Surrendering Secrets

[Rugs]

Karn sat crossed-legged on the stone floor, trying to control his breathing.

Second thoughts raced through his head, and not for the first time. Why did I agree to this? Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, and his palms, resting face down on his thighs, were clammy. I shouldn’t have come.

The Arkanian acolyte was in a small, windowless room in the depths of the Sith Temple with unadorned walls and a single, harsh light stuck into the center of the ceiling. A metal table, the top of which hovered on repulsorlifts instead of legs, was pressed against the back corner. Flimsiplasts lay in a disorganized sprawl across its surface — notes and excerpts from Karn’s official written recounting of his expedition to Naga Sadow’s citadel on Khar Delba, themselves marked with more notes and highlights to mark points of curiosity.

Officially, the room merely existed to meet any number of needs; it could readily serve as a makeshift classroom for one-on-one instruction, or a quiet place or study and meditation. Dark scars of once-melted rock in the floor and walls were evidence aplenty of its use for hosting spars or other less official bouts between Sith.

To Karn, it felt like a cramped interrogation room.

He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nostrils and out through his mouth. He hoped the exhale didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.

“You know,” he said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded to his own ears, “that lesson in drain came in handy during the expedition. Probably saved my ass, actually.”

His only other company in the room was Visarion, the Knight of Mysteries. Karn liked Visarion well enough. The Hapan, beyond being easy on the eyes, was well-versed in the Force and the Dark Side in particular. In this, they shared common interests, and Karn was eager to draw on Visarion’s vast knowledge when given the chance.

That was not what drew them together today.

Karn’s expedition to Sadow’s citadel and successful retrieval of a holocron created by the ancient Dark Lord himself had garnered quite a bit of recognition for the young Arkanian. This, Karn didn’t mind one bit — he’d accomplished something countless others had failed to do in nearly a millennium-and-a-half of trying. He’d gleefully added to his own growing legend — as he saw it, anyway — by boasting of facing and not only surviving, but slaying, two terentateks.

The attention, the whispers of his promise for the Order, the jealousy from his peers — it’d all been intoxicating.

And then came word that he was to meet with Visarion.

He and the Knight were to delve, jointly, through his memories for a study of his experiences within the Khar Delba citadel. Therein lay the source of Karn’s worries.

His report was as accurate as he could make it. He’d not ommited Kath — or Kathar Maiavel, as he’d properly named him — from his report and made a point to admit that yes, he and the Jedi had been forced to cooperate to survive Sadow’s trials.

He had not however, gone into extensive detail on the nature of that cooperation, nor his own budding feelings for the Jedi. To do such would be foolhardy.

Karn eyed Visarion and resisted the urge to lick his lips, which felt dry. He considered Visarion a friend — as much as any Sith could be one — but here, the Knight was very dangerous. Karn didn’t know much of Visarion’s talent for digging through others’ memories, but he’d heard rumors. He did know that Visarion’s strength in the Force outstripped his own and that the Knight was quite capable of being ruthless if he willed it. If he could navigate this ordeal without surrendering the secrets hidden within his memories, then he’d be in the clear.

If not...

“I’m ready to begin, I think,” Karn said quietly. He closed his eyes, drew another deep breath of the room’s cool, dry air, and took hold of the Force. “How about you?”

[hugo]

The Acolyte Karn had become something of a friend to Visarion.  He was no less distant, no less superior in their interactions.  There was a clear hierarchy of strength among their people, and the budding Arkanian had not yet bloomed bright enough to warrant familiarity.  Visarion's respect was a subtle thing, a moment's less delay, a rare softening of his low raspy voice.  It was a primitive sort of respect, one borne from the younger Sith's natural talents and relative ease with which he'd picked up the handful of topics Visasion'd been able to teach in their short acquaintance. 

Yet his present audience with Karn Albrecht was not, for better or worse, a social call.  

It was not, in so many words, an interrogation.  Those affairs were gnarly, depraved ones hoarded like Tionese Silver by his more clandestine-oriented comrades within the Cult of Truth.  He, and evidently the pale Acolyte opposite the repulsurf table, had been fortunate to escape the less . . . collaborative come-to-Bogan meetings for which their techniques were as manifold as they were unspeakable.  As far as normal procedure went, those appointments were reserved for his brethren whose loyalty had been deemed inefficient.  The uncomfortable setting aside--the Cult of Mysteries, for all their accomplishments academic and esoteric, were known neither for their sense of interior vogue nor their outstanding hospitality--his exchange with Acolyte Albrecht was more akin to a collegial conversation.

That was, with some degree of cerebral invasion on his part.  The subject of his inquiry was not treason or state secrets, but the Acolyte's recent, successful expedition to recover a long-hidden artifact on Khar Delba.  Thereupon, he'd encountered a Jedi, with whom he'd been forced to cooperate.  A skirmish occurred when the time came for strife, and that Karn was alive and with the artifact was an acceptable enough performance vis-a-vis a fully-fledged Jedi Knight.  A month ago, that would have been the preferred result, he imagined.  But war was around the corner.  Visarion was not a seer, but he was also not an idiot.  What a shame it was that the war could not have already had kicked off, and Karn had not claimed the meddling Jedi's head.  Viren may have even made him a Knight for it.  It was beside the point.

