Chapter Text
Poked at the grave ‘till it bared its bones,
It bared its bones, it bared its bones
Poked at the grave ‘till it bared its bones
The cock crows every morning
There were more ghosts within his cell. They moved around him slowly, carefully, speaking softly with gentle smiles that masked a pity he was too tired and grief-stricken and lost to care about. They coaxed him into eating, into drinking, into staying still while they gingerly helped to wash his skin and hair, mercifully not commenting on his minute flinches each time the dampened sponge brushed his skin or the way he had begun to hyperventilate at the sight of the tub of water they brought in for him to wash his hair in. They had removed it without a word, instead opting for some sort of spray that removed the built up filth in a chemical-smelling film, giving him plentiful breaks and rests whenever his heartrate got too high. They took quick measurements of his body, of his height, of his weight, and after his sponge-bath, they provided him with new, clean clothes, free of holes or tears, strange in how intact and un-ragged they were. They were simple, and mis-matched, but he accepted them anyway - mostly because they had taken his old clothes away to presumably be discarded.
Like an injured animal, they tread carefully around him, as though wary he might bite or bolt as they shone lights in his eyes and ears and mouth, quickly giving up on any sort of injection or blood draw when he instantly collapsed into a ball at the sight of the needles they brought in.
The healing ghosts murmured amongst themselves as they worked, words that slipped past him like water, words like “emaciated”, “malnourished”, “dehydrated”, “anemic”, “deficient”, “photosensitive”, “traumatized”...
It felt like hours before they left, only for more ghosts to enter, the familiar ghost one of them.
“Good morning, quiet one. How are you holding up?” The familiar ghost asked.
He didn’t answer, either out loud or mentally. The familiar ghost seemed a tad bit disappointed at that, but gestured to the new ghosts anyway.
“Do you mind if they clean up a bit in here? Just to make it a bit safer for you to stay. You can remain here the entire time, we just want to make sure you’re healthy and comfortable here.”
He fidgeted slightly, taking in the stained walls, the grimy floors, the damp and foul air… It was familiar, and comfortable, and safe to him, but he supposed it wasn’t safe for him…
“...You are allowed to refuse,” the familiar ghost told him softly, after a long moment passed.
He sent the familiar ghost a wordless feeling of ‘alright, but only a little’, in what he supposed was most similar to the mental equivalent of a tense shrug, and the familiar ghost in turn nodded to the other ghosts. They got to work immediately, while the familiar ghost sat next to him, their shoulders not quite brushing.
The two of them sat there while the cleaner ghosts scrubbed at the walls, ventilated the room, and mopped the floors, all of the ghosts frowning at the occasional bloodstain, the familiar ghost’s hand finding his after the third or fourth one.
Finally, they removed the equipment, leaving only the faintest smell of- of- of something that reminded him of the wildflower fields from his dreams, combined with a chemical stench that reminded him of the scent that clung to his skin in some of his nightmares.
“We tried to avoid using any strong chemicals or fragrances,” one of the cleaner ghosts explained on their way out. “Unfortunately, for some of the… stains, we needed something a bit stronger than water, and the floor cleaner, though we diluted it the best we could while maintaining its efficacy, is lavender scented.”
Just as he thought they were done, they brought in what looked like a thick wad of blankets, which they rolled out on the floor to make a sort of cushioned mat, laying another blanket and two pillows on top.
“I figured you were used to sleeping on the floor and would be most comfortable with a similar arrangement,” the familiar ghost explained, though there was a slight bit of protective anger within them directed at nothing in particular as they spoke. “So I thought a sleeping bag would be best to ensure that you are as comfortable as you can be while you remain here.”
The other ghosts left, and the familiar ghost gazed into his eyes for a long moment, as if searching for something. He felt a headache pulsing faintly in his skull, growing stronger by the minute, brought on by the lights the ghosts insisted on flooding his cell with.
“...You are allowed to leave,” the familiar ghost said softly. “Whenever you like. Just walk out. Say the word. You are free now. You do not have to stay.”
He stared into the familiar ghost’s eyes, a hollow and empty stare, wordless yet worth a thousand words.
He turned, tucked himself into his new sleeping bag, and faced the wall.
