A/N: Author's notes will not be much of a thing in this story. I'll put them up when necessary, but otherwise you'll have to ask any questions you have by PM or review and I'll respond when necessary.

This story is… yeah, I think it's the most important thing I've ever written, at least to me. Not a romp like my usual stuff. This is going to get dark. Actually the very next chapter after this one is pretty dark. So's the one after that. This story is an experiment in thematic writing; in trying to make a point with fiction. Sorta like the stuff English teachers have their students read, or like some of the very best fanfics out there. (Most of the really good ones are about ponies, which is a damn shame, since ponies are not actually that conducive to making a lot of really important arguments.)

I'm not sure whether I can do the topics I'm dealing with… but I'm damn well going to try.

Yes, it's a SWTOR fic. No, it's not a damn stupid shipfic between uninteresting characters. The game isn't great. It's not too bad—BioWare is still BioWare, even if they're not releasing KotOR-tier stuff anymore—but it's far from their best work. It just happens to be set in my favorite period of the universe.

I'll have one more note at the end of the chapter, and then I won't leave so many throughout the rest of the story. Enjoy.

"I'm willing to concede Master Jinn's point that the Muuns have cornered the market on finance, if he is willing to concede that the Jedi have cornered the market on ethics."
~Hego Damask, who was Darth Plagueis

E Pluribus Unum

Or,

The Line with Three Directions

Book the Prelude: Origin

Peace is a lie; there is only Passion.
Through Passion I gain Strength,
Through Strength I gain Power,
Through Power I gain Victory;
Through Victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me.

The Force shall free me.

Chapter One

The Sith Warrior

"I haven't met a problem my lightsaber can't solve."

Mysvaleer Meiron would be the first to admit that he was not a good man. His brother, Hethus—he was a good man. A good man did not fear adversity such as they had faced together, not when so much was at stake. A good man would stand strong and fast and defend what could not defend itself.

"Maybe you'd better start at the beginning," said Vette's voice, disturbing his vague nostalgia.

Mysvaleer (or, as he was now known, Darth Pyrus) opened his eyes and looked at his Twi'lek wife sheepishly. "My apologies," he said. "It's so easy to skip over the first ten years. I don't much like to remember them, honestly."

It was cool and moist in their shared quarters aboard the Fire by Night, the Fury-class Sith Interceptor that had served them so well. It was dim, and outside the room the rest of the ship was dark save for the flickering illumination of the many digital and holographic displays that lined the tiny vessel's halls. The galaxy map in the cockpit lay dormant, along with most of the other non-emergency user interfaces. Outside, the stars flickered cold and aloof, uncaring of the affairs of those who lived under the billions of myriad suns.

Vette took him in her arms. One of her lekku was brushing his face as she said, "I know, but I told you my story. You owe me this. And it won't get any easier to keep it bottled up."

Mysvaleer shook his head. "It's not bottled up," he said quietly. "I've come to terms with it. You helped me do that, you know."

Vette blinked. "How?"

He smiled at her—the secret smile he never gave to anyone else which was their personal treasure. "By letting me love you," he said, smiling, "And reminding me what that meant." He sighed. "But you are right. I owe you a debt I can never repay, but I might as well begin to try."

And so, taking a moment to collect his thoughts to the very beginning of it all, he remembered aloud.

Mysvaleer was eight when it began, and Hethus was seven. They lived together with their mother and father in the ancient compound of the Meiron, who were truly ancient among the Sith. Among the oldest of the purely human Sith clans, they were strong, prestigious, and renowned. They had no seat on the Dark Council, but no one cared about that—they were quite powerful enough.

No one, that is, except for the family patriarch.

Arteis Meiron, father to Mysvaleer and Hethus, was a fairly usual Sith Lord—that is, he was vicious, cunning, brutal, and ambitious. He and his wife had come together in one of the classic Sith arranged marriages, though which one or both sides would gain some prestige.

She was named Nellya Meiron—formerly Karrist—and she was Arteis' polar opposite. She was kind, civil, and loved her children—it was, her children later guessed, for these reasons that she was married to their beast of a father.

And this was all on their minds on the day when the end of childhood began, because—for the first time in seven years—Nellya was pregnant, and had been for a few months. It was to be a daughter.

Mysvaleer and Hethus, having heard the news, excused themselves as hastily as could be managed and left the stifling manor-house behind.

