Back into hell.
As one door into the material world closed, another opened onto the surface of that now dead world. The sounds of battle were replaced by screams– not his own, but the screams of millions. The man looked on in a horror that he hadn’t ever grown numb to. He joined in that cacophonous melody, screaming as he felt flames devouring his flesh. The pain he’d felt in the profane world was magnified here. Looking at his wrist, he’d find his hand dangling and twitching off sinew from where it had been attached to his wrist.
And with his pain came the torment of others. He could feel that same distress, terror and anguish that had broken his mind all those years ago. The impression that the collective suffering of millions had left on his psyche had never, ever been washed away. Suppressed, confined, and pushed into the deepest depths of his mind– but never worn away completely. It wasn’t possible to walk away from such things unscarred– to live as you had, as the universe died around you.
Yet in the end, it always passed over.
And he awoke.
For any other to wake in his position, it would be the most dire of circumstances. Yet after returning from the hell that was his sleep, he may as well have achieved salvation. Yet that didn’t change the fact that around him, the city was being conquered, it’s defenders slaughtered. More importantly, he was bleeding in several places. It wouldn't be long before he slipped into unconsciousness again– into a sleep he’d never wake from.
Reaching out with his right hand, he tried to push himself up off the ground, using his left leg and forearm for support. His hand twitched a little as he moved, while his right leg dragged pathetically behind him. Blood was caked over his pants, his silk blue robes permanently ruined. Crawling across the ground, the Jedi was perhaps the most vulnerable he’d been since childhood. He felt pain– but he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t ready to die– not yet.
Slipping out of the square, he’d find himself crawling through the streets and alleyways of the city. A thin trail of blood would follow behind him as he moved, and he could feel his grip on the profane world beginning to slip after traveling ten blocks down. He had turned in the direction of the capitol building– for the hangar he’d docked in just days earlier wasn’t to far from it. But had he truly gone in the correct direction? What if his ship were already overrun with the enemy?
There would be nothing he could do if either case were true. If he were going the wrong way, there would be no turning back now– he’d gone to far already. If the ship were overrun, he couldn’t hope to fight back. All he could do was keep crawling.
The housing would eventually clear into an open pad. Ships of all makes and sizes would be presented to him. Looking out, he saw the chromium exterior of his freighter– his home. The enemy hadn’t arrived yet– or if they had, they were busy with sacking the city, or the government buildings. Picking up the pace, the next few minutes of crawling were agonizingly painful. Blood gushed from his wounds even quicker than they had before, and with how his hand was smacking against the ground, it wasn’t impossible that he had broken something.
When he finally reached the ship, he desperately used the force to type in the code to open the loading ramp. Rolling out of the way, he would feebly climb up, the smooth ramp exceedingly difficult to scale. Once in the middle, he would reach out again, calling on the force to close it. Tumbling down, he hit the hull with a thud, groaning. He almost immediately began crawling again– to the cockpit.
He needed to fly out of here.