his mind, not a gentle Jedi suggestion, but a hard, brutal shove. *Get back.*
He staggered, surprised by the force of it. His grip on her arm loosened for a fraction of a second. It was all she needed. She twisted, her free hand coming up not in a slap, but in a precise, hard-edged strike to the nerve cluster at his collarbone.
Pain, sharp and electric, lanced through him. His arm went numb, his fingers spasming open. She pushed him away, creating a meter of space between them. She didn’t run. She stood her ground, her body sinking into a low, ready stance, her hands held open and ready.
She had fought back. She had *hurt* him.
The shock was quickly consumed by a fresh wave of rage. It was exhilarating. The broken toy was fighting back. The game was more interesting now.
“He taught you that,” Anakin snarled, rubbing his shoulder. “Windu. He’s teaching you how to resist me.”
“Master Windu is teaching me how to reclaim what was stolen,” she corrected him, her voice like chips of ice. “My strength. My self. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand property,” he retorted, advancing on her again, his own body falling into the aggressive forms of Djem So. “And I understand thieves. He can’t have you, Depa. I will burn this Temple to the ground before I let another man touch what is mine.”
“I am not yours,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. The Force began to gather around her, a shield of cold, focused anger. “I am not a thing to be owned. I am the woman you violated. The Jedi you betrayed. And I am the consequence that is coming for you.”
Before he could lunge, the great doors to the Archives hissed open. Jocasta Nu stood there, her ancient face a mask of stern disapproval. “Is there a problem here, Masters?”
The moment was broken. The tension dissipated like smoke. Depa straightened up, her posture once again that of a composed Jedi Master. She gave Anakin one last, lingering look—a promise of future conflict—before turning to the Chief Librarian.
“No, Master Nu,” Depa said, her voice smooth as polished wood. “Knight Skywalker was just disoriented. I was helping him find his way.”
She walked past the old woman into the Archives without a backward glance. Anakin was left standing in the empty hall, the phantom pain in his shoulder a burning reminder. She was stronger than she had been. More defiant. Mace Windu’s influence. He was making her strong for himself. The thought solidified into a cold, hard conviction. He would have to break her all over again. And he would have to remove the rival.
***
The next two days were a blur of obsessive surveillance. Anakin became a shadow in the Jedi Temple, his presence a dark stain on its serenity. He forsook food, forsook sleep, and completely ignored the dozens of concerned comms from Padmé and Obi-Wan. They were distractions from his singular, consuming purpose: watching.
He watched from high alcoves as Depa and Mace trained in the salles. He saw the sweat on their skin, the intensity in their eyes, the way their bodies moved in a violent, intimate dance. He saw Mace correct her form, his hands guiding her hips, her shoulders. Every touch was a hot brand on Anakin’s own skin, a blatant act of claiming in his paranoid mind. She didn’t flinch from Mace’s touch. She accepted it. Welcomed it. The ultimate betrayal.
He saw them meditating together in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, seated on opposite sides of a small waterfall, their Force signatures intertwining. He didn’t see two Jedi seeking balance; he saw two lovers sharing a secret intimacy, their minds touching in ways he never could.
His mind, starved of sleep and fed only by a diet of jealousy and rage, began to build a grand, damning narrative. This wasn't a recent development. This had been going on for years. Mace had always wanted her. He had sent her on the mission to Felucia with Anakin—the reckless, dangerous Skywalker—hoping he would fail, hoping he would die, leaving her vulnerable and available. The slavers hadn't been a random tragedy; they had been an opportunity for Mace. An opportunity to swoop in as the savior, the comforting mentor who could then mold her into whatever he wanted.
The logic was insane, a spiraling conspiracy built on a foundation of his own guilt. But for the Keeper, it was perfect, unassailable truth. It absolved him. He wasn't the monster who had broken her; he was just another player in a long game, a pawn who had been ruthlessly used. But now, the pawn was taking control of the board.
Obi-Wan found him lurking near the High Council tower, his face gaunt, his eyes burning with a feverish light.
