Dwarmin Posted March 8, 2013 Share Posted March 8, 2013 (edited) ((This would likely take place after the False Emperor Flashpoint. Having read the Revenge of the Sith novelization-which I recommend to every star wars fan-it gave me some great insights into another character. Make of it as you will. )) Darth Malgus is falling. It feels like an eternity. His heart is like a furnace-it always burns, uncontrollable, never stopping. How could it end like this? After how far he has come? After all he has sacrificed? It is in this singular moment, he feels two things he has not felt in the longest time... Helplessness. And a sense of calm. He's going to die. He realizes this, and in the knowledge he has done his best, he lets go. It is an oddly significant feeling. He is tired. Time to rest. Eleena... The part of him that lets go...begins the slow shuffle through his mortal coils memories, and he lets it take him away. This is not the Sith way...but another part of him doesn't care about that, either. He never did anything for them. Not for the Sith, not for Empire. He no longer feels regrets, not exactly-but a sense of what might have been eludes him at this moment, and he misses something of grave importance. Exactly 1000 meters to the bottom of the generator shaft they threw him in, Malgus is remembering his childhood. How cliched, he muses drolly. ... They told him he was special. Veradun, they said, had the potential to be something amazing. Lines of Force tutors would come and go-speaking wide praise of his awesome powers. His father paid them well. Telling him he need but unlock this great power. But the training wasn't enough-unfocused, they would say. Unable to harness the appropriate rage. He did not understand, not then. They did their job. The torments were vital to his upbringing-Malgus learned... What was Rage? What was Anger? What was Hate? He found the answer. It was that unfortunate serving girl-a young Twi'lek, so very pretty-that gave it to him. She had showed him kindness. Bandaged his wounds after the most serious beatings. Nursed him back to health, when one of his trainers had broken his arm. She listened when he spoke, and he was grateful Malgus-then Veradun-had been tending the animal cages that day, as usual. It was his duty. A part of him like the animals, not that he could ever admit it to anyone. He was feeling calm, and...helpless. He knew if he disappointing his father, if this great power was never unlocked...he would never leave the estate. He would grow old tending to the palace menagerie, the cloying smell of animal dung and feed becoming a fume around him. In time he might even grow to like it. In time, he would not care. It was then he felt the first taste of Rage, that bitter tonic. It was good. And when he retired to the dining room that evening for a silent dinner with his father, he had a revelation. The serving girl, by simple chance, dropped a plate of spiced meat cubes upon the floor-a waste of food. Malgus despises waste. His father ranted, promised punishments and consequences-nothing ever came of them, for his Father held a weakness for her too, especially in the lonely dark of the night. He saw everything. Malgus's first instinct-believe it or not-was to defend the girl. Maybe in a better galaxy, everything might have changed if had done so. But, he did not. Then he stepped back, centering himself. She was weak. So was his Father. The slave and the master, both tied to one another. Spiraling endlessly, caught in each others orbits. His second instinct, however... He realized that the only way forward was to burn out his own heart-attachment was his weakness, but it was also strength when properly utilized. A catalyst to rage. She was his friend. She had showed him kindness. Had made him calm. These were all antithesis to the Sith, a laming wound that would either kill or render him impotent. And like any injury, it needed...cauterization. So Veradun killed her-with lightning, such a feat at a young age. He watched her writhe and suffer on the floor of the palatial dining suite. His father looking on, with a mix of pride, hatred and fear. Later, when he was alone, he would mourn her in his own way. He would carry her memory, whenever he needed another dose. A bitter drought of self hatred, rage, righteous self justification. He remembers them all. Every person he has killed-man, women and child. She would be the first to fuel the furnace-but not the last. ... 678 meters to the bottom of the shaft. He remembers Eleena. She stood out. Among the multitudes of cringing servants, she alone showed courage. Veradun-Malgus-has always respected courage, even among his enemies. The way she would look at him. Not with even a hint of fear. And yet, this did not make him powerless-he felt...worthy. Worthy of attention. Of something else than hatred. Maybe even of love. Thoughts and feelings he fought to keep down. He was Sith, he was strong-and attachment was a weakness. And weakness is to be despised. Murder her, the furnace roared-feed her to me. Be stronger. In his heart-and her own-they knew how it had to end... He remembers leaving her on Nal Hutta once-for a month, during council business. I will be back, he tells her. He withdraws security-removes the watchers...and steps back. Surely, she will see reason. Surely, she will escape him-he has given her the way out. He wishes for this, more than anything. Please. Run from me...just run. Eleena is waiting for him, as dependable as ever, a month later when he returns. They share a long kiss, and he wonders what he has ever done to deserve her. ... 