The whip came down hard on his back, slicing and tearing at flesh as it went, but he did no more than grunt. He would do more, had done more – had cried and screamed and begged – but it made no difference. Now, he finds himself in that shadowy realm beyond pain: an area between consciousness and sinking into the depths of oblivion. There is no pain here, only a dull ache. He knew he should hurt. It registers with him somewhere – somewhere far back and hazy that if he is no longer feeling any pain, then he should be very, very afraid. It probably means death is imminent, or at least that there is severe nerve damage. Eventually, the sound of the whip fades and he feels himself drop to the ground as his captors release the restraints holding him in the air by his wrists. He does feel that pain, the sharpness of hitting his forehead on the floor and the burning fire as muscles restricted of air flow start to come back alive.

They don't come back for a long time. So long he has started to heal, although the progress is halted by the lack of proper medical help and food. There is nothing to help his body besides sleep, and he sleeps almost continuously. He can only mark the passage of time by the throbbing in his body and how it is fading little by little, every time he wakes up to snatch the scraps that are pushed through the hole in the door. He thinks they must be planning to kill him, although what they are waiting for he is not sure. Clearly, the Jedi Council and the Republic are not willing to exchange him as a hostage, because he would already be free. He thinks they must have given up on expecting him to release information to him, otherwise why would they quit the torture?

The pain does not bother him so much as the dread, the suspense. He has seen the future. He has seen what is in store for his loved ones. For himself. What he does. He screws his eyes shut and brings the heels of his palms to them, pressing firmly, wanting to squeeze the images out of his mind. The dragon still writhes in the recesses of his heart. He had never seen it for what it truly was, until his vision. It is more than his fear, more than his guiding motivation. It is his downfall, and it has wormed itself so deeply in his heart that he knows that extracting it will be impossible, that doing so would kill him, too.

This is why he does not try to escape, though he has had opportunity after opportunity, why he is willing to let them come back and hurt him. Because he knows that the real torture would be if he ever got out. He frowns, coming out of his thoughts abruptly as becomes aware that sounds are coming from outside his cell door. He flinches and takes a deep, shaky breath. They're coming back. Intellectually, he knows this is for the best, though knowing that doesn't stop him from feeling afraid. He knows that this is the most selfless, the most Jedi like thing he has ever done. To let himself die so that his loved ones might have a chance of straightening out this mess that galaxy has made, so that they could live and be happy. Knowing that this is for the best doesn't stop the dragon writhing and screeching inside him. It screams that these people should pay, should pay with blood, that he is far too powerful to succumb like this, too powerful to deserve to die like this… When it is not screaming at him, it is whispering. It whispers that everything will be ok and that he can fix this, fix this himself, and that the black masked man does not have to become his destiny. After all, between his will and the will of the Force, it's no contest.

The problem is that he can identify the dragon for what it is now: it is no parasite living inside him; it is not separate from him. It is him. Its actions are his actions. He bears the consequence for everything it tells him to do. He thinks about the night his mother died and the Tuskens, and wishes that he had realized that so much sooner. He is not a Jedi and never will be, he has simply been playing dress up his whole life. He clenches his jaw as tears threaten to fall.

The noise becomes louder and now he can identify other sounds, like blaster fire. Abruptly the door opens, and instead of a Separatists droid, it is a person he is at once happy and terrified to see. Obi-Wan. The older man turns pale when he sees him and reaches for him, one hand still firmly gripped on his light saber.

"Anakin," he says, touches his shoulder gently.

"No."