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The lightsaber in his stomach, all the way to his back. The battle cry of his droid, rushing through the enemy without a second thought. All of these memories were confused, mixed as one. And Astaroth screamed, out of breath, and fell on his knees. No! It was almost too hard to bear.
You can’t win all the time. But if you lose, you’re weak. And the weak cannot be allowed to live. So if you ever lose, you better die by the hand of your enemy. Because there is glory, in dying in battle. At least, you’ll have that.
Astaroth remembered these teachings very clearly. He had lived by them for a very long time, first believing in it. Then realizing it was not that simple. It was never that simple. And right now, he didn't care about glory. He cared about staying alive. And more importantly, he cared about stopping Arcann. That wasn't going to be very easy, with a hole in his body.
“Fuck!” he tried to scream
His words were nothing but a growl as his mouth filled with a liquid he first identified as saliva, but he reached too late the conclusion that he had lost his taste. He spat on the ground, quickly realizing it was blood, not saliva. Logical, he thought, remembering he just got stabbed. It happened before, but never to this extent. He felt cold, and the hole in his ribs, and his back, was burning. He never thought a lightsaber wound would hurt like that.
His heart was racing in his chest. All of his muscles had tensed, in an automatic reaction to, probably, run from the danger. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to. His vision was blurry, and even if he could just walk, he wouldn’t know where to go.
“Damn you, Arcann!” he managed to say behind his gritted teeth.
His enemy didn't answer. Astaroth could imagine him smiling behind his mask. Already enjoying his victory. Let's be honest, he's winning. It made him even angrier.
He could smell the burned metal coming from his side. HK had heroically sacrificed himself for him, and he was about to die, just like this. Like an idiot. He didn’t want to believe it, but he was starting to come to this realization as his strength slowly left him. He did his best to draw from his anger, his suffering, to manifest the Force enough to raise his arm.
But Arcann was faster, and he threw Astaroth away. The Sith was still impressed with the Prince's mastery of the Force, though he knew it wasn't the time to be. He was fighting the urge to simply abandon and collapse. He was braver than that, he knew it, but he never felt so weak. So powerless.
Arcann wasn't seeing him, not really. Arcann saw his father through him, wanted to kill his father by killing the body he was trapped in. But Astaroth knew one thing, and it was that getting rid of Valkorion wasn't an easy task, and killing him wouldn't accomplish anything. At this point, however, there was nothing he could say, literally. And even if he was able to talk, he could never convince his enemy to stop. Arcann was too angry, too determined. Astaroth could feel it. He could feel his adversary's wrath, the hate burning inside of him. It was almost painful to sense.
Sometimes, you just lose. It's as simple as that. Astaroth couldn't remember who had told him that. Not that it was important anyway. He focused as much as he could on the fight, but he was almost blind now, and all he could see was the yellow lightning of his foe's lightsaber, which had a good chance of finishing him. Fuck. He could only think it now.
Sometimes, you just lose. He repeated to himself.