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The writing is on the wall. Scribes in a jagged, twisted cursive font are messy, compelled by the Force and desperate to be heard. They scream. Their shrieks are like blades of a blender, crushing his mind into a slush of what he was, grinding a sickly smell of lava into nothing. He is nothing.
He is in the room. Again. The darkness is a gnawing grip on his hand, harsh pulls of criticism. The room. Where the walls are words and his mind a weapon. Zested pepper on his hair, mellowing despair as victims drown. He is in the room; the walls are words and pains conveyed.
He blinks.
Anakin Skywalker is with his wife. Padmé Amidala. Her hair is cascades of a chocolate waterfall, her smile unmatched and the galaxy jubilantly beams at her. Padmé's arms gather him into a stiff embrace, her fingers interlace his and everything is wonderful, a dandelion field amongst crucifying reality.
Because he is with her, and this moment drags for infinity.
But infinity multiplies, and as he stares into her eyes, the willpower of the Force is demanding him to see. To become a prophet amongst mortals. Electrifying power that will sizzle through your veins and morph you into a monster. The Force is yelling at you, see what you must see, and its whispers are shouts, sirens turning to thunder as the rain bashes against the ground.
...When did he become you?
You are transforming into him, into Anakin Skywalker, and you want him to see. Because you have seen what lies ahead, dawned the charred make-up and all the cyber. Smelt the horrid bile. Felt the urges of vomit within you but constricted to a robot.
Because... you were once him.
Again, he blinks.
He is the room. Again. Where all the walls are words. He can't stop it. There is nothing he can do. But you are shouting at him, demands and rituals, begging him to see. To open his ocean eyes enough to truly look at every little scribble your hand had edged on the wall, to see as your fingers had gripped the knife that scrapped strikes of Force lightning.
The Force is on your side. And he refuses the Force. Who is he? How arrogant can one person be to where they deny the Power inside of them? Is he deaf? CAN HE NOT HEAR YOU SHOUTING? Your fury normally contained, is begging him to use his force forsaken, star-blessed eyes. Slamming rocks of lava pull into a vortex around him, a fire-tornado of ebony vigour.
Why are his thoughts colliding with yours? Why can you feel the way his eyes want to scrunch? But they won't, and the way his breathing collapses forward, relapsing into gasps quickened and swift, wind a tyrant of ghosts through his face. However, it isn't his breathing. It's yours.
...You stop.
Your eyes, although not here, shut. You breathe. Find your centre. It is not his fault. He is too mortal and arrogant. He will learn, he will... he has time.
But time is not infinite. NO. The voice of doubt will not taint this task in charcoal. You will succeed, and he will see. You just have to show him, nurture him to slow doubt with guilt until he reads.
He blinks again.
Let him enjoy his angel, her invisible halo a crown of jewels. The way her dress is pure silk and soft, and she is full of light. And the way her lips feel against his, like christmas bells chiming, rose-colored love piercing through his headaches and woes.
He smiles, hearts of a golden thousand give mercy to the way his eyes light up. Brightness in the depths of a hellscape. Midst of an Empire.
Her dress is lilac. Her hair once cinnamon now golden sugar, as the sun sets and bathes (because there is no word more beautiful, even though her beauty is wordless) her in majesty. Her enchantments are words, magic prevailing as his wife's eyes are beady and brown, and beautiful, and he falls into them.
He loves her more than anything. Because she is everything he isn't, and she is strong and willful, determined, and gorgeous, and kind, and good.
In his ecstasy, he mistakes himself.
donottrustpalpatine
That is the latest addition to the room, burned with the anachronistic souls of Alderaan, the final wish of the Suit's victims. Because here, the man is not Anakin Skywalker. And you are not Darth Vader.
Together, merged into a singular body, you are one thing.
And that is a slave.
He hasn't accepted reality; you have accepted the future.
Although, he is reading. His eyes analyze the text in shock, but if it's the last act you will do as Vader, then so be it. You pulse the Dark, channel it like water and distribute, toxifying the light, poisoning his Padmé with tragedy. And she doesn't exist, decimated and lifeless, lying on a surgeon table as Anakin can only hear, his best friend there instead of him.
And, in her final words, Anakin understands. And you smile at him, pained but hopeful. But you too, are twisted by the Dark Side. You have been called upon by the Son, given a task unforgiving. The Force agrees; you must yield to its wishes and join him, do his bidding.
The analogy is correct. Together, you – Vader – and Anakin are a slave.
Join the Son....
...Save your wife.
Anakin blinks.
And he is still there, caged like a rabid animal in a laboratory, two misbehaves away from being put down. Though you have done as your Masters declared, they are not finished. They do not show mercy, one impartial and the other cruel.
Your mind splits, a white-burning-hot-searing heat of world-ending decimation, as you are tainted. Any protests are squashed like a fly, as your mind shatters and invades against its will. Your thoughts blend forcefully, like someone has connected two wires and glued them together.
Before you even have a second chance, the wires are turned on and you must work with him, because you are him.
You are him. He is you.
