dream brother, my killer, my lover
- Battle for the Sun, Placebo
It's the moment you've been waiting for. Since that day, twenty years ago, your mind has been focused on one thing, and one thing only: wipe out every living proof that the Jedi ever existed. The Dark has made sure to keep you going long enough to do it, otherwise you would have surrendered to your destiny long ago.
After all, lies are for the weak, those who can't afford to stomach the reality of their own inconsequentiality. Spending the second half of your life desperately trying to find a purpose has made it easier to accept the truth of your existence, because the anger clears your mind and makes it sharper, stronger. Now you know: you're nothing but an expensive tool.
It's a simple concept, one that doesn't require further explanation and does exactly what it's meant to do – feed you anger, make you survive out of pure spite.
Yes, survive, because what you do isn't living, never has been. It's borrowed time that keeps your mechanical heart beating and your external lungs inflating, pretending otherwise would be pointless. And the Dark doesn't allow that: it keeps reminding you of what a worthless creature you are, an outdated machine that feeds on pain and misery. The shadow of the man you once were, perpetually one mistake away from being dismantled.
Yes, a shadow, for you are a creature of darkness. You have dug your grave with your own hands and, because of this, infinite pain is what you deserve.
Now, as you walk down the halls of the revolting mechanical contraption that your Master has built, every single one of your senses is hunting down a single pinprick of Light. You felt it, earlier, but the Jedi didn't want you to see it and desperately tried to hide it from the Dark. He doesn't want you to spoil it.
A weak creature he is, just like the rest of them were.
Still, he has every reason to be afraid of you (or is it repulsion, the thing that shreds your soul with its icy claws?), for he knows what you're capable of. The Jedi knows that you have sensed the Light during these years, even after giving up your own. Mostly, you sensed it while you were smothering it out of people's hearts as you killed them without remorse. Their hope sickened you to no end, made you wish there was a way to bring them back to life, teach them a final lesson before killing them again.
You smile grimly at the thought; not even the Dark can do that one thing, apparently. Ultimately, there is no hope. Neither for them, nor for you, and dying by your hand is nothing but mercy.
They don't know, but there are things much worse than death.
Following the luminous trail that blisters your scorched soul, you finally see him. He's standing in front of you, smiling slightly at the mask that covers what remains of your face, and the sight makes the dragon that lives inside your heart howl with rage.
He's the reason you're still alive, the coward that couldn't kill you and put you out of your misery when he had the chance. But of course, he didn't, how could he? He's always been a creature of the Light, feeding on its hypocrisy and lies. For him, letting the Jedi burn had been an act of kindness, a righteous way not to confront the consequences of his own actions.
What everybody still fails to realize is that the Light can scorch too, just like the fire that consumes you alive every day of your miserable life. After all, what is left after the Light has been extinguished, if not the Dark? Hadn't they always told the Jedi that nobody burned as bright as he did in the Force?
How could they feign surprise at you, son of darkness and despair, rising from the ashes of the sun?
It's this thought that propels you forward, ignites the destruction in your hands as you try to choke the Light out of the man in front of you. After a couple of weak, preparatory strikes, you laugh in the silence of your own prison as the outcome of the duel becomes clear: the Dark was right and kept its promise. It always does. In the end, you really were destined to restore balance by spreading your suffering like a plague.
Why should other people be happy when you carry so much on your shoulders? The pain will fester in their hearts, making your own burden easier to carry. It's not fair, nor right, but you don't care – power doesn't come from justice, but from the lack of it. It belongs to the mistreated, allowing them to make their way to the top and slaughter those who were once in their place.
This, if they're strong enough. Give power to the helpless and they will destroy themselves with it.
You, as the Light will see, are strong enough to make sure nobody will ever take your power away. You have slain thousands and their agony runs through your veins, making you deliver deadly blows that force the old man back.