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice was gentle, laced with a deep, aching concern. “I’ve been looking for you. Padmé is beside herself with worry. We all are.”
Anakin didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed on the entrance to the tower, where he had last seen Mace and Depa enter. “I’m busy.”
“Busy with what? Hiding in the shadows? Scaring Padawans?” Obi-Wan took a step closer. “Anakin, you’re not well. What happened on that ship… no one would expect you to be alright. But you must let us help you. Let me help you.”
Finally, Anakin turned his head, his eyes pinning Obi-Wan with a look of cold contempt. “Help me? Like you helped me on Mustafar? Or Geonosis? You lecture and you judge. You don’t help.”
The words struck Obi-Wan like a physical blow. “That’s not fair, Anakin.”
“Fair?” Anakin laughed, a short, ugly bark. “You want to talk about fair? Go talk to your friend on the Council. Master Windu. Ask him what’s fair. Ask him about his private training sessions with Master Billaba.”
Obi-Wan frowned, confused. “He’s helping her heal. Her connection to the Force was damaged, her spirit wounded. Mace is the only one who can guide her through this.”
“Guide her?” Anakin sneered, his lip curling. “Is that what he calls it? He puts his hands all over her. He whispers in her ear. He’s not guiding her. He’s grooming her. He’s taking what’s mine.”
The last three words were spoken in a low, possessive growl that made the blood drain from Obi-Wan’s face. He had heard that tone before. In the cell.
“Anakin… she is not yours,” Obi-Wan said, his voice barely a whisper. “She is a Jedi Master. A person. Not… not a thing.”
“You don’t understand,” Anakin said, turning away, his attention once more on the tower. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what I did to keep her safe. The price I paid. The claim I made. She is my responsibility. Mine. And he is trying to steal her.”
Obi-Wan stared at the rigid line of his former Padawan’s back, a great, yawning chasm of horror opening up inside him. The man he knew, the brother he loved, was gone. In his place was a stranger, a monster wearing his face, speaking a twisted language of ownership and paranoia he had learned in the dark.
“By the Force, Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathed. “What have you become?”
Anakin didn’t answer. He had seen them. Mace and Depa were exiting the tower. He pushed past Obi-Wan and melted back into the shadows, his purpose renewed, his resolve hardened. His friend’s horror was just another distraction.
***
He cornered her this time in one of the small, tiered gardens that dotted the Temple’s exterior. The air was cool, scented with the blossoms of exotic flora. It was meant to be a place of peace.
She was standing by a railing, looking out over the sprawling city. She must have sensed him, because she turned before he was ten feet away. Her hand was already resting near the hilt of her lightsaber.
“This is becoming tiresome, Skywalker,” she said, her voice laced with steel.
“It ends when you remember your place,” he snarled, striding toward her. He didn’t bother with stealth. This was a direct assertion of dominance.
“My place is not at your feet.”
“No,” he agreed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “It’s under him, isn’t it? Does he make you kneel, too? Does he call you a good girl when you obey?”
Her eyes flashed with fury. She drew her lightsaber, the brilliant green blade humming to life in the twilight. “You will not speak to me that way. You have no right.”
“I have every right!” he roared, and his own saber flew into his hand from his belt, its blue blade shrieking into existence. He lunged, not with a sparring strike, but with a full-force power blow aimed to disarm and overwhelm.
She met it. Their blades crashed together in a shower of sparks, the impact shuddering up their arms. She was stronger than before. Mace’s training. The thought sent a fresh jolt of fury through him.
He pressed his attack, a relentless, brutal assault. He was bigger, stronger, and his rage gave his Djem So form a terrifying potency. But she was fast, her movements economical and precise. She wasn't using the pure defense of Soresu anymore. She was weaving in elements of Ataru, ducking and weaving, using his own momentum against him. It was a desperate, brilliant defense.
