OMG I wrote a chapter!?!?!? One of the chapters I’ve been looking forward to writing for a long time, too. : ) But I had to rewrite it at least twice; I was going to write it from Ashara’s point of view and got four pages in before I realized it didn’t work. That, not to mention being a little burned out from the winter’s intense writing and afraid of failure, meant that I didn’t start writing this until Camp Nanowrimo started at the beginning of April last week, and my word count has been very conservative by my standards.
This chapter’s theme is Sacred Worlds by Blind Guardian! I was asking Aristheron’s player what kind of apocalyptic music he could suggest and I settled on this one. I love it! So orchestral, such heavy percussion, so much vocal emotion.
I assume paratroopers exist in Star Wars, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it. So I have no idea how paratrooping technology might work in this time period in this galaxy, but I’m using it anyway because I think it’s cool.
Part 28: Madness
After sending Murlesson to bed and briefing Clay and Pyron, Aristheron sank onto the cot in the Viper’s medical bay and tried not to wince. He’d been pummelled harshly in his fight with Giri, and he was expecting more of the same on the morrow – though, hopefully, with fewer walls. But right now, he needed to get kolto on as many of his injuries as possible. The Force had shielded him from the worst of it, but still his back was harshly bruised, his left arm was speckled with shrapnel from where his coat had been shredded over his bicep, and one of his ribs had been cracked for sure. He’d managed to keep his head high through all the excitement of escaping, showing no signs of weakness in either demeanour or spirit, and now at last he could soften slightly. But not enough to wince.
Vany came to him a minute later, arming herself with a jar of kolto salve and an armful of bandages, helping him take his coat and armour and tunic off. She exclaimed at every new bruise and laceration, making faces and disgruntled, worried noises, her lekku tips twitching anxiously. It was endearing.
“Geez,” she said at last, more than half-way done. “Are you sure you’ll be able to fight tomorrow?”
“Completely, dearest,” Aristheron told her. “This much will hardly slow me down.” It couldn’t slow him down. Not only his life and goals and the lives of those close to him, but his pride was at stake.
She gave him a skeptical look with her dazzling blue eyes as she picked splinters out of his arm. “Are you being honest with me right now, Aris?”
Yet again, he was surprised by her. “…Yes.” True, it was difficult for him to admit to vulnerability to anyone, even Vany. But this time he was not vainly hiding his weaknesses. He really would be combat-ready.
She taped the last bandages over his arm. “Okie-doke, then. There! All done.” She grinned at him, putting her tools aside and leaning into him to embrace him. She was only as tall as him while he was sitting, but that meant that she could kiss him for once without craning her neck, and her kisses were sweet. Her small, slender hands wrapped around his neck, and he folded her into his arms, delighting in her petite frame as much as she seemed to adore his strength. “Allow me to say, then, while you’ve got your tunic off, that I really approve. Yum!”
He allowed himself to register confusion on his face. “Why… ‘yum’?” She really used the strangest words sometimes. It was truly fascinating, being in a relationship with someone not of noble birth – and having entered into such a relationship, he had no wish to end it any time soon. His father would probably object, on the grounds of her species if not her rank. Aristheron would hold steady regardless.
Her smirk was mischievous and her blush was indigo, spreading over her face and down her lekku, intriguingly. “Because while you’re drop-dead gorgeous in clothes, seeing you without them makes me wanna lick you all over.”
“Er.” He was not used to people saying such things to his face, and definitely not in a breathless whisper a handful of centimetres from his lips. “I would reciprocate the sentiment, but it’s very improper and hardly the occasion.” He needed to be conserving his energy, and while previously they’d been more open in private, his friend’s ship was not the place for anything more intimate than – relatively – chaste kisses.
“Oh, I wasn’t gonna do anything,” Vany said, stroking the beard on his cheeks as if to reassure him. “But it’s how I feel about you… boyfriend.”
“I appreciate the thought, dearest.”
It was still unnecessarily distracting. Yet her warm affection comforted his spirit and persuaded him to relax a little more. He lay down on the medical cot and was not overly surprised when Vany climbed up and curled up beside him, snuggling into his chest. The cot was narrow, but she didn’t take up much room, and he found himself holding her protectively. Her breathing evened quickly and she fell asleep immediately.
But he did not, his mind occupied with strategies for the morrow. Certainly, Clay could handle the details, and all Aristheron really had to do was point the right men in the right direction – and of course, find his way to Giri and end him. Yet his mind still toiled, though he knew it was of no use- what was that?
Murlesson’s sense had changed, the roiling poison that plagued him withdrawn for a while. And- he was calling for Ashara.
Aristheron could not really fault him for that; Murlesson was young and not raised into nobility. Seeking some joy in his short, miserable life was perfectly understandable. Though… Aristheron could have wished the two realized just how loud they were in the Force, several minutes later. He could hear no physical noise, but it was evident that he was not going to be able to rest until they docked with the Kyvernitis – and at that point there would be little point in trying to sleep. Vany slept soundly in his arms, preventing him from getting up, although it would have been extremely indelicate to acknowledge that he’d sensed anything in the first place.
Well, he did not begrudge them their brief happiness, only their lack of self-awareness.
The shuttle wobbled and bounced as it carved its way into Salvara’s atmosphere. The storm above Heley City had risen to a typhoon just since they left mere hours ago, and at its centre was the planetary communications tower. Aristheron was angry he had not seen it during his previous sojourn on the planet, but he was making up for lost time now. He took his anger, channelled it, focused it, allowing himself to remain calm even while his passion simmered.
