A golden noose, colder than any glacier, clings to your neck like a limpet to the hull of a spacecraft. Mad hands claw at the metal rope, trying to pry the burning steel from your scarlet flesh. Fingers try to dig a gap between the skin and the metal, to find some purchase on the polished bands of unmovable iron. They fail, and nails score small dashes on flesh already red. Red light spews from the heart of the crystalline rose, growing brighter as it illuminates ever more of the stone and concrete prison that will be your grave. Words that would cry for help are rendered silent by the amulet that swallows you with unending pain.

Coherent thoughts are long gone; the pain has stripped them from you, debasing you into a wretched animal seeking nought but succour from this agony. Crawling like a wounded nenamor, you claw with each hand one after the other, trying to escape this realm of suffering. Your eyes can see all the details of Tyus’ lair, but your madness robs you of everything other than the vague appearance of the stone tiles that you drag your face against. You pick up minor wounds from scraping your face against the rocks, but you do not even realise the scratches as the torture device blares in your skull.

Your directionless journey is eternal, the ceaseless cavern has no end. Trapped in this curse, you see no escape, but the animal part of your brain keeps you moving, because to stay still will bring death. Like the legend of Argonemus, you are blind and dumb, forced to forever wander this infinite labyrinth. But unlike him, you have not been stuffed full of cybernetics to preserve you from the ravages of time, so that his lament will last until the very stars themselves die out in the sky.

Blood and bile burst from your lips, spilling the acrid liquid onto the floor. You convulse as a second wave follows, staining your robes with the vomit. Retching, you meekly curl up into a foetal position as you shiver in your own filth. The darkness of slumber grows around the edges of your vision, and you shut your eyelids firmly closed. A new bright pain explodes on your right arm as if struck with a bantha prod. This spurs you out of your weak submission, forcing you onwards on this endless journey to find some relief from the suffering.

With a dulled thunk, your head strikes something. Weakly, you raise your head to see what has halted your journey. It is a bed, your bed, in your room. Lifting yourself up with shivering arms, you flop onto your bed, pulling off your foul robes and dive into the sheets. Naked, barring your underwear, you shiver in the warmth, still wearing the small remnants of your vomit. The linen is soft against your delicate skin, it holds your fragile form in its gentle embrace. Finally, graciously, you close your eyes and allow sleep to whisk you away from the pain.