Trigger warning for discussion of depression, which will continue until those ghosts get exorcised. Possible discussion of suicide in upcoming chapters, just so you’re not caught unawares.
I hit 50K for NaNoWriMo today!
Nightmare music. Depression music.
Part 20: Convalescence
He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move. Dread filled him, a mindless, all-encompassing terror that would have paralyzed him if half of it didn’t come from being paralyzed to begin with. He wasn’t bound or tied down, he simply could not command his body to move.
They were walking around his bed, whispering, laughing softly, pointing at him like he was some kind of specimen on a lab table; he could sense it even though it was pitch black. They were somehow a crowd, the four of them, shuffling, whispering, shuffling, whispering. He struggled, uselessly, and found pain lancing through him though he was still immobile. He was pierced with a million tiny blades, every nerve in every inch of his body sliced open and raw. It was hard to breathe. “Go away… leave me alone…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, and it hurt to slowly form the words.
“Oh, but we couldn’t, even if we wanted to.”
“Which we don’t.”
“Little snake regrets all his choices, doesn’t he? Wishes he left well enough alone, doesn’t he?”
“Even Naga Sadow knew better than to mess with ghosts, boy. You thought you were better than him?”
He still didn’t know enough about ghosts. Had only half-researched them, stopped after finding what he’d thought was the solution to his problem. He really was a fool…
If there was one person in the galaxy… who had been in the galaxy… who could help him… “G-grandf-father… P-please…”
A burst of laughter. “Listen to him whine.”
“Delicious.”
“Your ancestor’s gone, boy. He hasn’t the strength to help you now.” Someone leaned down next to his ear. “No one does.” The words echoed inside his skull, over and over and over and over and over and over…
He was going to somehow hyperventilate without breathing. There was a scream building inside him, a scream of frustration and fear. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t-!
He burst out of the nightmare with a cry, and immediately Ashara was beside him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
“’m not,” he mumbled deliriously. “They’re in here with me. Can’t escape.” No, there’s no escape from us. We’re allllways with you. Little snake can’t crawl fast enough, there’s nowhere to hide anymore.
“We’re working on it,” she said soothingly. “I’m right here with you. You’re not alone.” Her slender fingers brushed his forehead, smoothing down his hair around his horns, and slowly, he quieted under her touch. He wasn’t cogent enough to analyze it, but her presence was soothing, quieting his frantic soul, even if he was too weak to reach for her, with his mind or with his hand. He felt her lips brush his face and faded back into fitful sleep. They still whispered and shuffled around his bed… but she was there now, beside him, guarding him, even though she couldn’t see them.
She couldn’t be with him always, or at least she wasn’t with him always. It was excruciating, his existence now. As he had quickly found out, he wasn’t free even unconscious. They were playing with his mind, and every time he thought they might run out of material, they’d jostle loose something new in his subconscious, finding more to mock him with or generate nightmares from. They were relentless, driving him to the edge of sanity, to rabid, desperate lunacy. Even if they paused for a few moments, just when he thought he’d have enough relief to rest for a bit, they’d start again and it was a hundred times more infuriating than if they’d just kept going. Which they were definitely doing on purpose.
How was everything he did so hilarious? He wondered, in a brief moment of sarcastic lucidity. They must have been really starved for excitement while they were dead for centuries. Either that or he was looking at a new job as a comedian for dead Sith – lie there, moan, sick with pain and fear, and let the laughs roll in.
They definitely weren’t completely sane themselves. Something they had in common, though he was pretty sure they were all further gone than him.
He was too weak to struggle, physically, audibly, or mentally, but whenever he was awake enough to pay attention, he noticed Ashara winced every time she came near him, so he must have been causing a strong disturbance in the Force. He found it difficult to be aware of his own sense – of anything in the Force, actually. Most of the time he lay in bed, eyes unfocused, twitching fitfully at their verbal poking or when the physical pain twinged too hard. He didn’t know what was going on in the rest of the ship. His crew could do whatever they wanted as far as he was concerned. Ashara stayed with him a lot, and the rest of them visited far too often, and he couldn’t stop them.
He couldn’t stop anything, not his crew, not the ghosts, not the nightmares that rampaged through his mind. He was weak and useless and he hated it. Hated them. Hated himself.
But as his own strength slowly returned, he began to regain some form of control, some form of awareness. One of the first things he noticed at that point was that his crew had wrapped him from neck to toe in kolto bandages at some point, under his robes. There wasn’t a kolto tank on the Viper, so was that their substitute? It didn’t seem to be helping at all. Or maybe it was, in which case he dreaded what it would feel like to remove them.
Ashara poked her head into his cabin after a day or two, once he was talking in complete sentences again. “You wanna watch a holodrama? I know you like ’em.” Ah, the rotting of his brain with fictional stories continues. No, no, pick something with death and destruction! Even fake, it’s better than nothing!
He shifted his head listlessly to look at her. “You had something in mind?” He almost said no, but… he was too tired to care. And if he was too tired to do anything useful, he might as well indulge her. Even going to the refresher, although he was finally in a state to hobble across the room by himself, was utterly exhausting.
“Well, it’s up to you, but I was thinking you probably haven’t seen anything by Metamorph… since they’re Republic.”
