Thirty years he has lived with the Force (with its dual demands and limitless depths, time little more than an illusion in its grasp) and yet no part of it has ever carried the frigid, oppressive weight that comes when her consciousness floods his mind. A voice that would bring Snoke to his knees, knowledge without half-truths or clouded prophecies, power beyond the cold, disappointing reality that threatened to overtake his life.

He cannot be silent-- at least not in thought.

The redness of raw, glassy eyes blinks away, breathing shallow through his nose. If he could kneel before her, he would - prostrate himself and bare his willingness to serve, but his knees are buckled, his grip on the wall beside him too tight: only the sound of air filters in through ventilation systems, only the rise and fall of his chest as he watches, focused and committed in spite of the endless din that clings to his every waking moment.