When You Have No One

[Tathra Khaeus]

​Pain cut like a dagger, a throbbing dull ache that intensified beyond what the mind was capable of. An unforgiving price of the inherent failure.

​Focus became like an estranged lover in the act of betrayal, a betrayal of mentality as The Matador trembled softly in a forced release. The bestial thud of his form echoed through Mortem's throne room, against its black marble columns, reverberating against their cylinder forms. A spiteful reminder of the dependency upon himself in this fruitless venture. He felt it, like a hundred thousands voice crying out at once. The crystals, the heart of the Jedi's weapon cried out.

Cried out. Haunting his flesh.

​Beads of sweat carried down his features as his hand caught his fall, levitating his body mere inches away from the crimson steps of Mortem's throne. The Dull ache, it had ensnared him; the vengeful spirits of the Edemarian Jedi had returned. Restless and filed with a spiteful hatred for him.

​He had wondered what had possessed him to collect the fallen blades of the Jedi. He felt it, burning through the back of his scalp into the centre of his mind. It had been them, the vengeful spirits bonds with their crystals. They clung to existence through them and he fell for their trap. He believed them to be weak, their whispers feint and desperate.

​It was a façade. They were strong, stronger than they were when he had slew them and ripped them from this mortal coil. They tricked him, the Matador had tried to stop them, manipulating the crystals to silence his nightmares.

​Yet, with the greater focus came the intensification of their power; the intensification of their hold on his mind, their power. Blinding light erupted from the hearts of the many crystals, he felt but could not see.

​Arms, hundreds of arms.

​​He felt them, those whom he'd slaughtered. They had become tainted, they were sickly.

​Angry.

​They had been unable to become one with the force, unable to end peacefully. He had destroyed their home, violated the sanctity of their peace and ripped them from this earth without a second thought. They felt this, the Matador. He had exiled a hundred or more to purgatory. Together, they had cursed him in their venomous spirits. Like a malevolent blackness eclipsing his fire.

​Their shadow clawed at his mind, if they could not kill him. They would drive him to madness. He felt them, their combined light malformed to a sickly grey. Pulling him down, a hundred thousand thoughts. Fears, regrets. He felt the fear of their deaths, accumulated into a weapon.

​A cold and empty hate that clung to him like a shadow.

​The Matador was pulled to the ground, it's surface splintering such as his mind. Letting out a bestial growl, as his body trembled as it so desperately tried to fight what was already within. A blackness sinking through his eyes, his nails, his throat. An all consuming shadow that made all else wane and fizzle into nothing. Nothing... Nothing at all.

Nihil manet.

​The throne room was silent, a cool breeze passing through as night fell upon Edemar. It's purple sky was serene, picturesque. Turbulence left Edemar as the Matador's body lay cold, life had left it. His fire, only embers remained as his body lay lifeless on the harsh stone floor of Mortem.

​Hours passed, and the body withered as vengeful spirits tore at his flesh. A grey vassal of pain stood watchful, a subservient form that clung to the edges of reality, in cased within the crystal prism that was the malformed crystal throne. It was him, an unfiltered and unrestricted being.

A fading shadow of surrender that in cased the last moments of his flesh. The dull embers all but faded, rendered to inactivity and passivity. It was like them, the Jedi. When he had faced them. Deep down, was the Matador so different?

​Yes.

​A truth to be accepted?

​No.

​It felt it, the warmth. The embers, the fire of his spirit burned brighter than before. The pulse was but a thought, the strength was imaginary. So was theirs. The target vassal pressed itself against the limbs that tore the Matador's flesh apart. The grey ash bursting into flame as it became engulfed in flame. Embroiled in the fight for survival.

​​Survive.

​Such a simple word, a simple concept that every being in the galaxy clung to in every moment. But few truly understood its meaning. The flaming vassal took form, a behemoth of rage that burned away all there was. Pushing back the vengeful spirits from its mortal flesh.

​It was like fighting against the sea, pushing against something so beyond you. The vassal drowned in the vengeful thoughts, the memories and emotions of the Jedi. They burned and screamed in endless torment, yet frozen and serene. They were an extremis, using every fibre of their fluctuating beings to press down harder, to kill their mortal foe. The Matador drowned in a sea of desires and wants.

​Every fibre of their beings poured out.

​The dam had broke and the sea had came to carry him in their madness. That was what they wanted, yet it was unorganised, chaotic. He felt it, the water of thoughts filling his lungs, clogging his arteries and killing his mind.

​You are dying.

​The Matador. One single entity against the endless current. Images of his life flashed by, so close to achieving the ultimate goal. Yet, now lost in a dark pool of ghosts.

​No.

