Chapter Text
Out in the wood where the children play,
The children play, the children play
Out in the wood where the children play,
The cock crows every morning
He thought he’d heard something.
His sanity, fragile and shaky on the best of days but rendered especially unstable by the absolute solitude he’d been subjected to over the last- weeks? Days? Months? He wasn’t sure-
There it was again.
It was an impossible sound, and he grabbed at his hair, oily and long from the eons he had been trapped, pulling on it, the pain familiar and, more importantly, real.
The distant sound of a lightsaber - no, multiple lightsabers - deflecting blaster shots - it echoed from above him. His Tormentor made it so this specific cell was right under the main hall of his estate, to torture him with the sounds of people laughing and eating and dancing while he rotted away in dark solitude, sordid and isolated from any semblance of life for however long the Count decided.
Sometimes a hooded figure would visit him.
Sometimes it would tell him it was his only friend.
Sometimes he believed it.
He flinched as the sounds stopped, leaving him in wretched, familiar silence. He rocked in place, curled into a ball with his back against the smooth stone wall, too smooth to cut himself on, which he had very faint memories of attempting what felt like a very long time ago.
There were footsteps above his cell, the sound of heavy boots, far heavier than what the noblepeople and senators and elites his Tormentor hosted preferred. Another trick? He didn’t know.
He began to mumble to himself the tune of an old folk song - he wasn’t allowed to speak words - he thought he had learned in a desert of some sort, but he couldn’t be sure - were the glimpses he saw of endless sands and twin suns real, or just a figment of an imperiled mind?
He cast the thought aside - it was far too treacherous to face in the contemptible darkness.
The sounds from above faded.
He blinked, eyes darting rapidly around him as shapes began to take form, but as he swiped clumsy hands at them, they vanished like spectres, and he shook his head, reaching to grab at his hair again.
It felt like both seconds and hours later - time was so fickle in the void - when the noises reappeared, voices curling in the fetid air from above him, faint and barely eligible as words and not just vibrations to haunt and vex him.
“-strike team can’t find him anywhere-”
“-Republic forces are closing in-”
“-estate seems empty-”
“-Dooku is in retreat-”
He flinched at his Tormentor’s name, the voices fading, and he continued to rock in place, soothed by the familiar motion. It was nice. It was something he could control. It was something to do.
The sounds reappeared, but they felt close, far too close, heavy treading steps from just beyond the cell door, and he froze, his heart thundering as he backed himself into the farthest corner, breaths coming in fast and shallow - was he here? Or maybe it was the hooded figure? Maybe- Maybe it was a droid, here to give him food and water, or maybe they were putting him in a different cell? Sometimes he was placed in a cell that was far too bright and loud and he wasn’t allowed to sleep- He hoped that wasn’t what was happening.
The footsteps passed by his cell, but he remained tense.
“These cells look ancient,” someone from the other side said.
“Some of them,” someone else agreed. “But look at this one-”
They drew closer to his cell, pausing in front of it.
“-it’s been refurbished.”
“You think someone’s in there?” The first voice asked nervously.
“That’s what we’re here to figure out,” the second voice said. “Whether there are any prisoners down here. Come on- we’ll do them in order. That way the mission report is easier. We’ll swing back around to this one once the Jedi are available for backup, in case we need it.”
“Good idea,” the first voice replied, the voices and footsteps moving away from his cell once more.
A trick, he thought, shivering. A lie. He’s trying to bait me into escaping again so he can punish me. But I know better, now. I’ve learned. I won’t leave unless he or the droids come.
Time passed, or maybe it didn’t. The voices returned. They stood in front of his cell, muttering something about scans, before quickly leaving once more.
Another voice joined them minutes- hours? Seconds?- later.
“Quartz, Reese, what’s going on?” A soft voice questioned.
“There’s a lifeform in this cell, here, General Billaba,” the first voice told her. “The shielding on the cell’s too thick for us to tell what it is, though. We thought we’d have a Jedi handle this.”
“Who knows what kriffed up osik the Seppies have stashed away down here,” the second voice added.
“A smart decision,” the soft voice told them, sounding amused, then more silence.
He felt something seep into the cell, curling around him curiously, probingly, and though it felt warm and soft and gentle, the way it moved was far, far too similar to the way his Tormentor would reach out in a realm beyond their own, sinking ethereal fangs into his mind and soul until he was bleeding from his nose, his eyes, his ears, chunks of him scoured from within his own skull, fragments of memory and time and personality missing.