And you want to join the Son. To save your wife, who you love with your entire heart. And if you must betray your brother, you will remind yourself that it's a small price to pay. Because she is worth the universe, and beyond. Nothing will ever matter more.
The lava cackles around you, bewitching you in enchants of gruesome oranges, illuminated by pumpkins as its heat brands your skull. Stranded on an island charred by time, the Son hands you a hilt (your lightsaber!) and, instead of letting him speak, you let its image brand your skull too.
The way the black parts feel against your calloused hands, textured and rightful. You look up, through hazes of visions and memories and- He's gone? The Son is gone.
You slow for a moment. Obi-Wan is there now. Sparks around him swallow each other, fireflies of hideous flames. "Anakin, are you alright?" He asks, and your mouth moves robotically for you, compelled perfectly by the Force.
Through burnt eyes, a residue of a never-experienced Mustafar, your hand pushes a speeder into the lava water, sending it for a simple swim. The interaction is blurring the lines of truth, fiddling you into a scenario of deceit. And even as Obi-Wan's face falls, his copper hair drooping with an undeserving guilt, it falls on dead ears.
Because the Force wants violence, pulled like a tight rope, spinning until you fall into its tricks of itself. Through all of it, the only person you can trust is yourself. And you saw a world with a suit, where your breathing was controlled and you were a slave again, even though you already are. You frown for a second. No. You will not become more of a slave. Destroy the Empire, join the Son.
Obi-Wan's eyebrows lift, mouth pauses and eyes spurns into churns of excruciating confusion. For a moment, you feel a wince shrug your shoulders, but its muted by the commands of the Gods. This is all for the greater good, to save Padmé from yourself.
You leave him there. The Force will punish him. You must go to the ship – to escape this Planet. To go slit the throat of the Chancellor and proclaim a new era of peace. You need peace. Nothing else matters; the live of a single being matters not to the greater good. You are the greater good. Everything is clear, and right. The world will not be a slave, and you will be free. Everything is clear.
But that's not true- everything isn't clear, and your thoughts are scattered but the Force says yes, do it, and every single thought comes down to the Force and nothing is- youarenotokay. How dare you place a person above concepts? Everyone matters, and you are not okay. This isn't you! But you can't scream, the Force will suppress it. Because the Force is neutral. And the Force tells you to trust the Son.
You go somewhere, do something, talk a bit. Dialogue, darkness seeped in darkness, garnished with more darkness, and blended with darkness – everything is Dark. Vader is you; Anakin is you; a Slave is you. You are you, and you feel nothing. Not anymore.
Feeling is a weakness, there is only the Force. Through its chains, you will be set free. The Empire will never happen, the Galaxy will have peace.
There will never be an Empire. On the walls of your mind, the words stay forever. LOYAL TO PEOPLE, NOT CONCEPTS. Loyalty... what a concept. How can you be loyal to people, not concepts, if loyalty is a concept? There is no loyalty in war. There will never be an Empire. You promise yourself that, gutting it like a fish's meat into your head. A mantra to end all mantras.
"If there is to be balance, what you have seen must be forgotten."
That line brings destruction, and you scream against your ignorance, because how could you have missed this? You- You need it to stop. And you failed.
The white-searing-burning-everything-helpme-agony-pain is back. Your- No. His... breathing becomes rigid and your body seeps out of his like tears, turmoil and resignation bundled into your hands as you split from him, turning back into two entities. Your scream is thought-piercing, onyx-alabaster blinds of stoned pain. Agony is your new baseline. And no one can hear it; muted by persecution.
You are Darth Vader, and the man before you is Anakin Skywalker.
The pain is starting to fade; white heat becomes grey neutrality. Shadows dance on your vision as your shoulders slump in defeat, eyes squirming with unjust terror. You have failed. The Force won't understand emotions the way you do. There's nothing you can do but watch. Ear-splitting freedom, as the Galaxy will shake, and truth will fall, the people bringing the statue down, with cheers and applause as your wife will look down and whisper words to declare the age of the Empire.
Because of Anakin Skywalker, because of the old you... the Galaxy is a slave, gratifying to years of torment and the sickly smell of remains; maggots will thrive, bringing anarchy as its charge. You understand, too. Like the shadows. Because the Son used your spirit to control the present, and in your merging, you became blind. The Force, as you felt it, wasn't neutral. It was bleak onyx, a raven of sharp vengeance. A cobwebbed thrill now a trap; the Son.
And when Anakin has forgotten everything, and his mind is a drooling paper of emptiness, Balance says to him...
"My Son broke the laws of time... and showed you what you should have never seen."
Oh. Oh. You understand, for the first time. The truth in eternal hyperboles, disguised to others but a cobra wrapped around your neck as your eyes widen with clarity.
...You are what Anakin Skywalker should have never seen, distorted in a mask of hate, and warped by verbose lava worse than anything Mortis could show him. A perfect furnace of bleeding destruction, the one thing no one should ever see. A disgrace: in death accompanied by the understanding shadows – the only ones now who will comprehend your blazing shame. You are Vader, and you are a disgrace.
You are not even a disgrace; that word means that you are something. You are a slave, and that is the end.
Not even Mortis could set you free.
FIN.
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