So his instructions had not fallen on deaf ears after all.  "That is gratifying to hear."  

Karn was the sort of Dark Jedi suited to Force Drain.  Where the art that allowed him to subtly, slowly, and completely  touch the other's mind with his own, to surround it, to make it an object under his mystical microscope, was a fine one, a delicate one, Force Drain was the highest incarnation of brutality.  It was not a small thing to manifest, and Karn's evident ability to do so, at least to some degree, was something of a reassurance to the ornery Hapan that he was not a completely hopeless instructor after all.  "What was it like?"

He figured non-threatening conversation was the most natural way to begin a very unnatural process.  He'd even brought tea, Karn's appreciation for the beverage not having slipped Visarion's notice.  He liked it well enough, for his part.  Visarion reached under the hovering metal slab and produced a thermos, on top of which was stacked two ceramic mugs.  It was a matching set, from some far-flung world, though he'd bought it years ago out of necessity and frugality at a speeder bay sale.  No one had to know that.  "Please."  The cups rose and parted, landing gently in front of each seated Sith; the thermos slid on its own across the surface, only a thoughtless breath of the force propelling it along.  

After all, his objective was not to break the boy.  That was, unfortunately, a common side affect of his mental parasitism, though he hypothesized the emotional scarring and semi-permanent psychosis that often resulted was more likely a result of undue and futile resistance.  It was normal, he guessed.  Any beast would rave just as fiercely should it be backed into a corner, surrounded on all sides by the inevitable.  That was only necessary when the subject of the probe had something to hide.  

As far as Visarion, and the Sith largely, were concerned, there was no such need for that kind of invasion.  The Acolyte's reports were as believable as could be expected.  What had fascinated the top of the Silver Pillar, rather, was Karn's account of having found the artifact and the trials leading up to that triumph.  They sought to understand the esoteric underpinnings of these terenteks, automatons, and Force-charged experiences, not in the way that could be had from reading a report or having a conversation, but from a full, empowered meeting of the minds.  Two presences and one set of memories.  

The art of Drain Knowledge was a fickle one.  It had only come to Visarion, some degree of natural talent aside, after years of careful study under the Cult's most accomplished telepaths and mystics.  This, however, was new territory.  A Force user was far more difficult to read than others, but again, Visarion posited that this was the result of resistance, not of the probe itself.  It was his firm, if controversial position, that in fact, two minds touched with the Force so weightily could be joined even more closely.  The alternative was that neither of the young Sith would leave the room with the same degree of sanity with which they entered at best, and permanent lunacy at worst.  

He waited for Karn to finish pouring tea, though he let his now steaming cup sit for a moment to cool.  "Very well then.  Let's begin."  

Visarion began to allow his grasp around the Acolyte's mind thicken, past the point of subtly, though he did not pry into the Arkanian's thoughts.  He hovered over the surface, like a summer insect over a country pond, but left the murky, still water undisturbed.  "This is not a robbery of your secrets, Karn.  Do not let it be lost on you that should either of us, the complicated nexus of our mutual consciousnesses intertangled, lose control, if only for a second . . . "  He paused for a moment, the periphery of his reality falling away piece by piece as he cloaked himself more and more tightly in the Force's focus.

"Why don't you begin with your entrance to the site, then explain to me these tests you encountered . . . " He checked his notes, which were neatly stacked but messily underlined and annotated before him, "with the Jedi, Kathar."

[Rugs]

"What was it like?"

Karn opened his eyes. His breathing remained steady and slow to keep his nerves even. Visarion’s question drew his mind away from the small room and back to the citadel. “What was it like?” he asked, more a verbal stopgap as his mind worked than a meaningful repetition of Visarion’s question.

“Empowering.” Karn’s answer came after a few silent moments, as he poured steaming tea into one of the mugs set before him. He was grateful to see the Hapan picked up on his fondness for the stuff. He doubted it was purely for his sake — they shared a collegial relationship, though Visarion didn’t strike Karn as the sort to be overly concerned about catering to his feelings — but the beverage was welcome, calming. “It was intoxicating, almost.”

Sadow’s citadel hadn’t been the first place Karn used Force Drain since Visarion’s lesson. He’d used it on some starving Tuk’ata the Prophet Nostos sicced on him and some other acolytes out in the Valley. Vast circumstantial differences separated one use from the other.

The Tuk’ata he’d torn the life from had already been beaten. There, the drain had been an expression of dominance, of superiority. In the citadel, Force Drain had been a thing of horrified instinct — an unthinking last resort before one of the guardian automatons crushed his ribs in with its oversized hammer.

Karn cupped his mug in both hands, ignoring the heat as he closed his eyes and blew at its surface, remembering. “I drew too much,” he said, looking at Visarion’s vivid blue eyes. “I did it without thinking — it just happened. I thought I was going to burn myself out. It felt like I was going to burst. My skin burned, everything hurt. And then, I...” he squinted slightly, gaze going distant.

