closed;

[darkforce]

CHARACTERS: anakin skywalker
LOCATION: his room [014»066]
WARNINGS: a droid was harmed in the making of this dream sorry wheatley
SUMMARY: the ship is a douche and visions suck
NOTES: blame sarah :|

		The dark is generous, and it is patient, and it always wins. It always wins because it is everywhere.
	This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, so far: Days turn in to nights, and activity turns in to a need for sleep. Dream become a natural progression from there. Dreams that have always shared the possibility of becoming visions. He's had them before; more times than he can remember these days. But there's only really two that's specifically stuck with him through to this day. His dreams of being a Jedi; a path that was laid out for him long before his birth. A path opened up to him years ago through blood and belief. And the death of Yaddle; a Master whose blood is still on his hands. Someone he could have saved if he'd acted more quickly. One tied in to the promise of freeing the slaves. Two stories that still shine brightly, even now. And two stories that exist as proof that not everything he dreams of is just the work of his imagination. More recently, his dreams have been tainted. Warped by his relocation to the Tranquility. Exacerbated by the existence of those he surrounds himself with. A Master who isn't. A son who has yet to be born. A saviour who died. Those from the past, the future. But none from the present. None who he can explain any of this to. Too much interference and not enough focus, and it's enough to chip away at his defences. Slowly but surely. It's why it builds up. Why the longer he pushes back those grains of sand that slip through, the less chance he has of keeping from being crushed beneath the weight of a desert pressed against his walls. He doesn't have the strength to keep fighting, to keep rebuilding and reinforcing. The cracks slowly become irreparable fissures until all it would take is one last press to have the wall come crumbling down around him. He isn't there yet, but- Whispers. Uncoiling. Hissing. Another crack. Fresh grains. Another.
		It is in the wood that burns in your hearth, and in the kettle on the fire; it is under your chair and under your table and under the sheets on your bed. Walk in the midday sun and the dark is with you, attached to the soles of your feet.
	This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, right now: Baking beneath the fires of the double noon, his throat is dry, his skin is peeling. The dead star is brought to life, and the dragon's voice is strong. Stronger than it's ever been before, even in his waking moments. And yet- And yet there's no reason for it to speak. No need for it to break its recent bout of silence. Not when its poison is already buried deep; tendrils already spread far throughout his body. Its hold on him is near unbreakable, and he knows it's a wasted effort to try and fight it. To try and erase a part of him. A part that he's come to rely on, more and more. But the lick of fire-ice breath is different. It's more. More, and yet it's still the same. It's everything he's felt before, but tainted. He wants to escape; wants to wake up and push the memory of it away. Of the message it became a herald to. It isn't like being a child, collapsing under the burning heat of Tatooine's twin suns. An attempt to save others that almost saw his own end. It isn't like being a child, turning away from his mother. Leaving her behind. The one person in the galaxy that he can rely on, no matter what. That he loves above all else. It isn't an ignored vision and the death of a Master. The lie of freedom, and the sacrifice of a leader. This is faceless and nameless and something he can't understand. Shadowed figures and the searing heat of an exploding sun. It's a trap he has no hope of escaping. A windowless cage being battered by the destructive forces of a sandstorm. It's an end. The end. And it isn't stopping. It's what is, and what could be. What might be. What's coming. He wants an escape. Wants a way out. A way to find the others. To warn them. But he's alone. Alone, and with no way of finding them again. Of finding those shadowy figures. Those who are just as lost as he is. Who are just as trapped. The dragon stays silent because he is alone in this. They all are. A shout. A screech of metal against metal. And the sound of feet padding quickly along the corridors. Space. Distance. He needs to run, to hide, to reorder himself before he can even consider trying to interpret his dreams. Out of breath and out of time. This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, right now.
		The brightest light casts the darkest shadow.