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The figure, or as Ezra chose to call him, The Toy Maker, sat, with one leg over the other, on a cushioned chair as he watched Ezra wheeze, and drank from a steaming cup.
His waist tied to a wooden post, what remained of Ezra’s body hung limp in the cell. A noose restricted his airways, gradually tightening with the purpose of strangulation ; Ezra hoped it’d kill him.
“I’m used to seeing ancient ones, cowardly Jedi’s pulled from their hideaways, but you… you’re a Padawan, a child — I haven’t seen one of you in a long, long time.” The Toy Maker mused.
”I wonder why.” A bitter voice in Ezra’s head replied. He wanted to go home, to Lothal, to the Ghos— no. No, he couldn’t let his mind wander back to his old life. He was going to die. He was never going home. There was no point dreaming of the impossible ; Ezra imagined the tranquility of death, instead.
“You’re a different one, odd and strange. In a way, you’ve given up, and yet, you haven’t.” The Toy Maker continued. “Depa Billaba’s padawan’s padawan, a child plucked from nowhere, and made into something, a rebel fighter, who refused to give in to the dark, even with his master dead on the floor… It’s very symbolic of you, jedi-like and blinded by so called goodness, for you to be here, still alive, despite appearing as only hanging parts. You’re headstrong, I’ll give you that, you have grit and determination, but what is your goal? I assume you have an imagination, a child like curiosity to you, but I also see you as a realist. There’s no way you can believe that you will see your loved ones, again.”
”When I die, my force will be able to reunite with Kanan’s. We’ll never be separated, again, floating through nature with an inner peace. I can’t wait.” Ezra told him, his insides smiling, despite his struggle to breathe. Black dots floated in his vision, almost like small particles of dust, and Ezra hoped that it meant he was nearing the climax. Finally, he’d get what he wanted.
”I’ll be home soon. I promise.”