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- #1
It was a pristine beauty, an exquisite perfection obtained by an exalted sense of ubiquity with only the diseased taint of reality to mar the artistic depiction. It was the most primal of drawings, imagery painted with the dexterous fingers of an artist, graced with utmost care and tended to with a desire that was clearly reflected in the design. The fingers, representing the slender beauty and fragility of the artist, carefully maneuvered around the crimson, the motions sensual and languid and caressed the work of art with care. There was purpose in every movement, direction that was preconceived with weighted thought and the muffled air of jazz music in the background set a jovial ambiance. The fingers stopped, the index finger circling gently over a tangible conglomeration of tissue. It was an erroneous adjunction to the canvas, one that distracted from the piece. The finger gently brushed it aside, though the damage was done. The surreal, depraved trance dispersed like a mist, falling away like a cloak and pooling at her feet.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips, the soft pale lips of a dead woman. The air that exhaled from her mouth was chilled, her pallid skin unmarred and eerily illuminated. She was knelt on the ground, a hand extended out and paused on her artwork. It was as if she were a statue, forever presented in a display of ferity. It was a dichotomized juxtaposition, a perfect one, as the painting that extended out like tendrils from the tips of her fingers was thick, coagulated blood. The lump of tissue she had irritably brushed aside was the human remains of the man that lay decapitated only feet away. She paid no heed to him. He was a glaring distraction from her art. She did not like distractions. Her frustration pooled over, and she broke out of her statuesque reserve, hastily smearing the blood and complementing the action with an irritable cry.
She rose from the ground, the levity of the jazz music reaching her ears in a tranquil wave, one that penetrated her mind and encompassed her thoughts. It traveled down her body, down her spine, and stopped and brushed against each vertebra. The music entered her bloodstream like a drug and coursed through her veins, released into every muscle, till the anger abated. She smiled then, a devil’s smile, one that seemed out of place on her visage, as it was a face not accustomed to smiles. Her fingertips were tinged red, but all thoughts of her painting left her. She did not look back, taking a step, and then another. She barely touched the ground, moving like an ethereal manifestation. She was the embodiment of malice and atrocity in its most perfect form, a form wrought of abhorrence and a never ending ache for power, one that would push her to the pinnacle of chaotic tyranny. Her every step betrayed her, but she flaunted it, as a gentle warning to any that stood in her way.
“There is nothing here.”
She did not believe it. She remained on the ground, fiercely clutching the ragged doll. So pristine was that doll, oblivious with that permanent smile etch upon its countenance, forever amused and withdrawn from the pain that gripped her owner. She had stopped crying, but the pain lingered, coursing through her veins like poison. In an instant, everything was gone. In an instant she was a derelict undesirable, turbulently left clutching an inanimate object. Shuddering gasps marked the cessation of her sobbing.
“You are strong. You can rise above this.”
The voice was smooth, cold, drawling. Without turning back, she thought the words flowed from the lips of a snake. She did not look back. She did not have to look back to understand that the figure standing behind her was a monster. She lowered her head, looking into the face of the doll. The face was tainted with blood, but the smile never faded. She rose from the ground, one of her small hands wiping the tears away. She finally turned to face him. He was cloaked in darkness, enshrouded in mystery. His eyes, however, pierced through the darkness. The crimson hues glowed with passion, displaying a thirst that would possibly never be quenched. She looked into those eyes, the fear and pain in her heart melting away.
She did not know what she was. She did not know that he could feel the darkness emanating from her, the raw power that tugged at him almost sensually. She did not know that she possessed untamed fury that whirled within her like a monster, lying dormant and chained. Only he could see it. His eyes pierced through her frail body, past the little face of a scared girl, right into the blackness swirling in her heart. She couldn’t see the smile slowly creeping onto his face. The smile that eerily resembled the one on her doll.
His words, the promises of a tomorrow, the promise of absolution, the promise of retribution, breathed life into her. None of it made sense to the girl, but she gazed into his eyes. The hypnotizing hues guided her, as if intangible ropes had bound her and gently tugged her along. He crept back into darkness and she followed, her eyes wide with wonder. Her hand fell to her side, the doll falling to the ground, splashing into the coagulating blood of her parents.