The wind howled past the hull and the Force howled louder for those who could hear, threaded with Darkness and oppression. Overhead, the 23rd Fleet and the 44th Fleet were fighting the Republic’s somewhat ragtag space defence force. That, he could not hear from the shuttle, but he could sense it, the tension, the cold military discipline, the fluctuating loss of life. He had every faith in Clay and Pyron to be able to contain and overwhelm the Republic forces; the Empire’s might was even mightier when led by competent and dedicated leaders. He was, overall, very pleased that Murlesson had managed to uplift Pyron to his rightful place in High Command.
Still – “The Republic’s forces are doing surprisingly well for being a piecemeal mash of military and civilian ships,” Aristheron said. “They coordinate their disparate types of chaos well, which makes them difficult to predict, and more dangerous than necessary. They won’t win, however. Their struggle is futile.”
Janelle took the information calmly, knowing as she did that he made such statements without prejudice, and Vany just looked at him, having affirmed her loyalty to him first and nations second some time ago, but Ashara grimaced. This was going to be a difficult fight for Murlesson’s lover, between orbit to Giri’s hideout. Her Light wavered, like a candle flickering, wracked with uncertainty and worry, unable to focus her resolve. Some of it was her still-strong loyalty to the Republic, and her unwillingness to harm Republic forces, but a lot of it was centred around Murlesson.
With good reason, for Murlesson was in a bad way. Something had changed between the night and the morning; his tormentors must have recommenced their assault with renewed vigour after allowing him that brief moment to himself. Now he sat still and unresponsive outwardly, but Aristheron could feel his spirit writhing within him with an unbearable intensity, far worse even than before, with a silently howling Darkness that Aristheron had not sensed in anyone besides those on the Dark Council – and Giri, Fallen as he was.
If Murlesson survived this fight, how long would he last afterwards? Would he have to watch his friend die in agony, without a chance to fight his illness head-on? That was the worst of nightmares to Aristheron, to be helpless in the face of a creeping, inevitable demise. He would wish for his own death to be in battle, fighting for his honour, to be slain in an honourable fashion.
The shuttle lurched again with a loud creak and Ashara twitched again. Her mind was racing, her thoughts almost audible to him without even reaching out to her. He had to remain steady; he could not give in to the least sign of weakness, or those who depended upon him would doubt and fall themselves.
“Almost to the drop point,” he said. “Get ready.” Murlesson didn’t move, Xalek tensed, Janelle nodded, Khem Val shifted as if to stand, and Ashara took yet another deep breath. Aristheron ignored them all and activated a broad-band communication transmission. “Republic Forces, this is Lord Aristheron Laskaris of Talcene. My quarrel is with the Jedi hiding in the Planetary Communications Tower. Get in my way, and I’ll destroy you.” Vany smiled at him with approval. Fair warning had been given, for he could act with honour, must act with honour no matter his foe. And if the Republic chose to take him up on his warning and abstain from fighting, all the better – he did not like to kill for killing’s sake, like so many Sith did. Only that he would not spare anyone who dared oppose him.
He would not have been surprised if the Republic decided not to face him on the ground; Salvara was hardly equipped to face down ten full battalions of Imperial troops, not even in Heley City. And yet he had the feeling that they would cling to some foolish bravado and try to stop him, to soften him up for Giri. It didn’t matter; the only real question was whether they were strong enough to defeat Giri, minor distractions aside.
There was a sharp thundering ‘bang!‘, all the lights in the shuttle went out, and there was an even more sickening lurch as the shuttle began to fall from the sky. Ashara’s tension spiked, Vany squeaked, Khem Val grunted, and even Janelle and Xalek gasped in surprise.
Lightning had struck the shuttle, which normally should not have been a problem, but some lucky or unlucky strike had knocked out the shuttle’s main power. Aristheron somehow got the legs to stand and slid to the back hatch, drawing his lightsaber and carving a hole in it. “Let us go.” Without pause he jumped out, launching himself away from the wounded shuttle, into the vastness of Salvara’s sky. His heart wanted to stay, to help Vany get out, but he couldn’t block the exit – he needed to be the vanguard, to ensure that the way to the ground was clear. Vany was nimble, she’d follow him even without the Force.
The shuttle had just come into the eye of the storm, so while the air buffeted him violently, whipping at his clothes and hair and pushing him this way and that as he descended, he was not torn apart by 200 km/h winds. Ashara surprised him by being the next one out; he heard her giggle caught by the wind behind him. Her tension had suddenly evaporated away, on the surface at least, and he couldn’t help making a wry face to himself. What an adrenaline addict she was. Meanwhile, Janelle was much more nervous, though she was still in control of herself. It was understandable. He had been the only one in that shuttle with any experience with the airbrake that was standard equipment for Imperial paratroopers, or with the dive that preceded any use of such an airbrake.
He could not deny it was liberating, to cast himself to the air, to have only one concern for a few moments – landing at the end of this jump. Well, make that two concerns. Lasers were beginning to lance up towards them from the ground, from a small platoon of Republic soldiers standing guard around the tower, and he drew his lightsaber to deflect what he could, spinning, whirling through the air as he plummeted, cleaving his way through the Darkness that wanted to swallow them and the ionized light that wanted to pierce them.
Soon, he reached the point to activate the airbrake cord, which activated the capsule on his back, a small one-use jetpack that was near-foolproof to operate. He might have been the only one in the shuttle certified to use one, but the others would come to no harm with theirs. He decelerated to land at a half-gallop onto the plaza at the base of the tower, turning it smoothly into a charge towards the nearest unit of Republic soldiers, lightsaber blazing. Fear flooded them, but they held, firing, and he deflected several volleys of shots before vaulting their cover, in among them like a zakkeg among nerfs, cutting them down swiftly and cleanly.
His allies landed somewhat less gracefully, Murlesson definitely using the Force to slow himself even more than the airbrake pack did. The wounded shuttle that had carried them from the Kyvernitis hurtled by, trailing smoke in a spiral, slowing to a survivable velocity as Murlesson, barely glancing up, steadied its trajectory with a wave of his hand. Those pilots would live to serve the Empire another day, and Aristheron appreciated it.
