LOCATION
Ossus
MUSIC SELECTION
Not everyone was on Coruscant when it was attacked. Not everyone was able to heed the vision, Least of all the ones that were so keenly privy to it; least of all him. The knowing of its coming had shaken him so, the vibrance of vision of a burning world, the world he had considered home for as long as he could remember, the temple he had come to, to submit himself to this order of Jedi, in ruin.They had left at… what seemed to him to be years ago to contend with this, and he? He had holed himself up, far away from anything that could keep him tethered to the unfolding events. In this stretch of existence he was content not knowing for as long as could be managed. Was he a coward? Not that it mattered. Time had dragged on, and he did his best to quell his worries with the meditations he had been taught, but it did not seem to placate at first, so he moved on, spending time with his music, but he was restless, and again, he meditated.There were a great many things on the mind of this one. More, he was fairly certain of, than the average padawan had to contend with.
Again, he went back to the quetarra, and set himself to the calming, reassuring tune of the lullaby whose origin he could not recall. Its flow and rhythm were like the draw and release of a breath to him, the only tune in this world where his fingers seemed to move of their own volition over the strings. How could he have forgotten that this simple little thing always managed to resolve him? It had the strange magic to lull him into calmness when no other means would, the vibrations of his instrument, and the hum in his lungs, soothed.
Sometimes, words where there had never been any came to him. Funny little ditties, that he would sometimes recall later, with a fondness. It was occurring with more frequency, and he had thought nothing of it. Surely the calm sanctity of this place was the impetus. He was so calm, he did not seem to notice that his own tune of years had changed, that the notes plucked on the strings deviated. Then the words came...
̀L̷o̡, t͏he ̀Nig̵h͞tma͠r̸e ̸l͢ands̸. ͟ ̴K̨i҉n͢s͠l͞ay̶e͝r ar̵įs͟e̶.
͝
͡ F̵o̵r͡ śtri̢fe̛ ͞a̷n̡d ͞c̕haos̡ ͘c͠o̧m̕e̡ ̕u̶pon̕ t͏he̷ ̕gáļa̶x͘y̨.͝
The pace of his play picked up, he sat up straighter. It continued. He hardly seemed aware of himself, or the change of his voice, the words and their meaning.
Fal̛se͘ ͏o͠nȩs ha͢v̡e͠ g͜r̶ow҉n ̴w̢e̵ak͞,
́
l̕i̧ke the li̧mbs̀ o͟f̢ ̷those̷ ͠ẁho ̸c͡raf̕ted͘ ́it͏. ̡
The words, so soft, he could barely hear them through his trance. No-one in the skeleton population of the academy. No one.
The ͏the̴ ͢D͢ar͝k̶ ̀L͏or͏d ̛hera͝lds҉ re̕bi͟rth.͠
O͡f́ ̵p̢ow̕ęr͞.
͝..͏.̵ o͞r̸de͞r̶.͡.̀.
͞
.͡..͡ ̕do͢m̸ina͜tion̵.̸
He was beginning to sweat.
Hȩ ́sha̛ll̷ s͠tr҉e̵tc̷h̢ f̸or͠th̨ H͝is ҉h̀an̨d̀ ͝t͜o͢ clai͠m w͏hat͏ i̡s Hi̸s.͜
̴
The re̕bel͘l҉iou̶s҉ n͠atio̸n͟s ̶sh̡a͜ll̨ be̶ lai̸d͡ ͝b҉a͡rręn,͞
̸
t́h́e͝i͏r͞ ch̡il͟d̛re̡n͞ ̧cau҉sed͝ t̴o͞ we͏ep.̸ ̶
T͜hey͢ s͏ha̴ll͠ b̀e ͡de͢g̷ra̛ded. Humb̛le̛d ̨a͏n͞d͜ h̢u͝m͠il̸iat͟ed͠.
͡
S̛tri҉p̛p͡e͟d of a͝l͘ĺ ͜b҉u͡t ͠f҉ea҉r͘.
His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, in a strange desperation, a hunger.
T̵here ͝s̷ha̵ll͝ b͞e͢ ͝n҉one b̀u̧t͘ ҉Hiḿ,̧
̶
҉a͠ńd ͝t҉ḩo͢s̀e ̀w̷ho̶ ̡ha̕ve ́t͝u͞rned ̷t҉h͡eir͠ ̕eyes̴ t͜o H͢is̷ m̧aj̸és҉t͜ỳ.
