A Lesson Learned

[Ysmir]

Viren watched him stand. He watched as Karn felt the pain course through his limbs, indicated by the twisted expression on his pale face. This was what the Darth strived to see in all his underlings; resolve, conviction, a sense of duty. With those three things in tandem, there could exist no such thing as self-pity or sorrow. Focus and drive were what mattered to Viren. Karn would learn to ignore all other distractions, or he would be disposed of. This was a promise Viren made to himself.

His words were few, but held weight. Perhaps it was that inherent Arkanian sense of superiority that burned like a fire in his eye, or perhaps it was simply a desire to prove himself in the eyes of his leaders. "Darth" was nothing more than a meaningless title meant to instill fear and servitude, but Viren knew better than to mock the power that such a prefix held amongst the Sith. If he could use his position as leverage to drive this boy further, then he would. A worthy warrior among Strife's ranks would benefit not only Viren, but the Empress; and what better way to break in his new post than to serve Her Radiance by sharpening the blade that was the Cult of Strife? Viren reached down to his waist as Karn spoke further, unclipping his double-bladed lightsaber once more. Though this time, it was not in a threatening manner. He paused a moment.

The Sith language? Viren observed the acolyte from behind his visor, holding the hilt within his hand. He hummed once in recognition.

Curious. The boy was certainly full of surprises.

“Teach me to break my chains, Master, and I am yours to command.”

The snap-hiss of activation preluded the wash of crimson that once more bathed the hall as Viren ignited a single blade from his weapon. He lifted it slowly and cautiously, holding the end of it over Karn's left shoulder -- the sheer height difference made such a task easy.

"Karn Albrecht," his mechanical baritone echoed outward while he lifted the saber over Karn's head, hovering it over his other shoulder,"from this point forth, your life is devoted to the Cult of Strife. You are a weapon of the Empress, the Order's might made manifest. Fail in your post, and the punishment will be death. Fail me, and the punishment will be death. Fail our Empress..." Viren trailed off, retrieving the saber and deactivating it once the small, informal ceremony was performed.

"And you will only wish you were dead." He spoke plainly, clipping the hilt back onto his belt. Viren crossed his arms once more, glancing to Nostos through the visor of his helm.

He could tell simply from the look on the sickly Sith's face that he was not fully present for this moment. Perhaps he had been reflecting on his own pain and the sorry status of his former Master. Inwardly, Viren saw Nostos as the perfect opportunity to give the acolyte a goal to strive toward, a physical motivation. His presence here was useful in more ways than one, and Viren never soon forgot a face. He peered back to Karn.

"I will permit you two days to rest and recover. Then our first meeting will commence, along with the beginning of your training," Viren announced rather plainly, before turning on a heel and beginning to advance down the hall. His steps quaked the ground beneath him as earlier, echoing against the walls. He stopped. "And Nostos," he began, looking just barely over his shoulder, his helmeted face slightly obscured by the onyx hood he wore over it.

"You have earned your post. Be mindful you do not lose it too soon. I may have use of you some day." He turned and continued his exit after voicing the ambiguous concern, leaving the Lord of Mysteries and newly instated Acolyte of Strife in the hall together.

Soon, his shadowed figure was no longer visible in the dimly lit Academy hall, only the lingering feeling of a dark dominance indicating his presence.

[Rugs]

Darth Viren’s lightsaber hissed to life. Karn wanted to wince, with the last instance of the Dark Lord’s saber activating still so fresh in his mind. But this time, he did not. He remained steady, eyes expectant upon his master. He sensed no hostility. Even if he did, what could he do to stop a Dark Lord?

Viren’s lightsaber came to hover over his left shoulder. Karn drew a sharp breath in, but this time, it was not fear that drove the action. A sense of elation, of triumph, consumed him as Viren formalized his apprenticeship. In a day that had seen defeat after defeat thrown at him, he’d found a path to greater strength, to a deeper knowledge of the Force, to prestige within the Sith Order.

To perfection.