And the sky was full of soldiers, hundreds of them, thousands, cascading down from dozens of shuttles, landing and hurrying to establish defensive positions as the last local defences crumbled and ran. They were capturing the plaza quickly, thanks largely to Murlesson’s subordinates Xalek and Khem Val, who had leapt into the fray even more recklessly than Aristheron had. He expected the Republic to mount a strong counterattack; they had been taken by surprise for now, but Commander Ry Min was not going to just let him land unopposed. He suspected the Republic’s lack of preparation was due to expecting him to assault the military base outside of the city first – doing an airdrop in the centre of the city was strategic nonsense, really – and now they would be scrambling to attempt to counter his true plan. Every second now was precious in fortifying their foothold. Giant crates of gear were falling with the soldiers, crates containing e-web blaster cannons, pop-up barricades, power generators, their mini-repulsor coils activating as their altitude sensors registered the ground approaching.
Major Stroud had made it to ground from the second shuttle, jogging up to Aristheron and saluting. “Morning, my lord! Perimeter will established shortly, just leave it to me!”
“I’m counting on you, Major,” Aristheron said calmly, discarding his airbrake and handing it to Stroud to dispose of. Stroud saluted even more briefly and turned to go yell orders into the organized pandemonium. It was pleasing to see his men forming up into disciplined units, the well-oiled machine of the Imperial military at its most impressive. Let the Republic come. They’d not regain the tower now, not with Stroud in command.
And they were coming. He heard the distant whine of heavy repulsors, even of track-treaded vehicles. He could not hear the howl of starfighter engines; perhaps they too were having trouble in this hurricane. They were on the ball, at least, moving as predicted. But they were Stroud’s concern, not his.
The tower loomed over them, dark in the shadow of the storm; right overhead he could see clear sky, lightening in the dawn, up to where faint red and green flickers pulsed in space. But though the sky might hint at hope and freedom, the tower did not, overshadowed by the black raging clouds ringing them in on all sides. And at the top… somewhere up there was the cloying darkness that used to be a Jedi, the creature that had sunk through madness to evil. He could sense it now, a curse radiating over the city, diffusing into the turbulent currents of the Force that had so confused his insight earlier.
Aristheron flicked a nod to his Force-wielding companions; they were the only ones coming with him. Murlesson was slouched over, his Force-sense’s twisted agony only slightly lessened by the distraction of active combat, and Ashara was staying well away from him; her proximity seemed to cause him greater pain. At least she was overcoming the dissonance inside her that came from fighting the Republic.
Janelle was half-meditating, her impatience and righteous passion barely under control. From the outside, she might look calm as a Jedi Master, but he knew better. She would make a very good Light-sided Sith, if she ever chose to join him fully. Though he suspected her plan was to return to the Republic once Giri was destroyed, and he would not gain-say her. Though they might meet again on the field of battle in the future, he would ever respect her as a former friend and ally.
Vany tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned to her, she reached up to kiss him. “I’m going to go chill with Stroud now. Don’t worry about me, okay?”
“Take care,” Aristheron said to her softly, unable to completely unbend even in this moment.
“Go flatten that guy,” Vany said, giving him a smile that strengthened his resolve, hiding her own trepidation for him outwardly at least. She pushed her lekku back over her shoulders and marched over towards Stroud with determination, checking her little pistol’s power pack as she went.
“Come,” Aristheron said to the Force-using strike team, and led them towards the entrance of the tower, cutting through the front doors. There were guards within the tower as well, and early-morning staff caught off-guard and scrambling to escape. Xalek dashed forward to kill the guards before they could fire off too many shots in their direction, but Aristheron had ordered that civilians be allowed to run if they wished. The only thing that mattered was Giri. The elevators had not been locked down, but Aristheron knew Giri would not be taken unawares no matter how swiftly they assaulted him.
He exited the elevator into the observation deck’s public lobby, a chamber that was somehow simultaneously kitschy and elegant, his companions at his back, and the Darkness that met him was like a blow in the face, like the stench of a diseased corpse. It was just like the previous night, but it was as if it had seeped into the walls here. He heard Ashara gag softly. And there was something underneath, something else terribly wrong, something he couldn’t put his finger on yet…
Kel Reu Giri stood before them, at the top of a sweeping ramp; impassive as all Duros were, red eyes cold and aloof. “So the cowards return.” His will reached out to them, his presence horribly strong even without being directed. The storm of the planet was centred on this man, yet Aristheron let himself become still, an immovable point in it all. “I hoped you would come, to save me the trouble of hunting you down yet again.”
“Your campaign of destruction ends here,” Aristheron said quietly. “I will not let you threaten my people any longer. Even if they now belong to the Republic, the house of Laskaris has not forgotten them!”
Giri snorted. “Republic, Imperial, or neither – they serve the Sith, and stand against the Light. Thus their lives are forfeit. I will destroy you with them, and with you I will destroy all the Sith.” He almost smiled mockingly. “So fear not. Once you are dead, I will have no need to kill more worlds, worthy or unworthy. Besides, what do you care, Sith?”
“Why do you not care?” Janelle demanded, stepping forward to stand beside Aristheron, her lightsaber in her hand but unlit. “What you say goes against all the Jedi teachings! A Jedi is not to attack, only defend! Never to kill unless absolutely necessary!”
“Yeah!” Ashara cried. “My masters taught me that too – a Jedi is to feel compassion for all beings and aid the weak!”
“You are foolish and deluded, both of you,” Giri said contemptuously. “There is no emotion for a Jedi, but there will be no peace for the galaxy while a single Sith lives.”
