Chapter 5: Sima

"Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath."

(ECKHART TOLLE)

DROMUND KAAS: KAAS CITY

Fists clenched and arms swinging, Darth Vader thundered down the stairs of the secret passage like an enraged reek at full charge. At first, the man inside the suit was hurt. Now, he was angry. Padmè's words cut him to the bone; had torn through his armour, ripped off his helmet and violently stabbed him in the gut. Whether she believed what she'd said or not, was irrelevant. She'd said it. And now, the truth was out.

To think, she'd actually had the gall to accuse him of choosing the war over her. Insinuating that he valued his duty as a Jedi more than his responsibility to her, as a husband. Could she have been any more insulting? She may as well have thrown what was left of him back into the lava river on Mustafar and watched him burn. It would have been just as effective.

Over the time since his turn to the Dark Side, his Master had taught him to hold on to his anger. To isolate it deep down and store it away to be drawn on later; at a time when he needed its strength. But there was no suffocating this. This hurt too much. He gritted his teeth. Squeezed his fists tighter. A solitary tear slipped over his cheek, its damp warmth tingling his scarred skin. He needed to feel something physical. Something ... to forcefully tear his mind away from the pain.

He stomped down on the landing, his heavy cloak slowly gliding to rest by the heels of his boots. The incessant rasp of his respirator tormented him; whispering words of failure with each artificially controlled breath. Its steady and even rhythm belying the furious pound of his raging heart threatening to crush his chest.

Turning to face the comm-room, he threw the door open with the Force and stared. His apprentice had made herself quite comfortable in his absence. She was now lying back on the restraining bench, swinging her leg playfully in the air as she studied Malgus's journal. Her ability to be so at ease was infuriating. She hadn't so much as moved a muscle when he'd arrived, which only added to his fury.

Gripping the hilt of his lightsaber, he massaged the actuator with his cybernetic thumb, the attuned sensors in his prosthetic appendage reminding him of the all-too-familiar grooves and markings. It would be so easy to kill her. To punish her for displaying such disrespectful signs of complacency in his presence.

As he unhooked it from his belt, she lowered the book to her lap and stared at him, her two naive and innocent crystal eyes shimmering over the crest of her knee. He glared back in silence, still caressing the blade release on his weapon.

"Master?" she asked, pushing forward into a sitting position. "Are you ... is everything ... are you alright?"

His gloved thumb lingered over the switch.

"Master?" she asked again, the gentle waver in her voice confirming that she understood the gravity of her situation.

He hesitated a moment longer then growled in frustration. Pulling his thumb away, he holstered the lightsaber back on his belt.

"Get up!" he commanded. He whirled on his heel and went to leave. "The sparring chamber. Now!"

Vader didn't stop to look back. He rampaged down the corridors, passing junction after junction. Syrennè would fight him properly this time, he was going to make damn sure of it. He didn't have the patience to put up with her pacifistic Jedi nonsense right now; he wanted a fight, a good fight. And if she managed to actually land a hit, even better.

He growled. Perhaps he should have gone back and provoked Kenobi instead. At least he would have given him a thorough workout – possibly even beaten him. He snorted. In his current enraged state, that outcome would have been highly unlikely.

Rounding the bend of the next junction, he waved open the blast door and strode out from underneath the main stairwell of the Citadel. Normally, he would pause a moment to admire its austere grandeur, but he wasn't remotely interested. Taking to the stairs, he made his way up to the Grand Reception Hall, passed the commemorative statues, passed the large deactivated holo-projector and carried on left to the entrance hall of the sparring chamber.

The circular room swept out around him. With its solid Corinthian pillars, blood-red stone walls and domed ceiling – it was the perfect fit for his dark mood. Striding forward, he stopped in the centre and waited for Syrennè to catch up. Hopefully the training session would help him to actually feel something again.

Being confined to the suit, he was rapidly losing touch with himself ... and everything and everyone else around him. He longed to touch Padmè ... to really touch her. And to feel her, touch him. To eat proper food again. To taste something other than that repulsive bitter vita-paste that he sustained himself on. He needed to feel some sort of physical sensation so badly, that even the thought of being struck with the searing hot blade of a lightsaber sounded appealing.