As they sat side-by-side under a twisted tree watching the Dromund Kaas sky drizzle perpetually they talked of this frightening development.

"This can't happen," said Hethus quietly. "We barely stayed sane for the first few years, and that was because we're boys. We'll grow into strong Sith—well, you will." Hethus had been tested long ago and found to have too few midi-chlorians in his bloodstream to be considered for entrance into the Sith Academy on Korriban. Their father had made his disappointment very clear. "And I had you, and my piloting." Hethus did have power in the Force, but largely in a single field—skill in a starship.

"There are many very powerful Sith who are girls," said Mysvaleer quietly, though he knew perfectly well that wasn't the point.

Hethus told him as much. "Not in his opinion! You know how he is! 'There's a reason there are only two women on the Dark Council' and all that! She'll never stay human if she grows up like this—not even if she's got both of us and more strength in the Force than you!"

Mysvaleer slumped in defeat. "But what do we do?" he asked unhappily. "We'd never get away if we ran. He's a Dark Lord of the Sith! He can have all the power on Dromund Kaas after us in half an hour!"

Hethus looked down. "Not if we fly."

"Where would we go?" Mysvaleer asked.

Hethus didn't answer, not that his elder brother expected him to do so. They sat in miserable silence, looking up into the gray sky.

"I wonder what it'll be like on Korriban," said Hethus at length. "You'll have to tell me about it, when you go."

"I promise," said Mysvaleer, his voice soft.

"Imagine," whispered Hethus. "They say it's always sunny there—that Horuset burns the earth all day. It must be beautiful."

Mysvaleer looked at him. "The beauty in Korriban's sky is in its night," he said, "When the seven moons come up and down, one after another, each one just a little bit different and each one glowing. Horuset burns everything—the moonlight cools it back down."

They sat for a while longer, watching the gray rain. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a violet lance speared through the sky, miles away.

"You'll see it one day," promised Mysvaleer. "Korriban. Force, you'll see a thousand more planets than I will! You'll be a pilot!"

Hethus rolled his eyes. "Bet I never see outside of Vaiken Spacedock, knowing my luck," he grumbled. "Father would never let attention be drawn to the more shameful of his sons."

Mysvaleer said nothing, only reached out and put his right arm around his younger brother's shoulders.

It was six months later. Mysvaleer sat alone and nervous on his large bed, eyes shut. If his father walked in at that moment, he knew he would be beaten for what he was doing, but he needed it.

He was meditating, as the Jedi did.

It was not so much a guilty pleasure for him as it was a necessity. He knew with the cold certainty of terror that if he did not meditate, and fairly often, he would go mad and become just like his father.

The Dark Side was strong, and its power was his. But he would die before he allowed its madness to become his own. He knew his father had fallen past that final threshold long ago. That was the source of their family's misery now. He would not allow it to happen to him and his future family and friends.

And, Sith Lord or not, he would have them.

But he was nervous, which was why he was meditating now. The source of his nerves also had his father furious and looking for someone to victimize—in such a mood, Mysvaleer would never normally consider taking such a risk.

But there was a reason. Nellya was in labor.

There was a knock on his door. Mysvaleer didn't even twitch as he said, "Come in, Hethus." Their father never knocked.

His younger brother stepped into the room. "She's been born," Hethus' voice was hoarse. He was not so controlled as Mysvaleer, and much more pessimistic about their father. He had been crying for the poor girl who was now their sister. "Mother named her Vanna."

Mysvaleer nodded, shielding himself from feeling. "It's a good name."

Hethus took a couple of deep breaths before replying, "Yes."

Mysvaleer sighed. Hethus hated it when he meditated in moments of strife. It detached him from Hethus' feelings and made it difficult to empathize.

There was silence for a time. "Do you think she'll be all right?" Hethus asked, quietly.

Mysvaleer didn't answer.

Mysvaleer leapt out of bed with a cry, gray eyes wild. It took him only a moment to identify the source of his sudden awakening.

The combined screams and yells of both of his parents and his one-year-old younger sister would wake the dead.

In a moment he was out of his room, the old-style Alderaanian-wood doors swinging out behind him. He rushed through the hall, stopping outside the one-year-old Vanna's bedroom. The doors were flung wide, and golden light poured out onto the dark floor.