“Gosh!” Ashara exclaimed. “’No emotion’ doesn’t mean ‘be a sociopath’!”
“And I suppose you think you are a good Jedi?” Giri said to her. “I can sense your emotions from here. You overflow with them, just like the Sith you stand beside.”
“Your taunts are meaningless,” Aristheron said as Ashara fumbled for words. He took a step forward and so did all those with him, their determination a reflection of his own implacable resolve. “For yes, we stand together, Sith and Jedi, against you! No matter our differences, we all know who is the greater threat here. You have Fallen, and are no longer an opponent worthy of respect.”
“Fallen?” Giri said. “I am no Sith.”
“No,” Aristheron said. “You are sick. You are an abomination that is neither Jedi nor Sith, a monster without nuance, a dangerous beast to be put down.”
“Your opinion means nothing to me,” Giri said. “You are the ones who must be put down, all of you, and I have done what is necessary to accomplish it. Sabran!” He flicked his hand and a body was dragged forward from the chamber behind to tumble halfway down the ramp, rolling to a stop on its face, a short-ish human in a Jedi tunic with unkempt hair spilling over the floor, blue dyes fading to greenish brown at the roots. They groaned and moved feebly.
Janelle gasped, tears in her voice. “Sabran- What has- What have you done!?” This was the source of that other horribly wrong feeling, the silent screams of another soul out of its mind with torment, so weak that Giri drowned it out almost entirely. And the souls beside him were torn between fury and sorrow, and his own echoed them. He had respected Sabran, and this injustice enraged him.
“Only what I needed to do with what was available to me.” Giri twitched his fingers, and the human was telekinetically dragged up to a position resembling standing. Their skin was ashen and clammy with sweat, eyes unfocused, every muscle limp. And there was something shiny and metallic… embedded in their chest just peeking out from the collar of the tunic.
“The Weeper,” Murlesson murmured, the first thing he’d said nearly all day, his voice raspy with disuse and hatred.
Aristheron’s lightsaber blazed to scarlet light in his hand.
“And now your lives are mine,” Giri said, raising his own lightsaber to strike.
Sabran breathed, and lifted their head, staring at them with hollow eyes. “…not like this… please…”
“Sabran!” Janelle screamed, dashing forward, green saber shimmering, over Murlesson’s croaking warning shout. Aristheron gritted his teeth and dashed after her; she was breaking formation, disobeying orders and committing tactical suicide, but he would not let her charge headlong into this fight alone-!
Yellow came crashing down on green as Sabran fell forward again, into Aristheron’s arms, Giri distracted by Janelle’s reckless defence.
She hesitated, staring up at the man who had once been her teacher, even briefly.
He did not.
The yellow saber came carving down in an arc, bashing Janelle’s hasty guard out of the way, slashing across her chest. She froze, eyes wide in shock, as did they all. Her lightsaber fell from her hands, clattering and buzzing on the floor, and rolled down the ramp.
She choked and fell, her front a smoking ruin. “No!” cried Ashara, shrilly, uselessly, much too late and too far back.
Sabran’s face contorted, too weak even to cry out in pain, as the Force suddenly surged through them, through the Weeper, triggered by Janelle’s last breath leaving her body. Giri chuckled softly as the Force swirled around him, drawn into him. “Thank you, Janelle Wouters. Your sacrifice was unexpected, but will not be forgotten.”
“No…” Sabran gasped, choking, squinting through eyes barely able to open. “Jan – why…”
Aristheron laid down the body of his former rival and stood, raising his lightsaber.
Giri grimaced, inhaling through his teeth, and flung out his hands. The Force erupted in a flood of power, lancing towards them all, unbearable icy spears of Darkness. The hurricane outside rattled the windows and the tower shook. Aristheron gasped and stumbled back, a hand going to his chest though he could not touch his heart through his armour.
Was this Giri’s ultimate attack? Was this the entire result of the ritual he’d spent a month preparing? That couldn’t be it. It had hurt, had nearly torn his spirit from his body, but ultimately it had shattered against his will. It had destroyed the cloak of Shadow that he protected his true nature with, and he straightened to his full, commanding height to glare Giri in the face, the Light burning hot within him.
But the others-! Gasping noises caught his attention, and he glanced quickly around to see the others had to a one been knocked down. They lay as if dead, their Force presences faint and fading. Xalek was the most faint; Aristheron almost missed his pulse at first. Khem Val, even though he was no Sith, or perhaps because he was no Sith, was unconscious. Ashara had fallen over, and though she was still moving, her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Before them Janelle still lay motionless, Sabran beside her. And Murlesson-
Murlesson was plastered against the wall as if the Force had physically impaled him, head slumped on his chest. As Aristheron watched, he slid sideways to land heavily on the floor; his mask cracked against it with a metallic whack.
“Interesting,” Giri said. And then, furiously: “How could this be!? You alone stand – you who should have been brought the lowest!”
Aristheron turned back to glower even more fiercely at his nemesis. “I am not what you thought, it seems.” Behind him he could hear Ashara haltingly calling Murlesson, shaking him. “And now you will pay for your assumptions.”
“You-!” Giri snarled, unable to form words. He raised his saber and lunged to attack.
Aristheron set his teeth and met him head-on, heart afire with the utter certainty of his course. The Light was peace, and clarity, and control – not gained through serenity and release, as Janelle used it, but exercised through all the passion of his emotions, his love, his duty, his justice, set free to fight for what he believed in. That was what it meant to be a Sith of the Light, no matter what the ignorant said. He would avenge the fallen and defend the living, for that was his solemn duty.
And so he fell upon Giri in a tumult of scarlet light and gold-and-black armour, strength tempered with speed and skill. Giri matched him blow for blow, their sabers crackling and hissing against each other like an electrical storm. Thrust was met by deflection, counterthrust turned aside by parry.
