I had the inspiration for this story almost out of nowhere. I rarely do Force-User stories for those who might have read 36 Hours or Beyond Measure but I thought I might give it a whirl. Enjoy and feel free to comment, flame or throw grenades!

Chapter 1

Wrast beat the boy to death.

The vibro sticks he held in his hands were slick with blood and sweat. The sweat was his but most of the blood was not. His opponent lay on the ground, torso twisted away from him. His face was on the floor, the jaw smashed to pieces. Bones splintered out from both forearms and pieces of his knee caps mixed with blood and vomit on the dirt floor. The fight had been quick and brutal, the weapons in his hands having been warmed in a fire until they burned his hands.

“Excellent,” Lady Erinya said, clapping quietly as she stepped away from the gathered nobility. She was a head taller than he was, graying but hardly frail, and very human. She regarded him as he stood there, his chest heaving with desire for air, her lips pressed thin and tight. She waited for him to bow his head.

She waited too long. Someone coughed and she seemed to come alive once again, narrowing her eyes and squeezing her hands into fists. Frowning, she raised her hand in a gesture so casual that only Wrast could know it. He prepared himself, but it was no good.

The lightning that sprang from her fingertips sent him to his knees with a groan of pain. He kept hold of the vibro sticks however, dropping them would mean harsher punishments afterward. The coursing electricity raced through him, from his feet to the points of his small ebony horns. It was enough to kill most humans, but Iridonians were hardier, used to pain and torment. I am Zabrak, he thought to himself. I welcome pain.

The torture ended as quickly as it began. Sufficiently placated, Lady Erinya smiled at him as she might a child who had answered correctly in school. She half turned to the gathered audience and raised that thin, delicate hand sheathed in supple black leather. Wrast felt a surge of power well in him at the sight, such a breakable thing that had done such harm to so many.

But no. This he had tried before and instead of harming him, they had burned his sister alive. “Red flames for such delightful red skin,” Lady Erinya had said, almost cheerfully as Saria’s screams echoed through the chamber. “A shame, I thought she might show promise.”

Instead he glared at her, yellow eyes narrow with hatred and loathing. Lady Erinya seemed not to care. Instead, she smiled and turned to her guests. “You see? Even an alien can prove promising… if willfull. But all will can be broken, as you well know.”

“You’ve had your pet destroy one of my trash heaps yes, but can such a creature prove loyal as well?” said a pale man with a pointed chin beard. He stepped forward, large, owl-like eyes taking in Wrast’s glare as well as his form. “A formidable combatant, no doubt, Lady Erinya.” He turned towards her now, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But ability with sticks will not let him survive Korriban.”

“I’m aware of that Harkan,” Lady Erinya said, her tone and attitude suddenly short. “The boy is only sixteen years old by galactic standard and already he’s memorized the Sith texts in our library, mastered the Shii-Cho form in both execution and philosophy. More importantly,” she turned to regard Harkan. “Unlike the last apprentice Lord Barras took, he knows the Sith Code.”

Harkan glared at Wrast, but then seemed to lose interest and shrugged. “It is your funeral Erinya.”

Lord Jogren, Erinya’s consort, stepped into Wrast’s line of sight and motioned for him to stand. He was an older man, though younger than Erinya by a decade or more and had a face that ill-fitted a Sith Lord. It was a kindly face, one that wore a smile easily and eyes that seemed full of compassion. There were times when that look was nearly genuine, and Lord Jogren was the only the second human Wrast felt he might trust.

“Come boy,” he said in that gentle voice and motioned for him to get up. “The exercise is over.”

They left the audience chamber, large and circular and made for such displays as what happened that morning, and proceeded down a short passageway before turning toward a security door. Two guards inserted keycards into two separate slots and the door opened. Inside was a square room devoid of anything but black walls, black floors and black ceilings. Yellow lamps provided modest illumination for the space, and the only ornamentation in the room was six closed doors.

“Rest up son,” Jogren said and held out a hand for the vibro sticks. Wrast gave them over without protest. He’d never seen Lord Jogren display any power with the Force, but the mere fact he walked alone with a dangerous, armed zabrak seemed to say enough. The older man put a hand on his shoulder and one side of his lips twitched upward.

“Pay no attention to Harkan. That boy you beat today was his best student. You are going to be the finest Sith our House has produced.”

He turned and left him there. The door shut quietly behind him and Wrast was left in near darkness. His room was easy to find, he’d lived there for twelve years. The audience chamber to his room was a path he could follow in his sleep. The door slid aside with a soft hiss and he lay down on his hard, durasteel cot and stared at the ceiling.