Arteis Meiron sat in a plasteel chair—plasteel was commonly used in toddlers' and babies' rooms—with Vanna on his lap. His eyes were illuminated red with his Force-imbued rage. In the corner Nellya sat curled and bawling in a show of weakness no child should have to see from his mother (Mysvaleer had seen it many times).

Vanna screamed as Arteis struck her on the cheek—hard. Mysvaleer bit his tongue to keep himself silent.

Is this the Sith Order, fundamentally? he cried out internally in anguish. Can we never do anything but cause pain? Why do we fight the Republic, if this is what we're fighting for?

Then Hethus rammed into him from the side. Mysvaleer skidded a step, and even as he recovered, Hethus was already impulsively screaming "Vanna!" and rushing into the room, eyes glowing red like Arteis' in righteous fury.

Mysvaleer watched from outside the room.

Arteis stood up in rage, Vanna falling from her perch to the ground—she slowed as she fell, and Mysvaleer saw his mother's arm outstretched in the use of the Force—and stepped forward menacingly towards the younger of the two brothers. "You would defy me?" the Meiron family head growled, and his voice was deep and rich with immense power.

Hethus didn't even answer with words, so consumed was he by the wrath of the Dark Side. He merely reached out his hands and lightning spewed forth.

Force Lightning? Mysvaleer stared in incredulity at the bright rips in the air. Hethus can't do anything like that! This was the power of the Force, he realized. When it was needed—truly needed—it would rise to the occasion.

Arteis was no more expecting it than Mysvaleer, and it showed as he was too slow to defend himself. The electric current flowed into his body and he shuddered spasmodically in the throes of the attack.

It lasted for almost a full thirty seconds before Hethus fell to his knees, gasping for air. The red light left his eyes as they fluttered shut.

Arteis didn't move from his position—he had been forced to his hands and knees by the Force assault—for almost a full minute. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet, and the crimson glow seemed immeasurably greater now in his sockets than it had before.

He raised his right hand almost lazily, and Hethus floated slowly into the air. Mysvaleer's fists clenched, but still he did not react.

No, he would reflect later in life in his most miserable moments; he was too much of a coward to help.

Arteis' fist clenched, and Hethus stopped breathing—rather, he tried to breathe through a windpipe that was being crushed.

There was a moment of silence, puntuated only by Hethus' gasps for air, and then Nellya stood up. "S-stop it, my Lord," she whispered brokenly. Then with renewed strength as Arteis didn't react, "Stop it!"

Arteis' fist loosened, and Hethus gasped for breath. He turned slowly, threateningly, toward his wife. "What is it?"

"If you kill him," Nellya murmured, "I will make your life hell, Arteis. You know I can do it. I have power as your wife over all of your domains; power I have never had sufficient cause and courage to use. But you can't kill me—Lord Scourge would never allow it. And if you kill my son, so help you Force, you will answer to me."

"You threaten me?" Arteis whispered. In the turning of his attention, he dropped Hethus. Mysvaleer winced at the thud, but still he didn't move.

"Not a threat," Nellya said. "A promise."

There was silence and then Arteis swept out of the room, barely sparing Mysvaleer a glance as he left.

It was two years later. Vanna had not had a happy first thirty-six months. Mysvaleer felt for her from afar, but he could never interfere when his father forced neglect and pain on her.

No, he was too cowardly for that.

Mysvaleer and Hethus had grown apart. Hethus did not blame his brother for almost letting him die, but it did not change the fact that it had happened. And because of that, and because of Mysvaleer's cowardice and its contrast with Hethus' courage, a wall had built itself between them.

But they still loved one another dearly, even if they expressed it less often. In the face of their father's tyranny, they only had one another, Vanna (whose youth made her little comfort), and Nellya (who was often too busy dealing with Arteis and protecting them from afar to be much help).

That was why Mysvaleer knew something was wrong. Hethus suddenly stopped many of his usual habits. His spare time was spent either in his workshed outdoors or on excursions—meeting important people, he said.

Mysvaleer believed that. He was just worried about which people in particular. And it was because he was watching his brother that he noticed when he vanished. He did about it the first thing that came to mind—he went to his mother.

He tapped the buzzer on the wall—he had heard that once there was a custom of knocking on doors to signify a desire to enter, but one could not well knock on a metal door—and was met in a moment by Nellya's voice. "Come in," she called softly.

He entered. His mother looked absolutely spent. He frowned slightly—he might be used to it, but he still felt for her.