---
She closed her eyes, shuddering and writhing in pleasure. The blade withdrew from the delicate, pale flesh of her wrist. The red blood flowed smoothly from the tear, an imperfection upon many that littered her arm. She was fascinated by blood, her finger reaching and tenderly touching the fresh wound. She coated the tips of her fingers in her own immaculate blood, bringing it up to stare at the sanguine liquid. She could almost smell it, and suddenly had the wild urge to taste it. She leaned forward, expecting the coppery explosion of flavor.
“Back again?”
He knew. She did not rapidly jerk away or hide what she had been doing. She reveled in it, welcomed it and accepted it. The blade remained in her hand, her sunken eyes not meeting his. He knew what she had been doing. He said nothing for a while, standing many feet away. His arms were crossed over his chest, his face always devoid of expression. He did not judge her, question her, or attempt to stop her. He simply observed. She said nothing in return, lowering her gaze and staring into the reflection of her that displayed in the blade. Her eyes bore an almost golden hue, the pigment lightening from their initial shade. The knife fell to the ground with a clatter. He made no motion for it. He simply watched. After a long moment, he turned and left. Left her to her corruption, the slow descent that she had begun since that fateful day when he found her. She walked alone, unguided and untethered. The gash on her wrist reminded her of the life she left behind. The redness brought back memories of a life locked far away.
The skies were no longer blue, the sun did not shine, the birds did not sing. All that remained was the cold, gray reality that constantly hung like a sinister gloom. It clung to her, burned through her skin like acid, made her shrink back. She needed to escape it. She needed to run away, and the only way to do so was to tear into it, let it out. She breathed for the first time when she cut into her flesh, and it was liberating, watching the essence of her life run down her hand and reminding her that her heart still beat.
She knew he thought she was weak. She did not understand why he pushed her. She did not understand his overzealous devotion to something she could not see. She could only feel it. He told her to open herself up to it. He promised she could control it, manipulate it and bend it. He told her she could snatch as much of it as she wished. He said she was its master and could command it at will. She followed, purposeless, directionless.
He was not kind, not gentle, not loving in any fashion of the word. He was the epitome of necessity, brutality and efficiency. He was what she needed, the guidance that harshly pulled her from the dismal chasm of insanity. It was a place she often flirted with, and she often found herself on the brink of sanity, peering over the edge before she fell in for good. She was unstable, rocky and her foundations were weak. She was weak. It was a slow realization, one that crept into her mind and planted a seed. That seed blossomed into a tree of doubts, a tree he was quick to sever in half. He was her father, her mother, her brother, her sister, her god. But he gave nothing to her. He took nothing from her. He existed in the distance, always far away, always silent. His silence spoke volumes, and it molded her into shape and set her on the path to grandeur. It was one she had to walk, though her purpose remained obscure.
---
She simply stared at him. She could tell he was growing impatient. She could see the irritation, the anger, all of it culminating within him. It threatened to explode, and she could feel it. She paid it no heed. She reached out her hand, the one scarred on the wrist and littered with cuts she had inflicted upon herself. She touched his face, her delicate fingers roaming over the ugly brand on his cheek. It was a harsh, twisted perversion of the skin that was once there. He shrunk away at her touch, almost involuntarily. She did not withdraw, keeping her chilled fingers on his skin.
“Does it hurt?”
He said nothing. He was a boy no older than she was, at least by appearance. She could sense pain from him. She could sense it using that ‘it’ she couldn’t explain. The thing she could not comprehend yet. She rose from the ground, staring at him. He followed her movements with his eyes. As she met his gaze, she did not find him there. He was lost, gone far away from this world. He had left his body a long time ago, leaving behind a placeholder. She knew the answer then.
She found him many times after that, always in the same place. He could not walk away, could not stop vacantly gazing. He never looked at her as she passed him. He never spoke to her. But she knew, and he knew. It originated from the pain, from the cuts on their bodies, from the wounds that would never heal. That’s where she found him, in a place he thought he would never be found. She returned every day, never exchanging words, nor a gaze. Simply her presence. He could feel it. He could feel it because he was another creation born to be thrust into a world of the ‘it’. She wondered if he understood it. She did not ask.
She could never explain what changed. She found him yet again, not making eye contact. He said nothing, and she walked past him. However, she heard a sharp intake of breath. It was an abrupt action, so sudden that it tore into the tranquil atmosphere around her. She faced him, locking gaze with him for the first time since she had touched his face. He returned the gaze. This time, she saw life behind his eyes. He said nothing for a moment, the silence growing between them. She did not move, did not prod his mind with the ‘it’. They were equals, she could feel it. Finally, he spoke. His voice was like music to her ears.