The familiar ghost slumped, staring at his back for a long minute, but eventually left, sighing with a shake of the head as they left the cell.
The door closed, finally submerging him into familiar, safe, silent darkness once more.
They could clean his body and his cell all they wanted. They could scrub at his skin, at the floors, at the walls; they could purge the grime from his hair, from under his nails, the foul air from the prison until one could mistake it for an unfurnished bedroom. They could decorate him with new clothes, his cell with blankets and pillows; they could give him all the food and water and medication in the world.
They could not heal what was not there. They could not bring back what was dead, forgotten and buried in the boneless catacombs of a wretched, gilded palace. They could not restore him to what he was before, because there was no memory of what was before. He had no concept of what lay beyond his cell, other than pain, and heartbreak, and torment, and he haunted his cell like a corpse in its coffin, in its grave, unable to leave despite the shovel at his side, because the world did not remember him and he did not remember it.
He was starting to think that maybe he was the only ghost here after all.
Finches and meadowlark, fowl and wren
With twisted beaks and eyes of tin
Feathers as red as eyes and skin,
Savage and painted and warring
His sleep was restless, and full of vague, disjointed dreams, glimpses of cream-colored walls and a sprawling city, and the scent of herbal tea followed him out of his rest.
The familiar ghost was by his side.
I think I was a Jedi, he said, quietly. It feels like it was a thousand years ago, but I have… feelings. Memories, almost, but not quite. It’s all too muddled and far away for me to be sure.
The familiar ghost hummed, stroking their beard.
“Well, it would answer the question of your Force sensitivity,” the familiar ghost replied after a moment. “And… many Jedi went missing or were lost during the war…”
The familiar ghost’s gaze went clouded and dull at that statement, a sordid and melancholy grief replacing their usual calm demeanor, well-worn sorrow and guilt churning like a river over its bed.
Strangely, he felt a matching grief, and without thinking he shuffled so that the two of them were touching shoulder-to-shoulder.
…Am I dead? He asked after a long moment.
“...What?” The familiar ghost asked, taken aback.
Am I dead? He repeated. It feels like I died a long time ago…
“Quiet one,” the familiar ghost said, then paused, turning so that they were facing each other, and they put their hands on his shoulders. “Quiet one, you are not dead. You are living. You have been through so, so much, and the people around you have been unkind, and the universe has been unfair, but you are still alive. Despite what you’ve been through, you are still living. You are breathing. You can leave, once you are ready, and we will welcome you with open arms. So, stay as long as you want, as long as you need, but please, do not doubt that you are strong, and you are alive, and you are strong because you are alive.”
…I don’t feel strong, he admitted. I’ve never felt strong.
“Strength comes in many forms,” the familiar ghost insisted. “You have survived. That is strength enough.”
The familiar ghost nudged him gently.
“Come on,” they said, shuffling so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder. “Let’s walk around a little bit.”
Maybe he was imagining it, but he thought it was ever-so-slightly easier to move around the cell this time than it had been the last time he and the ghost had done this. He was still breathing heavily after a few laps, leaning against the ghost as he trembled, heart pounding as he panted, but… still.
Where are the other two? He asked as they paused for a break. The young one and the soldier?
“Ahsoka and Rex?” The familiar ghost guessed.
Names aren’t allowed, he reminded the ghost with a shudder.
The familiar ghost gave him a sad look.
“They’ve been keeping busy within the palace,” the ghost said. “Ahsoka with her Master, and Rex with the other clones. There’s a lot of cleanup that needs to happen all over the galaxy after the war.”
The familiar ghost peered at him curiously.
“Do you remember anything about the war?” They asked.
He thought for a long, long moment, trying to comb through every maybe-memory he had, searching for any clue or detail or emotion that hinted at some sort of war.
There was nothing.
He shook his head.
The familiar ghost hummed, seeming both disappointed and intrigued by that answer.
“Do you… remember anything?” The ghost questioned. “You said you thought you might have been a Jedi. Is there anything else?”
Vague glimpses, he answered. I don’t know if they’re real or not. Maybe they’re just dreams, but sometimes, they feel so real…
“Tell me,” the ghost prompted.