456 meters to the bottom of the shaft. He remembers pain. It begins to crowd out his earlier thoughts. A red wave encroaching on cool flesh-like molten lava crawling up the legs of a fallen Jedi, he thinks oddly. Vindican is old and slow. His master is weak. What does that make him? He realizes this, a moment too late. He blade poised to cut the young Jedi Satele Shan in half...and the old man falters. It is hard enough for him to dodge the thrown blade, but enough for her to regain her balance and confidence. She escapes. There is a moment, where he steps back and slows down. The moment he decides to stop helping. It is a betrayal, but that is the way of the Sith. Vindican falls quickly, and he finds himself enraged. Vindican took him in, trained him, showed him the ways of battle when he could barely hold a blade. For all his faults, he can owe him at least the truth of that-at least, he owes him vengeance. He was more a father to him than his own ever was. He will never know the name of the Jedi he murders-one called Darach-but he will remember the Rage. Weak, pitiful Jedi-who had nevertheless killed his Master, more or less. He had showed courage, though. Had sacrificed himself for the sake of his Padawan, the one he had come so very close to cutting down. He gives him a quicker death than he deserves, and feels nothing but rage. Vindican is given less than even that. A failure, begging for one more chance even in his dying breath. They escaped, Master. You failed, he says. Just the right amount of gloat in the words. You failed. You. He feels this at the same time he regrets his passing. Malgus can admit both sides of this particular coin. No, Malgus. This…is only the beginning, he responds-meekly accepting his fate. For me, maybe, Malgus thinks. And he cuts his Master in twain, a practiced downward stroke. A thousand sparring sessions, daily meals, dangers faced side by side-the words and wounds they gave each other and taught one another-a bond of hatred and duty. He burns it all out of his heart and stokes the furnace once more. He will later wander Korriban and dream of a galaxy in flames, lamenting and relishing his masters passing. He will become drunk on this vision. ... 276 meters to the bottom of the shaft. He screams. Those above-those who defeated him-spare a moment at the sound coming from the pit. To a Jedi, it's the sound of a wounded animal that deserves pity, one who needed to be killed to spare further pain. To a Sith, it is rage incarnate and something worthy of admiration. To most others, it's merely horrifying...or satisfying, depending on the person. This, now. The weight of stone is like a mountain. He had been buried alive. The Jedi he had once met-such power. And that fool, with the grenade. Brave though. He gives them that. Alive, but not dead. When he bursts from the stone that should have been his tomb, he kills everyone in his way. Aldeeran is lost-he lost it, and he will never forget it. He thinks only of survival, and of Eleena. If he dies here, she will surely be killed...or sold to another. Though he will never admit it to anyone-not even her, not even himself-it is love, and not rage that makes him rise, makes him blow the mountain of stone lying on top of him away. The anger comes later...but for a moment, it was not there. They leave him wounded, but alive. They stand against him, and they die. He is almost disappointed no one can kill him in this state. It should have been easy. He feels nothing at all as they fit the metal mask over his mouth, the one he now needs to live, to breath. He will regret missing the sound of his own voice. So strong, so confident it once was...replaced with a metallic rasp, one designed to intimidate. Just another tool, like a lightsaber or body armor. He himself is merely a tool, he knows, but an amazingly adept one. Eleena is only happy he returned. Even as he looks now. Veradun. She still uses his real name. He likes the sound of it, coming from her lips. It brings him something close to happiness-and for a Sith, such feelings are to be despised, are they not? He cannot understand it, but is grateful-insofar, as he can feel anything. ... 128 meters to the bottom of the shaft. It comes faster now. Zallow dying with a look of hopelessness on his youthful, handsome face. He had never been wounded. Supreme satisfaction. The smell of ashes in the wind-even the duracrete is burning-Coruscant dies slowly. Long overdue. Aryn Leneer, the young Jedi. Fighting him her own rage, but too weak to make a difference. She shows courage, and spares his love. So he lets her go. He never regrets the decision. Sooner or later, they will meet again. He knows this. Then he sees, and wishes he didn't. His Eleena. Eleena dying on his own blade because he needs to be stronger, the furnace needs to be fed, and doing it with tears in his eyes. His greatest sacrifice. Her look is of pity-what have you done, Veradun-and he will never forget it. When he needs strength and hatred, she will always be there. Isn't that what love is, he reasons? Sacrifice? If so, killing those he loves has brought him immense power-a furnace that never goes out. He is becoming something more than merely a man-an element... Unfortunately-and be careful not to pity him too much, for all you have read-Malgus is unable to conceive of the cost to himself for doing all this. He had no idea what might otherwise have been, and does not care. This is his great failing in life. ... 