The steady rap of boots hitting marble echoed from behind. He didn't bother to turn around. The sounds drew closer, finally coming to a stop. Syrennè had arrived, and by the sound of her heavy breathing, she'd had to run to catch up to him. Good. That meant she was already warmed up and ready to go.

Something brushed against his shields — probing his mind. He permitted her exploration for all but a minute before forcing her out. "I would stay out of there if I were you," he warned, lowering his hand to grip the hilt of his lightsaber.

"I wouldn't need to probe ... if you would actually bond with me," she snapped back between breaths. "You are my Master; we are supposed to be bonded."

She was such a teenager. Full of attitude and self-entitlement. Hardly what he wanted to deal with at present. He needed a physical fight, not an emotional or hormonal one. "Why would I..." he hissed, whirling to face her, "want to bond with a Jedi?"

"Then teach me!" she yelled.

His anger must have been having some sort of knock-on effect on her. This was the most passion he'd sensed since he'd started her training. "I have been," he said, pulling the hilt from his belt. "You ... are refusing to listen."

"I am trying!"

He hit the actuator. With a sudden snap-hiss, the scarlet blade burst into life. "There is no try!"

Lunging forward, he crossed the floor with saber held high and went in for the attack. He swung hard and fast, angling to open her up from shoulder to hip. With a quick back-step, she answered, her green blade parrying his strike. He instantly recovered and struck again, this time aiming for her arm. She blocked — then retreated. He continued to advance, testing out the new adjustments to his old form.

Djem So, or Form V as it was also known, was the lightsaber combat style focused around power, strength and aggression, and as such, suited him perfectly. Consisting of powerful, rapid strikes in succession; followed by even quicker parry-ripostes, it was a style he had become rather fond of during the Clone Wars. It allowed him to channel his bountiful aggression into every attack – and back then, anything that served as an outlet for his mounting frustration was an invaluable tool.

Syrennè was graceless – clumsy. She stumbled around him haphazardly, blocking at the last second and fighting her own feet for balance. Looking for an opening in his assault but never finding one. Her parries were weak, barely able to deflect. If he was going to try and make a Sith out of her, that would undoubtedly need to change.

He unleashed a blinding barrage, coming at her; shoulder—to—shoulder, then back at her chest. Her saber shuddered with each parry, the weighted vibrations quaking up the length of her arm. He struck again, this time holding her in contest instead of driving through it.

"Your Form is sloppy," he taunted, staring over the arcing plasma. "What was your Master teaching you, how to stir soup?"

Syrennè panted, her long blonde hair plastered to the side of her face with sweat. "Soresu..." she gasped out mid-pant. "She said it was a more civilized and elegant method of combat."

"I have seen elegant and efficient mastery of Soresu," he said, pushing down harder. "What you demonstrate is neither."

She tried to push back, desperately fighting to hold his blade in place. "My Master said ... I was very good at it." She puffed again, attempting to catch her breath. The sparking hot plasma dancing in her determined blue eyes. "That ... I just needed ... more practice."

"Then ... your Master was a fool." He forced her to back-step with one heavy stride. "I have seen five-year-old younglings exhibit better discipline."

"Then why don't you just kill me!" Syrennè screamed, saliva spraying from her teeth. She broke off the contest and twirled in retreat, putting a short distance between them. Chest heaving and brows locked, she sized him up. "After all, that is your thing, isn't it Master?" she spat, glaring defiantly. "You get off on killing younglings!"

Inside the mask, Vader blinked. He blinked again; his mind chaotically scrambling to process her words. Rage. Blinding rage. How dare she! Using the Force, he reached out and seized her neck, silencing her insolent tongue. In a rash fit of utter fury, he spun on his heel and launched her away from him. He thundered across the marble, following her trajectory and holding his blade at the ready. He watched as her body violently slammed into the wall — then slumped to the floor.

Syrennè scrambled, pushing back to the wall as far as she could.

He stomped forward and stood over her, angling his lightsaber to the base of her neck. "Do you want me to kill you?" he hissed lowly, clenching his jaw. "Is that, what you want?"

Fear blossomed in her eyes. She stared at his mask and tried to become one with the solid stone at her back. Trembling, she shook her head, suddenly lost for words.