The woman was looking out the window at the drizzling of the light, eternal rain over the swampy grasses of the Imperial Capitol. The sky was gray overhead as always, but it looked somehow at once more mournful and more menacing than usual.

She smiled exhaustedly at him. "Mysvaleer," she murmured. "How are you, dear?"

He embraced her. "I'm well," he said. "Mother, Hethus is missing."

"Yes," she whispered, looking away from him. "So is Vanna."

Mysvaleer frowned, eyes widening. "What? Why? What has happened?"

She was silent for a moment, and then she turned to him. There were tears in her eyes.

"I had to do it," she whispered. "He wanted to protect her, and I… I couldn't stop him. Not from that."

"What has Hethus done, Mother?" Mysvaleer asked quietly, and with a growing certainty. He had heard his brother practicing at night, cultivating a Republic accent… contacting strange people…

She looked down, and two tears fell into her lap. "He's gone, Mysvaleer," she whispered. "He's taken Vanna to the Republic—to the Jedi."

Mysvaleer stepped back from her in horror. "The… the Jedi?" he croaked.

She nodded. "She'll be safer there than anywhere in the Empire," she said, and her weeping was now audible in her voice. "So will he—he plans to apply for emancipation as a Republic citizen."

Mysvaleer's fists clenched. He bore no illusions—the Republic was not really evil, and Hethus and Vanna would be safe there, but…

"This is our Empire," he whispered. "This is a betrayal of the Empire."

"I had to do it!" Nellya sobbed. "She would die if she stayed here!"

Mysvaleer didn't answer. He merely turned away and left the room. He knew now where Hethus was going—and he knew he could get there first.

In years to come, he would regret this harshness with all his heart, but he could never have known that his Father was just as hot on Hethus' trail as he was, or that he too would go to Nellya. He could never have guessed that he had just shared his last conversation with his mother.

He quickly returned to his room and extracted a waterproof robe. Then he jogged out of the manor.

The rain formed a thick drapery over the saturated landscape, drumming out a light rhythm on the metal of his speeder bike. He quickly leapt onto it where it was kept near the door and sped off, noticing the absence of Hethus' own bike.

Hethus would be headed to the hangar where the family's starfighter was kept. Mysvaleer would intercept him while he disabled the locks.

It took him five minutes on the relatively slow speeder to reach the hangar. It was out in the uninhabited wetlands, and not in the city, so Mysvaleer knew he and Hethus would not be disturbed. Arriving, he leapt of his speeder and slipped in quietly.

And there was Hethus, with Vanna on his shoulders, hunched over a console. The starfighter was still locked down—Mysvaleer could see it through the gate. But even as he watched for that brief moment, Hethus stood and a synthetic voice announced, "Locks disabled—nonessential personnel, please clear the launch area."

Vanna looked around in childish surprise at the voice and saw Mysvaleer at the doorway. "My'leer!" she gurgled happily.

Hethus whirled and froze.

Mysvaleer strode over to the gate which lay between the control room and the launch area and shut it. Turning to Hethus, he said, "I should have expected it, but I never did, Hethus. Betraying the Empire?"

Hethus glared at him. "What's to be loyal to, anyway?" he growled. "The Empire is broken—it doesn't work. It's ruled by an elite class whose only use for the rest is as toy soldiers. The Empire will never be worth fighting for while Father and his kind control it."

"Our kind," Mysvaleer corrected, looking at Vanna. "We are a Sith clan, Hethus."

"I will never be a Sith Lord," Hethus said flatly. "Whether or not the Force grows stronger in me like it did that time two years ago. I'll kill myself first."

Mysvaleer watched him for a moment in silence. Then he spoke again. "I know," he murmured. "And I understand why you are doing this, but… to take Vanna to the Jedi, Hethus? They'll twist her—make her like them."

"And that's worse than being like Father?" Hethus asked caustically.

Mysvaleer shook his head. "No, but why not just take her out of the picture—set up a home somewhere in the Outer Rim, or find a better Sith caretaker for her?"

"There is no such thing as a good Sith," said Hethus flatly. "Haven't you figured that out yet? And she wouldn't be safe in the Outer Rim, or even in the deep Republic. Sith spies are everywhere. I can only guarantee her safety in the Jedi Order."

Mysvaleer's eyes narrowed. "They are a warrior's discipline, Hethus," he said coldly. "Safety is not exactly their aim."