“It's a person,” the soft voice breathed after another long stretch of maybe-not-actually long silence, so faint he could barely hear it. Then, footsteps, light and careful.
Someone stood right outside his cell, as if they were about to open it, and he tensed, curling up into as small a ball he could. A trick, he hissed to himself. A trick, a trick, a trick.
“Hello?” The soft voice called. “Is there anybody in there?”
He didn’t respond - he knew he wasn’t allowed to speak.
“Hello?” The voice tried again after a long moment. “I’m a Jedi, from the Republic. We mean you no harm. Dooku has been defeated - we are here to free you from him.”
His breath hitched at the mention of his Tormenter. This was a lie to get him to slip up- to get him to talk, to try and escape, and he knew that if he were to reply or, stars forbid, get up and try to open the door, the punishment would be-
He felt like throwing up.
“...I’m going to open the door,” the voice told him. “I know you are afraid - I can feel it. But I promise you, we are here to help.”
The cell door peeled open slowly, blinding light flooding the cell and piercing the putrid darkness, and he closed his eyes tight, not even daring to move a muscle as he waited.
He didn’t know what his Tormentor would do to him. He had passed the test, but sometimes - often - that wasn’t enough to avoid torture. Maybe his Tormentor would drag him to a bucket of ice water and hold his head under until he lost consciousness. Maybe he’d be brought to the bright, loud room. Maybe he’d be whipped, or electrocuted, or beaten, or injected with strange chemicals that made every molecule of his body hurt.
“...Hello,” the soft voice whispered, the noise like a cannon in the weighted silence of the cell. “...Are you injured?”
He didn’t reply, shaking in terror in preparation for whatever pain was about to be dished out.
“...I’m not going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you anymore. You’re safe now,” the voice assured him. “What’s your name?”
He wasn’t allowed to have a name - he vaguely remembered screaming it, over and over, back when he had first been- when he had first-
He remembered yelling that he was a person, that he had a name - so it was taken away. Ripped from his mind and soul with electricity and starvation and solitary confinement and a thousand other poems of pain-
“How long have you been down here?” The voice asked once it was clear he wasn’t going to reply.
He didn’t know - epochs, maybe. Maybe just a few months.
“...Do you speak Basic?”
He hesitated. Would he get in trouble for interacting with the trick at all? Or was he allowed to nod his head? Would he get in trouble for ignoring it? Was this a test of obedience, maybe?
Perhaps against his best judgement, he gave a slow, tenuous nod, not uncurling from his ball, his body tensing as he prepared for some sort of punishment to immediately be doled out for his interaction with the trick-
But nothing happened.
“You do,” the voice said instead, sounding relieved and somewhat pleased. “That’s good. My name is Depa Billaba. I’m a Jedi. Do you know what that means?”
He remembered the Jedi. Vague, and distant, like a dream that happened to someone else. Like a film playing out from behind thick, painted glass. The name… It sounded like a name he heard before, but he could not remember it.
He gave another slow nod.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
He couldn’t remember. Maybe it had been a few hours ago. Maybe it had been weeks. His hunger was an elusive, fickle pest that he had grown so used to he scarcely noticed its presence or absence.
“Would you like some food and water? We have some flasks and ration bars here with us - they’re not very tasty, but they’re something.”
He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He was probably about to make the biggest mistake he had made in a long, long while, but-
But his Tormentor always said he was slow to learn.
He lifted his head.
He squinted, blinking a few times against the light invading the cell, before his gaze found the warm, blurry face of the voice, a smile overtaking her light-muddled expression as she met his eyes. She was sitting cross-legged in front of him, dark eyes lighting up as she slowly turned to the two other voices, figures he couldn’t quite make out, as shrouded in light as they were.
Equally slowly, one of the figures knelt, their dark silhouette reaching for something on its belt, before it gently slid a flask and a small package towards them. He flinched at the noise, but forced himself to keep his head up.
“Here you go,” she murmured. “All for you.”
He watched her with wide eyes as she gingerly grabbed the items, holding them out for him to take. Not taking his eyes off of her face, senses primed for any odd movement, he reached out a shaking arm, quickly snatching the items and tearing open the package with trembling fingers caked with grime from his hair, wolfing down the ration before anyone had a chance to take it or punish him for taking it. He did the same with the water.
“Can you stand?” She asked. He shot her a wide-eyed look. She wasn’t about to ask him to leave the cell, was she? He wasn’t allowed to do that!
“It’s alright,” she assured him. “It’s safe to leave. We’ll take you back to your home.”
A trick, his instincts growled.
He closed his eyes and tucked himself back into his ball.
