Ghosts

[Ronan Vizsla]

[member="Darth Carnifex"]

Soil and Tamara's body moved with Ronan as he carefully picked his way past the ruins.

There was a tenderness as he settled her body now next to the sobbing lad.

He was ignored without much worry.

"I-I will become a Mandalorian!" The sob was cut by panicked promise. Vizsla brushed a wrinkle from the robes that wrapped Tamara, sparing the lad just a single glance. It was true that they had offered each prisoner the ability to become one of them. It was expected, it was real and it was a right that Ronan would not deny anyone. Unless they had already denied it themselves.

"You will." Eyes widened in hope. "Your death will bring my daughter back. A Mandalorian in heart and soul. As close as you will get."

Hope crushed.

That deflated the boy, made him limp, made the sobbing quiet and broken. With Tamara settled comfortably Ronan picked his way through the ritual markings again, finding his way to the Sith Lord.

The urn with the soil was passed onto him.

"What is next?"

 

[Darth Carnifex]

He bade Vizsla to stand back, outside of the circle's ring.

"Now we begin."

He clapped his hands together, a resounding boom erupting from the collision that filled the air with an unnatural static charge. As he pulled both of his hands apart, sparks of electricity arced between his fingers as the dagger from earlier began to materialize in his hands; Ronan Vizsla's dried blood still remained caked on the blade's edge. The weapon floated up through the air, spinning end over end until it abruptly stopped with the blade's tip pointed down towards the boy's chest.

Then it fell.

The bloodied blade pierced the flesh directly beneath the sternum, sinking in until the crossguard butted up against the skin. Then it began to twist, slicing and tear the flesh before moving around in an arc about the boy's stomach. Blood spewed out to stain the earth, each droplet sinking into the barren dirt as if drawn to a hidden place deep beneath the surface.

And all the while the Dark Lord chanted, his arms and fingers moving in sharp esoteric patterns through the air.

សូមឱ្យភាពងងឹតហួសពីពន្លឺរបស់ផ្កាយហើយបើកផ្លូវឱ្យស្រមោលនេះ។ ព្រះលោហិតដែលប្រសូតមកជាសាច់ឈាមហើយសាច់ឈាមក៏ចាប់មានព្រលឹងវិញ្ញាណហើយវិញ្ញាណនឹងមានអំណាច។ ខ្ញុំហៅស្មារតីរបស់តាម៉ាវ៉ារ៉ែនពីភាពច្របូកច្របល់វឹកវរនៃសកលលោកហើយព្រលឹងរបស់នាងនៅលើការថែទាំរបស់ខ្ញុំនៅពេលដែលខ្ញុំដាក់ការលះបង់ផ្លូវដេកនេះដើម្បីដាក់ក្នុងទ្រូងរបស់អ្នក។

The blade continued to dig and tear at the boy's stomach, all the while his horrid screams of agony pierced the quiet night air. Finally the weapon tore itself free, slick with the blood and offal of the boy's innards before plunging down into his breast, the blade coming within a hair's breadth of his heart as it then began to saw through flesh and bone, carving away at the ribcage so that the coveted prize within could be retrieved.

Suddenly the Dark Lord loomed over the sacrifice, mighty hand crashing down ward to gouge out the cut away flesh as fingers grasped his still beating heart. With a great heave he tore it free, holding the organ aloft in bloodied hand as more dark words poured from his lips.

ទទួលយកការបូជានេះ ទទួលយកការទូទាត់នេះសម្រាប់ព្រលឹងនៃ Tamara Wren នេះ។ សម្រាកវិញ្ញាណរបស់នាងហើយអ្នកនឹងមានមនុស្សម្នាក់នេះ។ ទូលបង្គំបង្គាប់អ្នកឱ្យប្រតិបត្តិតាមពាក្យរបស់ទូលបង្គំ

Black fire ignited in his hand, wreathing the bleeding heart in consuming flame that dripped down to set the boy's body alight with a terrible conflagration. His body burned and his screams grew higher, more desperate as the dark magic invoked by the Sith Lord devoured his physical body and took ownership of his spirit; dragging it down into the pits of Chaos.

There were whispers on the wind, and a fierce rush of air.

As the last remnants of the boy's body crumbled to ash and disappeared into the blackened earth, Tamara's corpse shuddered violently as if seized by a giant's hand and shook like a ragdoll. Then she fell still, silence again dominating the land.

And her eyes opened.

[member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Tamara Wren"]​

 

[Tamara Wren]

A heartbeat.

Eyes wide and staring, still, unseeing, so still except-

A second.

She didn't know where she was. What had happened. For a moment, though her eyes were open and she blinked slowly, she was blind. All she saw above her was overcast darkness of a Wayland night but it was something. There was a difference, she understood now, between darkness and nothing. They were not the same. It was, in that moment, the only thing she knew with any clarity- as if it was the only thing worth knowing.

There were worse things than darkness.

A third.

Lips parted ever so slightly and she drew in one, long, shuddering breath. Ash coated the back of her tongue, filled her nose. The sensation soft and choking (shhhh little one, no fear, no pain, no death, shhhh), the scent acrid and the only trace of what had been given to bring her here. She didn't know, couldn't know that she breathed in the the last physical remnants of a boy whose life had been taken (not given, no gift free and truly offered) in exchange for hers. The scent of ash and copper layering over the darkness like a new stroke of a brush exploring a half dreamed landscape.

A heartbeat.