"Better to die in battle then get dragged back here," Hethus growled furiously. "Now are you going to let me pass or not?"

Mysvaleer didn't move. "Why, Hethus?" he asked quietly. "Who are you doing this for?"

Hethus didn't hesitate. "For Vanna, of course."

There was a moment of stillness, and then Mysvaleer, silent, stood aside.

Hethus swept past him and towards the starfighter, not looking back.

"Hethus," Mysvaleer called after him, softly.

Hethus stopped; turned. His eyes were hard, but there were tears in them. "What?"

"I don't agree with you," said Mysvaleer, stepping through the gate and approaching his brother. "But I won't stop you. Please… can we part as friends?"

There was a frozen pause as the brothers stood facing one another, silent. Then Hethus reached out and embraced him. "I'm going to miss you, Mysvaleer," he whispered, and he was crying.

"And I you," said Mysvaleer, fighting back his own tears. He looked up at Vanna on his brother's shoulders, who was watching curiously. Her silence was a product of three years' training—Arteis did not approve of loud children.

"Become a strong Jedi," he told her forcefully, but with no rancor in his voice—only steel determination. "Become the strongest of all Jedi, and one day, we will meet across a battlefield, and I shall test your limits, and I expect to be beaten soundly, you understand?"

He looked down, and the tears fell. "I expect you to win."

"My'leer…" Vanna said unhappily, feeling his sorrow instinctively and reaching out to him.

He took her into his arms, Hethus allowing it. "I love you, Vanna," he murmured. "I am going to miss you…"

There was nothing more to say to her. With a kiss on her forehead, he handed her back to Hethus. "Goodbye, Hethus," he whispered.

Hethus grinned at him through his own tears. "See you around."

And, without another word, he was gone.

Mysvaleer returned to a silent house. It was nearing lunchtime, so this was odd—Nellya would normally be preparing the noon meal now. An irrational fear gripped him as he realized this, and he sped up as he made for her room.

Arteis was standing there, and Nellya was not—she lay on her side at his feet, eyes staring glassily under the bed. It took her son a few moments to notice the cauterized lightsaber wound through her chest.

His mother was dead.

Mysvaleer's face contorted into a mask of rage with agonizing slowness as the truth sank in. Arteis, feeling the ripple in the Dark Side, turned and saw him. "Where is Hethus?" he barked. "He has taken Vanna."

"He's long gone," Mysvaleer muttered, not even looking at his father—his eyes were glued to the hole in his mother's chest. "You killed Mother."

Arteis didn't even dignify that with a response. "You let him escape?" he screamed furiously. "You let him take my daughter to the Republic? To the Jedi?

Mysvaleer was silent for a moment and then his eyes met his father's and glowed with a blood-red light that made his father's, even in the midst of a Dark-Side-fueled rage, look like a dim, half-powered lamp compared to a supernova. "You killed my mother…" he whispered, his voice rasping with power. The Force condensed around him in a red mist, and electricity flickered around his clenched fists.

Arteis stepped back in surprise. Then his red eyes narrowed. "You think you can avenge her?" he asked coldly. "You're twenty years too young for that, boy."

Mysvaleer raised his hands out to his sides, and a wind whipped up about him like a cyclone. In his mind there was only red—the Dark Side had him completely enthralled now. "You killed my mother." Mysvaleer said, his voice magnified by the Force, and it seemed as though another voice spoke in unison with him—older, deeper, and crueler. "I will kill you."

Arteis drew his lightsaber with a snap-hiss. Mysvaleer's luminescent eyes didn't even blink as his hands reached out and the blade was pulled from the man's hand with a tug of the Force. It found its way into the boy's palm and he sank instinctually into a fighting stance for the aggressive Shien form (a form which he'd try to relearn for years after this Force-charged episode ended).

Arteis' eyes widened in terror, and it was with that expression that, in merely a moment and a single strike, his head was removed from his shoulders.

Mysvaleer stared at the falling body for a moment and then the lightsaber fell from numb fingers, deactivating on its way down. The Force left him and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

It was thus that he was found by Lord Scourge, the Emperor's Wrath, when he came to investigate the deaths he had felt in the Force.

"Oh, Force..." Mysvaleer's reverie was cut short by his wife's whisper of horror. He met her gaze, and there were tears in her blue eyes.

He smiled ruefully at her. "I told you I've come to terms with it," he gently reminded her. "Besides, it's not as though you had it much better."