Cream walls… an endless city… the scent of tea… He answered slowly, eyes closing as he tried to recall the numerous, muddled glimpses of places that might not be real. Large hallways, a circular room, a bunch of stairs…
“That… sounds like the Temple,” the familiar ghost said, an undertone of excitement in their voice. “And Coruscant.”
A field of flowers. Stained glass windows. A beautiful woman, but I can’t see her face. Some sort of wetland, he continued. A desert. Two suns in the sky. Yelling. The smell of blood. Orange sand, or maybe yellow. Some sort of… insectoid creature.
The familiar ghost was frowning, their brow furrowed as they listened.
You… are in some of them, I think, he admitted. I… do not know if it’s real, or if I knew someone like you, or…
“It is possible that we crossed paths before,” the familiar ghost mused. “And perhaps the reason I'm so prominent in your memories is because your brain is connecting my presence here to my presence in your past. Perhaps, if you were to meet more Jedi, you would regain some of your memories.”
I've already met other Jedi, he reminded the ghost. And I don't have any memories of them.
The ghost frowned as they considered his words.
“Yes, that is true,” they hummed. “Hmm. Perhaps you just haven't encountered the correct Jedi, then.”
The ghost reached up to stroke their beard, their eyes narrowing in thought.
I… Some of the Jedi I have seen, I feel like I should recognize them, but I don't. He reached up to gently grab as his hair out of habit, the familiar ghost’s wary eyes following his movement, as though scared he was about to hurt himself.
“What do you mean?” The familiar ghost inquired.
He huffed, softly, the noise still startling him slightly.
I mean- they seem like they should be familiar. Like I knew them somewhere, somehow, but I- it's different, from how you're familiar. They're like- You're like a dream I can't quite recall. They're like a dream from another lifetime entirely.
The familiar ghost was frowning, but their head was tilted in thought.
“...The Jedi you have all met are quite prominent in the Order,” the ghost mused after a moment. “It is highly likely you would have encountered them at least once, or at the very least would have learned about them. But it's also unlikely that you would have worked with them directly - perhaps this is the reason as to why they're ‘fainter’ in your memory, for lack of a better term.”
He gave a slow nod - that made sense.
“I-” the familiar ghost began, then paused, and that river of grief and sorrow and guilt returned, and he saw that indeed it had worn a canyon in the familiar ghost’s soul, ages-old pain carving gentle silt beds down through sleepless night after sleepless night until red rock walls were all that remained, scattering the echoing murmurs of the stream that still, despite everything, still flower steadily onwards. “I… wonder if you used to be… acquaintances with my- my Padawan. Anakin.”
The name… he shuddered at the name, all the hairs on his body rising as though a cold wave of air had just blasted over him, and he felt himself begin to curl into a ball on habit.
Bad, he growled. Bad, bad, not allowed-
“I’m sorry?” The familiar ghost asked, taken aback, clearly perplexed by his reaction.
Don't know- don't know, but it's bad, that- that’s not allowed-
“Ease, ease,” the ghost soothed. “I apologize - I forgot the- the issue, with names.”
That's not it, he wanted to hiss but didn't. Names- names weren't allowed, but that name- that name was Forbidden, and he couldn't remember why, only that that name meant- meant everything bad in the world-
He whimpered, rocking back and forth, back and forth, his grip on his hair becoming tight and painful, grounding, and the familiar ghost watched him with dismay, their shoulders slumping as they gently reached out to try and grab his hands.
“Quiet one, please, you are going to hurt yourself,” they murmured, but he flinched away from the touch, quickly darting away into his corner, curling up in a ball as he began to breathe in fast, shaky, shallow breaths, panting and nauseous - why? What was happening now? What was going on? Why did the familiar ghost always bring new horrors?
The name, his psyche whispered as he shuddered. The name, the name, the name-
Something’s wrong with me, he told the familiar ghost, tears streaking down his face. I feel like a corpse without a grave. I feel like I am meant to be somewhere, but I’m not, because I’m dead-
“You’re not dead, quiet one,” the familiar ghost soothed gently, thankfully keeping their distance. “I’m going to reach out and touch your shoulder, and you’re going to feel warmth, and pressure, because you are alive, and you are real, and I am alive, and I am real.”
The familiar ghost did just that, and he tensed under the touch, but then he felt himself begin to relax, the familiar ghost slowly, carefully, gently pulling him out of his ball and into a hug.
