The duel is over. My former master has won. Now I lay on the smoldering riverbank, bereft of any natural limbs, waiting for death to take me.
My life flashes before my eyes. I remember back to one night, when I was very, very young and had asked my mother to tell me a story as she tucked me in. She tells me about the phoenix, a mythical bird that would die in a burst of flame and be reborn from the ashes. As I relive the memory, I slip into unconsciousness.
I have always had premonitions. I used to dream about freeing the Jedi. Around the time of the assassination attempt on Padme's life, I dreamt of my mother dying, her skin cracking and shattering like fine Naboo crystal. Towards the end of the Clone Wars, I was plagued by nightmares of Padme dying and me standing by, helpless. I even dreamt once about my own inner struggle.1 Now I have a dream where I'm standing in the middle of a hot, thick jungle like on the planet Despayre, teeming with animals large and dangerous, such as Nexus, Vornskrs, etc. As with any jungle, though, they aren't the only animal inhabitants, for there are also docile ones such as Varactyls. Before me, however, is a small bird, weak, hungry, and powerless. I know this creature won't last long, pitted against the creatures and the elements.
Soon the bird erupts in flames. For the better, I observe. I want to look away, to explore this place, but as I try, I see the reason I was brought to this dream world. No sooner had I turned than I saw some movement in the cinders that lay thick where the bird had been. Suddenly, a new bird blossoms forth, both inspiring and fearsome. A silence throws itself around the area like a blanket shadow, cast as it spreads its massive wings, suddenly looms, dark and foreboding, over the entire forest.
I come to, cold, processed air stinging me, filling my lungs through a respirator. Droids surround me, attaching new limbs to me. It's not enough, though, for soon a respirator is melded to my chest. The pain is immense. I want to scream, but I know I have to control it. To do otherwise would be a personal admission of failure. Hours later, and the suit is almost ready. The droids dress me in ebony vestments made from durasteel armor and Corellian leather. My survival comes at a price, though, for a mask descends on my face, a helmet sliding over it as I hear a sound that I will hear every day for as long as I live, a sound that will become synonymous with my name and visage.
1 Read my other "Star Wars" FF, "Dreams."