It was always like him to give ground, wait for death to come and try to steal his life away. Only, this time, you will. You see it coming, as you reach the hangar bay and the Light is so intense it almost blinds your weak eyes and destroyed corneas.
He notices it too and looks to the side as the Light calls him with the wrong name, making him smile in a way that makes the Jedi scream. That is all it takes you, a single moment of respite to destroy the last remnant of a bygone era.
As soon as your blade cuts through his robe, the Dark rejoices and laughs at the Light screeching in pain. It only lasts a moment, and then you can breathe again, alone with the blackness of your own heart. Immediately, you open yourself out to the Dark and wait for the pleasure to wash over you, wanting to wallow in the satisfaction of having killed the cause of your pain.
Only, nothing comes. If anything, the void inside you deepens.
All you feel is nothing at all, and the Dark is still laughing. At you, the galaxy is laughing at you. At the fool you are, for your signature blind trust, for your need for guidance that is what made you lose yourself in the first place.
How dare he, is all you can think about as you pick up the shredded robe and his lightsaber, leaving a group of stunned boot-lickers behind. How dare he leave you again? Not even in death he stayed with you, fleeing into the Force like a coward instead. Where you will never be able to reach him.
Hand in hand with death, you make it through the next few days. You dedicate yourself to carrying out the Emperor's orders and try not to think about the piece of fabric that you folded inside your meditation chamber, the elegant weapon that lies on top of it. You try not to think of what you will be shown when you'll finally have the time to plunge into the Force and see the message they carry.
Of that, you have no doubt. There must be something more to it: he never did anything without a reason and if there hadn't been something he wanted to tell you, he wouldn't have left his damned robe behind. You will definitely have to look for the answers, waste precious time finding the clues that will lead you to where his secrets are hidden in the Force.
You could just ignore them and burn it all, spare yourself from having to prove the old man right again. But you can't, curiosity and anger mix together and eat away at you, intensifying when the Light destroys the Death Star and you're sent spinning into the nothingness of space, out of control.
The Light, so strong and weirdly familiar that it made you hesitate, as it fought with the Dark. You don't understand and there are no real answers, for knowledge isn't free and you already know that many more will have to die before you to find out who it is, that holds in their heart part of the Light that you had hoped to snuff out with a quick sweep of your blade.
Too bad that you don't have time to think about it. Too bad that the Dark screams your name and you can sense how displeased your Master is, how disgusted he is at your gross incompetence. The Jedi was the best shot and pilot in the whole galaxy, how come you can't even take down a stupid X-Wing? Perhaps the years have softened you, decreased your value. Perhaps, it's time you were replaced by someone worthy of the title you presently hold.
As you kneel on the black marble floor, you try to ignore how the Dark is rejoicing at your failure. Not because you think you're being treated unfairly, the opposite, really. You already know that you're as worthless as your Master thinks you are and what's worse is that, should he dismantle you, your body wouldn't even be good for scraps.
He keeps you around like the stray you are and takes pleasure in torturing you, showering you with hollow praises every time you betray him. As it's supposed to be, for you are strong enough to try to subvert his rule of terror. Reminding that you are alone, and all he needs to do, to get rid of you, is pull the plug that keeps you alive. Flip the switch.
Your hate crawls up the obsidian walls of your heart, finding every weak spot in the stone. It fuels your anger and readies you for the pain the Dark knows it's coming. It teases you, slapping you in the face, and when you see your Master lift his bony hands, you hold his gaze and welcome the torture. Foolishly, you hope that this will be the last time. You hope that your Master's focus will slip, killing you, at last.
Unfortunately, the Dark doesn't know no pity, and your agony empowers it. It feeds off you like a leech, your soul overflowing with it. Killing you would deprive the galaxy of its favourite circus act, why would it ever get rid of its vile source of entertainment?