He’d released a single bolt of lightning, more potent than anything that’d ever left his fingertips. It’d torn through the automaton in a single stroke and set off a crack of thunder so loud Karn had thought he’d deafened himself.

He relayed all of this to Visarion and paused, looking at his clawed fingertips. After returning to Korriban, Karn had tried, desperately, to recreate the attack with a frustrating lack of success. “I don’t have the strength to do that again without outside influence,” he concluded. “Not now, anyway. But one day — one day I will.”

Karn’s ivory gaze lingered on Visarion for a long moment. Then he looked to his tea in an uncharacteristic breaking of eye contact. He sipped from the beverage and tried to steady himself.

Right, the citadel.

Karn drew a shaky breath. He still cupped his tea mug, though he’d not again put it to his lips. He could feel Visarion’s presence settling around his mind. It wasn’t immediately hostile or invasive, as Janse’s had been when his fellow acolyte forced his way into Karn’s mind and dredged up primal fears during their spar. It was, however, impossible to ignore — a weighted fog, just on the near side of notice.

“The citadel’s main entrance was sealed with a mechanism that, as far as I can tell, only someone with adequate command of the Force could unlock,” he began. “As I was opening the doors, Kath.. ar,” he hastily added the second syllable to the Jedi’s name after nearly forgetting it in favor of his pet name for the man, “arrived. He was... bold. Confident, even though he had no business being on Khar Dalba, so deep in Sith space. I should have confronted him there, but, he kept moving.”

Karn carried on, recounting the grand hallway filled with doors, one of which Kath had opened and directed them down. The lift into the depths below the citadel, which had taken both of their combined weights — with some extra nudging from Kath — to set into motion. The hologram of the dead man, warning them of the dangers that awaited, of the need to work together.

He said nothing of course, of the physical attraction that’d rushed through him when Kathar unmasked his face, of the glimpses he’d stolen at the Jedi as they progressed deeper into the citadel’s crypts. Whenever those thoughts drifted upward, he snatched them and pushed them down, hard, lest they generate questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

Karn spoke on, of the skeletal remains of a man they’d found after arriving in the depths below the citadel — of the old datapad entries Karn transferred onto his own. Those too were available for Visarion’s perusal, though much of the file hadn’t survived the centuries within the citadel without corrupting.

“So by that point,” he continued, “it became clear that we were going to be forced to ally if we had any hope of getting through the tests that awaited us. The first was the automatons. One with staff, one with a hammer. They seemed to be powered by some sort of dark energy.”

Karn squinted physically, eyes narrowing in thought. He hardly noticed this, though. Their combined trance dulled his perception of the reality around him and took him back to the citadel, seeing the excursion both through his own eyes and as a ghostly spectator. He was ever aware of that other, powerful presence — Visarion — watching.

“I’ve never encountered anything like those — something animated purely through the Force,” he offered, seeking the older Sith’s input. “Have you heard of such a thing?”

[hugo]

It was hardly necessary for their conversation to be accompanied by Karn's verbal commentary, Visarion thought, but he found that it helped his subjects to recount their experiences out loud.  Indeed, the two bodies sat across from one another in the same room, in the present, but they were not really there.  The still surface of that country pond began to stir once the Arkanian began recalling his experiences, an amorphous form shifting just below the surface, twisting and breaking itself apart violently.  His conciousness remained above the placid surface, but he hovered ever closer, squintedly peering into the depths and waiting for Karn's concious thoughts to take place. 

If the boy were one of his normal subjects, he would have long before plunged into the murky waters and seized what he was looking for, but such violences had unpredictable consequences.  Often, they seemed fine.  But just as often, Visarion's victims were anything but.  It was somewhat more difficult this way, hovering a comfortable distance above the water, but there was little risk.  Before long, Karn's memories had cleared to the point that Visarion began to see loose forms take shape below the surface, not a picture or holovid exactly, but an inclination, an idea of what those alabaster eyes had seen.

But principally, Visarion could feel what Karn had felt, at least so much as he recalled it.  He felt the fear, as if his own heart were beating against his chest, as if it were his slender limb extended and oversaturated with power.  There was no physical sensation, yet the rush of emotions and thoughts that struck the Acolyte then, if faded by time and distance, flittered across his awareness lazily, like Karn were announcing them from the depths below.  

The sensation that planted itself in the boy's gut and festered swiftly into nausea and then pain, severe pain, he thought.  He recognized the feeling, the queer imbuing of foreign energy that came with Force Drain.  It overwhelmed the nerves, and caused a sick sensation in the gut.  But it was never quite this powerful.  His curiosity was further piqued by the mention of automatons, which explained, he hypothesized, the intensity of its stolen energies.  It was a dangerous, thing to drink so deeply from a spring so pure.  Creations so powerful, so ancient must have housed an older and darker energy than inhabited living things, the normal subject of Force Drain. 