A rumbling growl rattled from his vocoder. "If you ever disrespect me like that again ... I will cut out your tongue, so you can never speak again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y–yes ... my Master."

He deactivated his lightsaber and stepped back. "Good." His heart was racing, the throbbing pulse pounding in his ears. With a huff, he turned away and strode to the far side of the room, needing to escape her immediate proximity. Staring blankly at the wall, he tried not to think. But it was too late ... the damage was done.

Screaming. Followed by fuzzy, indiscriminate images. One-by-one, their innocent faces became clear. Long enough, only to permit him enough time to see their tiny features as they twisted and contorted in fear.

"Master Skywalker, there are too many of them! What are we going to do?"

The whirring thrum of his lightsaber tingled up his arm. The coursing hot energy crippling him, with the soul-crushing weight of what he was about to do. Then he moved. The dazzling cerulean blade carving arcs in the air. Severing tiny limb from tiny body, the thud as each piece hit the chamber floor, like nails hammering down the lid on his coffin. Screams rebounded and echoed, ricocheting off every once hallowed and pristine surface. Then, in a blinding moment of clarity, he sucked in a hollow breath. The pained screams he could hear ... they weren't coming from the younglings ... No.

They were coming from him.

Opening his eyes, he pushed out a breath and slumped forward. The emptiness was back. All of what he had been trying to do in fighting Syrennè, was now wiped clean. Swept away. Wrenching him back into the isolated and devoid state-of-mind that had consumed him this morning. All because of one stupid, insensitive and idiotic remark.

He was going to make her pay dearly for this. And he knew just how to do it. Something he had kept in reserve, waiting for the right moment. This ... was that moment.

"Syrennè," he said, widening his feet and keeping his back to her. "Tell me, again. How is it that you and your Master became separated?"

There was a slight shuffle and thump, which he assumed to be the sound of her rising from the floor. "She died trying to protect me from you and your troopers in the Temple."

"That's right," he said. "I remember now." He let out a dark chuckle. He was going to enjoy this. "Is it not amusing; the lies our Masters tell us, to make us behave, or think in a certain way?"

"What do you mean?"

"Take your Master, for example. Contrary to your belief, she did not die in the Temple."

"I don't understand," Syrennè said, frustration creeping into her tone.

"Of course you don't. That is because, you believed in the lie." He whirled around, his cloak drifting on the air. He wanted to see the look on her face the very instant her world came crashing down. "Jocasta Nu dismissed you. She knew that you would only slow her down. She cast you aside, to abscond with the list. To run and hide from me, like the coward she is." Taking a step forward, he stabbed at the air. "When faced with the choice; you or the Order; she chose the Order. You lost. You meant nothing to her."

Her reaction was priceless. Brows dropped low; lips pulled back ... there were even tears welling in her two angry little eyes. The hate was swelling inside of her, mixing with the chaotic inner turmoil that only complete betrayal could produce.

"YOU LIE!" she cried, balling her small hands into fists. "You killed her! I know you did." Thrusting her hand out, she recalled her lightsaber from the floor and gripped it with both hands.

This must have been how his Master felt, the instant he'd severed Mace Windu's hand that night. He smiled, feeling victorious. His job here was done. The Dark Side was creeping in, moving out from the shadows and rising up to stake its claim on the young girl.

"It hurts, does it not?" he baited, watching her keenly. "To know that your Master left you to die over a piece of flimsy?" With a flourish of his cloak, he turned his back to her again and waited.

Waited to hear the telling, satisfying snap-hiss that would finally seal her fate.

But his moment of triumph was stolen from him. Snatched away by some cruel twist of fate. A cold-numbing dread suddenly filled his veins. Dark, probing tendrils invaded his senses. Maliciously worming their way through every scarred muscle and damaged tendon, until his arms fell limp and his mouth dropped open. His helmet rung with the sound of each laboured breath. His breath. Not the steady rasp of the respirator. He tried to wriggle his fingers; close his mouth; shift his legs, but nothing responded. In the distance his apprentice screamed out a battle cry, seconds before a sharp sting shot down his arm.

Then, as if someone had turned out the lights, his weapon slipped from his fingers ... and his whole world went black.

A familiar and commanding voice ripped through the darkness.

"KNEEL."

