The Journal of a Master

In his dreams he still feels the cooling of his skin as the beloved features twist in the throes of the dying. The voice he had treasured with every heartbeat still rasped, as the struggle to breathe became a war to survive. His heart continues to shatter into a million pieces as the one that had given him so much, had lived by his side for so long goes limp. He still feels the embrace as he holds the lifeless body close to him; still feels the tears as they cascade down his cheeks, bathing the silken hair of a Master.

In his dreams, he still sees the fire in her eyes as she rebukes him, says matter-of-factly that she's dying. He still feels the loss of all those years of enmity between them, even as the rightness of their renewed love has restored him to wholeness. His mind still tries to deny what she tells him, convinces himself that she can be saved, if only she can hold on. The warmth of her body next to his as he holds her still flows through him. He still recalls the tenderness of her voice as they gaze at each other for the last time. He still feels the anguish as her essence flows into the Force, as part of him dies with her.

In his dreams he still feels the heat of the world, can still hear the clash of lightsabres. He can still hear the roar of the rushing lava, and the taunts coming from a voice that is all together familiar yet not from the same mouth. His soul still screams as the universe he knew implodes around him in a cascade failure of morality. The other half of his being burns along with the one whom he had once called 'brother'. He can still see hope and light and goodness melt into the liquid darkness as it spreads and corrupts and asphyxiates. He still sees the anguish in the charred eyes as hatred spills over where sorrow and guilt used to live.

In the waking world, he sees the lines of heartache and the hollow gaze of one who is waiting for destiny to catch up. He feels the sorrows of a lifetime as a burden that sags his once noble stature. He lives in a galaxy he no longer recognizes as his own. He no longer remembers what love - whether it be that of a son to a father, that of lover to lover, or that of best friends and brothers - feels like. He no longer remembers the touch of another; a concerned caress, a tender embrace, a reassuring hand...their specters linger over him, but they grow fainter with each passing hour.

He knows only the shadow of desperate hope and the awareness that he will not live to see things put right.

This is his sacrifice for the people he had loved.

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x-posted to theatrical_muse

I thought I would kill two questions with one answer, seeing as how they are kind of related.

( Was it love at first sight, or should I walk by again? )

( If I could take you home with me... )

x-posted to theatrical_muse