​One tends to find the foundations of ambition and endurance in pride and expectation.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

​Just. Survive.

​The flame returned, blustering in small spurts. Feeling the itch of its body like phantom limbs, some semblance of life. Heat. The fire of life, surging through its mind.

​The mind. Control.

​The vassal burned, envisioning its own veins boiling with rage. Life returning, those whom had been too weak to find their way before. Those who had been too little to stop a great insurmountable force had returned in a incomprehensible manner. The vassal clung to its veins, pressing the flame against cold flesh, cold blood.

​​They cannot. Take it. From us.

​The grey flesh, the fire rage of blood extinguished into purple, lifeless matter within the human body. The blood, your mind. Your thoughts, everything was connected. Every fibre of your being was driven by what you demanded of it, if necessary you could go beyond what you imagined. The burning vassal felt it, blood.

​Boiling blood.

​Boiling blood pulled the engulfed vassal within, its sentience pressing into the cold form of the Matador. The muscles tightening, straining as his mind had. Every strangled breath coming with great effort as fire returned. The fire of his beating heart coursing through his veins, feeding heat to every corner.

​Return once more. You are not finished.

​The Matador let out a gasp, his body shot forward into a hunched position. Eyes open, wider than before. The Matador lived again. His thoughts were his own, and the feverish death that came upon him was gone. No longer did the Jedi's spirits act to constrict as they had intended, they fought against his will. He felt power return to him, inkling through his rapidly beating chest. Through his arms, to his watery eyes, and down through the soles of his feet. A low beat emanating from his lungs as a bestial growl clawed its way from his throat, his body moving like an anchoring tower ready to collapse. A metal hand steadied him, as a grovelling frustration echoed from his throat as he pushed himself to his feet, staggering as if learning to walk all over again.

​Sweat coating his body, his tie to the Keeper ripped away in a hot moment as his mind came to him all at once as if birthed again. Ripping away the connection, puling away from the cold and the dark. Sweat smothering his body like a barrier that had been broken. His armour, his sword. Things that consolidated who he was undone in moments and reforged with a new determination.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

​The Matador pushed himself, staggering to his feet. He felt the strain, the painful strain as every movement stretched his limbs with a intense numbing pain that screamed for him to stop. Yet he could not, he would not stop. His blood boiled with a rage, he felt cheated. He felt it, the disconnect between himself and that which had controlled him for nearly a century. Anger made a need for breath almost irrelevant.

​Pain stricken, he collapsed a few feet from the malformed crystal huddle, as they had begun to collapse in upon each other as he had ordered before. Once more, his hands braced against the base of the kyber crystal mass. Feeling the surging energy of the force, the bright light of infinite hope plaguing the reality of dark. His throat was ragged, half verbalised drawl leaving his mouth as he damned his captor.

​He felt it, as he'd been forced to look inward he was placed in their shoes as well; the Jedi whom he'd slayed. He felt their agony and fear as if it were his own, his eyes and mouth found a wet warmth gliding against emboldened and red features as he sobbed heartedly, overwhelmed by immense sadness. Still, placated hands pressed firmly against the kyber.

​"I welcome it. Your pain. Give it to me, all of it."

​He cried, green eyes fading into a dull and animalistic crimson as he felt the emotions twist and burn in his stomach. His lower lip trembled as he gripped tight, thinking of his own. His training, the frailty of emotion. He felt how he'd conquered it. He had replayed it so many times in his own mind. Over and over. Caleelia.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

It was long standing tradition that a warrior of the Tol Varen cast aside his self to become something greater. A weapon for its people, that was what he had become. He remembered it like it had happened yesterday, not nearly seventy decades ago. He recalled how they'd deliberated, how she blamed him for it all. How he'd been weak for his selfishness, for his feeling.

He slipped his hand away from hers, and it returned him to something cold. How his hand had slipped away from hers that night. He stepped back from her, and stood still. He was young, yet already the size of a man and had the shape of one. He owed this to a long line of warriors such as himself, he belonged to a heritage of leaders. Thus it was expected of him to become one. But, even with all of his training and his strength he was still seen as weak. H

is connection to Caleelia, a fellow pupil of the Tol Varen. It was seen as a crude thing, a outlawed thing. He had to banish it from his heart, and according to their laws this was the only way. Death was the only solution.

Caleelia was an equal in his mind, she was a year older and slightly taller. A fierce and respected warrior, they were both capable of becoming the leader of the Tol Varen. It could've been settled in many other ways, but Elders saw what lay in the depths of his heart. They forced this, and so the two who had known each other from birth were finally at odds.

