Anakin Skywalker, better known as Darth Vader, was never very good at being a Jedi. He loved too fiercely, desired to deeply – demanded where others merely hoped, and charged with life what others were content to leave as skeleton. A Jedi could never have brought balance to the Force, what with their stubborn silencing of passion, their insistence on isolation, their creeping fear of anything beyond their temple's walls. A Sith, on the other hand, would flash like lightning, the Light Side answering with thunder as the boundary lines came crashing down.

There is something of the Sith in Darth Vader's ruined eyes when he hurls his master (finally) into oblivion, something of the Sith in his quivering hands that all but refuse to relinquish his son as he slips away. He is a dark vanguard, a shadow of completeness, and so Anakin Skywalker knows he must pass away.

(There is no more room in the galaxy for such darkness as thrives in his blood.)

Kylo Ren, better known as Ben Solo, is far from talented at being a Sith. There is tenderness at his white-hot core: a father's dead fingers that wipe his tears, a mother's foolish comforts that plague his nightmares, a scavenger swept like a broken dream into his arms even as he transports her to torture.

A Jedi, he knows, could never be greater than Snoke's looming mass, what with their constant shrinking into themselves, dissolving into the Force instead of making it a sword at their command. Only a Sith could be stronger than the Supreme Leader, but Ben Solo is even weaker than the scavenger – she scars his face like Asajj Ventress once scarred his father's, an etched reminder of how weakly he plays this elaborate game of pretend.

(There is no more room in the galaxy for such shadow as he seeks.)

Anakin Skywalker was a Sith at heart, thinly cloaked in the robes of the Jedi – more machine than man before he ever lost at limb, more at home with a droid than a friend.

Kylo Ren is a Jedi desperately donning the mantle of the Sith, willing his stubborn flesh to become metal, wishing his mortal face would melt into his feral mask – molding compassion into hollow passion that will never leave him satisfied.