The boy he killed was named Wolfigren and he’d come from the slave pits of Nal Hutta. He was seventeen, huge and ferocious, but he lacked discipline and technique. Wrast was not a large boy but wiry and quick. He struck with precision, even at the height of his emotions. He poured all of his fear and anger and frustration into honing his movements until they were as sharp as a blade. They struck fast and they struck hard. Wolfigren had died in under thirty seconds of combat and half of that had been spent using up his own energy trying to kill Wrast in a single blow.

But he hadn’t and before long, he’d found his own death at Wrast’s hands. He’d been instructed to use only his vibro sticks, no Force powers, meager as they might be. He was to be a living weapon, capable of killing swiftly and without thought. He’d become that, at least in their eyes, but Wrast did think. He thought afterward, when he was alone with those thoughts. The dreams were terrible after a kill, after any battle and he knew that peace was not something he could ever afford.

He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. Soon, the nightmares came.

* * *

Linnay held the tray tightly as she stood before the guards. She kept her eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped. A servant did not look a Sith, even a mundane soldier, in the eye. She presented the tray and the first soldier opened the lid, confirmed its contents and slid his card into the access. The second checked her burden and then did the same.

She entered the darkened living chambers of House Umbrus’ weapons with tentative steps. Linnay had come here half a hundred times before but the knowledge of what lay behind those doors frightened her. Most of them, anyway.

She approached the one for which she was sent and, balancing the tray on her left forearm, touched the access plate. The door slid aside and she stepped into the darkness. The young zabrak was sleeping, or seemed to be and she watched him in silence even after the door hissed shut.

What they did to him was wrong. She gripped the tray so tightly it shook and the covered plate rattled. Yellow eyes opened in the darkness and a heavily tattooed hand reached out and touched her own.

“I’m awake,” he said and sat up. She settled herself and placed the tray next to him, lifting the lid off a small bowl of gruel. He looked from her to the bowl and nodded. “I have displeased them again.”

She hissed and withdrew a warm roll of bread from within her uniform and handed it to him. He took it, giving her a small smile. She sat down next to him, glaring at the door.

“You should not hate them,” he said to her after a moment of silence. She turned to look at him, and not for the first time, wished she could speak. Born mute, Linnay could utter only hisses, grunts and cries. Her first deformity was not being force sensitive, but this made the Lady Erinya just as unforgiving.

“Your mother wanted to prove a point,” he said and bit into the bread, ignoring the gruel. She touched his forearm and felt the new scarring. Reaching into her uniform again she drew out a small kolto bandage and applied it. He didn’t stop her, not like he used to. She would find more bandages until he could not protest any longer. It was a battle she’d won.

After, he touched her hand, then drew it into both of his. The affection between them grew over the years. Her mother wanted her killed for her deformities but her father could not part with his daughter and thus made her a servant instead. She fed the boys and girls her parents trained to die but only Wrast spoke to her, sat in comfortable silence with her and showed any interest in her. That comfort turned into something she couldn’t explain, but she feared for him and when he died, part of her would die too.

“Soon I will be sent to Korriban,” Wrast said after a long moment of silence. “So they say.”

She grasped his hand, twisting her thin, pale fingers until they found his and entwined. Squeezing, she lay her head on his shoulder and shook it from side to side. She wanted to scream, ‘No, not there! Oh not there! Better to die where I can ease you, be here with you…’

He lifted her chin with his free hand. Those yellow eyes caught her own and bore into them. There was sadness there, but also something akin to hope. Then behind it all sat the anger. It broiled inside him so thick that she almost felt it.

“Do not despair.” His voice was so low she could hardly hear it. Unbidden, tears welled in her eyes and before she could turn her head away, he stole them with a caress of his thumb. “I will return.”

Do not lie to me, she wanted to shout, but only that came out was a croaking moan. She hated herself in that moment, hated her infirmity, her uselessness. If only she could wield the Force! If only she could speak! She was thrashing suddenly, unable to contain her frustration and anger. He settled her, holding her arms tight in his hands.

“This is no empty boast. If something comes between us, I will destroy it. Your parents have trained me well.”

She closed her eyes and willed hope to burn but all she found was doubt. It could not be true, there will be no returning from Korriban and even if he managed to survive the Trials he would become a slave to another master. No, their time together was short and the words she wished to say were hot and angry on her useless vocal chords.

I love you. The last word she thought before she pressed her lips and body to his made her want to weep again.

Goodbye.