He did not believe it. He remained on the ground, fiercely clutching the ragged doll. So pristine was that doll, oblivious with that permanent smile etch upon its countenance, forever amused and withdrawn from the pain that gripped his owner. He had stopped crying, but the pain lingered, coursing through his veins like poison. In an instant, everything was gone. In an instant he was a derelict undesirable, turbulently left clutching an inanimate object. Shuddering gasps marked the cessation of himself sobbing.
“You are strong. You can rise above this.”
The voice was smooth, cold, drawling. Without turning back, he thought the words flowed from the lips of his father. He did not look back. He did not have to look back to understand that the figure standing behind him was a monster. He lowered his head, looking into the face of the doll. The face was tainted with blood, but the smile never faded. He rose from the ground, one of his small hands wiping the tears away. He finally turned to face him. He was cloaked in darkness, enshrouded in mystery. His senses, however, pierced through the darkness. The black pools drew attention to his face enraptured with passion, displaying a thirst that would possibly never be quenched. He looked into those eyes, the fear and pain in himself heart melting away.
He did not know what he was. He did not know that he could feel the darkness emanating from himself, the raw power that tugged at him almost sensually. He did not know that he possessed an untamed fury that whirled within himself like a monster, lying dormant and chained. Only he could feel it. His senses pierced through his frail body, past the little face of a scared boy, right into the blackness swirling in his heart. He couldn’t see the smile slowly creeping onto his face but he could feel it. The smile that eerily resembled the one on his doll.
His words, the promises of a tomorrow, the promise of absolution, the promise of retribution, breathed life into him. None of it made sense to the boy, but he gazed onto that monster makers face. The hypnotizing waves of sorcery guided him, as if intangible ropes had bound him and gently tugged him along. He crept back into darkness and he followed, his eyes wide with wonder. His hand fell to his side, the doll falling to the ground, splashing into the coagulating blood of his mother. A small test or the emperors weapons. Something they could mold.
He closed his mind, shuddering and writhing in pleasure. The blade withdrew from the delicate, pale flesh of his wrist. The red blood flowed smoothly from the tear, an imperfection upon many that littered his arm and matted the delicately fine fur. He was fascinated by blood, his finger reaching and tenderly touching the fresh wound. He coated the tips of his fingers in his own immaculate blood, bringing it up to scent the sanguine liquid. He could almost see it, and suddenly had the wild urge to taste it. He leaned forward, expecting the coppery explosion of flavor.
“Back again?”
He knew. He did not rapidly jerk away or hide what he had been doing. He reveled in it, welcomed it and accepted it. The blade remained in his hand, his empty eyes not meeting his fathers. He knew what he had been doing. He said nothing for a while, standing many feet away. His arms were crossed over his chest, his face always devoid of expression. He did not judge him, question him, or attempt to stop him. He simply observed. He said nothing in return, lowering his gaze and staring into the reflection of his creation that displayed in the blade.
His eyes bore an almost golden hue, the pigment lightening from their initial shade. The knife was pulled to the ground with a clatter as the force was flexed. Varadun made no motion for it. He simply watched. After a long moment, he turned and left. Left himself to his corruption, the slow descent that he had begun since that fateful day when he was born. He walked alone, unguided and untethered until the time came. Until the empire was reborn and needed its weapons. The gash on his wrist reminded him of the life he was now leaving behind. The redness brought back memories of a life locked far away. Of the life a child would have when compared to a sith.
The skies were no longer blue, the sun did did not shine, the birds did not sing. All that remained was the cold, gray reality that constantly hung like a sinister gloom. It clung to him, burned through his skin like acid, made him shrink back. He needed to escape it. He needed to run away, and the only way to do so was to tear into it, let it out. He breathed for the first time when he cut into his flesh, and it was liberating, feeling the essence of himself life run down his hand and reminding him that his heart still beat.
He knew they thought he was weak. He did not understand why he pushed him. He did not understand his overzealous devotion to something he could not see. He could only feel it. He had been told to open himself up to it. He promised he could control it, manipulate it and bend it. To shape it to him will, for the ones who just lived it would be a cruel joke, for the ones who beat life into their image it was power. He told himself he could snatch as much of it as he wished. He said he was its master and could command it at will. He followed, purposeless, directionless.
He was not kind, not gentle, not loving in any fashion of the word. He was the epitome of necessity, brutality, perfection, ego and efficiency. He was what he needed, the guidance that harshly pulled him from the dismal chasm of insanity and bloodlust. It was a place he often flirted with, and he often found herself on the brink of sanity, peering over the edge before he fell in for good. He was unstable, rocky and his foundations were weak. He was weak. It was a slow realization, one that crept into his mind and planted a seed. That seed blossomed into a tree of doubts, a tree he was quick to sever in half. He was his creator, his mother, his brothers, his sister, his god. But he gave nothing to himself. He took nothing from himself. He existed in the distance, always far away, always silent. His silence spoke volumes, and it molded him into the shape and set himself on the path to grandeur. It was one he had to walk, though his purpose remained obscure.
He simply stared at his creator, his father. He could tell he was growing impatient. He could feel the irritation, the anger, all of it culminating within him. It threatened to explode, and he could feel it. He paid it no heed. He reached out his hand, the one scarred on the wrist and littered with cuts he had inflicted upon himself. He touched his face, his delicate fingers roaming over the fine on his cheek. It was a harsh, twisted perversion of the skin that was once there. something that was a byproduct of the alchemy. He shrunk away at his fathers touch, almost involuntarily. He did not withdraw, keeping his chilled fingers on his skin.