“How do you still live!?” Giri growled from behind his yellow blade. “What unholy power protects you from my might?”
“Even now, when it is staring you in the face, you cannot accept the truth, it seems,” Aristheron answered in a low, tight voice. Passion flowed through him and he checked it before it broke loose. “Is it so hard to conceive of a Sith who uses the Light?”
“Impossible! The Sith are Darkness! That is all they are, all they have ever been, and all they will ever be! To be a Sith is to be Dark!”
“And to be a Jedi is only ever to be Light?” Aristheron asked sardonically, striking a heavy blow on Giri’s guard and forcing him back a pace. “Tell me what you wield, then! Tell me, Jedi!”
“I have turned your own Darkness against you, to consume you with your own sins! I use the Light to control Darkness, to defeat it forever!” And he felt it beating against his mental defences, seeking to throw him backwards, to choke the life from him, to rend him apart.
“You lie to yourself,” Aristheron said contemptuously, setting his stance like granite. “You have lied to yourself for a long time, unable to-”
“Silence!” Giri said, locking blades and leaning into him, pressing him back with sheer weight. “I will not be lectured by a Sith who cannot even admit his own lies!”
“I do not lie,” Aristheron said coldly. It was beneath his dignity to lie. Disguise his Light, yes, that was necessary. Use falsehoods to prevail instead of the strength of his arm and will, no. “I am a Laskaris.” He broke the saber lock, spinning away, returning to the attack with looping swings and breaking the pattern with a jab. Giri parried fluidly.
To be perfectly frank, it was a release to let go of his shields and fight Giri without hiding his true self. His life had been defined by honour, and self-control, and the concealment of his true nature, ever since he was a young boy. Even when his mother had been discovered as a Light-side Sith and killed, on a journey far away from Talcene, his father’s teaching had never wavered. Remember: you must never let go of the Light, and you must never let them see it. They will kill you if they discover you follow the Light, but they do not understand it is simply another path to true power. Those who follow the Sith Code to the letter lose control and die. Remember: you are not like them. You are a Laskaris.
“To be a Laskaris means nothing,” Giri hissed. “You are alone – the vaunted leadership of your family is wasted. Your arrogant words about standing together against me mean nothing now.”
He was Aristheron Laskaris of Talcene. He was Lord of the Sith. He would stand against evil no matter the circumstances. “You understand nothing. I am not alone.”
Giri flung out a hand and sent him flying backwards just as he’d done the day previously, though now Aristheron fought it, had room to fight it, brought himself down to the floor to skid backwards across its polished surface with a squeak of bootsoles. “Oh yes, the Force is a powerful ally. But it is my ally as well – and even if I cannot destroy you solely with the Force as I had hoped, I am still stronger than you now.”
That might be true, he mused as he straightened from his three-point crouch, ready to charge back in. He was finding it difficult to penetrate Giri’s defences, and it wasn’t simply through swordsmanship alone that Giri held him off. “I beg to differ.”
“Do you really? How stubborn of you.” Giri gestured again, now blasting past his guard, slamming him into the wall, the ceiling, the floor. He grunted and groaned, his whole body jarred with pain, his wounds from the previous day stinging intensely.
He couldn’t die here. If he died, Vany would cry, and that was unacceptable. He dragged himself back up, face and shoulders set in grim determination, blood trickling from his temple. This could not stop him. “Be that as it may, I am not alone.”
There was a sound from the edge of the room, a gasping grunt and a whisper of robes, and they both turned to see Murlesson raising himself – first on his arms, and then, in a very wobbly fashion, to his feet. Ashara had crawled to him, and now gazed up at him in hopeful wonder, still too weak to stand herself, not that she didn’t try. “Murlesson!” she cried softly.
“Impossible,” Giri said flatly, sounding almost like he used to when Aristheron had first begun to tangle with him. “Not you as well.”
Murlesson gave a low, rasping chuckle. “I can’t die. Not yet. My life is not yours to take, they tell me.”
That gave Aristheron a shiver of horror. It had not been bravado when he said he wasn’t alone, yet he hadn’t meant it literally either, only that while he had people to fight for, he could never be alone. Murlesson should have truly died, Giri’s massive attack should have worked perfectly on the young man so filled with Darkness beyond his years, yet the dead who clung to him bound him to his own body. Was that the true reason he’d sought them out to face Thanaton with? He was willing to go so far for his revenge?
Murlesson shrugged. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. Painful, yes, but don’t you know Zabrak have a very high pain tolerance?” He took a stumbling step forward. “So… ready to try dying yourself? It’s fun. You’ll like it.”
Giri had been staring at him with narrowed eyes. “You say your life is not mine to take… You’ll forgive me if I test the truth of that statement.”
“People who threaten me have an appalling mortality rate,” Murlesson said. “Of course, so do people who threaten Aristheron, so… carry on. You’re doing a marvellous job.” Aristheron withheld his amusement.
Giri snorted. “I know who you are, boy. Lost scion of Kallig, Aristheron’s little hanger-on, mad consumer of ghosts. You haven’t killed Thanaton yet. What are you doing wasting time here?”
“Why do you care?” Murlesson growled. “I’m here to help Aristheron kill you and that’s all you need to worry about.” He raised his arms, with an effort.
Giri forestalled him with an upraised hand, smiling a little, like he knew some amusing little secret. “You want knowledge, hmm? You want power? What would you do with it, if you had all you wanted?”
Murlesson hesitated, but then his fingers tensed, power surging around him. “I’d settle for living, first of all.”
Giri shook his head and clicked his tongue. “You set the bar so low, boy, young ignorant boy, for you do not know what awaits – if you live past this hour. You want to punish those who hurt you, don’t you? You want control. You want to rule the galaxy – and spread your suffering to every corner of it like a cancer, to try to fill the insatiable empty void of your soul.”