“I have not.” I hope their dramas are all about tragedy and betrayal, but knowing her, unlikely.
“Well, my favourite one is about a human girl who is going through some life experience, but she’s repressing her emotions, and it’s from like her internal monologue’s point of view as a separate character…?”
“I can see why you’d relate to that,” he said dryly, “but that doesn’t sound very interesting to me.” Or he just didn’t want to talk about feelings right now. Because you feel too much already, don’t you, little snake? Any more will send you over the edge, won’t it?
“Okay, well then there’s my other favourite one, about a Nautolan girl who goes on an adventure through space to return an artifact to the planet it was stolen from with them help of the buff Mirialan who stole it in the first place. Also they’re both Force-sensitive, even if the writers got some facts wrong about how the Force works.” The ignorant will never know the true power of the Force until it chokes the life from them-
“Fine, do that one.”
And she tapped his computer console until it had downloaded the transmission from the holonet, then marched over to his bed and indicated that he should scoot over a bit to let her sit beside him. “I would’ve brought snacks, but we’re kind of out.”
“A travesty,” he said. “Send 2V to get some on our next stop.”
“Yeah, gotta have snacks for holodramas!”
He couldn’t stop himself from talking as soon as it started. “Why is it all artificial? I usually watch live-action holodramas.” He sounds so superior. He’s not wrong, artificial holos are for children. He’s only trying futilely to make the Jedi happy.
“The quality of the story doesn’t depend on being live-action,” she said patiently. “Just wait. It’s good, I promise.” Of course she would say that. She’s a child herself, even more than the boy.
“…Why are they all singing? What sort of surreal reality is this?” Foolish drivel, even my treacherous offspring had better taste.
“Great stars, Murlesson, just shut up for two seconds and watch the show.”
“Tell the voices in my head to shut up,” he snarked, settling back among the pillows. The same old refrain, how sweet it is…
She tapped on his head lightly. “Hey in there, shut up and let him watch the show.” She dares? She can’t stop us. This puerile tripe…
“Are you five!?” he exclaimed, and suddenly, they quieted for at least twenty seconds. He’d managed to surprise them. Ashara gave him a look that was both pained and amused, and he managed to settle in beside her to watch with his head on her shoulder.
Despite distractions, against his better judgement, and without his even really noticing, the story drew him in – how the unlikely pair evaded savage Ewok pirates, how they escaped an exogorth who liked to sing even more than the song-happy main characters, how they challenged some unidentifiable lava monster on the dead planet that was their destination… and then they failed and the quest fell apart. The Mirialan gave up and left, the Nautolan girl gave up and left, throwing the artefact into space – and then the spirit of her dead grandmother came to her…
Ashara looked over at him. “A-are you… crying?”
“No,” he said, looking away so she wouldn’t see he was lying his face off. Even if it must have been painfully obvious to any Force-sensitive. “But you should turn it off anyway.” Liar, traitor, betrayer. Weak, pathetic little boy, crying at a fake story because of some sad music and pretty lights. Even the Jedi thinks you’re weak.
“You sure? It’s-”
“Yes.” He pulled the blanket over his head so he wouldn’t have to interact with anything anymore. She thinks you’re weak, that you’re stupid, she’ll never respect you again.
She turned off the viewscreen and came back to snuggle beside him, wrapping her arms around his blanket-swathed form. “Sorry, I didn’t think it would affect you so much. I always cry at that part, but I… well… You know how emotional I am. And the ending is happy, so I get through it.”
He didn’t answer, trying to control his face. Crying was humiliating. On the other hand, what did he need dignity for? He’d been denied it as a slave, and he was done for as a Sith lord. Yes, hide, like the coward you are. I don’t know how she’s still with you after this little display.
“Your heartbeat sounds different,” she murmured, her head on his chest. “I’ve never heard a heartbeat like yours before.”
“Two hearts,” he said thickly. “Zabrak have two hearts. You have to stab through both of them to kill me.” Oh, do give her all the advice on killing you. She’ll act on it sooner or later. It will be delightful to see you both break so.
“Ew. I’m not going to do that.” She sighed. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’ll see. I don’t know how, or when, but it will.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” he said. “Unfounded Jedi optimism.” She’ll fall eventually. There’s no better cure for the Light than unrelenting defeat.
“I am sure,” she said. “I heard once that most humans and near-humans need four hugs a day to be emotionally healthy. It’s just part of our biology, our primal instinct as various types of pack animals. So as part of making things okay, I’m going to hug you as often as possible.”
He grunted an exasperated sigh. “Your amazing plan to save my life is to hug me.” Even the voices in his head were speechless, though he caught Kalatosh mumbling something about of all the ridiculous, inane…
“Mmhmm. And other things. But hugs are good for you.”
His next sigh was a depressed sigh, as he fished an arm out from under the blanket, and put it around her shoulders. “Whatever.”
She squeezed him gently and held him until he fell asleep, unshed tears still under his eyelids. Stupid artificial holodrama.
“We’re here!” Ashara announced a couple days after that, swinging into his room with unbearable hope that was just a little bit brittle around the edges.