He resisted the urge to let a cocky half-smile tug at the corner of his lips as Viren deactivated his lightsaber. Now was not the time, and Viren’s charge was serious. There could be no more fuck-ups — no disasters like the one he’d led on Nar Shaddaa.

“Yes, Master,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I will not disappoint you, and will serve our Empress unto my dying breath.”

"I will permit you two days to rest and recover. Then our first meeting will commence, along with the beginning of your training.”

Karn nodded again. Two days. He’d need to visit the Academy’s medical wing for some kolto; the burns from his spar with Janse would linger beyond that. “I will be ready,” he said, returning to his more usual air of casual self-assurance.

As Viren addressed the Prophet — it took some effort for Karn to keep his face perhaps a bit too neutral as he looked at Nostos — Karn’s thoughts turned inward. It seemed fitting, in a way, that Viren now commanded Strife, the same Cult he’d been on a path to join under Colubus’ instruction. He wondered where Viren preferred to station himself, whether here on Korriban, or at the Imperial capital on Dromund Kaas. Perhaps one of those battleships the Sanctum commands, he thought idly, as Viren began to leave.

That too, was immaterial. Karn, true to his word, was Viren’s to command now. Wherever his master led, or sent him, there would he go.

When Viren faded from view, when nothing but a heavy lingering of his presence remained to say that he’d even been there, Karn exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and leaned heavily against the wall. With the moment past, the stresses on his body came rushing back to the fore.

He was exhausted, and the training saber burns seemed to flare anew with steady, angry pain. His head hurt; likely a lingering result from his failed battle with the Prophet.

Karn winced at the throbbing in his skull before he realized Nostos was still present. Anger flashed across his face as he looked at the Sith Lord. He quickly subdued it and schooled his face to placidness. Spent as he was, he had no desire to cross wills with the Prophet again, nor was he particularly eager to test his new master’s patience.

A part of him wondered if he might have fared better if he had made it close enough to the sickly-looking Lord to cross blades. With these burns, not likely, he conceded. As it was, it’d be a struggle to even walk back to his quarters.

He stared at Nostos for a long moment, actually taking in the man who had so tormented him. It was hard to place an age on him, corrupted as his features were, and he wondered idly what had befallen Nostos to leave him in a such ragged shape.

Physically, he looked pitiful. It was almost amusing, but Karn had more than learned his lesson; the Prophet was dangerous.

“I suppose, in some way, I should thank you,” he said flatly. That he said nothing else indicated he clearly had no plans to do so.

[caelum]

Nostos bows deeply as Darth Viren leaves, ignoring the pain it causes him. "Of course, my Lord. I shall not disappoint you."

Strictly speaking he wasn't bound to Darth Viren's whims. The Order of Silver bids it's own council, answers only to the Empress, at least in theory anyway. In practice none but another Darth would dare defy Viren's authority, and the Grand Praetor on his side as a potential ally could be useful. Terribly dangerous as well, of course, but if Nostos, or even Clarent for that matter, had cared all that much about safety he would still be in Onderon watching the moon rise. Or, more likely, slaughtered or killed by the mandalorians there, perhaps in service to the Republic.

He considered that for a moment, his face shrouded in shadow as the Sith Lord leaves. His secrets were safe, for now. Eeyrie was dead, her resources now his. His connection to Clarent Latt's family, his mother, his father, his siblings, were shrouded for now. Nostos wondered, for a moment, how much longer such a thing could be hidden. It was certainly irritating, keeping Clarent's family safe, and while his new position guaranteed him a level of authority and power he hadn't possessed before, it also made him another target. A bigger target.

The Sith Lord rises from his bow, eyes following Viren's presence as the Grand Praetor leaves. Viren was a target too. A bigger target, threatened both by rivals from within the Order of Bronze and from the Republic's assassins and Jedi. But he was a dangerous target, in command of fleets and battalions and swarms of Sith ready to prove themselves to him in a river of blood.