“See?” They murmured. “And do you feel my voice, how it feels when I speak? Let’s stand - slowly, now, at your own pace - you feel gravity around you, do you not? And when you lean against me, you feel your muscles straining - a corpse could not do that, I do not believe.”
He swallowed, letting himself relax against the ghost, taking comfort in the warmth, the weight of their body as he leaned against them, undeniably there.
“Take a step,” the ghost prompted, gently. “I know we just did this earlier - but feel. It’s the same thing.”
Bandages, he requested. Please.
The familiar ghost nodded, fishing out some more bandages, which they gingerly helped him wrap around his head.
“...Do you trust me?” The familiar ghost asked.
He thought about it for a long minute. The familiar ghost was part of the group who had killed his only friend. He didn’t think he could ever forgive that, not truly. But- the ghost had never hurt him, and in fact seemed at every step to want to help him.
“Do you trust me not to hurt you?” The familiar ghost asked instead when he remained silent.
At that, he needed far less time to answer.
Yes, he replied.
“Then please, trust me just this once - let me take you somewhere, somewhere we can better help you, if just for a little bit.”
…Outside? He balked, tensing.
“Please,” the familiar ghost pleaded.
He swayed in place, trying to think past his racing mind and heart. He hadn’t been punished for leaving the last few times - and his Tormentor wasn’t anywhere to be seen- but what if that was a trick? What if his Tormentor was waiting, lying in wait in the upper levels of the castle to ambush him as soon as he left? But… the ghosts hadn’t hurt him, they hadn’t tricked him, they hadn’t punished or beat or starved or tortured him-
He took a shaking step towards the door of the cell, heart in his throat, the familiar ghost still at his side, propping him up.
The ghosts had killed his friend. But they had fed him, bathed him, given him new clothes and cleaned his cell. They checked in on him, spoke to him, asked him things and replied to questions he asked.
He took another step towards the door, trembling, nausea churning in his gut.
They wanted to heal him, wanted to try and fix him, and even though he knew that wasn’t possible, the fact that they wanted to try- it still meant something.
He took another step, shaking so bad he could hardly stand, even with the familiar ghost supporting him.
The familiar ghost - he felt safe with them, somehow, some way, for reasons he couldn’t explain, in ways he had no answer for. The ghost was familiar, yes, but they were- they were warm, and gentle, and light, in the realm beyond their own, curling against him gently, never pitying but there, and that- though it wasn’t love, merely kindness, that was the closest thing to it he could remember experiencing.
They left the cell.
Where, oh where, is quiet Johnny?
Quiet Johnny can’t be saved
Where, oh where, is quiet Johnny?
Quiet Johnny, quiet grave
The world was bright, and loud, and open, and he longed more than anything to bolt back into his cell, to let the dark, enclosed silence entomb him once more - but he forced himself to keep moving. The corridors were initially empty, but as they moved up through the palace, out of the dungeon, more and more people began to pass them. He could feel their stares, the way their eyes lingered on the bandages around his eyes, at his emaciated frame, at the way the familiar ghost was half-carrying him around. Mercifully, however - or perhaps due to the familiar ghost glaring them down - none approached them as they continued onwards to wherever it was the familiar ghost was taking him.
More and more ghosts, more and more maybe-real people, all of them spark-like and moving in the realm-beyond-their-own, blindingly bright in his ethereal eyes, ephemeral glimpses of lives that imbued in him a painful, nameless longing for something he could not remember.
It sent aches shaking through his chest, clutching his throat in a vice, and he was grateful that the bandages hid the moisture steadily growing in his eyes.
He was once a part of this, he thought. Moving around, talking, laughing, joking, arguing, sulking, crying, loving, living- he was once a part of it all.
But he could never be again.
“At the Temple, we have what are called mind-healers,” the familiar ghost said, as if sensing his melancholy, his grief for his own lost life. “If you let us, if you're up to it, we would like to try and help you.”
Is that where you're taking me? He asked.
“Not right now,” the familiar ghost told him, shaking their head. “Not today. They're all back on Coruscant - that's the city you remember. There's a lot of Jedi that require mind healing because of- because of the war.”