As you seize on the floor and the Emperor laughs, the current frays your few remaining nerves while you will yourself not to pass out. You need to remember what it feels like, so that your hatred will carve the memory into the broken shards of Kyber over which your dragon nestles. This is what it feels like to be you and, without this constant reminder, you wouldn't be as strong as the Emperor doesn't realize he's making you.
One day, when there's nothing left of the Jedi left to destroy, you will be able to rule the galaxy as you want to. For now, though, you're not the only one screaming and the part of you that has yet to crumble tries to resist. You endure because only the weak give up and when you'll die, the Dark will have to rip your life away from you, wrestling you for it in a deadly game of tug.
You will lose, eventually, but not because you didn't fight for it. The Jedi never bowed his head, never swallowed his pride to please, not even when it threatened to kill him. Nor will you.
At last, your brain is the one that gives up on you, cursing you with the kind of oblivion that will not restore your strength. You lie on the paved floor, motionless and broken, barely breathing, and nobody makes a move to scoop you up. No, as the Emperor laughs at you, the Dark is the only one keeping you company, taunting you with the memory of sleep.
Sleep. You haven't known true rest in twenty years, your mind so weary that if it wasn't for the Force, you would have gone insane long ago. Or maybe you already have and you just don't know it, maybe one of the nightmares that plague you when your eyes close against your will has already replaced your reality.
Maybe you're already dead and this is just how the universe punishes you for being a monster. No, you realize, your imagination can conjure up worse scenarios than the one you're currently living.
No, you're still alive, and you know that for a soul like yours this is only the beginning. This is only a taste of what awaits you.
When your medical droid comes to pick you up, electricity zapping between his pincers, you crush it with your mind. Slowly, you get to your knees and then to your feet. Your cage is heavy and it makes you stumble under its weight, reminding you of how pathetic you are, reminding you of what he did to you. That is enough to fill you with darkness, giving you the strength to drag yourself back to your ship, where you collapse in a dark corner and give the order to head back to your own, personal brazier.
Where it all began and will, hopefully, end.
Once you sense the fire of your home kindle your inner flame, the Dark calling your name, you stand up and fetch the relics. Your hatred, boosted by your anticipation, makes it almost impossible to wait until you're done putting yourself back together, one gear at a time.
You could have let the droids do it, but being the cause of your own misery is maybe the only comfort you have left. At least, when you solder your artificial nerve endings back together, screaming as the pain fortifies you, you're the one in control. You're the only one allowed to hurt you.
Now, as you sit inside your meditation chamber, the Dark is uncharacteristically quiet. You can sense it rolling just out of reach, snickering at your confusion, but it won't let you tap into your power. Whatever it is, the lesson it wants to teach you, you have to figure it out yourself.
Looking down at the objects in your lap, the Jedi whimpers. The robe, now that you really pay attention to it, it's one you immediately recognise. Its sewing patterns are unmistakable, and with your clumsy, gloved hand you trace the suns hidden along the hems, tiny details that the casual buyer wouldn't notice. Just like the slaves, they are meant to be invisible, unless somebody actually wants to see them.
The Jedi had given it to him for his birthday, had it made specifically for him on that planet of tears and dust. Even now, he remembers the twinkling in the old man's eyes, his smile and empty words of gratitude.
The memory stings and you welcome it, you breathe in the Jedi's anguish and revel in it, letting it fester in the void of soul. What a pathetic creature he is, one that implores you to touch the fabric and sense the Force that permeates it. He needs it, like a man dying of thirst begging for water.
The Jedi would know about that, wouldn't he?
Finally, you plunge into the Force, opening yourself to it, and start looking for the Light. It shouldn't be that hard to find, you're acquainted with it, you have looked at it in the eyes and destroyed it. Why does it hide?
After a few moments, you realize that, as you are now, you can't touch the Light. Not like the Jedi wants you to – the crude appendages that now serve as your hands are built to destroy, everything they so much as graze is ruined forever. Enraged, you remove your helmet and lift the robe up to your scarred face, letting the soft fabric touch your cheek, shivering at the foreign feeling.
