clone wars one shots

─ merging mortis

―

The writing is on the wall. Scribes in a jagged, twisted cursive font are messy, compelled by the Force and desperate to be heard. They scream. Their shrieks are like blades of a blender, crushing his mind into a slush of what he was, grinding a sickly smell of lava into nothing. He is nothing.

He is in the room. Again. The darkness is a gnawing grip on his hand, harsh pulls of criticism. The room. Where the walls are words and his mind a weapon. Zested pepper on his hair, mellowing despair as victims drown. He is in the room; the walls are words and pains conveyed.

He blinks.

Anakin Skywalker is with his wife. Padmé Amidala. Her hair is cascades of a chocolate waterfall, her smile unmatched and the galaxy jubilantly beams at her. Padmé's arms gather him into a stiff embrace, her fingers interlace his and everything is wonderful, a dandelion field amongst crucifying reality.

Because he is with her, and this moment drags for infinity.

But infinity multiplies, and as he stares into her eyes, the willpower of the Force is demanding him to see. To become a prophet amongst mortals. Electrifying power that will sizzle through your veins and morph you into a monster. The Force is yelling at you, see what you must see, and its whispers are shouts, sirens turning to thunder as the rain bashes against the ground.

...When did he become you?

You are transforming into him, into Anakin Skywalker, and you want him to see. Because you have seen what lies ahead, dawned the charred make-up and all the cyber. Smelt the horrid bile. Felt the urges of vomit within you but constricted to a robot.

Because... you were once him.

Again, he blinks. 

He is the room. Again. Where all the walls are words. He can't stop it. There is nothing he can do. But you are shouting at him, demands and rituals, begging him to see. To open his ocean eyes enough to truly look at every little scribble your hand had edged on the wall, to see as your fingers had gripped the knife that scrapped strikes of Force lightning.

The Force is on your side. And he refuses the Force. Who is he? How arrogant can one person be to where they deny the Power inside of them? Is he deaf? CAN HE NOT HEAR YOU SHOUTING? Your fury normally contained, is begging him to use his force forsaken, star-blessed eyes. Slamming rocks of lava pull into a vortex around him, a fire-tornado of ebony vigour.

Why are his thoughts colliding with yours? Why can you feel the way his eyes want to scrunch? But they won't, and the way his breathing collapses forward, relapsing into gasps quickened and swift, wind a tyrant of ghosts through his face. However, it isn't his breathing. It's yours.

...You stop.

Your eyes, although not here, shut. You breathe. Find your centre. It is not his fault. He is too mortal and arrogant. He will learn, he will... he has time.

But time is not infinite. NO. The voice of doubt will not taint this task in charcoal. You will succeed, and he will see. You just have to show him, nurture him to slow doubt with guilt until he reads.

He blinks again.

Let him enjoy his angel, her invisible halo a crown of jewels. The way her dress is pure silk and soft, and she is full of light. And the way her lips feel against his, like christmas bells chiming, rose-colored love piercing through his headaches and woes.

He smiles, hearts of a golden thousand give mercy to the way his eyes light up. Brightness in the depths of a hellscape. Midst of an Empire.

Her dress is lilac. Her hair once cinnamon now golden sugar, as the sun sets and bathes (because there is no word more beautiful, even though her beauty is wordless) her in majesty. Her enchantments are words, magic prevailing as his wife's eyes are beady and brown, and beautiful, and he falls into them.