But it wasn't enough. He was a hurricane of fury, and she was a lone tree standing against it. He feinted high, then swept his leg out, knocking her feet from under her. She fell hard, her lightsaber skittering across the stone floor.
He was on her in an instant, the tip of his blue blade at her throat. She stared up at him, panting, her eyes blazing with hatred, not fear.
“Now you see,” he panted, his chest heaving. “He can’t protect you. No one can. Only I can keep you safe. And only I can hurt you.”
He deactivated his saber and tossed it aside. He knelt over her, pinning her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand. His strength was immense, absolute.
“You need a reminder,” he whispered, his voice a venomous caress. “A mark. So you don’t forget who you belong to when you’re with him.”
His free hand moved to her throat. She struggled, her body arching, but he was an immovable weight. His fingers tightened, not enough to kill, not even enough to make her pass out. Just enough to assert control. Just enough to bruise. He was branding her with his own hands.
“Mine,” he growled, the pressure increasing. “You are mine.”
He felt the shift in the Force a second too late. A wave of concussive energy, raw and powerful, slammed into him. It wasn't a Jedi push; it was a desperate, violent explosion of power. It threw him off her, sending him tumbling across the garden.
He landed hard, the air knocked from his lungs. He looked up to see Depa scrambling to her feet, her hand outstretched, her knuckles white. She was gasping for air, her other hand at her throat, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and shock at her own power.
Before either of them could move, two figures appeared at the entrance to the garden. Obi-Wan and Mace Windu. They froze, taking in the scene: Depa, disheveled, clutching her throat; Anakin, sprawled on the ground; two lightsabers lying discarded on the stone.
Mace’s eyes, dark and fathomless, moved from Anakin to the red marks already beginning to form on Depa’s neck. His face became a mask of cold, absolute fury. It was the face of the Jedi Champion, the Order’s ultimate weapon, and it was directed entirely at Anakin.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathed, his voice a broken thing.
Anakin scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. They had seen. They knew. The Keeper persona didn’t retreat in shame. It surged forward in righteous indignation. They had interrupted him. They had interfered.
“You see?” Anakin yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Mace. “You see what you’ve done? You’ve turned her against me! You’ve filled her head with defiance!”
“She is defending herself from you, Skywalker,” Mace said, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated with the power of the Force.
“She is my property!” Anakin screamed, the words echoing in the peaceful garden, a grotesque blasphemy. He was beyond reason, beyond hope. He was an animal defending its territory. “I claimed her! I broke her! She belongs to me! And you… you want to steal her.”
Obi-Wan looked like he was going to be sick. Mace, however, simply took a step forward, his hand moving toward his lightsaber.
“This madness ends now,” Mace declared.
“Yes, it does,” Anakin agreed, his eyes burning with an insane fire. He ignored Obi-Wan completely. His entire world had narrowed to the two people who mattered: his property and his rival. He drew himself up to his full height, his voice ringing out with the cold, clear authority of a slaver lord issuing a challenge.
“I challenge you, Master Windu. Not as a Jedi, but as a claimant. We settle this. For the rights to the asset.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The chirping of insects, the hum of distant traffic, the very whisper of the Force seemed to die. Obi-Wan stared, his mouth agape, unable to process the sheer monstrosity of the words.
Anakin was not challenging Mace to a duel. He was challenging him to a fight for ownership. Over a person. In the heart of the Jedi Temple.
Depa, standing behind Mace, stared at Anakin, her hand still at her throat. The hatred in her eyes was momentarily eclipsed by a look of profound, horrified pity. She was not seeing a monster anymore. She was seeing a man so utterly lost, so completely broken, that he had become a pathetic, tragic parody of his own tormentors.
Mace Windu did not look at her. His gaze was locked on Anakin. The fury on his face subsided, replaced by a deep, immovable sorrow. It was the look of a judge who had just been forced to pass sentence on someone he had once cared for.
“I accept your challenge, Skywalker,” Mace said, his voice resonating with the finality of a closing tomb. “Not for any claim. But to end your darkness. Here and now.”