Obsesssed with the body horror of the force. Especially with Anakin Skywalker.
there is something wrong with you. You have no father, only half your dna, you feel dysphoric like you should have more limbs and eyes and something there isn’t a word for, no one else understands, people don’t see the thing that inhabits your shadow, don’t hear the voices that sing in your mind in no language, don’t understand the world the same way you do. You are a slave, you feel trapped in more ways than that, are you going insane?
You hide it, you quash the singing and douse the spark as well as you can. You call objects to your hand from the other side of the room, it feels normal, it feels right, your mother watches you with wide eyes, you try to stop. You podrace, they say human’s don’t have the reflexes, you do. You ignore the urge to reach for more, you calm the anger and your longing for your mother who tells you to be kind. You know deep in your heart you don’t belong in Tatooine, you stay put.
Then you find the Jedi and they understand, they hear the singing and feel the thing and they offer you community and freedom, they offer you the stars in your blood. They set different rules, you don’t quite understand them. But that’s expected, you weren’t raised a Jedi the way they were.
they have the urge to help, to help everyone regardless of everything else. Even Mace from the high council fights the urge to help everyone he can, Kenobi hidden deep with the other sand-covered things on Tatooine longs to help the people he sees struggling. It guides them to those who need help, it gives them tools.
You understand the urge to help, you can’t understand that they don’t have the anger you’re constantly forcing down, a fire they’re constantly stomping out, energy they’re constantly buzzing with, an explosion they’re constantly holding back. that they see meditation as an escape not overwhelming, not right. You don’t know if it’s the thing -the force- inside you, or your childhood outside the temple, or just who you are. You are not a Jedi. You have to be. For the man who helped you to freedom and the prophecy he believed in, to prove that you can carry the weight they’ve placed on your shoulders, to prove you’re not broken, not a slave, to prove you fit in.
Then the war starts and you have more motivation pressure, for the clones, the civilians, for your wife.
At first Padmé is someone to complain too, then something else, someone who calls you Ani and still cares if you lose a battle, who’s there to reassure you when you can’t save the lives of those you care for. You’re terrified she’s going to be next. You don’t see only the Queen of Naboo or Senator Amidala, both with spines of durasteel and words more powerful than the army you lead, she is not just another handmaiden or pretty face either, she is not invincible, she’s not weak, she practices her speech’s into the early hours of the morning.
You treat each other like the people you are, there is no Senator and no Jedi (and for just a moment in the quiet dawn, no bursting power or singing voices or fire or dragon or force, for one, the thing is here, you are the thing, you are quiet) when you lie, in the dark hours of the morning, clinging to each other under silk sheets and feeling the rise and fall of each other’s chests.
And then for the baby. You can feel the spark of him in the force, you’re surprised he’s not angry, even now you can feel kindness, spark of something different, brighter, less piercing, Padmé smiles at you when you say it, ‘no, mother’s intuition, she’s a girl, and she will be as angry and as strong and as fierce as both of us.’
But you cannot save her, cannot save the child.
it isn’t enough, each rule the Jedi place on you chafes and cuts against a part of you that isn’t supposed to exist, you cannot do anything to protect her, you cannot save her, you cannot save any of the clones, you cannot save Obi-Wan, you cannot save Ahsoka, you cannot save the slaves, you cannot save your mother. But you can offer yourself a failure to someone who says he can.
A man you know and trust, who’s never died or left or betrayed, who’s been kind to you since you were young, who’s listened, he says to trust him, and you do.
The dark, as he calls it, is nothing you’ve ever touched before, nothing like anything that’s ever happened to you. You’ve never reached for it, not beyond a reflex, and you curbed that quickly long ago as a young child.
It’s addictive, it’s liquid strength, it’s when you took a stim shot and drank about three cups of caff but a hundred times better. You haven’t eaten in your life, now it’s time to feast.
You’re too caught up in the anger and violence and power and that brief filling of a hole that has always been there killing of a dragon that’s always stalked you, to really pay attention to the bodies you leave in your wake, it is your own action, it is guided by a rushing river you cannot stop, you choke her.
The high wears off and you wake up hollower than ever, after the habit of drawing away from the dark as much as you can and the lack of adrenaline and rush of power, you feel queasy at it, it gets worse when Palpatine comes near you and you ask him to stop and he doesn’t listen, but he is still here and he hasn’t died, left or betrayed you. No, you did this all by yourself.
The bone saw starts. You’ve been too panicked and overwhelmed to really pay attention to the pain, you’ve gritted your teeth and been hyperventilating and reacting to it sure, but there was no horror, no shock, no nausea. There’s nausea. Horror. Shock. Screaming. The hyperventilation is from your panic, not the natural reaction of your shredded throat, you’ve already screamed so much it hurts, you scream- beg- cry- sob- shriek and wail for help, for him to stop, for you to die.
You live. As much as it can be called living. Your vocal cords are ruined. Your new voice has a Coruscanti accent and is lower than you used to talk, you choke on your new breaths but you can’t stop them, not even speed up or slow down. You’re taller than you were and it hurts.
The hole is no longer filled, the ‘dragon’ is bigger than ever and you embody it. The dyphoria and sensation of being trapped comes back.
You are hollow. You feel even father removed from the thing you used to become in meditation, you force yourself to appear human when you meditate now and you crush that spark into a weapon with brutal efficiency. The fire burns you, burns through your veins whenever you reach through the force, burns your skin when you feel, it will never go out.
You block out the light and follow the rules and you’ve never felt so bad in your life. You deserve it.
On several occasions you find new fears. You’re claustrophobic, to the point where adding a small cave on top of your mask is enough to get you to hyperventilate so hard your respirator starts sending warning signals. You cannot force yourself to get near fire even with hundreds of safety regulations and a med droid on standby. You do not allow Kix to keep you in medical for reasons you aren’t willing face yet, the hitching sobs, screaming, and bone saw still echo in ruined ears. The old fear is still there, even with no one significant to lose, the death of every clone trooper makes you feel bad.
Also, not in a timeline, imagine being cut off.
It’s like losing a limb or a sense or both.
Even ‘just’ Jedi (, Sith or Nightsister) feel bad when removed form the force, mostly mentally, none who have touched it will ever recover without that touch. They stumble around, bump into walls, seem disoriented and find it hard to read people. Some have gone insane.
Anakin is worse, the cuffs are on and he smiles as Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, he seems fine, why isn’t Anakin? He holds onto Obi-Wan,reaching through a bond that isn’t there. Obi-Wan gets concerned at the nose bleed, then the throwing up and sweating. But Anakin isn’t conscious enough to care, muttering about it being gone, about being blind, amputated and alone, talking like he’s gone into shock.
It’s gone, something so entirely inhuman, something biggerthan-differentto-not you is an essential part of you, it cannot be taken away, it has been adn now you’re dying. It’s horrible. It’s worse than when he got flash banged and was blind and deaf for a few hours, it’s worse than when he lost an arm, those were horrible but this-this feels like someone ripped his brain into pieces and he can’t stop it. He feels nauseous, there’s a sensation of anxiety, wrongness, impending doom, like you is about to stop existing.
Afterwards he has a thousand yard stare and locks himself in his room for a little while.