“No I don’t!” Murlesson snarled, power building around him. “I just want to be left alone by the likes of you!”
“Ha! That’s a lie. Laskaris might not lie, but you do. You think your dreams are awash in blood now – what will it be like when you’ve borne your burden another decade or two?”
“Shut up!” Murlesson howled, his voice cracking, lashing out with lightning in barely controlled rage. Giri blocked him easily. Murlesson was swaying, he was about to collapse again, too disoriented to be logical or thoughtful about this.
“Ashara, support him!” Aristheron ordered, stepping forward to attack again, breath caught and ready for more. “Giri’s words are meaningless. He seeks only to weaken you!”
Giri snorted. “Certainly, I seek to defeat your little friend with words, but my words are the truth.”
“Like hell!” Murlesson snarled, reaching out with clawed hands. “Get him, Aristheron! I have your back.”
Aristheron couldn’t help a tight grin. He could feel the turmoil threatening to break free from Murlesson’s tormented soul, but with Ashara’s help, he was keeping it together long enough to make it through this. He spun his lightsaber and slashed forwards, putting Giri on the defensive, driving him back across the chamber. The Force hissed around him, Murlesson putting his own pressure on Giri.
With Giri’s attention divided, Aristheron was a match for him now, no longer the sole target of that overwhelming might. He could regain his steadfast assurance, his grounding, his Light shining in defiance of the Darkness that surrounded them, gnawing at them; he was their shield and their sword as Murlesson was his own shield.
But Giri was hardly giving up simply because Aristheron had decided to be an immovable object. Now that he was being pressed, the intensity of his attacks increased, sacrificing some finesse for sheer force, an unrelenting torrent of blinding strikes raining down on Aristheron’s guard. There was no time to breathe, no time to react, no place to retreat. Aristheron gritted his teeth harder and stood his ground, lightsaber humming savagely as he met every strike. But Giri was cracking, leaving himself open in his ferocious assault, and the first moment Aristheron got, he jabbed back, forcing Giri to back off. They separated, breathing hard, glaring at each other over their sabers.
“You cannot win,” Giri hissed. “Your friends are dying. Kallig was dying before he ever set foot in here.” He began to gather his Force strength again, wind beginning to rise in the enclosed area.
“That won’t work,” Aristheron warned him quietly. “You’ve given everything you had to learn how to defeat the Dark. But I am not Dark – nor is the galaxy so cleanly divided. You cannot destroy me with that.”
“He wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it yet again!” Murlesson rasped, flinging the Force around Aristheron, Darkness sheltering Light against this new assault.
“Don’t test me, boy!” Giri growled, baring jagged Durosian teeth, the full storm of the Force falling upon them. Aristheron nearly flinched at its ferocity, the rage and hatred of an entire planet and a single madman washing over them, the channels that reached out to the forgotten wilderness twisting and converging and plunging down at them in a ruthless and virulent deluge.
“Sure, I’m dying!” Murlesson spat back, straining to withstand it all. “But if this is the last thing I ever do… I will make sure Aristheron ends you!”
“What-!” Giri roared; he was shaking himself, even with all the strength of the Weeper barely able to hold onto the storm. “You-!”
Murlesson hissed, barely audible under the howling wind, the screaming of the Force; the windows exploded and the duracrete walls were beginning to crumble, lightning flashing through everything, reaching out to the storm outside and its thick, black clouds. Aristheron could feel it – the channels of the Force, gradually torn away from Giri’s command, unbinding from Giri’s presence. And with that much energy in one place…
“Can you control it!?” he demanded.
“You can do it!” Ashara cried, reaching up to him, sending her strength to him – and so were all the others, Xalek, Khem Val, even Sabran lifted trembling fingers to him. Aristheron took the opportunity to attack Giri yet again, and yet was beaten back by the sheer strength of the Force between him and his enemy. It was frustrating, but clearly the wrong strategy in this moment. So he held his blade before him and sent his own strength to Murlesson, Light joining with Dark, that he might shatter this shield he was slowly prising open from Giri’s grasp.
The Force writhed and twisted, caught between two master powers, and with a small explosion, control broke. Everyone else was flattened to the floor yet again, and even Aristheron found himself falling to one knee as his footing slipped. What was left of the outer wall of the observation deck was blown outwards, and the only reason why the inner wall wasn’t equally demolished, bringing the entire top of the tower down, was due to the core of the tower being resistant to anything short of an orbital bombardment.
Aristheron dragged himself up yet again. Who had won? Had anyone won? He was still alive, so he had not yet lost.
Murlesson was still standing, somehow, Darkness holding him up nearly against his own body’s abilities, hands still outstretched and clawing at the Force. And across from them, Giri hovered, helpless, his control severed, the Force that had been empowering him now beginning to bind around him – to consume him-!
Giri screamed wordlessly. Murlesson gestured, the full weight of the planet’s Darkness gathering around him, behind him – forming that deadly spear that Aristheron had seen twice before, now laced with lightning. He had no words either, no strength or concentration left for speech. Slowly, painfully, he thrust his hands forward, and that endless spear of Darkness leapt forward, striking Giri.
The screaming grew louder, Giri’s presence collapsing in on itself, his shields destroyed utterly yet his spirit yet too strong to be snuffed out instantly the way he’d tried to do to them.
“Now, Aristheron!” Murlesson cried hoarsely. “Kill him! Kill him now!”
Aristheron lunged forward, and his saber found Giri’s heart.
The Force shrieked around him, the final release of a planet’s haunted forgotten secrets, throwing him back once more, tearing at the edges of his soul. Giri trembled at the blow, and his body seemed to disintegrate into itself. His voice lingered on the wind…
And then suddenly, finally, it was quiet.
