Week 4: Vader. I love him so much y'all. TW for canon typical child murder. 16. Linger With the passing of the years, you lose your humanity like a leaking dam, watch it bleeding trickling dripping away until there is little left of what you once were at all, just a shattered soul and the pulse beat throb of pure power coursing through rotted and rotting veins. As for what lingers, you snuff out more with each swing of your lightsaber, each throat that you squeeze, because you must crush suffocate extinguish that searing flame of who you once were before it burns you again from the inside out. Anakin Skywalker is dead. You are what remains. 17. Balm The Darkness is ravenous and insatiable; it desires pain and loves yours most of all. The floor may be covered in blood and slick with gore, but that is not enough: there must be blood on the soul, for the Darkness to wet its gullet. You would have been content to let your last life lie, but to feed the Darkness you pour salt on wounds that were hidden and left to fester. Power comes at a price, and a fire of this magnitude requires fuel, and to burn forever means the fuel must be everlasting, without balm or succor. 18. Haven Once in the place between sleeping and waking, you saw her. “I loved you once,” the blue-tinted apparition said. “I know you loved me as well.” Impossibly, you feel the touch of her hand on yours. You know it must be a hallucination, a fever-dream, but you scrabble furiously for every memory you have of her small, delicate hand, desperate to recreate something good even for a moment. “Don’t leave me,” you plead, a raspy whisper without your vocabulator, even in the oxygen-rich atmosphere of the meditation chamber. “I was always there,” she said quietly. “But it was never enough.” 19. Shade The Jedi call it falling, implying a loss of control: of surrendering to gravity and plunging every deeper into Darkness until you are drowning suffocating engulfed. But you know better. That each step you take is deliberate: a steady, purposeful march into Darkness so dense you can hardly remember the taste of the suns. You know you can never look backwards, because you can already feel the small hands tugging pulling jerking at your cape, the plentiful shades. A high, trembling voice - there are too many of them, Master Skywalker - and you can only grimly agree: there are too many. 20. Breeze You know what it means to be damned, corrupt beyond all hope of salvation. You have lived a half-life for years, not-dead but wishing to be, in this prison of durasteel. Hell can hold no greater torment than this, and you are not nearly enough of a fool to believe that something as mundane as death can heal your twisted soul enough for a chance at redemption. “I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” The robe is graceful in its collapse, fluttering to the ground like a petal drifting on a wayward breeze. There is no corpse.