He frowned and hid under the blanket from the hope. It was disgustingly bright and cheerful, almost physically painful on top of all the other painful things afflicting him. Oh, look, the coward goes hiding again. He’d already been hiding inside his mask, which seemed to help – the tiniest bit – against the voices, but whatever, Andru. He’d tried calling him ‘Andy’ to annoy him, but that had brought on such a retaliatory migraine that he didn’t feel up to doing it regularly… yet.
She knelt beside him and shook him gently. “Oh, come on. I haven’t even told you where ‘here’ is.”
“It’s Alderaan,” he said through the mask and the blanket. “It’s not like everyone thought about it loudly this whole time like it was the only place left in the galaxy.”
She actually laughed a little. “Okay, I guess that’s not so surprising. But you know what’s on Alderaan?”
“I really don’t care.”
“Well, I’m telling you anyway. Once upon a time, I heard of this Jedi Master who lives there, Master Cyman, who’s really open-minded and fair. People, especially young Jedi, come on pilgrimages all the time to ask him for help and advice. I think he’ll help us.” Pfa, a Sith ask help of a Jedi? Oh, I think it’s far less likely that the Jedi will agree to help the Sith. Her dashed hopes will be so marvellous to see.
“And if he doesn’t?” He couldn’t help agreeing with their cynicism.
“Well…” she hesitated. “If he doesn’t agree to help with your condition, I was hoping he would at least give me some guidance personally. I’m still technically a Padawan, you know. I… miss having someone to ask questions of. And I have a lot more questions now than when I was on Yavin 4.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“You don’t have to get up now. I still have to find him, and ask him first. No sense in wearing you out if he says no.”
“Fine.” Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it no matter what the Jedi says.
“Okay, I’ll be back soon.” She pressed a kiss to the mask through the blanket and hurried off, still bright and bubbly.
He sat up, as quickly as he could make himself, pulling the blanket off his head; it caught momentarily on the edge of his mask and he nearly ripped it in his impatience. “A-Ashara.” Frak, sitting up hurt more than necessary, and he winced as his back spasmed. Careful, loverboy, you might hurt yourself over pretty words.
“Huh? What?”
He just wanted to see her properly for a moment before she left. “Be careful.”
She smiled a beautiful smile. “I will! Rest up!” Yes… rest… and never let down your guard. We’re here, even when she’s not.
Ashara found herself getting more and more nervous as she approached the mountain cottage where Master Cyman Walz was said to live. This was really unorthodox, but… he didn’t mind that, did he? He’d brought some other Sith lord to the Light and initiated him into the Jedi. She wasn’t even asking that much in comparison.
He had to help. What Jedi wouldn’t?
She swallowed and rang the doorbell. And waited.
There is no emotion, there is peace. She had to be patient. Maybe he was just… in the refresher, or something. Maybe gardening in the back, did he garden? She could imagine someone gardening in this sort of locale. The house was in a little sheltered nook on a broad mountainside, velveted with green and gold meadows running up all the way to the snowline. Behind her was an incredible view across a green valley, threaded with a silver river at the bottom, alongside which was a large town. Andronikos had used their fake Republic transponder to dock at the Republic spaceport, letting her off and taking off again in case any Jedi happened to sense her invalid friend, and then she’d taken public transport to this town, and then walked up the mountain path. There wasn’t a faster way to find him, it wasn’t like his address was listed on the holonet. It had been a long day, but she’d enjoyed her solo adventure across the countryside, despite the urgency of her mission.
And hey, she was on Alderaan! And it was just as beautiful as she’d been told. She wished Murlesson were there to share it with her. But she was doing this for him. Maybe in a bit he could come down, and then show her around when he felt better.
She was getting ahead of herself. A few minutes more, and she felt a Master’s presence approaching. Strong, serene, a calming aura in the Force. He came around the side of the building, a herd of blue ringhorn goats clustered around him, an elderly human with dark skin and a grey beard. “Hello? How can I help you, young one?”
“H-hi,” she said. “I’m Ashara Zavros, and I… I really need your help. But not for me! For a friend of mine.”
He frowned, and she felt the touch of his presence probing hers. The goats shifted restlessly, bells rattling softly, and one of them bleated. “And why could this friend not come see me in person?”
“Well, he’s really weak right now. It’s a long story, and I… should probably start at the beginning, so you don’t get any misunderstandings.”
“Begin,” he said, sending his goats back around the building and turning back to her expectantly, but he seemed more remote than he had a moment ago, and it worried her.
She took a deep breath, trying to purge her nerves with the Jedi Code. “Okay, so… um…” This really was hard to say to this Master, even if he had a reputation for being open-minded. “He’s a Sith.”
He frowned. “I know. I can feel the taint of the Dark Side upon you.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Really? Oh no. But he’s never tried to turn me into a Sith…”
“Their methods are not to be underestimated, young Ashara. If you remain with him, he will never stop trying in his own insidious way.”
How was she tainted? Was it just from hanging around him? Was it all the times she’d failed to persuade him to a Lighter path and people ended up dead? Was it from being around Sith holocrons, even though she hadn’t touched any? Was it actually from falling in love with him? Cheese. This was why she needed help too. “Well, um, anyway… He’s been fighting for his life against Darth Thanaton, and in the process, he absorbed several Force-ghosts into his own presence, and now they’re trying to… I don’t know, annoy him to death or something. H-he’s dying and I don’t know how to heal him.”