The last chord rang out - it was done. He sucked in air, greedily, as if he had been robbed of breath, his head raising, shakily, his fingers white against the strings in their positions. Sound poured, creaking out of his mouth, a deep, deep, aching thing.
They̢ ͏w̛oúl̀d ͡not́ s̴ta͝nd a̶l̵o̧ne̷.͟
T̷o͡d̸ay̧ ̷we de͠ĺi͡ve͘r̛ s̛ubm̴iss͠ion.͞.͢.҉
Then he slumped over the quetarra, his death-grip on the neck of the instrument still sustained, until.. several moments of wide-eyes and silence, the instrument fell from his grasp, and skittered across the stony deck of the temple. His stiff, shaking hands went to his eyes, and found the wetness there.
Then it came.
The chair tipped backwards, spilling him fast onto the deck, his head connecting with the stone and yet, in utter ignorance of what should have caused pain, he rose up a moment, then tripped backwards, fell and kept scrambling to the wall, a low keening of mild fear presenting itself from within his suddenly parched mouth.
But there was more. A multitude of visionary snippets, some strange, some deeply frightful, and all confusion as he clawed at the cold wall for something to hold onto, something to grasp, as if his mind’s eye would pluck him from this place if he did not.
It took him up and smacked him against the wall, then. Pinned him there like stone sacrifice in his shaking, raising him up against the hard surface to get a good look at him. And he screamed, howled at how it burned his eyes, his mind. He doubled over and retched, expelling the noon meal from his stomach.
He could hear words, then, but not spoken to him, like he was eavesdropping, only he was being made to do it. He whimpered to leave, to exit this place, but it held him.
Lͫ̀ͭ͗ŏ͒ͬ́̈́v̌ͤ̒̀̽̀̓҉e͌͊͊lÿͣ̏͛̽̇͝ ̑̈́ͭͣlͣ̔ͩ̕i̔̅̄͋̈́̚t͗̌ͬ͢t́l̾̄́eͬ̓̇̿ ̅͐ͮ̋̒͐ͫ͡O͐ͤͩͤ̋̄r̷aͥ͗̊̃ͫͫc̊̓̓ͣͯ͗̓͏ļ̑ͧ̓͛ͯ̓eͭͤ̌̋ͬ̍ͥ͡;̉ ̶̈́ͪ̎̿W̡̊̊͋̒ͤh̚iͨs̿͒̎̀͘p͗͆ͦ̂̎ĕͥṙ͒ͭ̀̚ ̏ͯ͑m̡e ̢̾̈́mͣ͝yͯͮ̈́̃͠ ͋̌̅ͧͧ̆ͥ͘f̚át̎̈́͂̍̏̚͜e̍̎̌.̿̕
Like he was being forced to hear it. He could hear nothing else, anyway.
S͕͔̜̄͌͘͠ạ̿̈́̍̓͠a̳̟̯̣̤̰̯̣̎ͨͣ͒ͮ̃͝r̎̈ͧ͏̰̖́a̭̻̤͎̬͙̙ͯ͗̑̿̈̆ͅiͭͯͤͨͭ͝͏͏̠͔̳̟̺͇͉̞-̬͉̬̣̲͉͎͇ͣ͒͐ͧ̓̀͠K͙̖͖̬̾ͫ̏ͩ̈̃͟a̷̗̦̻̝͈̩͔̤ͫ̓ͪ͢r̨̰̱̫̱ͬ̽̑́r̵̺̳̹̙̦͖̮͑ͧͣ
Fear convulsed through him, as he stepped away from the wall, crushing his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to keep the words out, as he stumbled to the right, and took step by blind, shaking step, ragged breath by ragged breath. All he could see was what the vision forced before him. The physical realm… lost to his senses.
His fist stuffed into his mouth, the words becoming more than a listening in, they called to him, tempting him, but they felt slicked of something that sought to devour him, his voice bluthering a chorus of pleas for distance from it, of fearful refusal.
But so temptuous it was, and it snaked around his psyche, with sensuous daggers of words, arousing him, and unsettling him all at once.
Y̰͖̟͔̻͠e̥̣̣s̸͚̟ss̟̭s̪͖͞s̩͚̭s̖͈͎̥̝̜s̺̗͚s̟̯̗̻̮͞s̫̳̝͈̹̣͉s̸̱̝̠͓..̭̫̜̙̮̼.͎̩̬̻͠.̡̯
“No!” he yelled, in a rasp, digging at his ears, then furthermore, “Get out o’me ‘ead!”
But he was not in control. And yet, a seeming reprieve.
