[There are days when it all falls through. Paper thin skin behind an armored mask, hot rage the opposite of a comfort or a benefit. Training had never been easy even before he aligned himself with a new name-- something more fitting than a senile old man's memory-- back when all the supposedly was was serenity, tranquility, peace within leading to peace without and nothing he could fully grasp with his own fingers. He misses what he never had, converting it like fuel in his own chest until it breaks and he's there, alone in front of that pedestal again, wheezing with fear and the slickness of his own sweat.

Has to tear the mask from his face just to breathe, and he wonders how his grandfather ever managed it. The mark seems too high - maybe that's the only thing keeping him from buckling when his bones feel brittle, soaked through with regret. Not regret. Not regret. Grips black steel as his fingers strain, buckling hard.

Immortality was the promise of the Sith. If that remains true-- if time and distance mean so little-- then if he strains hard enough in his reach...] Grandfather.

Grandfather please - I need you. [Holds his breath, teeth working against the grain.] I need to know it's not impossible, what's been asked of me.

That I'm not weak.