Again, like a cloud, the grief and pain and regret re-appeared.
You grieve when the war is mentioned. He said it quietly - well, the telepathic equivalent of quietly, anyway - and gently, not a question, but rather a statement, one the familiar ghost could ignore or address.
The familiar ghost was quiet for a moment.
“I do,” they murmured, finally.
You lost someone.
“I did. It was… at the start of the war. To- to Dooku.”
You must have loved them deeply, to grieve them this long.
“I will never stop grieving him,” the familiar ghost told him. “And I- I did. I still do- love him. But I- never got the chance to tell him that. To tell him I was proud of him. And I- I live with that, every moment of my life.”
There are canyons in your soul, he said. Do not fall into them. Love him enough to live on for him.
“That…” the familiar ghost stared at him for a long moment, seemingly stunned. “That is… very wise of you to say. Thank you.”
“Obi-Wan?” A gentle voice called.
“Bant,” the familiar ghost said, turning to greet another ghost, who felt like gentle waves and sunlight reflecting off of water, but strangely the ghost did not blind him, rather carried with her the scent and taste of salt and the breeze. “I've brought with me- a friend.”
The familiar ghost and the water-ghost exchanged some sort of message, in the world-between-worlds, a message he couldn't decipher but that seemed to convey enough information for the water-ghost to nod, motioning him into the room behind them with a wave of their hand.
“Please, come in. Take a seat,” they murmured gently. Gentle - that described this ghost. Gentle, but strong, a current that could drag you under if it was fought, a current that kept you afloat otherwise.
“Quiet one, this next part is going to be terrifying for you, and I apologize. It's going to be difficult, but it must be done. I'm going to wrap around you the best I can in the Force to shield you from it. No harm will come to you, I promise.”
The familiar ghost’s words made no sense to him, but he had come this far, so when the familiar ghost began to embrace him in the realm-beyond-their-own, and when the world around him became hazy and far away and blurred, he let it happen. He distantly thought he felt movement around him, thought he heard machines beeping and saw scanners passing over him and tasted odd medications in his mouth - but he felt calm, relaxed, far away from it all. Even when the water-ghost produced a needle and approached him, all he felt was a flash of fear rather than the animal-instinct vision-whiting terror he had grown used to feeling when such instruments of torture were anywhere near him. Still, his fear grew sharper and stronger, the world becoming more and more detailed despite the familiar ghost’s best efforts, and just as the water-ghost was finished drawing his blood he drew in a sharp breath, stumbling backwards onto the nearby bed, shaking and trembling.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, quiet one,” the familiar ghost murmured. “It had to be done, we tried to make it quick-”
The water-ghost quickly left, taking with them all of the needles and medical tools and horrifyingly familiar objects.
“We can go back now, if you wish,” the familiar ghost told him, offering out their arm for him to take, but he flinched away from him, too betrayed to even look at them.
The familiar ghost flashed with pain in the realm-beyond-their-own, hurt at his reaction.
“We needed to find out who you are so we can begin to help you,” the familiar ghost pleaded with him to understand. “And that starts with a blood test. We wanted to do it without fully sedating you or scaring you too badly.”
The words made sense, and he began to calm slightly, though he was still a bit unhappy that the ghost did… whatever it was they did.
He gave a slow nod, and the familiar ghost nodded back.
“Obi-Wan,” the water-ghost said, poking their head back into the room, their tone urgent and their eyes darting to him for the briefest of moments, as though purposely trying to avoid looking at him. “You need to come see this.”
The familiar ghost gave him an alarmed look before they nodded, following the water-ghost out of the room, leaving him alone on the bed.
He curled up, rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as the seconds stretched into minutes, and the minutes stretched into what felt like an hour, but could have been more, what could have been less.
Finally, the familiar ghost re-appeared, their eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot like they had been crying, their face pale and body trembling as they stumbled over to him, falling to their knees next to his bed.
“I know you,” the familiar ghost said, voice faint. “Anakin- It’s- It’s me-”
They swallowed, reaching out their shaking hand to touch his face gently, and he stared at the ghost blankly.
“I know you.”
Johnny was quiet and odd and grim,
And odd and grim, and odd and grim
None of us do ever talk to him
The cock crows every morning