The voice was quiet for a few moments before she gave a soft, nearly imperceptible, disappointed sigh, standing in one fluid motion before leaving the cell, disappearing somewhere, though the other two voices remained. They moved farther away, and, possibly thinking he couldn’t hear them, began to mumble to each other.
“Poor sap,” one whispered.
“I know,” the other agreed. “How do you think he ended up like that?”
“Who knows what those Seppie bastards were doing to him?”
“Do you think General Billaba will be able to help him?”
“...Honestly?
I think he’s too far gone.”
All of the boys in their skeleton suits,
Had gathered ‘round a mound of roots
Muddy, the cross, as black as their boots
Planted and bloodied and warning
The voices were all gone. It took a long time, but his cell was empty, as was the corridor it was attached to. He still heard movement from above him, more movement than he thought he had heard… yesterday? A few days ago? He didn’t know.
But there was something else, too. Familiar footsteps approaching him. But they weren’t like they usually were - they were fast, light, like the figure was moving quickly, trying not to get caught.
The familiar shape of the hooded figure appeared in the doorway to his cell.
“My boy,” his friend rasped. “We must go, quickly now.”
He stood without question. This was one of the few beings he was allowed to obey. A being he was expected to obey.
His friend grabbed him by the arm, yanking him out of the cell and into the corridor, their gnarly fingers gripping him tightly, their sharp nails digging slightly into his flesh, but he made no noise, simply followed where the figure led. He was taken up, up flights of archaic stone stairways caked with dust and lined with cobwebs, through a myriad of hidden doorways and tunnels so cramped he had to bend awkwardly to follow, but he did - he followed his friend, dutifully despite the mounting fatigue in his atrophied body, eyes transfixed on their back, not even allowing the thought of escape to enter his mind.
He had learned.
His friend halted suddenly, in the midst of a cavernous room swallowed by shadows, and he almost fell over in his attempts to avoid walking into him, but he just kept his head low and his gaze lower, waiting for his next instruction.
His friend shoved him further behind him, standing in front of him almost protectively, possessively, sliding out something from their sleeve that snapped to life with a furious hiss and a crimson glow that had him flinching back slightly.
“It's over, Sidious!” A voice called from the darkness, a tall figure that he thought he should recognize stepping out from the shadows, a purple blade emerging in their hand. As he watched in shock and terror, more and more figures emerged from the darkness, all of them carrying blades of light.
He whimpered, close to hyperventilating, huddling as close to his friend as he could without getting in the way.
“Foolish Jedi,” his friend spat, voice full of vitriol.
“Why did you return for the boy, Sidious? Why not flee into Wild Space and accept your defeat?” One of the figures asked.
Rather than answer, his friend lunged, the fight beginning with the furious clash of- lightsabers, he remembered they were called - lightsabers creating wide arcs of color as they swirled and swung and sparked against each other. Quick as a flash, one of the new figures was dead, and a second joined them soon after- it was all too much.
He curled up into a ball on the floor, shaking violently as he felt the fight continue all around him, his heart thundering in his chest in time with the thrumming blows-
There was a truly deafening sound, and a bright flash of light that he saw even with his eyes squeezed shut, the air filling with the reek of ozone and burning flesh-
Hands were on his arm, yanking him up, bony fingers curling around his wrist, and he stood on legs that shook so hard he could barely walk, but he forced himself to, following his friend as they retreated from the battle-
His friend let go of him, spinning suddenly, but his friend had been focused on him and the angle was all wrong and- and-
And a purple blade pierced his only friend’s chest, and he fell to the floor, gasping for a moment before falling silent and still.
He screamed.
Torn between throwing himself forwards to cradle his friend’s body and throwing himself backwards, away from the horrors of the scene, he instead fell down, knees giving out, resorting to the familiar and safe habit of curling up in a ball, the same habit that had spared him the worst of his Tormentor’s wrath in the past, the same habit that spared him now from the agony of the sight in front of him.
He sobbed, the world moving in double-speed around him, people entering the scene and leaving it, and he was sure a few tried to talk to him but they sounded as though they were deep underwater, or maybe it was him who was deep underwater.
“Why is he still here-”
“-hasn't moved-”
“-Sidious’ body was removed hours ago-”
“-probably brainwashed.”
Something pressed against his brain, something that felt like what his Tormentor would do, only far, far gentler, but still he panicked, crying out and thrashing, blind with terror-
“It's okay, it's okay,” that soft voice whispered. “I didn't mean to scare you. I was just trying to get you to fall asleep.”
