AN: After delving into the bowels of my hard drive, here are some more unfinished fic snippets. First up, a prose version of "Within a Room Somewhere," about Anakin's internal transformation into Darth Vader.

UNFINISHED TALES:
PART THREE

Still own thee – still thou art
What surgeons call alive –
Though slipping – slipping I perceive
To thy reportless Grave –
Which question shall I clutch –
What answer wrest from thee
Before thou dost exude away
In the recallless sea?
-Emily Dickinson

Love, Salvation, and the Fear of Death

He thinks he is dead.

The heat, the pain, the anguish – all his conflicting emotions and sensations crystallize into a feeling of despair so biting – and yet so powerful – that he revels in its singeing beauty. Inside the scorching darkness he finds a more primitive loveliness than the fragile face of his wife or the cool control of his Master – and as he sinks deeper into its destructive wonder, he feels the threads binding his spirit begin to burn away. All his links and ties to the outside world vanish, leaving him basking in the scalding flames of his approaching doom.

Here is the ultimate perfection: cold, hard, and merciless. The blackness calls to him, beckoning him further into its inferno.

Then the last seam of reason snaps, sending him into that perfect abyss, down and down and down ...

Light. Pressing against his eyelids, seeking a way past the strange wrappings on his face into his eyes, his mind, his soul.

Has he reached the bottom of that endless fall? The light chases the lingering shadows from his thoughts, searing and twisting like the familiar darkness – but it is different. That fire soothed his spirit as it consumed his body. This harsh beam offers no comforts, merely the bleak promise of reality.

He shifts slowly, trying to reach out for the receding void but discovering only numbness and emptiness. Forcing his eyes open from under the thick covering – a bandage, he realizes – he struggles to look down at himself.

His vision wavers, the white-swathed form before him blurring into nothingness.

The darkness returns, and he smiles to himself, retreating into the peaceful flames once more.

He is alone in the vast blackness. He breathes in deeply, holding the boiling air inside his lungs until his throat tingles and his chest aches, and exhales before he fades into an even further state of unconsciousness.

He repeats the motion again and again, each time holding it just a few seconds longer, till he can barely handle the throbbing discomfort. He needs to feel pain. He needs to remember that he is still living, and that he has eluded death yet another time.

He needs to feel strong.

A small figure steps in the midst of his solitude, dispersing the ravaging fire with a single sweep of its hand. The temperature begins to drop from the uncomfortable heat of a furnace to the crisp chill of a Tatooine night, and he feels his anger start to ebb. He turns to the invader, annoyed at its impertinence.

A young boy stands before him, attired like a padawan with simple tunic and long braid. Pale blue eyes stare into his own - yet they are not as innocent as he expects. Set deep within the socket, framed by lines and weathered by creases, they appear jaded by ancient cares. He falters under their gaze and tries to recapture his former fury. But frost encircles his heart, snuffing out his spark of rage; he feels irritation, nothing more.

"Why are you here? I killed you."

The boy – if he could be called that - shakes his head slowly and sinks into a cross-legged position. He begins to doubt the accuracy of that title – a child could never have such shrewd eyes. But neither would an adult adopt such a guileless appearance. The boy is both young and old, naïve and cynical. He waits for it to speak, hoping that its voice may solve the mystery of its age.

"You pushed me to the back of your mind and ignored my presence – rejected my memories. You didn't destroy me."

The boy's tone is ambiguous, childish excitability mixed with the precision of maturity. He struggles to regain control of the conversation.

"An action I deeply regret."

"Really. And what would you be without me? In time's stream, you are an infant compared to me. My experiences influenced your decisions. My beliefs affected your own. You can't cast off part of your nature so easily or casually."

He takes a step forward, attempting to intimidate the child. "You are a fool. You know nothing of my inner self. You did not even understand your own destiny."

The boy shakes his head, an ironic smile creeping across his lips. "Are you sure of that? I didn't want to be the Chosen One – no one would willingly wish that burden placed on them. But I don't think that exterminating the Jedi is the proper way to achieve balance in the Force."

"What would you suggest, then?" he asks scornfully. "Following their out-dated guidelines? I found power that not even Yoda dared wield. They deserve their fate."

"Great power?" The boy laughs, a clear, innocent note that reverberates keenly through the darkness. "You are the true fool. You're just a servant of evil, feeding off your Emperor like a mindless lackey. Everything you've done has been according to his orders. And look what came of that!"

He stares intently at the child. "What do you mean?"

The boy spreads his hands, blue eyes wide in a look of satisfaction. "You were once Anakin Skywalker, but in discarding my identity you have become nameless."

He opens his mouth, ready to dispute the claim, but stops. The child is correct. His old name suited the ingenuous former slave from Tatooine, but he has not yet stumbled upon a replacement title. He nods silently.

"And I'm afraid that you're also in a state of physical limbo. Even strong young men can die."

He glances down at himself, and finds nothing out of the ordinary. "Liar."

"Oh, touché," the boy scoffs, flicking dust off his collar. "I'm serious. If you're perfectly fine, then why are you talking with me in this nasty abyss?"

"Because I enjoy it."

The child snickers rudely. "And I'm the King of Corellia. Face it, great nameless one: you're dying. Palpatine may be able to salvage your mind and rebuild your body, but you'll only be a shell of your former potential."

He frowns, glares at the boy, disguising his fear with anger. "Never. That's not possible. I am stronger – stronger than all of them! He – he was weak. I slaughtered them at the Temple, easily. And Kenobi was no match for my—"

"My, you are delusional," the boy says, interrupting him quietly. "You don't believe me? Fine. Go see for yourself what you've become."

"I will," he says, stepping out of the shadows into the light.

-/-

Indistinct shapes move around him, breaking the pure whiteness into hazy silhouettes. Snippets of murmured conversation echo behind him as they poke and prod every nerve in his body.