They met in an open field, with the mountains of Deca and Caldorus on either side of them, her silhouette bridged the gap between the two, standing with the valley at her back. She had looked beautiful that night, in full plate and ready to kill. Seeing her like that had made his diseased and filth ridden heart beat fast in his chest. It made killing her almost easier. Feeling it, conquering it. It gave him pride. He was strong, something thought impossible had been done because it was necessary.

​Necessity besets all hesitation, especially that of ones most selfish desire. The Jedi had given into their selfishness, they had been unable to act. He would not repeat their folly.

​"Your pain. The only thing left of you."

​Watch it die. Watch it burn. He pressed it deeper, his eyelids drying, the warmth of tears burning into steam as his flesh boiled. A snarl erupting from the corners of his face as his mind recalled bludgeoning Caleelia to death with her own weapon, and crushing her skull in his bare hands. He felt his weakness, and their weakness slip away.

​"What ails you, your past. Your pain. You must let it die, kill it if you have to. Let it burn."

​His last words left his stricken countenance with a bestial growl as he felt the fire inside of him, boiling and bursting as cinders rose in the place of tears; bracing through the small openings of his grey helm. He almost didn't notice how it changed, the Kyber crystals shifted in colour as his eyes did. Their malformed rainbow of identity consumed by a pinnacle of strength. Of power.

​He let it all slide away, his own grief. He let the pain be devoured in the empty bowels of power. The strenuous muscles relaxing as the Kyber gave in, the Jedi gave in. Surrendering to a release.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

​Once more, apprised with sudden overwhelming want. Feelings of desire. Again, these emotions pressed and throbbed against his skin, sizzling ferociously inside his head. His brow furrowed, his head sinking between his arms as he clenched tight. He felt it, the bleeding sensation of desire pouring into the crystal.

​What did the Matador ​want.

​A throne. The seat of power that would remind him of what he was, and what he'd become. The seat that would tell all others to come of whom had been here before. Reminding them what true power looked like. One Throne. One Warrior. To truly be alone. To truly have no one, yet to rise above all else. That was the truest form of strength. Purity. Absolute purity.

​The Matador felt the rise inside, the fire rising. He felt a feverish heat, scorching in his lungs. Eyes widened as he gripped at his throat, his other hand steadying himself against the crystal as he yet still tried to focus on their form. The explosive heat continued as his insides burnt with a painful fury.

​Both hands pressed against the crystal as his neck anchored back as flame erupted from his bowels, reaching up through his body and out of his mouth. Flame. Embers strewn about the edges of his helm as the flame pressed on as the helmet retracted. Fire.​

​Dravalan Fire spread across the kyber, baptising its form in a new darkness. In rage. He felt it, like an overwhelming shadow as his hands pressed against the kyber once more. Eyes closed, a form of serenity taking over all of his senses as he focused on the crystal. It would be his. His Throne of Want.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

​Every inch, every microscopic detail began to shift into focus as the shards of kyber twisted, imbued with the Matador's dark energy. The crystals glowed violently, yellow and white fiery convulsion moulded the steps. The kyber resisted with all its might, throwing back against the Matador what little it could; once more trying to drown him in a sea of incomprehensible feeling. Trying to press him down once more, to push him down and finish what it'd started.

​His body shifted backward a few inches, stopping as he gritted his teeth, fighting back against the tide. Their ocean turning to steam around the raging creature as his whole body urged towards the crystal. The crystal form arched back, growing back against the walls of the throne room. Black arching crystals began to grow, pressing into the frame of the building as red boiling crystal formed on either side of him, growing from the ferocious whiteness at his feet. Embers flowed down within the crystal to the bottom of the mass as he took a step forward, curling around the massive steps to the throne. The blackened crimson began to separate into massive diamond headed chunks, stretching to his right and left around his seated position, moulding a throne from it all.

​​"Take it. Take. It. All."

​Rugged and forced words escaped a breathless throat as his hands shook outstretched as the Kyber throne stretched along the edges of the room, folding at the edges; blackened crimson overarching slightly. The massive weight caused him to fall to his knee, his hands released as he gripped at his chest. Breathless, heart beating in his chest. His mouth hung open, jaw tensed as pain raged through his body. It's source, his heart. It'd been too much, for his disease ridden heart. His hands shook, dragging his almost limp body up; pulling himself into his throne. His chest resting against the base of it, head arched down and against its blood red form. He felt it, the turbulence had been silenced as the eerily encased raging storm continued. However, it felt so distant. The Throne of want was complete.

​To look upon it is to see a raging thunderstorm, but to feel it as a dull ache in your mind; so close yet feeling beyond distant. Trapped forever in the kyber throne, the tundra's of hate and rage poured into every molecule could be seen in it's fiery base and blackened edges. It screamed of a imprisoned agony. It was a reflection, and a reminder.