Aristheron found himself lying face-first on the battered floor, his lightsaber still in his hand and an ache through his whole being. Of Giri there was no sign, neither physical nor metaphysical. Not a glimmer of his presence remained.
The chamber was a wreck, open to the sky overhead and all along the back wall, surprisingly free of duracrete rubble – it had all been blown away in the unbelievable clash of energy that had been released. The storm was quieting outside, no longer billowing in rapidly whirling clouds, and it seemed to have gotten lighter; Darkness no longer drowned everything in dread. His companions were scattered about the chamber, seemingly unconscious or dead. He went to them quickly, beginning with Murlesson. The young man still breathed, barely, his presence a slowly smouldering shadow of its unnatural self. Perhaps the explosion had taken its toll on his ghosts, as well. He could not tell if he would live; he’d already cheated death once today. He had to check on the others first.
Ashara would be fine once she woke – and as he touched her brow, she did wake, blinking groggily up at him. “Did… did we win? We won, right? You wouldn’t be helping me if we didn’t win.”
“Yes,” he said as she sat up. “Well done.”
She blushed and looked away quickly. “I didn’t do anything. I just helped Murlesson.”
“Without each and every one of us giving him strength, we might not have prevailed. You were the first, so I thank you.” The Light in her had protected her, just as the Light in him had protected him, though her will was not as strong as his. Nearly, though. She was a stubborn woman, only… easily swayed by feelings, easily taken by surprise.
“Um… you’re welcome!” She glanced at him shyly, grinning with a friendly camaraderie. No wonder Murlesson was fond of her. “How is he?” She crawled over to him hurriedly, her sense shifting to terrified worry. “Oh gosh. Oh no. Please don’t die! We made it! C’mon!”
Aristheron left them and went over to Murlesson’s subordinates. Xalek’s presence was weak; his defences had been vulnerable to Giri’s manipulations. Khem Val likewise, though his distorted spirit burned fiercely somewhere deep within him. They would wake given time.
Janelle was truly dead, slashed through the heart. Her eyes were closed, and her face was surprisingly peaceful. Aristheron felt his own heart heavy within him. What could he have done to save her? What could have broken Giri’s control over Sabran before she was compelled to rush to save their life? It was not good to wonder ‘what if’, and yet… it was hard not to, in this moment.
He had liked her; she had looked up to him, listened to him discuss the unusual tenets of his house, fascinated as she was by the idea of a Light-Sided Sith; she had sought out other Light-Sided Sith of her own volition and encouraged them to ally with Talcene and his father, even in secret. And of course, watching her play up the persona of a sarcastic, bloodthirsty Sith apprentice to fool suspicious Imperials and low-ranking Sith was very amusing, as she was not any of those things, and not really a great actress. High-ranking Sith he’d kept her away from, for everyone’s protection. Perhaps in a similar way to how Murlesson shielded Ashara, for Ashara had no cloak of shadow the way Aristheron did, as he’d shown Janelle how to weave about herself.
And now she was gone; she would never see the Republic again, nor the Jedi, nor even her best friend.
Sabran was still and cold, their pale skin even paler than normal, but their spirit still clung to life deep inside them. But the device latched onto their chest glittered malevolently, as inert as it could ever be now that Giri was not calling upon it, yet still drawing power to itself through its unwilling host, sapping their remaining strength.
This would be delicate work, and he couldn’t rely on any of the others. Force, he could barely rely on himself, he was so weary, but this was no time to falter. If he did not do it, the others would not be able to.
He did not know how the Weeper had been removed from the child he’d first met with it some time ago, whether it had been surgeons or Sith or a combination thereof that had released it from the child’s flesh. It was true they might have simply killed the child and told him otherwise, though such a thought was abhorrent to him. He had not been powerful enough then to insist on supervising. But he was no surgeon, and Sabran probably did not have time to make it up to the Kyvernitis for treatment. They were stronger than the child had been, and yet they had borne this for… how long now? Weeks? Siphoning the energy of a planet, controlled by their former master, giving the last of their strength to Murlesson to defeat that master… If something was not done now, it would be too late. Even as he listened, Sabran’s heart fluttered, Darkness clawing at the last dregs of life in them.
So Aristheron concentrated, feeling how metal claws latched through skin, how Dark intent wove into soul, and one agonizingly slow twitch at a time, extracted the artefact from the body of his former rival. The instant it came free, with a disconcerting dripping of blood, he slashed it in half.
The results were somewhat anticlimactic; the two halves went flying in different directions, there was a tiny ‘poof’ in the Force as it relinquished what little power it had drawn on in the last five minutes, and no further reaction was forthcoming. Aristheron found that acceptable. He would complete its utter destruction later, to prevent any possible salvage and abuse, but at least now Sabran was free.
And waking up. “Ungh… Ar… Aristheron? Hi.”
“I believe you will survive,” Aristheron said, kneeling beside them. “Do not strain yourself now. Giri is gone.” How strange it was… they’d duelled for months, and now he was taking care of them.
Sabran blinked once, relief beginning to spread across their features… and then crumpled into grief. “Jan…”
“She is dead,” Aristheron said quietly.
“I know,” Sabran said, and raised themself to sitting. Aristheron would have tried to stop them, but though weak, their movements were purposeful. They put a hand to their wounded chest and another to their face, though they made no attempt to halt the tears beginning to fall. “She loved me. I knew she did, but we never talked about it, because it was discouraged among Jedi, and because I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”
“I thought she did, though she never said it outright,” Aristheron said.