"Fascinating."  He was genuine.  "No, I have not encountered anything like that.  Such creations are not unheard of, however, though I believe their origins are more ancient than even that of our Order.  The ancient Sith practiced a number of magics, most of which have been lost to us, and some believe they came into being as a result of Sith Alchemy, while others point to evidence of great, sacrificial rituals, the purpose of which have thusfar been as much of a mystery to us as they were to our forefathers.  Whatever the case, I am gratified to see my instructions have not gone completely unutilized, though I confess even I am impressed you survived the experience.  It's no wonder you're unable to recreate it though, given half-starved tu'kata and captive apostates contain perhaps one hundredth of the energy you harnessed. " 

A flimplast notepad, yellow and scribbled, manifested and he made a note.  He would have to put the Acolyte in contact with an associate of his, an eccentric but intellectually talented Knight who devoted more of her time to studying the artificial creations of the old Sith.  He was colored a shade of envy actually; the experience was no doubt a disturbing one, but the Hapan craved at all times the firey ingestion of life energies and such a unique and dark one as consumed and regurgitated by the Acolyte must have been life changing.  

But unfortunately Karn and his memories belonged to the Order, not to him, and the interview was much more interested in the artifact itself.  How boring.  

What wasn't boring, Visarion noticed as another mass, this one unlike the blooming strain or neutral blobs that otherwise filled his perception, jerked suddenly into the obscurity of the depths.  A positive memory.  Perhaps it was a distraction or an irrelevant memory, pushed away from view by Karn to more clearly portray his experiences.  Or, he was hiding something, though that seemed odd considering the memory seemed to be a pleasant one.  How strange, he thought.

"Kath . . . ar . . . ." Well that was an odd pronunciation, but Visarion wasn't one to judge.  His inquiry was not concerned with the Jedi, though a tinge of indignity struck him at the mention of his intrusion into their space.  Of course these events had taken place before the so called arbitration,  when open war was an inevitable but distant concept and before the latest injustice thrust the trillions on either side to the precipice of war.  How regrettable, that Karn had not brought them the artifact and the interloper's head.  

Yet it still confused Visarion why, or how, the hot-headed Acolyte had not slain this Kath Ar. He wouldn't have thought twice about destroying any of his fellow Acolytes should they have interfered with a task so important.  "I don't know if you should have done that, but I am surprised you of all neophytes chose diplomacy...though there is no shame in using our enemies to your benefit."  The combination of what seemed like a knee-jerk reaction and the illogic of the encounter with the Jedi was of mild interest to Visarion, though he remained ignorant as to the true nature of the unlikely infatuation.  

"And when they were defeated, the animated guardians, what happened then?  I know several other trials awaited you and the Jedi, but there wasn't much in your report about the aftermath of your melee."  He wanted to know what had befallen the felled automatons and the Dark charges within, to sense what Karn had sensed within the Force.  


 

[Rugs]

Karn nodded simply, hearing but not nearhing Visarion’s reply. The older Knight’s words seemed not to come to his ears as normal, but reverberated across their shared vision, across the dually-inhabited world created by Karn's memories. He did not hear Visarion speak, but rather felt it. That alone might have drawn some wonder, were he not so intently focused on the matter at hand.

So Visarion hadn’t encountered anything like the automatons he’d fought in the citadel. Not surprising, but Karn felt a glimmer of disappointment — not in the Knight of Mysteries, but in the realization that most of Sadow’s mysteries would continue to elude his grasp. Perhaps the holocron would shed light on that.

Perhaps. If they could ever crack it open.But that would require the Jedi’s aid: it’d require Kath.

“...I am surprised you of all neophytes chose diplomacy...”

Visarion was speaking, voice echoing across the memory-world in that heard-but-not-heard way. A smile graced Karn’s physical face, and amusement rippled across the surface of their shared vision. “I admit, I wanted to, when he first arrived. But it wasn’t so simple. He left me little choice but to follow after him, and by the time we realized what awaited us, it was obvious that killing him would be counterproductive.”

There was... more to it than that. Kath had been confident, bold in a way that at first infuriated Karn as much as it later enraptured him. A pleasant feeling, of warmth, of contentment, snuck up from the depths again before Karn forced it back down below.

Back to the task at hand. Visarion was inquiring about what came next, after Karn and his unlikely ally triumphed over the automatons. Here came the first real test of this conversation.

He had, intentionally, left vague some parts of his report. Every major encounter, every trial, he had detailed with as much depth as he could — without delving into what happened between Kath and himself in the dark of the citadel. With the first trial past, they’d reached the first such instance.

In his report, Karn had simply noted that they rested to recover their strength before moving on to the next of Sadow’s tests. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth.

“We... took some time to recuperate.” Strain entered Karn’s voice. To say something, or recount it in writing, was one thing. To speak while his mind — conscious and subconscious — dredged up recollections of the events as they’d been, while Visarion watched, was something else entirely. “Neither of us escaped the fight unscathed, and there was no sense in rushing ahead with whatever else Sadow left behind.”

The memories that came then came quickly and out of order, like a corrupted data file skipping around. There were flashes of them tending to their wounds, of eating, of preparing to rest. Normal things. But then came a glimpse of something else as Karn wrestled to show only what he wanted Visarion to see. Prolonged conversation with Kathar--the type that might come between two friends, rather than enemies forced to endure each other’s presence. Laughing, smiling, joking with each other.

Skip

The Jedi bared his chest and abdomen to treat his injuries from the battle. Karn tried not to stare, but there was no mistaking the envy, the attraction and lust that snuck through his emotions as he looked at Kath’s muscular body.