This was something he had seen before. It had rushed him some days past, but now it came in clarity, a strange anchor in this storm.
T̴͟͟ḩe̵̡̧ ̸J̴͞e͏d͞i҉͟͠ ̧Te͠m͏̸͢p̷͏̶l̨e̵̢̡ ̢̨s̷̨h̷͜a̴͜ll̶̛ cru̢̕m̡bl͢ȩ̢̕ ̛ańd͠ ̛f͝a̡͞l̷̶l̴.̴̡͟
Yet, fear renewed itself with fervour in him, despite the familiarity. He knew these words were not riddles. And he was afraid of the ripples the destruction would cause in the days and weeks to come. The upheaval, the change.
He was driven to his knees, then, as the scene changed, and the strange eye returned. Looking on it was pain indescribable.
Lͫ̀ͭ͗ŏ͒ͬ́̈́v̌ͤ̒̀̽̀̓҉e͌͊͊lÿͣ̏͛̽̇͝ ̑̈́ͭͣlͣ̔ͩ̕i̔̅̄͋̈́̚t͗̌ͬ͢t́l̾̄́eͬ̓̇̿ ̅͐ͮ̋̒͐ͫ͡O͐ͤͩͤ̋̄r̷aͥ͗̊̃ͫͫc̊̓̓ͣͯ͗̓͏ļ̑ͧ̓͛ͯ̓eͭͤ̌̋ͬ̍ͥ͡;̉ ̶̈́ͪ̎̿W̡̊̊͋̒ͤh̚iͨs̿͒̎̀͘p͗͆ͦ̂̎ĕͥṙ͒ͭ̀̚ ̏ͯ͑m̡e ̢̾̈́mͣ͝yͯͮ̈́̃͠ ͋̌̅ͧͧ̆ͥ͘f̚át̎̈́͂̍̏̚͜e̍̎̌.̿̕
The Oracle's words stand as a warning.
The Jedi Temple will Fall.
All of the Republic will Fall.
In a tidal wave of blood.
Chaos. Truth. Order.
For His Glory.
S͕͔̜̄͌͘͠ạ̿̈́̍̓͠a̳̟̯̣̤̰̯̣̎ͨͣ͒ͮ̃͝r̎̈ͧ͏̰̖́a̭̻̤͎̬͙̙ͯ͗̑̿̈̆ͅiͭͯͤͨͭ͝͏͏̠͔̳̟̺͇͉̞-̬͉̬̣̲͉͎͇ͣ͒͐ͧ̓̀͠K͙̖͖̬̾ͫ̏ͩ̈̃͟a̷̗̦̻̝͈̩͔̤ͫ̓ͪ͢r̨̰̱̫̱ͬ̽̑́r̵̺̳̹̙̦͖̮͑ͧͣ
He curled into a ball, head in his hands, hands on his knees, the taste of vomit still coating his mouth. Breathing it in, inspiring further queasiness. He swallowed, with a dry throat, shivering. The scene grew silent, black. For many minutes, it seemed as if it was over, as if he could breathe again, but it all had paralysed him to remained where he was.
And it was not over.
What was worse…
…was he was now there.
And the eyes, the words, were not his own.
The one that stood before ‘him’... was familiar, somehow.
“I̸t̛ is ǹo̡ţ a͘ ̕ḿa͝t͡te̴r̢ o͟f̶ ͞w̶iņņin͞g̨.͠ ͟ O͟r ͠lǫs̢i̢n͡g.̸ ͞S͠uc̵ḩ ̵petty̡ ͜e̕ndinģs are n͜o̢t̛ ͢w̡h͏a̶t the ̶G̨od͟de̷ss̷ ̴d͞e͞si͜re҉s͜.̕ Bu͞t͘ ̴o̷rd̕e͡r͝ ̨a̡mid̕s͢t̡ the ̛c̢h̵a̴o͜s̷. ̡Yo̷ur J͢ęd̕i ͏Òr̵d͞er ha͏s͠ g̡rown ͘we̛ąk͢, ͞c͢omplace͝nt.
No, that wasn’t right.