"Of course I did!" her exclamation was quiet but vehement. "My mother wasn't murdered by my own father! Force, Mysvaleer, I had no idea..."

He shook his head. "There is nothing worse than being a slave. It's behind us now, anyway. I just owe you the story."

She was silent for a moment, and then she leaned in and kissed him gently. He responded to the gentle pressure on his lips by twining his arms around her, bringing his right up to play with her lekku.

After a time, they separated. There was another comfortable silence, and then, smiling at his wife, Mysvaleer continued his story.

The acolyte was roused by the turbulence as the shuttle entered the planet's atmosphere. His eyes opened and immediately met those of the acolyte opposite him. The other young man immediately looked away nervously.

Mysvaleer studied him for a time, sizing him up. The man was slightly out-of-shape and looked rather nervous.

The man glanced back at him, and Mysvaleer met his gaze and held it. After a moment, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat again. He had seen what he needed and expected to.

The man was weak. He would not survive Korriban.

The shuttle landed. The straps on their seats unbuckled. Mysvaleer stood slowly and stretched while the other acolytes flowed out around him. One Sith Pureblood stopped at the door and waited for him. The human acolyte cocked his head at the man.

His eyes were red, and a golden ornament adorned the bridge of his nose. His red skin was marred with a scar which stretched across the skin surrounding his right eye. Mysvaleer met his eyes and came to a conclusion.

This one was strong. He would survive Korriban.

"Coming?" The man's low voice was silken and smooth, like the flat of a razor-thin vibroblade. There was a wary look on his face, but not the wariness of a weak creature surrounded by strength—rather the wariness of a master pazaak player who did not know yet how much of a bluff he could pull off.

Mysvaleer grinned at him as he strode in his direction. "Of course."

They left the shuttle together. There were two overseers there. One, with a mark of war paint or tattoo on his nose was talking to a group of acolytes. The other, with darker skin, Mysvaleer recognized as his contact: Overseer Tremel.

He nodded to his companion and they parted; Mysvaleer making for Tremel, who nodded at him as he approached, and the other making for the other Overseer.

Mysvaleer didn't know the Pureblood acolyte's name, but he knew with the certainty of the Force that it didn't matter: they would meet again.

They did; quite soon. As Mysvaleer delved into the tomb of Ajunta Pall, He encountered the other acolyte again.

Mysvaleer was in the middle of a k'lor'slug nest, whirling from one to the other and slashing through their vaguely amorphous bodies with his training blade. He spun to his left and slashed through the monstrous face of one of the beasts. Turning about he brought his saber up from below and disemboweled another.

He heard the spitting hiss from behind him and rotated, but was not prepared for the larger beast. It was not one of the minor drones of the colony: no, this was a soldier, red-skinned and vicious.

It struck him before he could parry and he was thrown back a few feet, landing facing the ceiling. The hiss approached rapidly as he rolled as quickly as possible. It was too fast, though, and he knew it. He would survive, but he would not escape unscathed.

Then the k'lor'slug's hiss was punctuated by a different sound, still sibilant but harsher and more constant. Mysvaleer knew that sound, and recognized, too, from his battle, the wail of a k'lor'slug in agony.

He got to his feet, and the beast lay dead at them; and there, about ten meters away, was the Pureblood acolyte, blade out and completely clean. He wasn't even winded. "All right there?" he said in that silken, deadly voice.

Mysvaleer studied him. "That would get you attacked by most Sith," he said grimly, referring to the other acolyte's caustic tone, and ignoring the Force Lightning he knew had been used.. "Not exactly the best start to any stay on Korriban."

The acolyte chuckled darkly. "Believe me, I know what Sith are like."

Mysvaleer studied him for a moment. "Do you indeed?" he asked quietly.

The other man laughed. "Comes with being a slave to one. What did they do to you?"

Mysvaleer was not too surprised at having been read. This Pureblood was a natural manipulator, and that necessitated observation. "Raised me," he said offhandedly. "Clothed me, housed me, fed me. Killed my mother and drove my brother and sister away."

"Nobility, then?" The man's voice was conversational, and there was not a drop of sympathy in his red eyes. "What family?"

"Meiron." Mysvaleer was slightly surprised at the hardness in his own voice. He knew he was angry at the Pureblood's callous disregard for his pain, but he was surprised at his own lack of self-containment. "Mysvaleer Meiron."