A heavy, compelling pressure forced down on his shoulders and he instantly obeyed. The moment his knees hit the ground; his eyes sprung open. Unable to move, he stared straight ahead, looking directly into the folds of his Master's heavy black robe.

He sucked in a breath and tried to get his bearings. This place. He recognised this place. It had a distinct smell about it. The putrid, sticky stench of Force lightning singed flesh. He was in the Supreme Chancellor's Office back on Coruscant. The very same place that he'd pledged allegiance to his Master.

Wait. He could smell? As disgusting and stomach churning as the odour was, he embraced it. Taking a deep breath and tasting the bitter-sweet char on the air. His heart thudded. The mask was gone.

Warm fingers gently massaged his head. Working their way through the thick, messed up waves of his sweaty hair. The sensation brought tears to his eyes. This had to be a dream. Perhaps Syrennè had come after him, and somehow knocked him out, and this was all some beautiful but terrifying dream.

But no, it wasn't. How could it be? He remembered being paralysed; being frozen in place. So, what in the Force was this? Some kind of meditative trance that broke all rules of space and time?

"My dear boy..." his Master purred, standing over him. Petting him like an obedient dog. "You ... are lost."

One of the tears slowly slid down his cheek. He lifted his arm to wipe it away before his Master could see. His arm froze. The bell-ended black sleeve of his old Jedi robe dangled in the air. He suffocated a whimper and tried to clear his throat. "Yes ... my Master." His Master continued to stroke him. His heavy touch, possessive; and most disturbingly ... soothing. It was as if he was seducing him, or even using the Force to try and sedate him.

"I hear you, Lord Vader. Your despair calls to me. I ... am here."

Another tear slipped down his cheek. Hearing him call out his pain, made it seem all the more real, and worse still – even harder to ignore. He wanted to deny it. To prove he wasn't weak. But in the end, he couldn't. It was true. He was in despair.

It was right then, that he realised.

This was no mere dream or vision. His Master was in his head. Sifting through his thoughts. Feeding on his torment. By some strange perversion of the Force, he'd managed to penetrate his mind from the other side of the galaxy. He swallowed, trying to banish the desert sand from his throat. There was no point in denying how he felt. His Master already knew. "I ... I feel ... detached, my Master."

"Yes. I know. I know you do. No-one understands you, like I understand you, Lord Vader. No-one feels your pain, like I do. Come home, my apprentice. Come home to me. Then we can work through your troubles together."

He sighed, sensing the compelling fog starting to take hold. It felt similar to a migraine. The pressure. The pounding. The bright flashing lights. As if at any moment his head might explode. It was so hard to think. To single out a clear thought. Taking another deep breath, he fought desperately to focus. He knew it was just another manipulation. Another way for his Master to twist his already broken mind.

The fog got darker — thicker. He allowed himself to indulge, momentarily succumbing to the possessive weight of his Master's caress. The physical contact was calming, sedative, almost lulling him to sleep.

Doubt slowly crept in.

What if he was right? What if his Master was the only person in the galaxy, who could understand him? The only one who knew, the true depth of his pain? He was his mentor. His friend. The same man he'd trusted for so many years. Trusted with secrets he'd sworn never to tell.

But he'd lied to him. Just like the Jedi. Used and abused him. Just like the Jedi. Manipulated and enslaved him. Just like the Jedi.

He felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head hurt. He wanted to be free. Free from the lies and the pain. The isolation ... the hurt.

Unable to think any more, lest he go completely insane, he closed his eyes and finally, lowered his head in defeat. "Yes ... my Master."

"Good ... good."

The last sound he heard before the darkness closed over, was a victorious cackle.

The damning confirmation, that once again ... he had lost.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I really enjoyed writing this one. Thank you all for your follows/favourites/reviews, they are truly humbling. I know this is an early chapter release (not to mention a slightly longer one) but I had to publish it. I loved it so much. Some of you may feel that the idea of our dear Sith Lord with tears in his eyes is too much and out of his character. But he is still only young and adjusting to his new life. With Padmè and Obi-wan still around, they are throwing him slightly off balance.

I suppose that would be the best thing about wearing that mask all of the time, no-one would be any the wiser if you smiled or cried.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy. And as always, if you feel so inclined drop me a review.

MTFBWY