Sleep- maybe this was some sort of- of awful, awful nightmare- he had to get back to his cell- maybe if he went to sleep in his cell he’d wake up and everything would be as it should be-
He jolted to his feet, startling the people around him, but he spared them no thought as he raced back the way he and his friend had came, despite the tears that blurred his vision and the way his limbs still shook, until he made it back to his cell, and he dove inside, curling up in that familiar corner, the smooth walls against his spine like home, the darkness that embraced him like a blanket.
This was where he belonged.
He never should have left.
Pale little bonnets, they tried to peek,
They tried to peek, they tried to peek
Pale little bonnets, they tried to peek,
The cock crows every morning
The people who killed his friend were still there. Or maybe they weren't. Maybe they had never existed at all. Maybe he had made them all up. Or maybe He had made them all up, as a punishment, or a test. They kept approaching him, phantoms dogging his seclusion, tearing asunder his familiar ebony solitude, breaking the silence with their vigilance, tearing teeth and claws into his spirit, his soul that inhabited his cell like a snail in its shell. He was the cell. The cell was him.
He wasn't allowed to leave.
Bad things happened when he left.
He never should have left.
“Greetings, young one.” Another voice.
Another ghost.
“I am Jedi Master Plo Koon,” the ghost continued, offering something out to him. “You must be hungry.”
He wasn't. He was too terrified to even think about food.
“It's been a long while since you uncurled from that ball of yours,” the ghost said after a long moment of silence. “Your body must be aching.”
It was. His limbs had all gone numb. His neck hurt from how his head was tucked against his chest, and had the wall been rough, he was sure his arms would have been scraped to the bone from how tight he huddled against it. But he didn't dare move. This was the only way he would be safe.
“...Where are you from, young one?”
He couldn’t remember. He thought some sort of desert. One with orange sand, or maybe yellow? That sounded right. But he also remembered vague glimpses of the Jedi - or maybe that had been someone else’s memories. They felt so fogged and far away that maybe they belonged to another life entirely. But then again, his memories of the desert were that way, too. And he remembered… he remembered vast fields of grass, and wildflowers, and a sparkling lake - or maybe that had all been a dream.
He didn't know.
“...You are afraid,” the ghost said. “Are you afraid of us?”
They killed his only friend. He thought that answer should have been obvious.
“...Yes…” the ghost hummed, an almost remorseful note in its tone. “You are afraid of us… but we wish you no harm.”
“Master Plo, Windu is requesting your presence upstairs,” a second voice interjected suddenly, a second ghost- but-
His breath froze in his lungs without him knowing why, his muscles all tensing as something seized his form like an invisible claw, and he let out a loud, choking sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and he began to shake violently, trembling, because that voice was familiar, familiar, somewhere deep, deep within his psyche that voice was familiar-
He rocked back and forth, back and forth, whimpering and clawing at his hair, trembling. He didn't know this ghost, so why did his body think he did?
“Oh, I apologize, I didn't mean to upset-”
“Obi-Wan, wait,” the first ghost said. “This is the first sign of life we’ve gotten since we took down Sidious. He seems to be… reacting, to you.”
“...And is that a good thing or a bad thing, Plo?”
“It's something.”
A stretch of silence, just long enough for him to maybe start to think that he had been imaging things again, that this had been yet another fragment of his scattered mind. But then he felt the faint vibrations through the floor of someone approaching, the tremors and shuffling of someone sitting down close by.
“Hello,” the second, familiar ghost began, somewhat awkwardly. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Slowly, he began to move his creaking muscles, a body tearing itself from its tomb, corpses wrapped in spider silk breaking apart their own rotting flesh to lift their heads, slowly peaking over their own shoulders, the light from the open casks and cell doors blinding, but he saw the silhouette of a man who struck such a sense of familiarity in him that he began to cry without ever knowing why.
Who are you? He demanded to know. Why do I know you?
The familiar ghost visibly startled, rearing backwards even in their calm sitting position, and as his eyes slowly adjusted, he thought he could make out the blurry sight of the ghost's eyes widening.
“Oh, I- I apologize, I was caught off guard, there,” the familiar ghost said. “I didn't realize you were… telepathic.”
The first ghost peered down at him curiously, face hidden behind a mask.
I… I feel like I know you, he said without speaking. But I don't. I only know two people. Knew.
“Well, that… certainly is odd,” the familiar ghost said. “And these two people you knew… was one of them the one who came and retrieved you a few days ago?”
He sucked in a quick breath, curling in on himself, eyes slamming shut-
“No, no, wait, I didn't mean to upset you,” the familiar ghost pleaded, and he kept himself from curling back into his ball, but he kept his eyes shut, trembling.