Skip

He was waking up, talking to Kath briefly, as the two gathered their supplies and made their way out of the chamber to the second. “There were... relics waiting for us in each of the tests.” Karn’s voice wavered, unsure of what Visarion had seen or felt. “Kathar took the first from one of the automatons. I have wondered if it shared a connection to whatever power made the thing tick.”

The best thing that he could think to do was press ahead, but the second trial, and his retelling of it, presented countless obstacles. He talked through their return journey back the way they’d come, to marking a spot on the wall with his lightsaber near first corridor so they wouldn’t lost their way. He talked on as the memories played, all the way through the short journey to the second chamber, at the heart of which lay a reflecting pool.

Karn stopped after watching Kath approach the pool, drawn by some siren song in the Force that pulled them both onward. He stopped just short of looking over the edge into the reflecting pool and being drawn into a world of countless visions.

In truth, Karn wasn’t sure he was ready to face again what he’d seen in that test. Of everything in the citadel, he’d left the second test by far the most vague portion of his retelling. For good reason.

“Visarion,” he said, as if the Knight needed his name to know who Karn was addressing, “I’ve heard... stories about the Trial of Spirit the Jedi have to face. You were one, for a time. Did you have to take it?” Karn licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. Their purpose here was not for him to ask Visarion questions, but he needed time to think, to steel himself.

To determine if the Knight had already grasped that something was wrong behind the veil Karn tried to keep up around the citadel expedition.

“What was it like?”

[hugo]

Visarion listened with interest.  His knowledge of the automatons had been dissapointing, but the Acolyte and Jedi interloper's experiences at the pool was more familiar territory. 

"No, I did not get that far."  He and Banu fled as he neared the commencement of his trials, but Visarion, or Taryn as he was once known, so he had not taken any of them, least of all the trial of spirit.  But where one door hissed closed with a mechanical thud, another opened just as suddenly.  "Though in the years following my departure from Coruscant, I managed, on a few occasions, to achieve a similar unity with the Force.  It is not always a benign or helpful experience, but it can be achieved with practice and discipline."  It was not lost on him that the acolyte's question was irrelevant.  It seemed an innocent diversion.  Until something stirred beneath the still surface.  

The pleasant form that danced below the surface of Karn's shared recollections, obscured by the depth and murk, returned to the Hapan's mild surprise.  He raised a metaphorical eyebrow, somewhat perplexed by the ancillary memory's returned annoyance.  Was the acolyte's mind so scattered as to wander so relentlessly?  What did this sentiment, this hazy blob, continue to come up when all Visarion wanted to know wa-

It was an instant aggression, a jerk, and a snag.  In a moment, the waving form, returning again as the Knight tried to focus on Karn's retelling of the events, was no longer hidden under the surface, but entirely in his grasp.  The violence was not like it often was, the sudden and terrible snapping of a razored maw replaced by the precision of a fisherman avian diving from a half kilo to extract its marine sustenance.  The thing had erred.  It had drawn too close to the surface, and before it could retreat to the imperceptible depths, the Knight of Mysteries had plucked it from the water below and held it out before him. 

There was lust and anger, and excitement, and embarrassment and all of these things swirled in and around the half nude form of a man.  The Jedi.  The scattered diversions and unsatisfactory explanations, small and insignificant as they had seemed, were at once a constellation, and the Knight Visarion cast the memory aside, letting it splash harmlessly back into their shared vision.  

He was a little embarrassed actually.  He had not dreamed his invasion was one of a forbidden crush.  It was not an unheard of sin, but its revelation would certainly cause no small amount of embarrassment for the acolyte.  He did not know if the circumstances would merit a severe punishment, but he did know that some of his brethren had been executed for less.  Karn had not committed a real treason, the only real betrayal to Sith was failure, and this transgression, though embarrassing, was not relevant to his inquiry.  It had not, so far, interfered with the acolyte's directives, and the information he sought was not of a personal character.

So the Knight resolved to hold his hand close to his chest.  The most valuable thing was not credits or power, but information.  Every other triumph was an incident of having the right information.  He would not be personally benefited in the slightest by his superiors' learning what he had only just learned.  Rather, he wagered the Acolyte would go to some lengths to keep Visarion quiet, and it perhaps allowed him the opportunity to leash the wild hound that was Karn.  He had many uses for assets within the other Cults, particularly Karn as the acolyte of Viren.  

The sudden disturbance of the once placid surface ended the shared reality, all of it crashing down with the same suddenness and violence with which he'd stolen Karn's private thought.  Once he'd returned, a little disoriented, he found Karn still near him, only now seated with wide eyes across the hovering table, no longer in the nondescript idyll of imagination.  His skin was white, maybe whiter than before, save for a single drop of crimson that fell from his nose.  Visarion did not look alarmed.  Spiritual violences sometimes rippled through the Force to become physical ones, though the Knight had employed a practiced discipline to avoid any permanent neurological damage.  It worked most of the time.  

