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She was floating.
A dark abyss of evil below her, shadows of the Force whispering awful insults and doubts into her ears.
A sea of light above, too far out of reach, the surface held back as further down she sank and drowned in the current of evil. Darkness was cruel mistress, her claws sharp and eyes glittering greedily for the soul of the damned and broken girl before her. Her teeth, sharpened blades of tarnished silver, gnashing away at bruised flesh, biting the supports that held the Togruta up and stable.
She was falling.
("I trusted you" she cries, as guards lead her once "friend" away from the forsaken trial.)
She was dying.
(There was no escape from the tempered, impatient call of Mother Death; t'was she who beckoned the child to her side with anticipation after years of separation.)
And Ahsoka, with her arms bound up above her head and her innocence violated, could only welcome the Force's sweet touch and promise.
(Wait. Not yet.)
She was still here. Standing alone in a small dark room. A light from overhead shining down, but with no
source that she could see. In the spotlight, ready and patient, a single chair. Pressed against the wall with perfect posture. Innocently waiting like a good child for its master to return. She would have felt kinship but she's learned that corrupt comes from the orders all children must follow, as authority dictates.
("The Order is rotten…" she whispers and Anakin looks confused but she says nothing to pacify him. Not anymore. He's too much like them. He'll never understand.)
(Take a seat, dear one. )
"Must I?"
She must and she will. She must and she does.
The chair is hard beneath her bottom, made from sanded truth. It hurts - oh, does it so - but she bares with it. Because she must and will.
And she does.
She sits, a perfect little doll on the stool.
(Well done. I knew I could trust in you.)
Her shadow stands behind her. It grows upon the dusty old wall of lies. It twists and forms and becomes something else; the One.
The One moves. She cannot see it; behind her, it is hidden and her eyes cannot see what lies between the lines of spoken slander and false promises. It grows arms and bleeds through the paper; it shifts and sprouts planted arms. Arms mold hands. Hands to fingers.
She does not see them. She never will; it is only he - her beloved Brother - who will notice. By then it will be too late.
String; there are lines attached to her. She doesn't know - she's been so naïve, so blind, so lost that she hasn't even realized she isn't even real anymore. Strings are controlling her every move and she has no inkling of understanding this. Strings are guiding her along. String make her pull the trigger and take the blame for the traitor woman's death. Strings are all that hold up the Puppet.
(Now you may Fall.)
She sits with empty eyes and a hollow chest.
And I, the Puppeteer, put her there.
And I, the One, will lead her along.
Stringing her into a web of deception.
.
.
My place, she will take.