The fleet welcomed them back with controlled chaos.
Ships docked and undocked in precise sequences. Clone troopers moved with military efficiency. Officers shouted orders. Somewhere in the organized madness, Commander Cody found Anakin long enough to deliver a message: "Captain Rogers and General Secura report successful destruction of the Ultron stronghold, sir."
Thor reunited with his fellow Avengers in a flurry of backslapping and relieved grins. The bonds forged in battle ran deep, and the joy of seeing each other alive was palpable.
But Anakin had somewhere else he needed to be.
The Twilight descended through Tatooine's atmosphere, twin suns beating down on the scarred hull. Heat shimmers rose from the sand in waves, turning the horizon into liquid gold.
"So," Peter said, face pressed against the viewport, "this is where you're from?"
Anakin's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Yes. Tatooine."
After Mortis—after the visions, the horror, watching the Father sacrifice himself—Anakin had felt like his skin didn't fit right. Like something fundamental had shifted inside him and he couldn't quite find his balance. When they'd returned to Coruscant, when he'd given his report to the Council, all he could think about was coming here.
He wasn't sure why. Just that he needed to.
He wasn't alone. Padmé sat beside him in the co-pilot seat, her presence a steady anchor. Ahsoka had insisted on coming—reading his mood with that uncanny way of hers. And Peter had simply appeared at the boarding ramp, web-shooters loaded, saying nothing except: "Road trip?"
The moisture farm appeared as a collection of low domes against the endless sand. The Twilight settled with a hiss of landing gear, kicking up a small dust storm.
Anakin led them down the ramp, each step feeling heavier than it should. The heat hit him like a physical thing—familiar, oppressive, carrying memories of a childhood spent dreaming of anywhere else.
Now he couldn't get here fast enough.
Two figures emerged from the main dome. Anakin stopped, studying them. The man was broader than he remembered, weathered by Tatooine's harsh climate. The woman beside him moved with quiet grace, her eyes warm despite the desert's harshness.
"Anakin." The man's greeting was measured, careful.
"Owen." Anakin closed the distance. They stood there, separated by a meter and years of complicated family dynamics, neither quite sure how to bridge the gap.
Then Owen broke into a grin and stuck out his arm.
Anakin clasped it, forearm to forearm, and they both laughed—surprised and relieved in equal measure.
"Good to see you," Anakin said, meaning it.
"You too." Owen Lars—son of the man who'd married Anakin's mother—squeezed once before letting go. "Or should I say 'hero of the Republic' now? I've heard the stories."
Anakin rolled his eyes so hard it was visible from space. "Please don't."
"Oh, I'm absolutely going to." Owen's grin widened. "But I'll wait until you're more comfortable."
The woman stepped forward, and Anakin's expression softened. "Beru. It's good to see you."
Beru Whitesun Lars smiled—reserved but genuine. "And you, Anakin."
Owen's attention shifted to the rest of the group. "Padmé! This is a pleasant surprise."
Padmé embraced him warmly. "Hello, Owen. Beru." She kissed Beru's cheek in the Naboo fashion. "You both look well."
"As do you." Beru's gaze moved past Padmé to the two teenagers hanging back awkwardly. "And who are these?"
Anakin turned, gesturing them forward. His hand settled on Ahsoka's shoulder—a casual touch, but the pride in his expression was unmistakable. "This is my Padawan, Ahsoka Tano."
Ahsoka bowed slightly, hands pressed together. "It's an honor to meet you both."
Peter stepped up, pulling off his mask. "Peter Parker. Also known as Spider-Man." He extended his hand with that earnest friendliness that was distinctly him.
"Spider-Man?" Owen repeated, shaking Peter's hand with mild confusion.
Beru's eyes widened slightly. "Wait—the Avengers? We've been hearing about you on the HoloNet. All those reports about—" She gestured vaguely. "Everything you've been doing across the galaxy."
Peter flushed. "Yeah, that's... we've been busy."
Anakin looked around the farm, taking in details he'd once memorized and had tried to forget. His gaze settled back on Owen. "Where's Cliegg?"
The warmth drained from Owen's face.
He pointed toward the far side of the homestead, where two modest grave markers stood against the endless sand. "Last time you came, there was one grave. Now there are two."
Anakin's entire body went rigid. "When?"
"Several weeks ago." Owen's voice was heavy, aged beyond his years. "His injuries never fully healed. But honestly? After Mom..." He swallowed hard. "After we lost Shmi, he just... gave up. Blamed himself. Said he'd failed her. The only thing he asked for, at the end, was to be buried beside her."
The world tilted slightly.
Padmé's hand found Anakin's, fingers interlacing. She leaned against his shoulder, offering silent support.