“What's your name?” The ghost asked, tone soft and gentle.
…Not allowed, he answered.
“Not allowed?” The ghost echoed. “As in, you're not allowed to answer? Or… you're not allowed to have one?”
He shuddered.
He took it away. Not allowed to have one. Not allowed to speak. Not allowed to leave. Not allowed to do anything but what they say.
“...How long have you been down here?” The familiar ghost asked quietly.
I don't know. Maybe- I don't know. I can't believe anything. None of my memories can be trusted. I don't know if I believe you're real or not.
“...You're safe now,” the familiar ghost told him. “We’re here to help you. Do you believe that?”
He didn't respond.
“We’re here to help you,” the familiar ghost repeated, more firmly this time. “You are safe now. None of the people who put you here, who kept you here, who took your name and your voice can hurt you anymore. You're free now.”
The words slid past him like water, hollow of meaning like bones without their marrow.
“...Come on,” the familiar ghost urged. “Can you unfurl from your corner? You don't have to do anything else right now- just stretch out.”
He stayed statue-still for a long, long moment. Was he really going to listen to this ghost? Well… what did he have to lose? And besides, it wasn't like he had been forbidden from unfurling.
Slowly, insects emerging from their cocoons, fossils baring their flanks to the atmosphere for the first time in millennia, whittled away by erosion, he stretched out his shoulders, and then his arms, and then his torso, then his legs. He stared with eyes that refused to work at a ghost bathed in backlight and hindsight, and he thought that maybe if he tilted his head just right that he would be able to place where the figure was from, but no matter how he turned his gaze the memory wouldn’t snap into place. The scene remained blurry, out of reach, a dream from long, long ago. The familiar ghost remained unfamiliar to him.
“There we go,” the ghost said with a soft smile. “That's more comfortable, isn't it? Now, I'll have some of my friends grab you a blanket and a pillow - nothing fancy or crazy, just something to make you a bit more comfortable while you stay in here as long as you need.”
That… sounded almost nice. But odd. Unfamiliar, foreign, strange - his cell was a place that was comfortable in its discomfort, familiar in its harshness. It wasn't meant to be pleasant, it was meant to contain him. Seclude him from the world at large until he was broken and malleable, ready for whatever his friend or Tormentor wanted from him. The masked ghost nodded, slipping away, returning after a long stretch of silence, the familiar ghost staring at him with the same ethereal eyes the first ghost had.
The blanket and pillow were, in fact, nice, but odd, his sore and numb body weeping in relief, the blanket an unexpected mental comfort as he wrapped it tight around his shoulders, the pressure giving him a similar calm to rocking in place, but without actually moving.
“There,” the familiar ghost said with a smile, opening their actual eyes as the other ghost left. “That's better, isn't it?”
He just stared at him with squinted eyes.
“...Is it too bright in here?” The familiar ghost asked after he kept squinting. He gave a slow nod.
Too bright, he said. Hurts my eyes.
“...I see,” the ghost hummed. “Well, for us it's very dark, but… I suppose you're used to it. Would… would a blindfold help?”
…Yes, my Lord, he replied after a long moment of thought.
The familiar ghost recoiled again.
“Oh, no, none of the ‘my lord’ stuff, please. Just call me Obi-Wan,” the ghost insisted, covering up their grimace with another smile. “Here- it's just some heavy duty bandages, but they should work.”
The ghost held out some white wrap, offering it to him with a friendly grin. He paused, staring down at the hand, reaching slowly out with his own, fingers trembling wildly.
He expected their touch to feel like lightning. He expected it to feel like the shock of ice water or the burn of a flame. He expected it to feel like a blade cutting through flesh or like he was coming home. He expected everything to slide into place, for the world to make sense again, for him to remember where he knew the ghost from.
Nothing happened.
He grabbed the bandages, swiping them quickly, and they drew away from each other.
Quickly, with still-shaking fingers, he wrapped them around his eyes, the relief from the intruding light instantaneous, soothing a migraine he hadn't even realized was building at the edges of his senses. He slumped, collapsing against the wall with a soft oomph, and he felt exhaustion creep at his mind. He hadn't let himself sleep since his friend-
He hadn't slept. He was exhausted.
“I'll come back later,” the familiar ghost told him, sensing his fatigue. “Get some rest.”
Tell me, O’ brothers, what does not sleep?
But hides under the cross's keep?
Small as the grave, but none too deep,
Who are we brothers, here mourning?