“And why would you want to heal a Sith?” Master Cyman said slowly.
She let out a sigh, letting the further build-up of nerves release into the Force. “Because he’s… he’s not evil, even if he’s so Dark you could cut it with a vibroblade. He’s just young, and he’s been hurt so badly, by so many things that he didn’t have control over. If he had his way, he wouldn’t be fighting at all. He’d go somewhere and write history books or something, he’s a huge nerd.”
“Your feelings for him are strong,” Master Cyman said.
How was it he was saying so little and yet so much at the same time? She blushed and shuffled. “Um… yeah. He’s not like most Sith. He’s… charismatic. And kind, even if he denies it to keep up appearances. He’s… he’s a person, not a stereotype. And he’s… so lonely. So incredibly lonely.”
“Lonely… and angry at the galaxy? Full of hatred at the ones who hurt him?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“He is not so unique as you think, young one. There are so many lost orphans in the galaxy exactly like him. The difference is… he has power. And from what you describe, incredible power.” Master Cyman shook his head. “I will not help you.”
It was like the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “W-what!?”
“He will not change, Ashara. He will ever be enacting vengeance on the galaxy. He is a tragic victim, yes. But he has become a perpetrator as well; the cycle of violence continues in him. No, I will not heal him. Better that he have a quiet end than that he become another wielder of suffering and fear.”
She gasped for air for a moment, almost sobbing in her intense disappointment. “Seriously!? You’d just give up on him, without giving him a chance? You don’t even know him!”
“A chance that he could live to do greater evil? The potential for evil is in us all. And in one who has only been taught by evil, by pain, by fear, who has never known good or peace, the potential is much greater. Too great.”
“He’s suffering and you would just-!” Her indignation was so great she felt she was going to explode; her voice was shrill in her desperation. “I can’t believe you! I’m not going to give up on him! Everyone deserves a chance-!”
“What of his victims?” Master Cyman demanded. “Do they not deserve a chance as well? Has he not touched your own life with his pain?”
Master Ryen… Master Ocera… yes, he’d taken them away. He’d murdered some people, tortured others, lied like a rug. But… “Everyone I’ve seen him attack or kill, tried to kill him first, or hurt him, or hurt someone he was trying to protect. Even my Masters, who judged him a lot like you are! They tried to kill him, and he defended himself! It’s been difficult to forgive him for it, but I’m still trying, because he… he just wants to live! I don’t understand how you can just throw up your hands and walk away when he can still be saved!”
“Does he want to be saved?” Master Cyman said.
Ugh, enough with the annoying questions! “Of course he does! At least…” Well, not in the way Master Cyman was asking. “N-no, but he doesn’t deserve the pain he’s in! He doesn’t deserve everyone trying to kill him ‘just for existing’!”
“Is that what he told you?”
“From what I’ve seen, it’s true!” She deflated and sat down in the middle of the path. “Look, fine. If you’re going to be so hard-hearted, I won’t ask you to help him. But… I need help too. I never completed my training as a Jedi, and while he’s never tried to turn me Sith, he can’t exactly help me become a better Jedi. So…”
Master Cyman stared at her for a few moments. “No.”
She jumped up. “Oh, my gosh! What now!?”
“You are no Jedi. You are far too impatient. Far too emotional. You would never pass the trials.”
Her infamous temper flared to full fury; there was no way she could rein it in now. “You… are such… a jerk!” She turned and stomped away, fully aware that she was proving him right, and yet- what a judgemental old-!
“If you would help him, you cannot be his friend and his therapist,” Master Cyman said quietly, and she paused and half turned. Was that… actual advice? “If you would help yourself, you must leave him and come back to the Jedi.”
Ugh! She wasn’t doing that, what would Murlesson do without her, as a friend or a therapist??
She didn’t need Master Cyman! She’d become a good Jedi anyway, and Murlesson would be just fine, and everything would be just fine!
After she finished being mad.
As Murlesson continued existence in bed while Ashara was out, Drellik came to hover nearby, claiming he had some questions about the reading he was doing on his datapad, but really just trying to be unobtrusively within call if Murlesson needed anything. They all thought he needed a babysitter, these days…
“So explain this to me,” Drellik said, interrupting Murlesson’s meandering stream of thought. He’d taken a seat on the office chair some time ago, rolling it over to his bedside. “The tomb of Naga Sadow on Korriban was built by Tulak Hord before Naga Sadow was even born?”
“Yes,” Murlesson said. Their conversation had turned from Drellik’s past work towards Murlesson’s wacky exploits, which Drellik had been made more clearly aware of since he’d joined the Viper’s crew, and apparently Drellik was somehow both thrilled to hear about them and believed them all instantly. “It wasn’t like Tulak Hord looked into the future, saw Naga Sadow, and thought to himself: ‘I’ll just build an elaborate old tomb for the greatest Sith Lord of all time that he’s not even going to use’. I’m sure you’ve read the arguments that Tulak Hord built it for himself, then decided it wasn’t good enough, and the ones that say his minions decided it wasn’t good enough after his death and built him a new one.” He shrugged. “Since Naga Sadow was not actually buried there, I can’t say I care whether it’s better or not.” Don’t lie, you blindly follow Naga Sadow as if he’s a god. Anything of his is automatically the best in your eyes.
