Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago,
Where have all the soldiers gone?
They've gone to graveyards every one,
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
And within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame.
This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker. Forever…
For a moment Kylo was dimly aware that he had somehow fallen asleep. Yet, waking brought nothing pleasant, for at once sensation seemed to hit him, and he made to thrash, but found he could not, feeling entirely ill and sweaty, he floundered in the darkness that gripped him in an crushing embrace.
His chest felt compressed, buried under the earth, and he found he couldn't breathe, the weight of it pressing down on his lungs, making him unable to move and he could do no more than lie there, choking and dying in darkness.
Master, please!
A wail to be released from this torment, as he smothered—while flames grew in his vision, burning pain, eating away at his flesh—the pungent stench of burnt skin and hair clogging his nostrils. His ears were filled with the roar of an conflagration, ash and soot raining down, it was all he knew, fire rising, fire..heat..flames…death..
And with a sudden hiss, air began to forcibly pump into his lungs, artificially expanding damaged tissue, the moan of pain that escaped him, came out unnatural, guttural, far too deep—not his own mask's voice. He tasted bile, and tried to swallow it down, if he vomited in this, where would it go?—he tried to reach out, even the force seemed to elude him, it brought no relief, the agony too great, a shrill beeping filled his skull, he was nearly insane from the itch and the needling pain and terror—death would be better, yet that mercy was still denied from him.
A subtle shift and skin tugged and tightened and he could feel it ripping off his bones, another throbbing ache informed him that needles had been tightly embedded into his skull..he would be hyperventilating but the steady respirator didn't allow for that, as such, he still felt out of air, and the noise of it all—
He was alone. He wanted to die. His master sought to punish him for his failure with this torture.
He couldn't endure this.
Please…Please…
Eyes filled with the deepest sorrow turned upon him, but they held no love in that moment he could tell, could feel, though he was on the brink of unconsciousness—when the great weight and pain and burning abruptly lifted, and the voice that spoke was soft, almost melodious…
"Do you understand now, Ben?" he made to snarl at the sound of that name he had abandoned. But, he settled for gasping and sucking in all the air he could under his own power, blinking wildly, still trapped in darkness, still in agony—but an agony he could bare.
So he told himself.
The next tone the apparition spoke in startled him , it was harsh and unfeeling and cold – a voice he had raptly listened to in the holovids, he could hear the inflection, the voice of Darth Vader.
"Do you understand, Ben? Everything you want—I gave to you. Your desire to emulate me, to be Vader. Would you like the experience of it again?" the ghost boomed as it moved forward, crackling with energy, dark rage in its stare and past that, a glimmer of despair and fear.
The breath he drew was still ragged.
You're wrong that's not—
"How long until your master desires to chain you even further? Make your body into his own design? He has already begun, taking your mind, your emotions, isolating you, making you trapped and afraid—he's enslaved you, Ben."
"You're wrong." He dared to croak out. He was immune to the light, this should not…this wasn't real..
The spirit turned away, sorrow overcoming its features, and he heard only a faint whisper until the world fell back into darkness, the apparition fading.
"And again,
you do not learn,
you do not learn."
The form of Anakin Skywalker flickered, wishing to fade into the force, yet he remained tethered and bound. Guilt and remorse shook him and he only wanted to be free, it ripped him apart, from what he had done, the weight of it—to now his own grandson going down a path of the same darkness that had taken so many lives. A hell of his own making, he wished to languish, and the tears he shed did little, his grief changed none of it.
Obi-Wan remained close, a comfort, sustaining him, sending calming ripples in the force.
Qui-Gon. Shmi. Padme.
More and more names to recite, more casualties to add to an ever growing list.
When would he ever learn?