The Pureblood nodded. "Yskalan," he said, holding out his hand with a glint in his eyes. "Nice to meet you, Earl Meiron."

Mysvaleer's eyes narrowed.

Yskalan smiled and his hand drew back. "Good to meet another acolyte with half a brain. I'll see you again, Mysvaleer." And then he was gone, deeper into the tomb.

"That was Yskalan?" Vette was astounded. "He was so... so..."

"So Sith?" Mysvaleer chuckled. "You haven't seen him on the council. Darth Imperius makes a very convincing paragon of darkness."

"So was that an act?" Vette asked him, bewildered.

"No," said Mysvaleer, shaking his head. "No, that was Yskalan as he was then. He and I were both... less than whole, when we came to Korriban. A lot has changed. He has Ashara now." The Wrath smiled at his wife. "And I have you."

"But how do I tie in?" Vette asked. "I remember you didn't like me or trust me at first, but you weren't... like that."

Mysvaleer smiled. "You misunderstood me, Vette."

Mysvaleer grumbled to himself as he walked the Academy's halls. His hardened boots tapped against the durasteel floor in a percussive rhythm. He had been ordered to judge prisoners and sentence them accordingly. Why? Tremel had no particularly good excuse, other than that it would show Darth Baras, who Tremel intended to make Mysvaleer's Master, who he was, and perhaps gain his favor.

Mysvaleer snorted derisively. If Baras couldn't already see exactly who he was and why he was worth training, then he wasn't worth contemplating as a teacher. Mysvaleer knew his name was not exactly unknown to the powerful Sith of the Order—the fiasco several years ago had drawn more than enough attention to him. The extinction or disappearance of all but the heir to an ancient and prestigious bloodline like the Meiron did not go unnoticed.

Still, such an exercise had benefits all its own, he had to admit. Decisions had power—decide to act on behalf of the Dark Side, and one gained a certain affinity with it. The same, he was sure, held true for the Light.

As he came to the entrance to the Prison, he heard a man speaking. "One more chirp from you, little bird, and you'll regret it."

Mysvaleer was about to step into the room when he froze. Another voice had replied, and that voice shocked him into stillness.

It was the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard.

All it said in its decidedly not Imperial accent, however, was, "Chirp, chirp, chirp!"

There was a momentary silence and then the faint hissing of an exposed electric current reached his ears, along with a faint, drawn-out groan by that beautiful voice—swallowed in the back of its owner's throat so that it was barely audible, but still present.

Mysvaleer's fist clenched and he now could barely keep himself still. This is not suitable, he thought. What is this? My mind is my own domain, Force damn it!

The sound stopped. "Ow! Jerk!" The voice said, sounding much less displeased than Mysvaleer would be if he had been electrocuted to that degree. "If you don't like that, just say so. I can do other animals too: Dire-cat, frog-dog, Kowakian Monkey Lizard, you name it."

As it spoke, Mysvaleer composed himself, and entered. And was startled by what he saw.

It was not that the woman was caged which surprised him, nor was it the rather harried look on the jailer's face. All of these things he had expected.

It wasn't even the fact that the woman was a Twi'lek, though that was unexpected.

It was that despite being as alien to him as almost any other species in the galaxy—Twi'lek were far from common on Dromund Kaas—she still managed to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Now you're just flattering me," said Vette, with laughter in her voice. "I remember that jailer. Knash, wasn't it?"

Mysvaleer chuckled. "Knash, yes. I doubt he ever got another prisoner as difficult as you. Though, to be fair, he did get something out of it."

Vette cocked her head. "What?"

Mysvaleer's grin morphed into something a little less loving and a little more passionate. "He had you in a cage, where he could observe you in any way he wished, without you being able to retaliate. I'd call that a bonus."

Vette hit him, but she was laughing. "You are a horrible person, you know that?"

"I am Sith." With a deep breath, Mysvaleer continued.

The first prisoner he was to judge—not the Twi'lek, who was present for some other reason-was a bounty hunter who attempted to kill an Imperial agent in the Yavin sector. Mysvaleer considered the situation.

The woman was far from respectful, and her eyes burned with defiance. But Mysvaleer could see—and feel—the fear beneath that flame. The woman did not want to die but refused, point-blank, to beg.

The woman was guilty by her own admission, and could provide no information as to who hired her, so the Empire couldn't use that. On the other hand...