“But you found the Dashade shadow-killer there, rather than Tulak Hord’s tomb?”
“Don’t ask me why he did that. It doesn’t make any sense – unless you subscribe to the ‘minion-built alternate tomb’ theory.”
Drellik chuckled. “And when your master tried to steal your body, you used the artefacts of Tulak Hord to put her being into this Dashade?” Put the witch’s soul in the monster, put the ghosts’ souls in you. What a meddler you are!
“Somehow when you describe it, it sounds completely nuts,” Murlesson said. Probably because it was completely nuts. Very few aspiring Sith had to do such things. Or lived to tell about it. “Don’t forget the part where I received supernatural aid from my long-dead ancestor who was murdered by Khem and Tulak.”
“Kallig!” Drellik cried. “He was one of the most powerful Sith Lords of his time, now that I have a name to put to the exploits. Perhaps the most powerful. And an alien, too! Even more unusual back then, I think.”
“A name to put to the exploits?” Murlesson asked.
“Oh, his name was removed very thoroughly from history. But Tulak Hord did have an incredibly skilful general, that much is clear. He didn’t conquer the Dromund system on his own, you know! And you yourself told me that Khem Val was ordered to kill him because Tulak Hord feared his power. To think how the Empire might have been different if he had killed Tulak Hord and not the other way around.” It still would have been Sith. In time, the ripples of the past fade into a predictable future, and all your struggle is vain.
Murlesson shrugged. “He gave me a name and a lightsaber and a mask. It’s kept me going all this time.” Not a thought for us. What an ungrateful child.
“Darth Zash and I have been talking. Well, when she’s around. I would love to speak more with Khem Val, but I don’t think he likes me.”
“Khem Val doesn’t like anyone, don’t worry about it,” Murlesson said.
“Still, when he gets that hungry glint in his eye… But anyway, I understand you inherited quite the archive from Zash. I would love to see it some time. It’s too bad we didn’t have much time going from Hoth to Dromund Kaas.”
“I would love to show it to you,” Murlesson said, finding himself speaking with genuine enthusiasm. “Though to be honest, Thanaton got most of it when I fled Dromund Kaas the first time. Most of my collection actually comes from…” His face and gut twisted, not that Drellik could see either. “My former owner. The one I murdered with twenty-three stab wounds to the chest.” And nothing of value was lost. About the best thing you ever did, boy. The treacherous little viper grew his fangs that day. He wasn’t used to his parasite chorus approving of his actions, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“Ah.” Drellik paused, giving the sense of a man having inadvertently stepped into a minefield. “If it’s not a good idea, then…”
“Oh, the collection is quite extensive, and of reasonable quality. Not that he knew the worth of half of it. He only knew he ought to have the biggest possible, and since he was so wealthy, it’s certainly the biggest on Commenor. I ought to assign you to the office there full-time, I think you would love it.” Yes, get him away, he stinks of weakness.
“That’s very tempting,” Drellik said cheerfully. “But I think I should stay on your ship for the time being. I know I haven’t been of much use so far, but you never know!” Yes, he might make a good throw pillow.
“You’re someone who understands,” Murlesson said quietly, looking away. Wondering why he trusted this strange, kindly man so quickly and easily. “Ashara likes history, but she’s never made a serious study of the Sith, as you might imagine. Revel doesn’t care; nor does Khem. Zash understands, but I don’t trust her as far as I could physically throw Khem. I… like to talk to you. I learn so much from you.” Shut up, stupid child. No one cares about your feeeelings.
“I’m happy to be of service, but I’ve learned as much or more from you! It’s truly thrilling to meet a Sith who loves knowledge for its own sake.”
He’d said too much. “I’m tired now. I’d like to rest.”
“Very well. Call if you need anything!”
She returned hours later; he’d watched stupid videos of baby gizka, ignoring the asinine commentary of his resident peanut gallery, and dozed off while he waited. It was actually not that hard to do even with his mask on.
He heard her angry noises echoing through the ship and snorted to himself. “Didn’t go well, hmm?” That child is so impatient… just like I was when I was young. So much potential for Darkness. “Shut up. Drellik!”
Drellik stepped in at once. “Ah, yes, my lord?”
“Ask her if she’ll tell me what happened.”
“Right away!”
He could hear her punching walls as she approached, and she was practically smoking at the aural canals when she appeared in his doorway. “I sense great anger within you,” he said dryly.
“Ugh! You can say that again! I can’t believe him! He turned me away! He turned me away!”
“Did he say why?” Oh, what a surprise. The Jedi turned on her, as they always do. They always claim to be more trustworthy than the Sith, but then the betrayal just hurts all the deeper. He waved away the inner commentary impatiently. He was trying to listen to her, not them.
“Well, you know. You’re too Sithy, and I’m too emotional, so we’re both of us not worth his time! Argh! He said I ‘was no Jedi’! And he refused to talk about you!”