“U͟nabl͡e͠ to ̷d́e͏fen͞d͡ ͏and pro͟t̵e͝c͏t thaţ w҉hich ͞the͜y͞ sẁor͏e̢ ͘t́o d͝ǫ. ͡ T͞hey̕ ͞h͜ave ̸fa̡lle͢n̛ ̕įnt̴o͘ ̧sin. ̷ ͝ G͞luttòny,̛ sl̸oţh͏,̷ ͜pride,̸ ̕lust,̶ env̛y͞, a͘várice̢, a̴n͝d̸ ͢w͘r̀a͝t͢h̴. ͘T̴h̛ey have҉ b͟e̷co̡m̀e͞ w͠h̢a̕t th̛e͘y͡’͜v͢e͢ ̕so̵u̧ght̢ to̢ de̕s̕t̸r̷oy. ̀ Dáręd ́t͜o l̡oo҉k̛ ̷into͞ ̢t͡h͘e a̷b̢y͘ss on̸l͡y̛ t̕o bl̨ìn̴k̷. I̕ ͜am no͜t ͏th͟e ̸d͝e͠m̴o͘n̕ ̶t̸o̸rmenti͟ng͡ ̶you͠ in ͞y̴ou͞r th̕o̢u҉gh͘ts Je̕di.́ T̀hos̡ę a̸r̡e you̷r ͞ow̨n̕. ”
Talon?
“Th̢o͜se͘ ̕a͟r͏e ́y̵o͡u̴rs, ͜and y̧ou͏rs a̵l͟one̶.͟ I̕ ͠a͢m but̢ th͢e̸ ͘ve̛ssél t̀h͠a҉t ͜rev͠eals͢ ͜tr̴uth, ͏ ̕Taloǹ V͝o͜şr͏a͠.̡”
How was this possible? Tears began anew on his face.
The ghost wind howled, until finally, it stopped. The mist that had appeared seemingly began to fade away, until they were in a completely utterly white room.
A singular cry of anguish went ripping through the silence. Thick congealing blood puddled upon the floor like a sanguine stain, carving crimson rivulets from their origin at the center of the room.
There, shackled on both arms and legs, hung the limp body of a small blonde woman. It was hard to recognize her form, but to those who would know her intimately would not take long to find out.
She was being carved upon like an animal to the slaughter, the instrument of her agony naught by a child with a scalpel, while two feminine figures gazed upon the work with such perverse enjoyment…
How could he look? He couldn’t. He tried to look away, but he could not. These eyes were not his own. Unbeknownst to him, his body had curled to the floor, shuddering and shaking, howling, wailing, screeching, crying… but he could not hear, could not be aware of himself, save for the shock, a mirror to the reaction the Zelosian displayed.
“I ͞sho͡w ͝t̕ruth. ͟ Your͟ ̴trúth.͠ ͢H̵e̵r̵ ̴trut͡h.̧ S̴he ͘wi͘ll̷ ̢d̡i̸e,̛ Jedi̡ if yo̴u҉ li͡ng͡e͝r̸ ̀h̢e̸re. S̵o͘,͟ wh̶at͠ ̸i͜s m͠ore͢ ͢i͟m͘p͟o̡r̢ţa̢n͟t, ̨T͠a̢l̷o͏n ͏V͡o͡s̡r̨a͡? Do t̛ḩe nee̡d̵s ̧of̷ ͠t̵h͡e͢ ̧m̵a̵ny outwei͘gh͢ ͘t̸he̛ needs͞ of ͏t̛he ͏fe̡w… ̧o̡r͢ ̶the on͢e? The ͟Ģoddess d͢oes̀ n̶o̶t w͠i̕th͏h̢ol͘d h̛er̵ ̶ble̡ssi͞ng͏s̡,̢ J̶e͟di̷.̨ “I ͞ca͝n͟ ļe͡ad ̨yo̷u ̴t̴o ̧h҉er…̡ b̛u̧t͘ y̧ou múst͝ c͟h͟o̧o̴se.̨ T͡hat̕ cho̢i͢ce ҉ẃi̴ll͟ d͞e͏t̶e̛r̀ḿine͜ he͡r Fat̛e̷.̴ ͟ Yo͡u͞ can ̢sav͠ę he̡r…
Oh, how he wished he did not have to watch.
“..͡.̵or͢ ļea͡v̨e ̛he̢r̡ to҉ ̨a ̵F̸at͞e͏ ͢m̵úch́ wor̷se t̷h͠an ̸d͜e̕a҉t́h̛.̧.
How did one choose?
He did not know. Even his own heart tried to decide for him while his head did not wish to make a choice at all. Other words were spoken by those lips-that-were-not-his, but he could barely pay them heed anymore, the shock was so great. Then, as if he was noticed, taken for an intruded he was summarily ejected, and everything went black. Unconsciousness took him hastily, leaving his severely disheveled, tear-wetted, and vomit-stained form on the cold stone of the common hall of the Ossus temple.