He nodded to himself, satisfied at his own conclusion. The Empire could not use her intel, but it could use her. "She is a potential resource," he told the jailer. "Send her to Imperial Intelligence."

The woman blinked, and relief clouded her vision momentarily, but then her eyes narrowed as she tried to salvage her pride. "I won't work for free," she called after the acolyte as he moved on.

Mysvaleer just shook his head and accepted her thanks in silence.

The next case was rather different. A former Sith Lord, the cyborg had failed an important mission and caused a thousand Imperial lives to end.

That was unforgivable, but Mysvaleer was here to judge, not to avenge.

"Please," the man begged him. "Let me die with a weapon in my hand. Give me trial by combat."

Mysvaleer looked into his eyes and reached out with the Force. He saw a lion in the man's soul, but a lion so beaten and battered as to be scarcely recognizable.

The lion would be a great asset to the Empire, if it were roused again. But one look at it and Mysvaleer knew that it was beyond too late for that.

Still, in memory of that war-beast that was now less than dead... "Give him a weapon," said the acolyte, not looking away from the man's—Devotek's—eyes. They widened.

"Thank y—" the man began to whisper, but Mysvaleer cut him off harshly.

"I'm not doing this for you, he said forcefully. "You are scum—beneath my notice, let alone my blade. I'm doing this in memory of a warrior who is already dead."

Devotek understood and was silent. A training saber was brought for him.

The battle was not even a challenge. Mysvaleer had expected as much. The lion was already as good as dead, worthy only of a sendoff.

The third prisoner was innocent. Mysvaleer knew letting him go would cause problems with Tremel, but the alien was innocent—Mysvaleer looked into his mind with the Force and checked—and the acolyte could not do anything else in good conscience.

And what was Tremel's opinion worth to him, anyway?

Mysvaleer shrugged. "Let him go."

"So that's why you did what you did."

Mysvaleer nodded and met his wife's eyes. "I've never really been certain about what I did with Devotek, but I can't see how anything else could have been better."

She shook her head. "It probably couldn't, although I wasn't happy about watching him die. Did you get yelled at, though?"

Mysvaleer snorted. "Tremel was a coward, then. He never did anything unless he can do it without any risk to himself. I had only a few years ago killed Arteis Meiron, and Tremel knew it. He reprimanded me, but he was never brave enough to raise his voice. He only changed during exile—enough that he came to support us in supplanting Baras."

"Was he afraid you'd snap?" Vette asked.

"He should have been, but no," Mysvaleer replied. "He was just afraid that I was Sith."

"What do you mean, he should have been?" Vette asked quickly.

Mysvaleer looked at her wryly. "I did say you saved me, or something like it, didn't I? That's what you saved me from."

There was silence.

Then: "I was there for the rest of it," Vette said. "And you were opening up fairly quickly, so I think I know the rest of the story."

"Up until now," Mysvaleer agreed, smiling and kissing his Twi'lek wife on the tip of her nose, eliciting a soft giggle. "When everything finished, for the moment. Baras is dead, I'm the Emperor's Wrath, and we just had a fantastic, if delayed, honeymoon."

Vette grinned at him. "Are you sure that honeymoon part is over? I've still got that old shock collar."

Mysvaleer gave her a feral smirk, understanding her intention and not in the least resistant. "The rest of the crew is aboard now, so at least try to be quiet, all right?"

"No promises," hissed Vette as she pulled him down on to her.

A/N: And then they fucked. That's the implication, anyway.

A note about updates: This story is damn hard to write. I'm currently working—very slowly—on the third chapter. As such, DON'T expect speed after about this week. I'll upload this, then the next chapter. The third I'll probably finish soon on the high of uploading this. After that? All bets are off.

I wasn't even planning on posting this for a very long time. It just sorta happened. Don't expect anything quick. I'm telling you that up front, but I hope you'll give the story a chance anyway.

If the above was interesting enough for you to want to read it anyway, though… thank you. The next chapter sets up some of the thematic context, which should be fun.

Also, on reviews: leave them if you want. I'll read them, so if you want to say something, please say it. I like having conversations, and if this story can spur some then it's doing its job. But, with that said, I'm way past needing reviews to fuel my writing. I'm writing this for myself. So if you don't review, that's fine. Don't feel obligated to do so.

That's about it. I won't talk so much next time. Or ever again, really. Thanks for reading.