“I’m not really surprised,” he said. “You’re temperamental, stubborn, and you left your training to follow a Sith. Why are you so disappointed?”
“But he’s… he’s Master Cyman! He’s supposed to help!”
She was so upset, her high hopes dashed so low, and tears were in her eyes. He sighed and held out his arms. She said hugs were good for people, right? “Jedi would never help me, anyway. You’re the aberration, being so stubborn over me.” Her and… the Rurouni. But from the rest, he knew better than to hope for anything. That was what meticulous planning and coercion were for.
She crawled into his embrace. “I’m sorry. I really really wanted to help.”
What was he supposed to say to that? “You did your best.” And her best was pitiful. All as expected.
“We’ll do it without him. We don’t need him. We’ll find a way.” She snuggled against him, slowly growing calm; he could feel the mantra of the Jedi Code running through her mind, quelling her anger. Ah, so now she remembers what she’s supposed to believe. Why could she not remember it in front of this important person she was so eager to impress?
After a few minutes, she sat up. “Well, there’s something we can try right here on Alderaan.”
“What?” He had small hope, but he’d try anything once.
“What if…” She hesitated. “I promise, I’m not trying to convert you. But if we back up a step and really consider the Force impartially, the Dark side is known for its aggression and destruction, and the Light side for its protection and construction.”
He squinted sidelong at her. “Where are you going with this?”
“I’ve been sometimes trying to heal you in the Force, but it’s never been something I’ve been any good at. But if you could take hold of the Light just long enough to try…”
“That won’t work,” he said, looking away. “I don’t know what it feels like.” You never will, lowly child of Darkness.
“Well, Alderaan is really beautiful, and serene; it’s really conducive to the Light.” Though she winced, probably reflecting on how un-Light her tantrum with the Jedi had been. “So it might be easier for you to touch it here.”
He laughed a little bitterly. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll try it. It won’t work, but I’m desperate enough. Too bad the Jedi can’t weaponize this.”
She huffed. “What, to drive more Sith to the Light? That would be mean. Anyway, we should go down tomorrow somewhere. We can get a mobility device if you don’t have the energy to go far. I’m not a great teacher, but we’ll try together, okay?”
He shrugged. “I can’t sink any lower.” Oh yes, you can. Little snake has not yet become a worm, crawling in the dust, fangless, mindless, crying for the end that we control. You can and you will sink to lower than you began, a slave, begging for mercy in the muck that spawned you.
He slammed his head into the wall, mask and all. “Shut the frak up!” Ashara dove for him before he could do it again, but he heard their laughter through the ringing in his ears.
Her experiment did not go well. Though Revel landed them in a beautiful location, which was completely lost on him, and though she told him the mechanics of meditation… it didn’t help. The whispers persisted, hissing through his subconscious like wind through dead leaves.
Around them were high peaks shimmering with white snow, and ahead was yet another incredible vista of the lowlands, green and hazy and serene. The ocean was visible in the far distance. The wind was gentle and smelled like soft grass. The antithesis of the tumult of Dromund Kaas, the polar opposite of the deathly stillness of Korriban. Yes, he could believe this was a place for Jedi to get in touch with the Light side.
But he was too permeated with Darkness for this to have an effect, even without the disdain of his parasites. The vista might be beautiful, even filtered through the lenses of his mask, but how was that supposed to help him? He stared at it in disinterest, at the copse of trees over on the right, at the crystal brook that tinkled its way down the mountainside on the left. Ashara was drinking it in, metaphorically, but it had no meaning for him. Especially since it seemed one was supposed to close one’s eyes when meditating. The Force was here, and his presence sat in it like a cold hard lump.
She parked his hover-chair where he could see everything, and he laboriously climbed out to sit on the grass. She sat down beside him, cross-legged, and he copied her. “Okay, so I don’t know what you should pick as a mantra… I don’t think the Side Code is going to work here, but I don’t know if you want to try the Jedi Code?”
“I’ll try anything,” he repeated, trying to feel relaxed. He didn’t feel relaxed. He felt empty.
“Then let’s start with: There is no emotion, there is peace.” She said it again, and again, trailing off into a near-inaudible murmur as she began to sink into her own meditation.
He said it mechanically, parroting her words. They were only words to him. There was no emotion for him now, and no peace, either. Just tiredness. And whispers. Always with the whispers.