The echoing thud of footsteps- heavy and uneven- familiar and not. Familiar in the weight if not the cadence. The scuff as the sole (and soul) skidded across rough gravel. A heavy breath, then another closer- not hers? No, hers were still that gentle shudder of lungs stopped for too long trying to remember the simple act she had taken for granted every day before this moment, yes she remembered that and would she ever again take it without thought again?

Breath in, breath out. Remember how because forgetting means its over.

A heartbeat.

Touch- large hands- again familiar and not. She knew them, knew the way they felt on her shoulders. And yet they shook. She did not know that. Nor, for a moment, the face that blotted out the darkness.

"Tamara?"

Hushed. Tight. Again she knew the voice and at the same time did not.

Dark eyes blinked slowly, without real recognition.

A heartbeat.

And then-

"Papa?"

Her voice croaked, scoured and cracked. A throat too dry (dead, for three days but she didn't know that, not then), too coated with breathing in the wind-gifted ash.

She knew him. And herself. Tamara. It wasn't much, but it was something more than shaking breath and darkness.

"Papa what happened?"

[member="Ronan Vizsla"] [member="Darth Carnifex"]

 

[Ronan Vizsla]

[member="Tamara Wren"] | [member="Darth Carnifex"]

It was one thing to hear the possibility.

Another to watch it happen in front of you.

A third to cradle a dead daughter in your arms, while the warmth was slowly being fed back into her limbs. There was no regret in him, no doubt about the fate of the young boy whose life and soul had been taken in favor of Tamara. Ronan was not a good man. Never had been and never would. But family meant everything to him, specifically Tamara.

He'd have burned a planet, if it meant she'd live. That was the truth of it. "You were dead, little runi." Not even here would Ronan spare her of reality. His voice hushed and soft, but the grit marble was still there. "Killed on Mandalore." He added while leaning down and kissing her ashen brow. His eyes closed and the moment was perfect for a little moment.

"But we brought you back." We. That word brought him back and Vizsla leaned back, shifting to watch the huge waiting form of the Dark Lord in the shadows. "Kaine Zambrano, you brought my daughter back from the dead. You have made a friend today."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The Dark Lord watched the reunion with apathy, his expression never wavering from the stoic disinterest he often wore when passive. Whatever remnants of the boy's passing had faded away, even the blood stained on his hands had flaked away and fallen to the ground as ash. Every ounce of his being had been given up in the ritual, not one drop of blood had been spared or wasted in the aftermath. And in Ronan's jubilation at his daughter's return, perhaps he might not have noticed the quickly healing gash that had appeared on Carnifex's right hand shortly after he had conjured the sacrificial dagger.

But that was nothing to be concerned about, for now it was a time for father and daughter to rejoice.

"Death is but a gateway, Ronan Vizsla. A path to something greater. When the time comes I will expect to count on Clan Vizsla to rise up to the task."

With a wave of his hand he summoned his tunic and cloak back to him, slowly dressing himself now that the ritual had concluded successfully. He would perhaps linger around for several moments longer, to see how Tamara reacted to her second chance at life. But after that it wouldn't be long before he departed Wayland to return to his Empire, he had many things to attend to.

And many more plans to enact.

[member="Ronan Vizsla"] | [member="Tamara Wren"]​

 

[Tamara Wren]

"You were dead, little runi. Killed on Mandalore."

For a moment, he felt the heartbeat in her chest skip. In the darkness, it was impossible to notice the slight dilation of pupils already blown wide in the night.

She remembered. And in remembering, for a moment, relived.

Her hand covering the wound. The blood slick and starting to pool beneath her. A shock of fuchsia hair. A hand held until the end.

The pain.

She didn't remember how exactly she'd gotten to that place at the base of the wall- if she had walked or been carried. She knew that it had been a vibroknife- the memory of that was clear as the sound of a bell- but not who had wielded it. None of the base memories that built up and led to Tamara Wren bleeding out on the floor in a corner, the back of a crowd a blurry implication but otherwise...... nothing.

Tamara looked up when he did, confusion, pain, on her face.

They had brought her back.

She had been dead.

Her hands, both of them, tightened on him, feeling for a moment like she was drowning. She didn't remember..... almost anything. In that moment it was the fact of father. Of self. And of dying. That was all.

Her eyes met Kaine's for a moment- if he could see all of that, she didn't know. She just stared at him, not speaking. Not knowing what to say. It was difficult to thank for something that she didn't even fully know what it meant yet.

She didn't remember most of the act of living in that moment. She didn't know what to thank him for.

Or if he even ought to be thanked at all.

It wasn't that she thought, in that moment, that a mistake had been made. Just that there was no grounding for feelings about it at all. Not yet.

[member="Darth Carnifex"] [member="Ronan Vizsla"]

 

[Ronan Vizsla]

[member="Tamara Wren"] | [member="Darth Carnifex"]

A nod to Carnifex.

That was all the Dark Lord of the Sith received. A pact had been made and Ronan would adhere to it, sealed with the death and new life of his daughter. He would not raise a hand against Kaine, that was one part of the pact and the most important one for Ronan. But after that the presence of the Sith was ignored, until he melted into the shadows and left them alone.

His attention shifted back to his daughter. Eyes... softening or at least as close a proximity Ronan could grant, those hard eyes of granite never smiling. "Can you walk, little runi?" Before her death, he would have made her stand, made her take steps, make her try but now? Now Ronan felt different about it all, his hand stroking some of her hair away out of her eyes. Watching the lines, the eyes, seeing her mother in it and a little bit of himself if he looked deep enough.

Either way- either Ronan would help her up or he'd slowly gather her in his arms.

"How do you feel?"

This was... strange for him.