“Does it hurt?”
He said nothing. He was a boy no older than a preteen child, at least by appearance. He could sense pain from him. He could sense it using that force sight he couldn’t share with others. The thing he could not comprehend yet while its power flexed like a mantle. He rose from the ground, staring at his master, his father, his creator. He followed his movements with his force sight. As he met his gaze, he did not find him there. He was lost, gone far away from this world. He had left his body a long time ago, leaving behind a placeholder. He knew the answer then.
He found him many times after that, always in the same place. He could not walk away, could not stop vacantly gazing. He never looked at his as he passed him. He never spoke to him. But he knew, and he knew. It originated from the pain, from the cuts on their bodies, from the wounds that would never heal. That’s where he found him, in a place he thought he would never be found. He returned every day, never exchanging words, nor a gaze. Simply his presence. He could feel it. He could feel it because he was another creation born to be thrust into a world of the empire in hiding, in the darkside cult that came from the emperor and hid waiting. He wondered if he understood it. He did not ask.
He could never explain what changed. He found him yet again, not making eye contact. He said nothing, and he walked past him. However, he heard a sharp intake of breath. It was an abrupt action, so sudden that it tore into the tranquil atmosphere around him. He faced him, locking gaze with him for the first time since he had touched his face. He returned the gaze. This time, he saw life behind his force presence. He said nothing for a moment, the silence growing between them. He did not move, did not prod his mind with the force. They were equals under the emperor for the moment, he could feel it. Finally, he spoke. His voice was like music to his ears.
“Not anymore.”
His senses flared out as they scanned the area, the hollow eyes under the sash like black pools that swallowed the light to drown it, to consume it and choke all who came. They glinted in the darkness, his tattered cloak gently swaying behind him. He was crouched up in a tree, observing the outpost from a distance. He could feel it from them, the self righteous pricks lost in their pious sense of justice. They were blind in their strife for perfection, for atonement for sins yet to be committed. He smiled at the sight, shooting a glance over to his other half, the boy that had become a weapons, that had become his fathers weapon.
The other was as well but different He returned the grin, the moonlight glinting over the tarnished contours of his face, the cuts and scars a constant reminder of his past. He did not feel or care about it anymore, however, and only saw his presence in the darkside of the force. It was not the unknown sense that his mother had given him anymore. He understood it, controlled it and manipulated it. He was a seamstress of the darkside, weaving to his whims, leaving magnificent masterpieces of destruction in his wake. He shaped it and forced it to do as he wanted, let the galaxy feel the full wrath of his fury when it swirled in him, around him.
Today would be no different. He nodded to his other half, no words were said. It was a silent gesture. They had long since learned to communicate without the aid of the sound, or without the slightest change in demeanor. It was all in their force presence. Their faces appeared devoid and vacant to the rest of the world, but to each other they spoke volumes. He sprang off the tree, almost gliding down with the silence of a night owl. He landed on the soft grass without a sound. He landed next to his partner, not as graceful, but with the precision of a killer. And they made their way forth, two predators having cornered their prey. The screams of the Jedi within rang out like a sweet symphony, where he and his counter part were the conductors. They lead the orchestra, leaving a river of blood among the halls of purity and valor. They left a taint, a darkness that crept behind them, trailing behind them and clinging into the walls, the floor, the ceiling and into the Jedi themselves. This was judgment, this was the end for them and death had arrived for them on their doorsteps.
His demonic laughter resonated throughout, a chilling sound that would cause even the most battle hardened veterans to quiver. He did not stop, even when they begged for mercy. He did not look into the whites of their eyes. He looked ahead, always ahead. And the blood. Oh, the blood! The warmth that exploded all over his hand, showered hism in the essence of bloodlust laced life. It was exhilarating, and he was ascending, always ascending. Growing stronger in his power like none of the other, he would outlive them, become far stronger in the centuries to come. He was lost in the bloodlust now, finding that brink of sanity once again as just a sliver. The one he had always to save him from slipping into true darkness and killing all but the one who could command him.
He erupted into a blur, moving into a smear of crimson. He bent the darkside of the force, letting it break and control. It was an extension of his will, swimming forth to destroy any he willed it to. It made him lose sight of himself, but it tapped his into the untamed fury of a berserker. He was a master of the darkside, though the darkside controlled him then. He was not aware of this, simply lost into a dance of destruction, littering the halls with bodies. His laughter grew shrill, higher and more inhuman. He was lost and quickly falling further. His other half was right there with him, cutting his own swath through the masses. It wasn’t long before he realized he was gone, having fallen into the insanity that came from power. He was drunk off of it, high on it, and completely immersed in it.
He tore apart the limbs, drenched himself in the blood and splattered it everywhere. He was on the ground, crying out loud and screaming, losing his mind. The darkside overwhelmed him, consumed him and began to chip away at his last shreds of resolve. He was not fazed by it. He did something completely uncharacteristic. Suddenly, there was music. It erupted within the silent halls of death. The music projected from the speakers, a mixture of saxophones, clarinet, piano, trumpets..it was an odd mixture and strangely soothing. He listened to it, withdrawing his head from having buried it in his bloodstained hands. He did not look at his other half, closing his force sight and receding from the chasm of chaos he had fallen into. He rose, rose and rose till he was back again. He finally opened his force senses, listening to the heavenly noise, the music so strangely alluring. It was intoxicatingly beautiful, just like blood. He looked up at him at last. He already saw his question etched upon his features. He simply grinned.
“I think the fun has begun my friend.”
