There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no death, there is the Force.
Right now, as Mace Windu falls through the sky, wind whipping past his face, he wonders bitterly why the ancient founders of the Jedi Order hadn't thought to include a line on pain.
He's not thinking about the physical; the pain of his lost hand is nothing. Nothing, compared to the pain of his failure.
Darth Sidious, the Lord of the Sith, the mastermind of the war, the key to the final destruction of the Sith for all time, was there. On the floor. Begging to surrender.
He had him.
How little it takes, how quickly it happens. Letters of stone became piles of sand, illegible drivel where before had been firm, clear words. The prophecy was no more, if indeed it ever had been.
Anakin Skywalker, at the most crucial point, had failed. Failed Obi-Wan Kenobi, failed the Jedi Order, failed the Republic. And because of him, Mace Windu had failed the very thing he had loved.
He had failed the Republic. The Republic he loved. He had failed it too, by allowing his regard for the Chancellor to blind him to the realities of the situation. When the Order had reacted, it was too little, too late.
And now the Republic paid the price.
He thinks, then, of Kar Vastor, and speculates that the lor pelek would garner a great deal of amusement from his predicament.
Now you are just like me, doshalo. You always were.
The physical pain and blood loss take their tolls, and he slips into unconsciousness.