How long has it been since you felt anything but the cold metal spikes that feed you and let you breathe? Too long, the Jedi whispers and you crush him with your hatred. If the old man hadn't betrayed you, nothing would have happened. It's all his fault, and the Jedi better remember it.
You clench your jaw and breathe in to steady yourself in the Force, ready to try again, when something makes you freeze. A scent from another life, a scent that threatens to bring back memories you have tried your best to bury, so bright and warm that the darkness recoils at the mere sight of them and wrenches you back into reality.
You're breathing heavily and your respirator struggles to keep up with the frantic beating of your heart. The Jedi writhes in pain as, under the smell of sand and sadness, lingers something that is entirely human and calls at him with a soft voice that pours gasoline on the embers of your heart.
The Dark, sole witness to your struggles, grows stronger for a second and then retreats again, inviting you to go on and find what you seek. You're close, you can feel it in the Force – the Light is close, one more stretch and you'll be able to suffocate it within your fist.
Too bad that when your senses finally tune in on what feels like a disturbance in the Force, all you see is static. Never before you have heard such a terrible noise, the crackling sound of missing information that mocks you and douses your soul with cold water. All you see is nothing at all, jagged colourless lines that intertwine and twist where there should be colour.
But, you realize, black and white and shades of red are all you will ever see. You have no right to see life, you forfeited your right to ever see the Light again when you kneeled in front of a shadow and made a deal with death.
A growl makes its way up your throat but you choke it down and pick up the lightsaber instead, hoping that the Dark is wrong. You press the cold hilt to your face and plunge deeper into the flux of energy around you, searching for your prey like the rabid animal you are, digging and digging until you almost lose yourself.
There's nothing, nothing at all.
Blind with pain, you bite down on your teeth and feel some of them crack. Blood pools into your mouth and your life support screams at you, urging you to call your medical droid. Unfortunately, you don't care.
As you walk down the steps of your hellish cradle, you come to terms with the fact that there is no you anymore, no Jedi that sinks his nails into your mind, spoiling the darkness that you have been cultivating for two decades. Only the Dark remains, and the void that the Light has left behind.
Distantly, you wonder if you should be crying right now. Probably, judging by how you're choking on every breath you're forced to take and your eyes sting with how dry they are.
That's the problem, actually: you are so dry and wizened that your body has no fluids for you to waste. You have always been a creature of sand and death, who has finally crumbled into a dust so fine that all it takes to make you catch fire is the idea of a flame.
You don't know, because you're not allowed to know, but around you all the memories that you were denied are spinning madly, poking at your black helmet, begging to be let in and fill your corpse with all their Light. Unsurprisingly, the Jedi is quiet as you let the old man's robe fall to the ground and start to gather your powers.
The stone trembles, walls crack and the molten lava under your castle murmurs the song of your wrath. On Coruscant, your Master smiles and bows his head, laughing in the quiet of his Throne Room, a dreadful noise that conveys such elation one would think a miracle had happened.
A miracle indeed, what you're doing, conjuring fire with your hands without incinerating yourself in the process. You are the Dark right now, a beacon that shines with its own blackness and uses the dragon that lives inside your furnace heart to burn the cape to ashes. Chunks of ceiling come crashing down as your fiery eyes stare at the funeral pyre in front of you.
Yes, because all the Jedi ever wanted was to give him a proper goodbye, as he deserved.
What you do next is probably the proof that you're actually going insane. Spellbound by your own destruction, you lunge forward and fall to your knees in front of the charred remains of the Tatooine-woven robe. The Jedi screams at you to hurry and, clumsily, you put out the fire with your gloves.
You don't know why you save a piece of the fabric, nor why you clutch it close to your armoured chest as you wheeze, vowing never to part from it again. Or maybe you do know, but you're not strong enough to admit it to yourself, the truth.
That you will miss Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of your life and then more.