The meditation initially led him inwards, down past the surface of his lack of emotion, down into Darkness. There was no Light in him, what was she talking about? Only helplessness, hopelessness, and as he began to feel himself, to open himself to his own vulnerability, he felt his thoughts begin to spin faster and faster, not slower and slower. Unstoppable, relentless, wrong. The Light was peace and serenity and harmony, wasn’t it? He’d never felt those for more than fleeting moments in his childhood, and then it was only because he was too young and naive to see how he was being used. The old hurt and anger came flooding back, a child’s illogical sense of betrayal, of abandonment, the useless rage he’d felt at any sentient more free than him. Because if they were free, they were buying him, selling him, owning him, mistreating him, lording over him in their lack-of-slavery, or just ignoring him as if he didn’t exist. He gritted his teeth against the hotness of his chest. It hadn’t been that long since he had been a slave, had been a powerless nothing screaming silently into nothing, and look at him, still doing it. He didn’t know how to find the Light, he was drowning in Darkness, murderer, liar, betrayer, hypocrite. He’d committed so many terrible sins, scarred his body and his soul, all in the name of living another day, and everything he’d done was out of hubris. The arrogance to think that he could ever truly escape from anything. He’d killed so many, too many to count, and yet he remembered every one of them, and at their head was Ten-
Dimly, he heard Ashara calling him, grasping his hands; her Light was shining before him, reaching out to him, and he cowered away from her before she burned him, falling further into the Dark storm inside him. His breath was coming in frightened gasps, his heartbeats roaring in his ears. He was caught inside himself, alone with his guilt, his fear, his pain, and the whispers. Now no longer whispers, grown to shouts. He wasn’t- He couldn’t- It hurt-
The voices screamed at him, drilling through his skull, no mockery now, only hatred and contempt.
His spirit lashed out, the only reaction he had left, and vaguely he sensed Ashara duck as a wave of energy blasted out of him and flattened the copse of trees, scorching the grass black instantly.
He was a wretched, half-paralyzed thing, lying in that sunny green meadow, trying desperately to breathe, to break out of his own mind and the virulent poison that churned there. “H-help… help me…” NO ONE WILL HELP YOU NO ONE CAN HELP YOU
“I’m here,” Ashara said, and now he could hear her. “I’m here. You’re all right.”
“I’m not,” he whispered. He could feel his mind breaking, how odd was that? He laughed a sobbing, mirthless laugh, sharp and brittle, like everything else about him. It hurt; he needed to find a way to either make it stop or consume him completely, this was unendurable. He twitched, violently, and tried to slam his head on the ground. It didn’t work. It was too soft, with the grass and the dirt. He needed to find a rock. It hurt, everything hurt, physically, mentally, emotionally, and he needed it to hurt more, he deserved to hurt more, he didn’t deserve the life that he’d cheated his way to preserving at all costs-
Who would he kill next? When would he kill the people important to him? Because they were important to him, despite his best efforts. How long until they betrayed him, as he’d always been betrayed since he was old enough to trust? He should have died as an infant, and better for everyone, including him.
She was cradling his head, trying to keep him from whacking it on anything else, and he sensed she was feeling a bit nervous. Probably hoping she wouldn’t end up like the trees.
Slowly, as he stared up at her anxious face, felt her hands steadying him, his breathing returned to his control.
“Let’s not do that again.”
Mutely, she nodded.
“How’d it go?” Revel asked when they returned to the ship. It had actually been a couple hours since they went out. Had going crazy really taken so long? It had felt like a lot less.
“It’s not for me,” he said dryly, and went to go lie down and try not to think too hard. The mask was staying on.
Ashara came with him, and as she made to leave, he caught her sleeve. “Please. Stay.”
She hesitated, and his fractured will crumbled. “No, never mind. I’m sorry. I understand your fear. I’m afraid of me too.” Which was why he wanted her to stay, but… he’d suck it up. He always had, before. He was just… If he was alone now, he might go crazy again.
“I’ll stay,” she said softly. “I’m not afraid.” Liar. “Not more than I care about you, anyway.”
He made space for her, and she lay down beside him, holding his hand with both of hers. “I’m right here,” she whispered. “Nothing will happen to you while I’m here. Try and rest?”
He tried.
Eventually, he succeeded. Mostly.
He gave no orders, still not caring where they went; Zash asked Andronikos to travel to Commenor so she could look through Murlesson’s collection of Sith memorabilia there. He didn’t know if the office staff had finished cataloguing it. Well, she could do as she wished. It was fine. Maybe Drellik would go too.
His strength was still returning, and now he was well enough to walk about, still in pain, but no longer exhausted from the mere act of standing. But his growing control and awareness brought new problems to his attention. In between the pain, there was a feeling of numbness occasionally. Normally he might have shrugged off such a minor thing as nothing to worry about, at least not until later, but now… now everything was something to worry about.
He was washing his face one morning when he stopped, peering closely at his eyes. It was difficult to tell with his tattoos, difficult to tell with the physical signs of unhealthy weariness that he’d inadvertently cultivated since he’d graduated from Korriban. His tattoos ringed his eyes in inky black, and he’d had bags under his eyes since he discovered caf. But… his skin was… fragile. Withering, perhaps, was a better word, with Dark corruption that had never shown before. He leaned heavily on the sink, a shudder running through him. He remembered what had happened to Zash. That had been horrible. Would that happen to him? He’d end it first. Let the Dark claim him utterly before it consumed him like that.
As for the rest of him… He pulled away from the sink, sitting on the edge of his bed, and began unwrapping the bandages on his fingers, calmly, methodically, until he’d exposed his left hand. Mostly, it looked the same. Long, knobbly fingers, dark red skin, discolourations and ridged callouses on his palms from the burn scars.
The ends of his fingers were darkening, turning black. It was spreading in tiny thready veins down his fingers towards his hand. He stared at them for a long time.
“I’m falling apart,” he said finally. “All of me.” Not just his mind. He heard his parasites cackle.
Ashara poked her head in the room and saw him staring at his hand. “Oh, you found those.”
