Work Text:
It took a long while for Anakin- no, Vader, to recognize his own voice after Mustafar. His voice had been deep before, but now it was akin to a rumble.
The modulated voice lacking any emotion or variation thanks to the respirator of his helmet.
His helmet… It had annoyed him at first, the constant woosh-kish of the respirator, but he’d learned to tune the sound out. It was as much a part of him as this new voice, as much as his suit.
As much a part of him as the name Darth Vader.
Over time Vader learned to speak much clearer than at the beginning, the dark rumble of it intimidating even the most foolhardy of officers, even if said officers still had the gall to bring more of their incompetence to the empire after the fact.
Soon his respirator and voice became synonymous with death, as those who defied him and foolishly toyed with imperial lives met the force most intimately around their throats. Jedi and Rebels were terrified, for when he came onto the battlefield it was sure to be a bloodbath. Vader had seen many a rebel and Jedi both weep in fear as soon as they heard him.
Once upon a time it would’ve hurt, but now…
Now it was powerful.
There were times in solitude he missed what was, but that only fueled his rage, his sorrow, the Dark.
This voice embodied the dark now, and he would wield it as such.