"Acolyte, is something the matter?"  He did not wish to speak of Kath Ar the Jedi Hunk under such easily overheard conditions, and he knew that Karn shared at least that sentiment.  Any anger the younger man managed would quickly be neutralized by a splash of cold reality, Visarion thought.  One did not poke the krayt dragon, so to speak.  

[Rugs]

“No, I did not get that far.”

Karn — his physical self — nodded idly. He heard but did not hear the rest of Visarion’s words as they echoed across their shared vision. Any other time, he’d listen with rapt attention. Any other time he’d be truly, deeply interested in what insights the Knight of Mysteries had to offer for the bizarre experience and visions he’d been thrust into within the depths of Sadow’s citadel.

Now, though, it took nearly all Karn had to keep some semblance of control, to ensure the memories displayed only what he wanted Visarion to see. Was it already too late? The vision of Kathar, tending to his injuries as Karn watched had come and gone in a flash, but Visarion was perceptive.

What did he see? Karn wondered if his thoughts, too were shared with Visarion, or if the strange ritual they engaged in separated out those, at least. How much does he know?

“...but it can be achieved with practice and discipline."

Visarion was still talking. Maybe the slip-up escaped Visarion’s notice. Maybe, just maybe he’d gotten away with it. That was a relief, but a small one. The trial of visions had exposed weakness after weakness within Karn. As far as the Jedi and Karn’s feelings for him went, the next test was a minefield. Worse.

The memory before them had slowed as Karn’s focus turned away from the retelling and to ask his question. He and Kath moved forward inch by inch, as if the air had turned to gel. Karn braced himself, hands tightening on his pants legs as he drew a deep breath. There was no other way but forward.

“Right,” he said. “Well then, the nex-”

His words caught off to a groan, which itself grew to a surprised yelp as he felt something slice into his mind. Realization dawned too late, and he watched, helpless, as his view of the shirtless Kathar, his feelings of lust and longing, of joy and anger and embarrassment all at once at the Jedi’s presence, came rushing out like a torrent.

And then it was gone. All of it. The reflecting pool, the citadel, Karn and Kathar — everything crumbled away as his awareness returned to the small room. The harsh white light still shone brightly down upon him and Visarion. The notes scattered about the small table were undisturbed. Gentle curls of steam still rose lazily from his cup of hot tea.

Karn stared in wide-eyed shock at Visarion, barely aware of the sanguine blood dripping from his nose. A slicing pain cut through his head as he realized, again, what had just happened.

When he’d fought Janse on that fateful day in the sparring ring, his fellow Acolyte had gone digging through his mind, dragging up deep, primal fears that he turned against him. But that had been a battle. Even if Janse had overwhelmed him with brute strength, Karn still had recognized his intrusion, had the chance to struggle in vain against it.

When he’d confronted Nostos, when the Prophet looked into the depths of his soul, it’d been like an avalanche — powerful, inescapable, overwhelming.

But this--this was something new entirely. Perhaps their shared link made it easier for Visarion to find that which he sought and remove himself from Karn’s mind, but it happened so quickly, that Karn’s awareness lagged in grappling with the violence committed against it.

"Acolyte, is something the matter?"

Karn’s breath came in shallow, ragged panting as he pressed a clawed fingertip to his nose. Anger, a natural first response, bubbled and boiled within as he looked at the wet, vivid red that clung to it. His face contorted with ire, wit rage as he began to stand.

Then he stopped, frozen as his thinking mind caught up to his emotional response. Visarion knew. How much, Karn didn’t know, but that question was not nearly as innocent as it seemed. “I...” he stammered and — in an exceptionally rare moment of subservience — broke eye contact with Visarion and looked sheepishly at the floor.

He slumped back into his seat and considered his next words carefully. In truth, he had committed no crime, no treason, with Kath. Not yet — though his secretive continued communications with the Jedi would do nothing to help his case. But the Sith Order was treacherous by nature, and knowledge was everything. If word spread that Karn — that the apprentice to the Praetor Magnus himself — couldn’t even deal with a Jedi without catching feelings, it might prove disastrous.

Force help him if Viren caught wind of it.

But what could he say here? Privacy was no guarantee in this room, and one person knowing was already bad enough. It was only a minor blessing that Karn sat before Visarion, and not one of the Cult of Truth’s inquisitors or Ascension’s archons.

“Can...” he started slowly, “can we go to your suite?”

[hugo]

There was a duality to the humbled Arkanian who sat, as before but with an altogether different disposition, opposite Visarion.  On one hand, he had a sort of admiration for the acolyte.  He was precocious and curious, passionate and erudite enough to receive the Darkest gifts of the Force's mystery.  Karn was otherwise in every way unlike the Hapan Knight who sipped innocently at his gently steaming tea.  Yet Visarion had long cast aside the naive impressions of subjective judgement, acceding to the veiled truth of the Dark Side and its intuitions. It was thanks to that mindset that Visarion found respect for his subordinate, present circumstances considered.

On the other hand, the fair frailty of the older Sith's countenance scarcely hid his revelry.  For Sith, any advantage over the Other was an avenue to domination, particularly when that advantage was information, and sensitive, damaging information at that.  Whatever his thoughts as to the acolyte, whose ivory face was stained thin and red above the lips, the information he'd uncovered was troubling.  He still doubted any real issue would come of it, but his interest was maintained by the simple fact that Karn would likely do anything to keep it between them.  And that was something valuable.  

