All things changed, evolved--this was the nature of life. To be alive was to be in a state of transformation. Mutation. This driving power dragged ever onward and he was powerless against its mass, inertia created at the dawn of time, like trying to stop the galaxy revolving.
Everything was changing. Nothing could escape. Nothing remained untouched. Not even the Force, neither Light nor Darkness.
The Darkness imbued him now. It was a part of him. He was part of it, closely attuned. It buzzed in the air like atoms colliding, potent, persuasive. Incredible, unlimited power searching to ground, desiring to be used, offering without judgment, without device.
It waited, expectant.
He neither summoned nor rejected it, but listened instead to the sound of his own breathing, light and shallow. To the wind which gusted a gale outside, hurling sheets of hail against the thick panes of the windows. Above that, he could hear a fire crackling in the hearth and above that, murmured whispers close by, perhaps in the room, perhaps not.
He remained absolutely still in body and soul, strangely detached in the face of his own downfall, all emotions gone, as if he had suffered so much torment for so long that there was simply nothing left to give--no regret, no shame, neither disappointment nor contrition.
Yes, he had turned on them, but...what had they expected? He couldn't say that they didn't deserve their fate. He'd hated them--hated his own weakness, puerile conscience binding his hands when he knew he could have stopped them at any time. Palpatine had been right--it had been in his blood for so long, held in check. It was inevitable that he would have lashed out eventually; it was just a matter of when--and how.
He couldn't even feel guilt, his actions so far beyond such finite, limited emotions that they simply defied reaction. There was nothing of equal significance that he could possibly feel...so he felt nothing at all.
He recognized distantly that some vital part of himself had shut down, unable to deal with the enormity of his actions. Fallen silent leaving only a glacial emptiness in its place, possessed of a stillness like the pitch of night, the loss too deep to even begin to contemplate. But even this knowledge didn't concern him, viewed as it was from a detached perspective, as if he were standing outside of himself watching some surreal dream unfold, untouched by its events, wrapped about by an empty, resigned acceptance, distant and disconnected.
Should he feel bitter? Angry that all this had been taken, dissected with faultless surgical precision, slice by painful slice, flawless in its execution? It had been a ruthless and pitiless mutilation, every rip and tear slashing deeper, bleeding him dry until all that was left was the empty shell of a distant memory, dry as the desert dust.
Nothing was left. Nothing at all. He couldn't even bring himself to try to remember what he'd lost; to say--to even think--his own name, he realized.
He was at once appallingly empty and absolutely calm.
And in some strange way relieved; it was over now. It was finally over. The fact that he was still alive was...unexpected, unwanted. But it was over--he recognized that.
Was this acceptance...surrender? He had thought it would be bitter and grinding, barbed and biting, his soul ripped from his body. But in truth, he felt nothing at all. Absolutely nothing.
Only tiredness--a profound, bone-deep exhaustion from the bottom of his soul. The dull, cramping ache of a beaten body at the very edge of its endurance--and that strangely welcome now, his only constant, his only way to be sure that he was alive at all.
The still air was warm against his skin, the surface he lay on soft and yielding. It was so long since he had lain on anything but the cold, hard floor that this felt unnatural and uncomfortable. He knew the thought should fill him with outrage, but it didn't. It was just a fact, insignificant in the greater scheme of things.
The warmth lulled him so that he wanted nothing more than to follow its lure into the empty comfort of sleep, but Darkness swirled like the sky before a storm, particles charging, a susurration of energy searching to ground...and he knew what this was, though he had never sensed it as such before.
The whisper of heavy cloth on the hard floor still had the power to send a pang of trepidation through his body, jaw tightening, heart drumming against dark memories.
Light footsteps became silent over deep rugs as they drew nearer and he knew that he was being watched now, though he felt no particular need to open his eyes. He had all the information he needed without resorting to such crude senses. So he remained as he was, allowing the Force to act about him, receiving the information passively without acting upon it or enhancing it further. For a long time as he lay still, the figure remained beside him, studying him, aware that he was awake.
Eventually, reluctantly obeying the knowledge that it was expected of him, he opened his eyes, dry and gritty, so that he had to blink several times against fatigue.
"Dress him." Palpatine's gravelly voice was harsh and hard, cold as the grave--exactly as he remembered.
The Emperor turned and walked from the room, cloak dragging over heavy rugs which padded cold marble.
He lay for several seconds longer, still desperate for sleep, for the vacant void which numbed both mind and body. But it would only delay the inevitable, and bitter experience had taught him how pointless that was, so he rolled painfully onto his side and sat upright on the edge of the high bed, aching muscles mewling their objection as he glanced about the room for the first time, recognizing it now.
His bedroom. In his quarters, in the Imperial Palace. His own personal gulag.
At least before, his prison had been the size of this cavernous room. Now it wrapped itself tightly about his mind, stifling his thoughts, with space for neither absolution nor hope--but then he deserved no better.
It had been richly refurnished with muted, dour fabrics and heavy, ornate furniture, huge paintings on the walls, the colors darkest grays and royal blues. Even this subdued pallet seemed incredibly intense after so long in that blank white cell, color the ultimate luxury.
A huge fire was set in the grate for the first time that he could remember, blacking the stone behind and blasting out heat against his bare skin, baking the air dry and lifeless.
He took all this in through distant, listless eyes. It was unimportant.
Three dark-robed acolytes had remained in the room, looking expectantly at him.
"Leave," he ordered simply, his voice low and broken, his throat too long without water.
They bowed and backed up several steps before turning away, pausing to bow again deferentially before closing the doors silently behind them, despite the Emperor's order.
He'd expected no less, having seen their thoughts so easily; they feared that which they could not comprehend, seeking to appease and curry favor, serving darkness in any form, be it intimidation or oppression, power or persecution. Let the Emperor rail against them; they were of little consequence, below his consideration.
He rose to stand upright and the world swam momentarily before he clutched at the Darkness to steady himself. It answered immediately, an inrush of strength to failing muscles, containing their knife-sharp spasms. The pain didn't leave him, but it no longer mattered.
He limped awkwardly down the ornate mosaic corridor to the dark marble 'fresher and washed, fingers catching over raised scars, noting that his wounds had been sutured, broken bones knitted. Even this didn't touch him, offering neither relief nor reassurance; they could be broken again.
He knew that from experience too.
The clothes in his dressing room were rich and heavy, opulent yet refined, midnight blue and raven black. By the time he had dressed, he'd forgotten what they looked like. There was no mirror here...but then he didn't care to see his own reflection anymore; was uncertain that he would even recognize it.