98 meters. The Empire at peace. When he was prepared to watch the whole of the planet-the whole galaxy-be engulfed to sate his grief, they declare...peace. Cowards. Weaklings. In his heart, the Empire died that day. No longer War personified, but something to be consumed for the furnace. And why not? He had grown to love the Empire...and now it must burn as well. He learns patience, and cunning. He waits. And waits. Bides his time. Malgus will come often come close to despair-endearing thoughts of attacking Tython itself, throwing himself at the Jedi temple alone and letting them finally kill him-but the furnace remains lit, even though cooled. He finds others to feed it, and tends it gingerly. Until the war begins again, as it must. As it must. ... 67 meters. The New Empire. His Empire. Stronger than the one before. An eternity of war and fire. Enough, perhaps, to satisfy even one as he. It is a glorious vision. One he will see fulfilled. An army of champions at his command. Sniveling sycophants, all of them. For money, for power, for desire they fight. The flame will not spare them. The flame will not spare anyone. He is invincible. In the center of his new throne, he lets the hatred and anguish from the raging battle empower and embolden him. All pain and doubt leaves. Malgus will never again kneel to another. The fire will never go out. Yet. Somehow...he...loses. A small strike force tears at the heart of his New Empire. Kills it in the crib, to use a more brutal euphemism. He is surprised himself-and somewhat glad, he finally found a few worthy enemies. Still, he is warrior enough to think he might have taken one or two of them alone. They outnumber him, is all. That's apparently enough. ... 45 meters and falling fast. No. It is a voice from the core of his being. The Furnace he has stoked with thousands of murders-enemies, allies, friends, his one love. It brings him back. I will not die. I cannot die. If i die...all the sacrifice was for nothing. ... 22 meters, and he sees the source of his vision-the bottom of the shaft, a massive reactor pool, glowing like a living sun. Was this the flames he imagined? Was he supposed to be the one who burns? He does not waste time ruminating. Instead he gathers all his strength, all his anger, every iota of his not inconsiderable will... ...and yet feels it will not be enough all the same. Doubt has crept into his heart. He is an old man, again. Wounded and bitterly broken. Ready to rest. ... 5 meters. Love. It has hurt him worse than a lifetime of battle wounds. He remembers Eleena, and how she loved him. Despite everything he was. This is his power. He was worthy of love, once. He burned it away, knowing the pain it would cause him. And in that pain, the Sith finds true power. This is the energy he needs now. He taps into it, once more. It is good. The furnace screams and thunders, relentlessly. His earlier weakness is expunged. And as the final meters tick away from his life-as the brilliant sun glow of melting reactor blinds his vision and begins to char his mask from his body and the flesh of his face-Malgus lets forth a deafening blast of force energy. ... 3 meters. So much power. But, is it enough to arrest his fall? Enough to slow him down, to avoid the flames of his own immolation, just so much he might crawl away once more-even further disfigured, even more enraged? Malgus is beyond worrying. Even in his anger, he finds an odd calm. Bathed in the Dark Side, he is truly alone once again. Where he deserves to be. He cannot know, cannot see. This is the fatal weakness of the Dark Side. The final cruelty and hard truth of the Sith-in the end, the blind pursuit of power will always leave you utterly alone. Forever grasping for what you had lost. ... 0 meters. What is that? What is at the bottom of the shaft-is it moving? Is it alive?-we must now leave. It has suffered enough, and we can do no more harm than it has done to itself. Perhaps we can pity it a bit, but that is dangerous. No, it's easier to not even get close. Even if you are but mortal enough, to try and reach a helping hand to a grievously injured or perhaps dead man. No, for it would take your hand if it could-and willingly. It would be grateful. It would thank you. That is just what it is. In time, it might even grow to respect you. Even it is not beyond gratitude, and love. Even now. Of course, this thing burns what it loves. So it's best to move on quickly...and don't look back. Edited March 8, 2013 by Dwarmin Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mrtwo Posted March 9, 2013 Share Posted March 9, 2013 A really thoughtful take on something most people never thought about. I like it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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