"Certainly.  I've concluded my questioning."  It was wise that they move their dialogue off the record, as Karn's secret would lose its value if anyone else learned of it.  Visarion's suite would offer a great deal more privacy, and the brief trek there would give him time to devise what it was he wanted from Karn in exchange for his confidence.  The possibilities scrolled through his mind and he almost smirked.

"I'll give you some time to collect yourself."

---

After an uneventful return, the suite offered its familiar reprieve to the introverted Hapan.  He expected Karn within the hour, but made no fuss about punctuality.  He had all day.  There were a litany of projects, tasks, or retrievals he could send the acolyte on, some dangerous, some tedious.  Yet that seemed a waste of perfectly good leverage, so Visarion decided to bide his time.  There would come a need for Karn's acquiescence in the future, of that he was positive.  For now, he would suffice to make it be a lesson to the boy.  He would have to be stronger, more mentally agile and resolute, if he wanted to defend against similar, if less macabre, techniques employed by the Jedi and their telepaths.  Though, as he ruminated on the matter, Visarion concluded that those were not the interactions with Jedi that Karn had to be made most wary of.  Not by a parsec.

A subtle wave of his hand opened the door with a hiss as Karn's presence took form in the corridor and then before the entrance.  "Karn, come in."  

The spacious study was unchanged from the acolyte's last visit, the laden obsidian bookshelves perhaps more disheveled and the Knight's desk less organized, a number of tomes and a datapad covering the greater part of it.  He gestured to his guest to take a seat, much as he had some weeks before, when the Zabrak, Hakk, had come to them in search of the Dark side.  That seemed a faraway memory now, with galactic events accelerating as they were and his itinerary growing proportionately. 


"Why don't you start by telling me about Kathar?"  Visarion's expression was like before, if more transparent and relaxed.  He was after all, at home.  His voice too was the same low rasp, just audible across the darkwood surface of the desk that separated them.  The Hapan's icy eyes were fixed, intent, and eager.  He was once again prepared to listen.  

[Rugs]

Karn’s breath slowly, shakily as he stood before the narrow mirror in his small room’s smaller refresher. His face and bangs were damp, as was the white towel folded and hanging around his bare shoulders. He leaned heavily against the front of the metal sink, already-pale hands white as his grip tightened and relaxed at irregular intervals.

Visarion hadn’t been two steps out of their meeting room before panic nearly overwhelmed Karn. It took every flounder ounce of self-control the Arkanian possessed to make it back to his room in the Temple’s acolyte residential wing without having a public meltdown, and that’d been a near thing.

"I'll give you some time to collect yourself."

Karn closed his eyes. Viarion’s tone had been steady, as ever. Hard to read. Was it the fear burning deep within his chest that made him imagine a hidden amusement in the Knight’s tone, or was it real? Calm yourself, Karn thought for what felt like the ninetieth time since arriving at his room a half-hour prior. He took the damp towel to his face again. The nosebleed’s red smear was long gone, but wiping his face at least forced him to slow his thought, to calm his mind.

Visarion had seen too much already — from his own mind — for Karn to lie his way out of this mess. It didn’t take a genius to guess Visarion would want to know more. Karn had, as far as he could see, two real options. Try to twist the truth as much as he could to minimize the risk to himself, or tell it all to Visarion and beg for his confidence in exchange for... something. If one stroke of luck had befallen him since setting foot in that Force-damned room, it was that Visarion was at least a friend, as far as Sith went.

Friendship among the Sith, he suspected, wouldn’t go far. Not when there were weaknesses to exploit.

I could fight him, he thought, and not for the first time. But that was a stupid idea. Victory wasn’t a sure thing in that scenario and even if he somehow bested Visarion, then what? Short of killing the Knight, he had no way to force him to hold his tongue; antagonizing him might compel the opposite. Defeat would throw away any prayer he’d have to work out an arrangement.

“You’ve really done it this time, Albrecht,” he muttered to himself. “Put yourself in a nice fuckin’ mess.”

He pushed the door open with a loud sigh and left the refresher, tossing the damp towel on the floor behind him as he went. He ran his slender fingers through his hair and sat down on the edge of his firm, narrow bed.

Force, he needed time to think.

---

Another half-hour or so found Karn standing at the entrance to Visarion’s suite, hands stuck in his coat pockets to prevent them from shaking at his side. The door opened to admit him and he entered at the Knight’s welcome.

Some weeks ago, after he’d given Hakk a fiery welcome to the Sith Temple, he’d ventured to this suite. Were it not for present circumstances, he might once more feel muted awe and kinship with Visarion for the Hapan sith’s expansive collection of texts and artifacts. As it stood now, Karn’s focus held narrowly on the seat before Visarion’s desk and on getting there without making a further fool of himself. Once there, Karn sat with shoulders a bit hunched and posture defensive as he waited for Visarion to begin.

"Why don't you start by telling me about Kathar?"