Such material concerns had never been in Nostos's interest. The immaterial was material to him, and he wondered how much of Lady Eeyrie's resources and authority would be useful. Fleetingly, he wondered what access Darth Keres had possessed. He knew little about her, before her presumed death above the skies of Nar Shadda. Perhaps it was time to educate himself about the Grand Prophetess?

The acolyte, apprentice now he supposed, spoke and his words dragged Nostos away from his self reflection. The Sith Lord looks at him again, noting his physical strength and his power in the force. It was interesting, how he chose to implement it, but ultimately of little consequence. If Darth Viren thought him important then he supposed he was important, politeness cost him little.

"Darth Viren respects strength, and as you've seen, there is more to strength than playing with a lightsaber and pushing little blocks of dirt with the force." Nostos nods towards the apprentice. "It is a lesson you should learn now, rather than later, when a Jedi Consular blasts your mind to unconsciousness, or a Jedi Shadow stalks you through the force."

Nostos bows slightly, one of respect, or at the very least, acknowledgement. "I hope you go far. I will not apologize for testing you in such a manner. I will apologize for your former master's departure. Her end was unfortunate, and she would be proud to see what you have, what you will become."

[Rugs]

“I’m well aware,” Karn half-muttered to Nostos’ first words, before hastily adding, “my Lord.” The words grated on his tongue, but he was in no mood to risk further confrontation.

Even before, he’d known. But he’d always been drawn to the more direct ways of the Force. Colubus had identified the talent and focused on strengthening it, while slowly working with him to shore up his weaknesses.

If anything, the day’s events had only revealed how far he had to go to get the power he yearned for. From a peer, to a Sith Lord, to one of the Inner Sanctum, his deficiencies had been laid bare, impossible to ignore. Even so, Nostos’ warnings, of a what a Jedi might do, struck true and Karn found himself recounting his series of failed challenges.

How many times could Janse have killed him or maimed him, had their blades been set to full power? How easily could Viren have crushed the life from him, for challenging him without knowing who he was?

How long might he have remained under Nostos’ torment, had Viren not intervened?

Karn looked sheepishly at the ground. Humility was a strange feeling to the normally-cocky Arkanian boy, but he felt it in spades. I’m still weak. But now Darth Viren would teach him. For all that he’d been laid low, Karn found himself now on a path that could lead to heights beyond even Colubus’ reach.

When he looked up, he was shocked to see Nostos bowing. It was a subtle thing; hardly the same gesture he’d given to Viren. That he did it at all took Karn by surprise.

Karn’s hackles started to rise as the Prophet spoke again. A petulant frown started to form on his face, as he fought back against saying that he didn’t want Nostos’ apology.

But at the next, the thoughts died and his expression softened involuntarily.

“I will apologize for your former master's departure. Her end was unfortunate, and she would be proud to see what you have, what you will become.”

“I...” He wasn’t sure what to say. “I...”

Karn felt all emotions powerfully, from the rage that’d seen him through challenging Nostos and Viren, to the heights of joy, to the grief that washed over him now. His shoulders slumped, seeing again in his mind’s eye the moment of his failure on Nar Shaddaa. Her scream echoed in his ears.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said finally, dejected. He’d taken to looking at the floor again, and lifted his white eyes to gaze at the Prophet. “It was my fault.”

At last, he stood from the wall and started to turn to go. His head still throbbed. The burns on his ankle, where Janse had broken him in a saber lock and forced both his lightfoil and Karn’s own blade into his leg, made him limp stiffly as he walked past Nostos.

He paused a step or down the hall and glanced back at the Prophet. They were of a similar height, with Karn perhaps a hair taller if he stood straight instead of slouching. “I was weak, then. But I won’t be in the future — not again.” For a moment, his voice hardened, and his gaze steeled. “I’ll learn from that, and this, and grow stronger for it.”

A boyish smile tugged at his lips briefly as he turned to limp away to his room. “That’s what Sith do, right?”

[caelum]

Ah, humility. It was gladdening to see Karn learn something from this. Not that Nostos would say that to his face, of course.

