Chosen: From the Ashes

I call death with your name

"Only death never came.
Death would be a blessing he was denied..."

[ or rather ]
Anakin had enough. He's done with Palpatine's BS and calls Obi-Wan to get his job done.
[W/T]: mention of self-harm

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Pain.

Again and again. Endless. Excruciating. Inhuman.

With each passing second or might be eons just as long, Anakin realizes it will never cease. He will never be free of it.

Pain. Darkness. Anger.

Fear.

Smell of burning flesh.

Taste of ashes in his mouth.

His eyes and lungs cemented with putrid ashes.

Fire and licks of lava eating him alive, inch by agonizing inch, its roar crackling and sizzling over him in a mockery of a dirge to the great Anakin Skywalker, rejoicing in his pain, his torturous slow-crawling death.

Only death never came.

Death would be a blessing he was denied.

A ghost of a name twirls on the edge of his mind, that Anakin just knows should be his long-awaited death. Or blessing, both. He tries to catch it but it escapes him through the crispy fog of his mind.

And then pain. Again.

It never left. There are times, blissful moments when he's not aware of it, but it's there. Deeply engraved on the ruins of his body and mind, like ancient branding seals on slaves before the collars came in use. Yet his is not a mere mark, it's an abolition of everything that was once his own - his body, his feelings, even his mind - now ripped off from him, forever bearing the atrocity of this pain. His new enslavement.

The sudden realization is so starting, filling him up with old sense of dread, that Anakin jerks out of his numbing half-conscious state, only to be thrown in a raging hell.

Because that can not be possible.

But it is. More pain. If until now the pain was like a starfighter crushing him, now the full weight of a Geonosis moon fell on him and Anakin wants to scream.

His mind blinded momentarily in abysmal shock of unimaginable pain and the worst of it is, he can't breathe. His body is failing him on the one task he can't control. His throat is constricting in all the wrong ways, chocking him instead of taking air, jolting waves of burning pain, like there's still fire inside his throat, which can't be real. He should be dead if that was true - his mind supplies needlessly. With each attempt a feeling of sheer hopelessness takes over him, as if someone is slicing his throat with a lightsaber again and again, slow and unmerciful, down, over the same cauterized flesh inside and then up again. Up and down. Again. The raw bodily panic that hits him for a second eclipses everything else, a rush of adrenaline fills him and he tries to push his hands up to stop it. He can't however. There's a vague dull sense in the back of his mind, of where his limbs shall be and now, with coming clarity, Anakin lapses in absolute horror of finding them missing. Each and every one of his limbs. No hands, no feet.