Karn licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. There’s so much to tell. Too much. Visarion already knew too much of Karn’s feelings of warmth for Jedi. But there was much he didn’t know — that Karn had pleaded with Kath not to fight when at last their competing missions to retrieve Sadow’s Holocron forced their alliance to an end, or that he’d wept like a child as Kath cradled him after finally confronting the terrible guilt of his former Master’s death. Force willing, that’d stay as a secret, as would the fact he’d kept contact with the Jedi after the mission’s conclusion.

“I didn’t do anything to betray our Order,” Karn croaked, his voice weaker than he would have liked. “I completed the task my Master sent me to Khar Delba to accomplish.” Karn forced himself to stop and closed his eyes. His voice shook and his tone bordered on pleading.

That he’d done the job was a matter of record. He doubted Visarion would be impressed by whining like a child. “Kath... Kathar was...” he started slowly, his voice steadier as he opened his eyes and willed himself onward, “I thought I was going to run him through with my lightsaber when I first found him. He was... bolder than I expected a Jedi to be, especially so deep in Sith space.

“But as we went into the citadel ruins it became clear we’d have to work together. At first, I thought I’d just have to tolerate his presence, but as we went through trial after trial, I-” Karn cut himself off, pressing his lips together as he tried to find the right words. He looked down at his hands; he’d yet to truly meet Visarion’s gaze.

“I grew fond of him,” he said, finally lifting his eyes to the Hapan sitting across from him. “I wouldn’t have survived that place without him. He was thoughtful, clever and extremely capable. But when the time came at the end, I did my duty. I still carry the scar on my chest from his lightsaber, if you’d like to see it.” A bit of challenge--a bit of the usual Karn--rose in those last words.

They were true but hid the whole story. When he and Kath fought, he lost after refusing to turn his ability with the Dark Side against the Jedi. Only a fluke avalanche had let him get away with Sadow’s holocron still in hand.

Karn swallowed again and looked at Visarion. “I know you know what I felt when you searched my memories,” he said quietly. “What do I have to do...?”

The question lingered, evident but not fully voiced. Karn’s pride ached, and though he’d do just about anything for Visarion to keep the secret between them, it was hard to voice the words.

[hugo]

Visarion was still and attentive as the acolyte recounted his shame.  Some Sith may have found joy in the palpable discomfort, the embarrassment on the boy's face--if not most of the imbalance the revelation generated.  Hierarchy was a fickle and sometimes misleading thing; he was in every way superior to Karn de jure, but how much power could he hope to meaningfully exert over the Arkanian, the prodigious acolyte of the Bronze Pillar?  Visarion was a Knight of Mysteries, an accomplished mystic and talented telepath, yes.  But the presence opposite him, across his desk that now felt much too close and far too intimate, was as dangerous as they came.  Even vulnerable and almost adolescent as he was at present, Karn seethed with power.  His eyes burned white hot with loathing, loathing at Visarion's unnatural intrusion and subsequent advantage, but also a more . . . fundamental hatred.  

It was known.  Karn Albrecht was well above mark for his age and station--if immature and tempestuous.  His strength would not be any threat to Visarion, if Renata's new order held.  Thus they'd cooperated on occasion, and though Visarion was confident in his chances now, he knew it would not be many years before he'd met his match.  He'd seen Karn in action, and could say he was a better duelist already.  But how easily, how deftly the Hapan snatched the boy's memories and made them his weapon.  And that was where Visarion shined.  That was why he was here, in this temple, in this suite, neither captive nor slave.  It was also why the object of his ruminations, who was seated uncomfortably across from him now.  Visarion had always been a creature of the mind, and nearly always of the Force.  How many solitary, speederlane lit nights had he spent in the Jedi's Temple to Vanity, his only company the coursing, persistent presence of the Midichlorians and the soft glow of datapad after datapad?  But this was not about him.  

Visarion interrupted Karn only once, and he feigned anger.  "Nothing? You did nothing to betray our Order?  Where in the Force did you gather that? You did not fail, you did not return empty-handed, that alone would have been treason, yes?"  He grimaced, and the hairline scar across his face twisted, and his perfect face seemed less perfect.  "Not to mention your unspoken stricture of not fraternizing with Jedi, not to mention weakening yourself by relying on his cooperation."  He looked past him now, perhaps a reminder of the most vulnerable moment he'd seen.  

Beyond his one interruption, Visarion listened patiently to the Acolyte, even if he did scowl once or twice.  "Now what do you have to do?"  He looked at him for what felt like a long time before standing up and turning around, pretending to survey the row of tomes and datapads neatly arranged behind the chair.  "Nothing for now.  I don't see any benefit in divulging this minor," he turned around to face him once more, "but by no means harmless misadventure."  He sat again, no longer interested in tea or tomes.  "From time to time, those in my position prefer to make our expeditions discreet.  You can imagine what a scheming, plagiaristic den of kinrath some of my colleagues can be.  As you are well aware, Order business can be dangerous, and I am occasionally want for a spare set of hands, or at least a swinging lightsaber and a warm body.  You're capable enough, and we will see if you can be discreet.  I will call on you when you're needed."  He sunk back into his chair and rested his chin in his hand.