Sabran sniffled. “I couldn’t, though she was my best friend, and she knew, and she accepted it, and she died for me.” They took a deep breath, a sigh, then opened red-rimmed brown eyes trembling with emotion and resolve. “There is no death. There is only the Force. She is at peace with her decision.” Another sigh. “And Master Giri is gone as well. I can only hope he finds whatever peace he was denied in life.”
A low, sharp chuckle cut through the air, and he turned quickly to see Murlesson lurching his way back to standing yet again, leaning on Khem Val. “The peace he was denied? You make it sound like it’s not entirely his own fault he was a hateful lunatic.”
Sabran bit their lip. “I… He… That may be true, but-”
“But nothing!” Murlesson cried, voice rasping with violent emotion. “There is no peace in death. There is no peace in this galaxy! None! I have seen death, I have lived with death, I have dealt death! If there is peace in death, everything I have done is a lie!”
“Why?” Ashara whispered. “Who?”
“I did everything I could to make sure Netokos rotted in the fires of all hells forever! Him and all his wretched miserable underlings! And I’ll do the same for Thanaton! I rejoiced when Lachris was killed! And what of Giri, who was a greater monster than Netokos? What about me!?”
“No one is undeserving of redemption, even after death,” Sabran said sadly. “I truly believe it, even now. Even Master Giri. Even you.” Ashara nodded.
“I refuse to believe that!” Murlesson was screaming, the mask unreadable but his body language tight as a coiled spring, shaking violently and leaning towards them as if he wanted to attack them too. Khem Val stumbled away, and if that beast were surprised and afraid, everyone else ought to be as well. “And if you believe that I hate you as much as I hate them! They deserve everything they got and more for eternity! I hate them!!”
“Murlesson,” Aristheron said, taking a step towards him, towards that outburst of pain that washed over them all, intense and personal and unbearable. He would bear the brunt of this outburst, shield the others, even though his normally-unwavering conviction had been shaken. He… had never known these were his true thoughts – this was the truth, wasn’t it? This was what his father had warned him about. This was what happened when a Sith lost control.
And yet, he somehow found it difficult to say Murlesson was at fault for it. Who could bear such a burden? He did not know how his former owner had abused him, yet this black hatred spoke enough. “I understand you were hurt-”
“You understand nothing!! You’re the worst of them all, you aristocrat, so above everything, with your kriffing pride and your self-control and your frakking godsdamned Light! You’ve never felt this and you’ll never feel it so shut your frakking noble mouth!”
Aristheron’s eyes flashed, but he held onto his temper.
“Murlesson,” Ashara begged, tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t. You’re tired, you’re hurt-”
“What do you care!?” Murlesson flinched away from her, grinding his teeth. “You don’t have any idea either, growing up all safe and cared for! I’m not worth- no one is worth saving! Go ahead, waste your time! I can’t be redeemed and you’re an idiot for trying. Peace is a lie. There is only death! Death!!” He was sobbing in his screaming – sobbing, or laughing? Aristheron couldn’t tell. Peal after peal of staccato hysterical hiccups rang out, laughter and sobs and other snorting, choking noises – choking, choking, retching, vomiting, bent double and and dripping thin, bile-filled drool from under the mask-
And suddenly, mid-heave, he stopped short, frozen in place.
“M-Murlesson?” Ashara asked softly, her heart in her voice.
Murlesson straightened, but there was something… wrong about it. His movements were… jerky, and uncertain, as if he wasn’t quite sure where his balance was. A hand went awkwardly to his face and pulled away the mask, and Aristheron nearly lost his composure in shock. He had not seen Murlesson without his mask in some time, but he did not remember him looking like this. The young Zabrak’s red skin was sallow, less vibrant, thin, tapestried with black threads; there was still bloody vomit hanging from his mouth and chin and what looked like blood around his eyes – his eyes! His eyes were wrong. This was not his friend!
The Zabrak coughed and spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the floor, and laughed, a sound that made Aristheron’s skin crawl. “Finally, our time has come.”
“No!” Ashara shrilled. “You put that mask back on right now! Let him alone!”
The ghosts behind Murlesson’s eyes looked at her with mocking contempt. “This useless thing? Whyever should we do such a thing?” Still staring at them with his head tilted at an odd angle, the Zabrak flung out his hand, and the mask tumbled into the sky, falling from the tower. Aristheron watched his movements with horrified fascination; they were clumsy, like a poorly-programmed droid, and the posture was askew as if they could not figure out how to stand naturally. “Don’t worry. He has accepted this fate. He’s said many times he was resigned to meet his end at this point. He said just now, even. Didn’t you, boy?”
It was as if a switch had flicked; a shriek erupted from Murlesson’s mouth as he suddenly hunched in on himself, hands clawing at his face and head, then reaching out to them desperately, yellow eyes wide and wild with panicked terror, shedding tears of water and blood. “No no no no no no please no please, I don’t, please help me I don’t want to-”
Ashara jumped forward and was flung back, the ghosts seizing control once again, putting an end to the heart-rending screams. “He’s much better at begging today, isn’t he? It seems he was lying again; he said he didn’t care anymore. But what he wants is no longer important.”
“No!” Ashara cried. “Let him go!! Please!!”
Murlesson’s hand lifted, and everyone was knocked backwards with a lightning-filled Force push. Aristheron fell back, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain. Murlesson still retained all of his immense power; Aristheron could not stop him, not now after that last fight. “Goodbye, little fools.” He stepped backwards and vanished over the edge.
Ashara’s scream hung in the air, and Aristheron had to lunge forward to seize her before she jumped after him. “Let me go! I-”
“We cannot help him here and now,” Aristheron told her, though his own heart urged him towards reckless action like her. He could no longer see Murlesson, but his heart told him that he was not dead yet. “We cannot follow him like this. We need a plan.”
Author’s note: It’s not really a cliffhanger if he just clean jumped off the cliff, is it? :3