“You knew about this?” he asked, too dull to feel betrayed. Oh, she knew, she knew, she kept secrets from you. Everyone does, doesn’t it hurt? How many have you kept, hmm?
“I didn’t want to tell you, you had enough to worry about.”
“The fact that I’m dying physically as well as mentally didn’t strike you as important?” he asked sharply. His hearts were racing as he stared at his hands. What did this mean? Medically speaking, what was going to happen? Was he going to disintegrate from the extremities? How much would it hurt? How long before it got to his internal organs, or was it already there, unseen?
“Breathe,” she said gently.
He was about to hyperventilate, lungs spasming in the start of a panic attack. “I c-can’t-”
She hurried to kneel in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were closed, preserving his privacy even as she offered him this physical connection to the support of her soul. “Breathe with me. Breathe in… Breathe out. Breathe in… Breathe out.”
He wasn’t able to follow her, even with her Force-sense holding his, but he slapped himself in the face, twice, and that jolted him out of it. He pulled away, getting his shakiness back under control, using anger to fuel it. “And what’s with instantly appearing the moment I show the slightest sign of feeling upset? Are you spying on me?”
She frowned unhappily up at him as he crossed the room away from her. “I’m keeping track of you very carefully, yes, but I’m only trying to be helpful. …Spying would be if I’m going to tell the others about it, wouldn’t it?”
“Whatever. I wish you wouldn’t. Can’t I freak out in peace?” Oh, send her away! Send them all away, and let us truly in! Well, of all the things he could possibly do, he wasn’t doing that.
She huffed, and he could practically read her thoughts. He wasn’t getting peace anyway, freaking out was the opposite of being peaceful, and maybe she could provide some like she had before. He turned with the intention of going back over to the mirror, and half-way there just gave up. He slumped forward and let himself flop on the cold metal decking like a broken doll. He could feel the ridges pressing a pattern into his cheek, could feel his elbow protesting at being pulled in that particular way, and just let himself lie there dully.
“Can I go ahead and die yet?” he asked of the deck. “Make a lot of people very happy.” Thanaton, the parasites in his head, Harkun, Zash, Khem, basically everyone in both the Empire and the Republic.
“It would also make a lot of people very unhappy,” she protested, shifting to kneel beside him again. “What about everyone else on this ship?”
“They have other things they could be doing.” They don’t really care about you. They’re only using you the way you use them.
“What about Rylee and Destris and all those people who depend on you?”
“I’m sure Torga would be happy to have them. After I tell them to blow some things up to vent.”
“Weirdo. What about Aristheron?” Her voice sank, anxious, heartsore. “What about… me?”
She was foolishly deluding herself into thinking she liked him that much. “Sunk cost fallacy. You’ll get over it.” You should kill them before they betray you. “Shut up…”
“I don’t want to get over it, you jerk!” Still stubborn.
“What even is the point?” he whispered, closing his eyes in a pained frown. “I fight and I fight and it just hurts more and more. Every time I win a reprieve from death I lose something else. I can’t get any of it back. I’m tired. There’s no point in pretending it’s worth it anymore.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The Jedi say there is a way to live without fighting, but I’ve never seen it myself. But I know there’s a point to life. I know there is. You can’t give up on us yet.” She’s lying. Whether from ignorance or naive optimism, she is wrong. Take it from the dead, life is futile, a vain pursuit of power that accomplishes nothing if you can’t have immortality. Which we still hope to get…
“Have you seen it?” he asked dully. “Can you prove to me there’s a point to living?”
It was amusing and numbing, how the ghosts sometimes spoke the same as his internal monologue had always spoken. Despite their viciousness, their cruelty, they weren’t saying much that was new. He’d heard a lot of it before, from himself. But what that truly meant was that he had pre-emptively given them so much power over him, by already being depressed. He couldn’t help but accept their words as true. And they echoed so loudly… There is nothing here for you. Just let us in…
“I-I don’t know if I can prove it… but… Look, while I’m thinking about it, can’t you just live out of spite, like you usually do?”
He rolled his eyes. “Look where that’s got me. Terminally ill.” More cackling.
“We don’t know it’s terminal yet! Anyway, please, don’t give up. I’m here with you every step of the way.”
“Don’t want me to drag you further into despair, so you’ll drag me out of it?”
“Huh? I guess?” She touched his face, and he rolled over to look at her; he sensed she wanted him to. “Listen: I know living is difficult. I know hope is painful. Not as well as you know it, but I do. But it’s worth it. I promise.”
Her sincerity was painful to feel, and he didn’t let it impact too far into his soul. “Well, I guess I won’t kill myself today at least.” Tomorrow’s another day…
“Fair enough,” she said in kind, stroking his face and smiling a little. She was so pretty.
Personal story: I’m a professional pianist, and recently I was working with a singer who chose to sing The Rainbow Connection. I hadn’t heard it before, and there was something incredibly beautiful about its harmonies and words that almost made me cry in the practice room. As a result, I decided I wanted to give Murlesson a similar experience. So that’s why Ashara suggests watching Star Wars-Moana (which also makes me cry every time). Poor boy isn’t immune to the expert psychological manipulations of the Mouse Machine.