His opinion on the acolyte hadn't changed much of course, but optics were important here. Crimes and insults committed tend to be ameliorated when the one committing them comes from a position of strength and authority, and while he had barely done either, Nostos knew that to inflame Karn's opinion of him would only exacerbate issues further. He had no real quarrel with the boy, and his rising to become Darth Viren's apprentice only meant that needlessly antagonizing him was unnecessary.

"This is the Way." Nostos inclined his head, before allowing a small smile to crawl across his lips. "Many will be watching your affairs with great interest, now that you've attracted Viren's notice. I would suggest, fondly, that you become stronger quickly. For your own sake, if nothing else. Envy is an ugly emotion, but most our kind are infected with it."

Another nod. "Goodbye, Acolyte. Perhaps we shall see each other again."

------------

The walk back to the medical center was draining. The conflict in the moment, the powers and edge from Viren and Karn's interactions had buoyed him, allowed him to focus and implement himself beyond what would have been wise to do. Alas, he had expended his strength anyway. He did not regret it. Rather his injuries fester and bother him longer, than to appear weak before the Grand Praetor.

By the time he arrived in his room, however, even he was doubting his conviction. Lieutenant Nivix stood at attention, her pale face and strict demeanor suggesting none of the irritation he felt from her beneath the surface. Nostos grimaced.

"My apologies for making you worry, Lieutenant." Nostos apologizes. She merely maintained her cold facade.

"You did nothing of the sort, my Lord." she says calmly. "After all, even half dead, the might of Darth Viren himself would be easy enough wouldn't it? Not at all terrifying."

Nostos chuckles, sighing as he approached the bed. Nivix moved forward, irritation forgotten, helping her charge into the bed. He took note of her, fussing and strict, and remembered.

He was breathing, of that Nostos was sure of at least.

The airlock behind him closed, finally. The crunch of bone and meat crushed effortlessly behind him, and he shuddered as he heard that rasping, terrible, breathing. It was not his own. He turned around, bright eyes staring into his former mistress's eyes.

She had been crushed, her upper body pulverized by the ship's pressure locks. A hand had not passed through the gap fast enough, and her entire forearm had vanished, while her remaining arm held on to her lightsaber firmly. Eyes filled with corruption stared back at him, and the sheer flood of emotion there was so rich and subsumed in color that even he could not tell what she was feeling.

Lady Eeyrie tries to speak, her thumb pressing the activator of her lightsaber futilely. She tries to breathe but it is a desperate, gagging, thing. Nostos reaches his hand out, grasping at her remaining hand, and taking the weapon from her grasp. She relaxes slightly, as though recognizing that it was finally over.

Nostos knew of things in the Dark Side. That suffering and pain gave strength, a lesson that the Lady of Pain had told him well. He knew what he could do. He could watch her suffer in silence, her suffering suffusing through the force like a noxious cloud, and he could breathe in it. Taste it. Learn lessons of pain and suffering that not even his mistress had known. He could tell, even, that in her own mind she wished for it. A final death so similar to her long life. One of suffering and turmoil.

She looked confused, perhaps even disappointed, as Nostos angled the two lightsabers in his hand beneath her chin. He knew he would remember her eyes, that porcelain mask of a face, lips that shuddered in the effort it took to say something he would never hear.

Time passed as Nostos stared down at her body. He was spent, he knew it. His body ravaged by the powers she inflicted on him, his legs fractured, his willpower, his rage, his anger, spent. Nostos wondered what would happen then? A sith was expected, after all, to be conniving and craven, but what would happen should another Sith find him in this position? Nothing pleasant, he imagined.

A nearby door opened, light flooding into the dark hall, and Nostos turned his gaze towards the squad of troopers that followed in. He considered, for a moment, whether he would be able to take them even in his depleted state, until he recognized a familiar face. Nostos sighed as soft hands reached out for him, a worried, but ever professional face coming into view.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Thank you."

Nivix snorted, an uncharacteristic sound that made even Nostos's lips erupt into a grin. "I am ever at your service, My Lord. But you're welcome."