Triumph Of the Will
By Darth_Tim
"But his doom
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate."
-John Milton, from Paradise Lost
He saw the world around him through darkened plasteel lenses, photoreceptors revealing each image with incredible sharpness and definition, or in furious, terribly bright colors of the infrared spectrum if he so desired. The air pulled into his lungs was stale and free of either taste or smell, passing through an array of microfilters straining out every pathogen, every foreign chemical, every trace of life. He was indifferent to heat or cold, as machines kept him at a constant, comfortable temperature regardless of the environment around him. When he spoke the voice was not his own; powerful, booming, and seeming to speak from the depths of doom itself.
His automated limbs provided him with the strength of ten men and endurance beyond the capacity of mere flesh. He could not be poisoned, shot, stabbed by any ordinary blade, or bludgeoned.
Yet his terrible life-giving prison forever deprived him of even the most simple pleasant sensations- the feeling of warm sun or cool rain on his skin, of the wind blowing through his hair, the taste of Padme's lips – and the artificial nerves registered little else but pain.
He was nearly invincible, neither man nor machine, forever between life and death, a horrible caricature of everything dark in what had once been a good man, spared from death but condemned to a bizarre existence which could be considered life in name only.
His mind, while physically intact, felt nothing but pain and rage. Though his legs were gone, at times he still felt the intolerable agony of his lower body burning alive, the sensation so terrifyingly vivid that he thought he smelled his own charred flesh. Spasms of pain were constant, but he refused any sort of drugs, for they would deprive him of the ability to focus on the Force.
Whether for his explosions of rage or dark and frightening presence, he was feared by all around him, whom he viewed with supreme contempt. He had no one in whom to confide, but it mattered little to him – he had learned to trust no one, that to show kindness was to expose weakness, and he certainly felt as though he was indebted to no one, for what had his existence granted him that had not been destroyed?
Rapidly he became incredibly powerful, even more so than before, feeding off a vast well of seething rage. Rage at betrayal, at defeat, rage that even death had been denied him – hatred for those he sensed felt pity for him, hatred that Obi-Wan was still alive and well, while he spent every waking instant in perpetual agony. Rage that he could not yet strike out at his enemies – and while he indulged his appetite for death and destruction on those unfortunate enough to cross his path at the wrong time or displease him in any manner, inflicting on his victims various and terrible means of death – nothing could satisfy his desire for revenge, and random victims proved a poor, unsatisfying substitute.
Later, he learned from his horrible year in a nightmare from which he could not awaken, the value of cold, calculating patience, and of channeled, focused anger rather than mere blind rage, which were far more effective weapons. He finally conceded that his revenge would be far more complete if he were to proceed carefully, to wait for the precise moment to strike, when his enemy was weak and unsuspecting. He was dead to the world, the Emperor's best-guarded secret, and only two men remained alive who knew his true identity. To all else, he was all the more terrifying, as it had seemed he had emerged from nowhere, fully formed, like a vengeful, wrathful god.
And this particular god demanded an exceptional sacrifice. The Jedi who had not wanted him, who had tried to use him to their advantage, who continued to believe that they still had the right to monopolize his existence long after he had voluntarily left, would soon realize exactly what they had helped to create. They, and the rest of the Galaxy who had betrayed him, consigned him to oblivion, would soon see just how badly they had underestimated Anakin Skywalker. They would tremble at the sight of him, and rightly so, because if they dare asked for clemency, they would not receive it.
By Darth_Tim
"But his doom
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate."
-John Milton, from Paradise Lost
He saw the world around him through darkened plasteel lenses, photoreceptors revealing each image with incredible sharpness and definition, or in furious, terribly bright colors of the infrared spectrum if he so desired. The air pulled into his lungs was stale and free of either taste or smell, passing through an array of microfilters straining out every pathogen, every foreign chemical, every trace of life. He was indifferent to heat or cold, as machines kept him at a constant, comfortable temperature regardless of the environment around him. When he spoke the voice was not his own; powerful, booming, and seeming to speak from the depths of doom itself.
His automated limbs provided him with the strength of ten men and endurance beyond the capacity of mere flesh. He could not be poisoned, shot, stabbed by any ordinary blade, or bludgeoned.
Yet his terrible life-giving prison forever deprived him of even the most simple pleasant sensations- the feeling of warm sun or cool rain on his skin, of the wind blowing through his hair, the taste of Padme's lips – and the artificial nerves registered little else but pain.
He was nearly invincible, neither man nor machine, forever between life and death, a horrible caricature of everything dark in what had once been a good man, spared from death but condemned to a bizarre existence which could be considered life in name only.
His mind, while physically intact, felt nothing but pain and rage. Though his legs were gone, at times he still felt the intolerable agony of his lower body burning alive, the sensation so terrifyingly vivid that he thought he smelled his own charred flesh. Spasms of pain were constant, but he refused any sort of drugs, for they would deprive him of the ability to focus on the Force.
Whether for his explosions of rage or dark and frightening presence, he was feared by all around him, whom he viewed with supreme contempt. He had no one in whom to confide, but it mattered little to him – he had learned to trust no one, that to show kindness was to expose weakness, and he certainly felt as though he was indebted to no one, for what had his existence granted him that had not been destroyed?
Rapidly he became incredibly powerful, even more so than before, feeding off a vast well of seething rage. Rage at betrayal, at defeat, rage that even death had been denied him – hatred for those he sensed felt pity for him, hatred that Obi-Wan was still alive and well, while he spent every waking instant in perpetual agony. Rage that he could not yet strike out at his enemies – and while he indulged his appetite for death and destruction on those unfortunate enough to cross his path at the wrong time or displease him in any manner, inflicting on his victims various and terrible means of death – nothing could satisfy his desire for revenge, and random victims proved a poor, unsatisfying substitute.
Later, he learned from his horrible year in a nightmare from which he could not awaken, the value of cold, calculating patience, and of channeled, focused anger rather than mere blind rage, which were far more effective weapons. He finally conceded that his revenge would be far more complete if he were to proceed carefully, to wait for the precise moment to strike, when his enemy was weak and unsuspecting. He was dead to the world, the Emperor's best-guarded secret, and only two men remained alive who knew his true identity. To all else, he was all the more terrifying, as it had seemed he had emerged from nowhere, fully formed, like a vengeful, wrathful god.
And this particular god demanded an exceptional sacrifice. The Jedi who had not wanted him, who had tried to use him to their advantage, who continued to believe that they still had the right to monopolize his existence long after he had voluntarily left, would soon realize exactly what they had helped to create. They, and the rest of the Galaxy who had betrayed him, consigned him to oblivion, would soon see just how badly they had underestimated Anakin Skywalker. They would tremble at the sight of him, and rightly so, because if they dare asked for clemency, they would not receive it.