They walked to the graves together—all six of them, a strange processional across sun-baked sand.
The markers were simple. Honest. Two names carved into stone, side by side for eternity.
Anakin and Owen stood shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of wind across the dunes.
"I hate that your last memories of them are from their worst days," Owen finally said.
"I'm sorry." The words scraped out of Anakin's throat. Then, softer: "At least she had ten good years. With him. With you."
Owen's expression softened. "You know what she talked about? You." A sad smile tugged at his lips. "Her son, the Jedi. The hero who'd save the galaxy. She knew you'd do great things. Never doubted it for a second."
Anakin closed his eyes. The twin suns burned against his eyelids, turning his vision red. When he opened them again, he couldn't quite look at the graves directly.
"I was terrible to him," he muttered. "To Cliegg. When I found her..." The memory of his mother dying in his arms, of the rage that followed, threatened to overwhelm him. "I barely acknowledged he existed."
Owen's hand landed on his shoulder, solid and grounding. "Don't. You were grieving. We all handle it differently." He squeezed once. "You don't have to carry that guilt."
Beru touched his other shoulder. "It's in the past, Anakin. We can't change it. We can only move forward."
Anakin stared at the graves for another moment. Then, with visible effort, he walked to Cliegg's marker and knelt.
The sand was hot enough to feel through his pants. He pulled off one glove and scooped up a handful, watching it stream between his fingers—each grain catching the light before disappearing.
"I don't know if I ever said this." His voice was quiet, meant only for the dead. "Thank you. For taking care of her. For giving her a home." The words came harder now, forcing their way past the lump in his throat. "I was so focused on finding her, on getting her back, that I didn't... I didn't talk to you. Not really. Not the way I should have."
He let the last of the sand fall.
"When I learned you'd married her, I was..." He shook his head. "Jealous? Angry? I don't know. We were supposed to be each other's only family. But I left because she told me to chase my dreams." His jaw clenched. "I regret it. Every day."
Anakin's eyes softened, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "But I'm grateful. You gave her a better life than I ever could have. Love. Stability. A home." He pressed his palm flat against the hot sand. "I can never repay that."
His gaze shifted to his mother's grave.
"Mom." The word cracked in the middle. "I have so much to say to you. So much I wish I'd said when you were alive." He took a shaky breath. "One of my biggest regrets is not getting to you sooner. I was angry about that for so long. Let it poison me."
The visions from Mortis flickered at the edge of his memory—the Son wearing his mother's face, using her voice to manipulate him. The image made him nauseous.
"I tried to be the person you wanted me to be. I don't know if I succeeded." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I miss you. I wish you were here. You always knew what to say. How to make things make sense."
Padmé knelt beside him, her hand finding his. They leaned against each other, two people carrying their own grief, finding strength in the contact.
"Was that your mom?" Peter asked softly from behind them.
Anakin nodded, not trusting his voice.
"She'd be proud of you," Peter said. Then, with that particular Parker brand of insight: "But also probably super mad about some of your life choices."
Despite everything, Anakin huffed a laugh. "That's... accurate."
"The recklessness?" Peter suggested. "The tendency to jump into dangerous situations without backup?"
"He's not that bad," Ahsoka said, coming to her master's defense. Then, because she was honest to a fault: "But there's definitely room for improvement."
Anakin stood, reached out, and flicked her montral.
"Hey!" She swatted his hand away, grinning despite the setting. "What was that for?"
"What do you mean, 'room for improvement'?" Anakin's indignation was entirely manufactured. "I'm a model example for my adorable little Padawan. Otherwise what kind of master would I be?"
Ahsoka's eyes went comically wide. "Adorable? Did you just call me—" She looked at Peter for backup. "Did he just call me adorable?"
Peter held up both hands. "I'm staying out of this one."
Owen watched the exchange with growing amusement. When they finally noticed him, he was smiling—the first real smile since they'd arrived. He cleared his throat. "Since you're all here, why don't you stay for dinner?" He pulled Beru close, arm around her shoulders. "Beru's made her specialty."
Padmé perked up. "I'll help."
"Please do." Beru linked arms with her. "I'd love the company."
The Lars homestead was simple but comfortable. They gathered around a table that had seen generations of meals, eating food prepared with care if not extravagance.
Outside, the war continued. The Separatists still threatened the Republic. Ultron's remnants still plotted. The galaxy churned with conflict and uncertainty.
But here, in this moment, there was only warmth.
Family and friends sharing a meal. Laughter cutting through grief. Connection anchoring them all against the chaos waiting beyond Tatooine's atmosphere.
It was simple.
It was enough.