And you, my father, there on the sad height,
“Lord Caelestis is dead.”
Malou had never screamed so hard—so loud—that no sound escaped her throat.
Alone in her chambers on Exegol, violence tore at her lungs like vultures to a corpse. Bit by bit, they ripped her vocal cords to shreds.
Her limbs hung heavy like lead, though her body shivered and trembled with the heaving of her chest.
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Which Fate had cut his string and severed her from him? Why was the chance to say goodbye stolen from her? How could she have known that she would never see him again? Who was the universe to take him from her?
The only thing keeping her together was the frigid cold of the ground beneath her.
It siphoned the warmth from her. It fired pain into her bones and bruised her skin as her fists struck it.
When tears fell from her eyes, they were cool against the burning heat of her skin. The quiet drip of them hitting the stone floor was the only sound in the room by the time her hands unfurled to hold her head to the ground.
Was his death worth it? Had he the time to accept his death, or was his last breath taken in agony? Would he regret it?
He had given her so much, and she would never get the chance to give back to him.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Slowly, Malou raised her head. Slowly, she pulled the blindfold from her face. Slowly, she looked down at her blurry palms turned up to the sky.
What would he say to her if he saw her curled up here?
“Show me what you can do. Show your father what you can do.”
Serenno. The party. The knife. His offer. Her chance.
He was not her father, but maybe she could still make him proud.
She could still show him what she could do.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
— from Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gentle into that good night”
@Braden
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