“Not anymore.”
---
Her eyes were yellow, like those of a cat. They glinted in the darkness, her tattered cloak gently swaying behind her. She was crouched up in a tree, observing the outpost from a distance. She could feel it from them, the self righteous pricks lost in their pious sense of justice. They were blind in their strife for perfection, for atonement for sins yet to be committed. She smiled at the sight, shooting a glance over to her other half, the boy that had become a young man. He returned the grin, the moonlight glinting over the tarnished contours of his face, the brand a constant reminder of his past. She did not see it anymore, however, and only saw his presence in the Force. It was not the ‘It’ anymore. She understood it, controlled it and manipulated it. She was a seamstress of the Force, weaving to her whims, leaving magnificent masterpieces of destruction in her wake.
Today would be no different. She nodded to her other half, no words were said. It was a silent gesture. They had long since learned to communicate without the aid of the Force, or without the slightest change in demeanor. It was all in their eyes. The eyes appeared devoid and vacant to the rest of the world, but to each other they spoke volumes. She sprang off the tree, almost gliding down with the silence of a night owl. She landed on the soft grass without a sound. He landed next to her, not as graceful, but with the precision of a killer. And they made their way forth, two predators having cornered their prey.
The screams of the Jedi within rang out like a sweet symphony, where she and he were the conductors. They lead the orchestra, leaving a river of blood among the halls of purity and valor. They left a taint, a darkness that crept behind them, trailing behind them and clinging into the walls, the floor, the ceiling and into the Jedi themselves. This was judgment, this was the end for them and death had arrived for them on their doorsteps.
Her demonic laughter resonated throughout, a chilling sound that would cause even the most battle hardened veterans to quiver. She did not stop, even when they begged for mercy. She did not look into the whites of their eyes. She looked ahead, always ahead. And the blood. Oh, the blood! The warmth that exploded all over her, showered her in the essence of Force laced life. It was exhilarating, and she was ascending, always ascending. She was lost in the bloodlust, finding that brink of sanity once again. The one he had always saved her from.
She erupted into a blur, moving into a smear of crimson. She bent the Force, letting it break and control. It was an extension of her, swimming forth to destroy any she willed it to. It made her lose sight of herself, but it tapped her into the untamed fury of a berserker. She was a master of the Force, though the Force controlled her then. She was not aware of this, simply lost into a dance of destruction, littering the halls with bodies.
Her laughter grew shrill, higher and more inhuman. She was lost and quickly falling further. Her other half was right there with her, cutting his own swath through the masses. It wasn’t long before he realized she was gone, having fallen into the insanity that came from power. She was drunk off of it, high on it, and completely immersed in it.
She tore apart the limbs, drenched herself in the blood and splattered it everywhere. She was on the ground, crying out loud and screaming, losing her mind. The Force overwhelmed her, consumed her and began to chip away at her last shreds of resolve. He was not fazed by it. He did something completely uncharacteristic. Suddenly, there was music. It erupted within the silent halls of death. The music projected from the speakers, a mixture of saxophones, clarinet, piano, trumpets..it was an odd mixture and strangely soothing. She listened to it, withdrawing her head from having buried it in her bloodstained hands. She did not look at her other half, closing her eyes and receding from the chasm of chaos she had fallen into. She rose, rose and rose till she was back again. She finally opened her eyes, listening to the heavenly noise, the music so strangely alluring. It was intoxicatingly beautiful, just like blood. She looked up at him at last. He already saw her question etched upon her features. He simply grinned.
“I think the common folk call this jazz.”
Transitions[Flashback]
Beginnings
Under Sanskrit Stars
A Riddle In Time
Eyes Like Stars
Surprise Guest
Dark Hearts
Sanctuary
Retribution's Wake
Transcendent Skies
Returning
Sing For Absolution
Past, Present and Future
Legacies Left Behind
In Sovereign Shadows
Souls Of Veritas
The Lion And The Wolf
Lucid Insanity
Beginnings
Under Sanskrit Stars
A Riddle In Time
Eyes Like Stars
Surprise Guest
Dark Hearts
Sanctuary
Retribution's Wake
Transcendent Skies
Returning
Sing For Absolution
Past, Present and Future
Legacies Left Behind
In Sovereign Shadows
Souls Of Veritas
The Lion And The Wolf
Lucid Insanity
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