A/N: So this one is . . . grim. Content note for child abuse, torture, murder, non-consensual body modification, sort-of cannibalism (references to blood drinking), and mentions of suicide.
Assimilation
o.O.o
He tries to run.
"I will always find you," she says the last time, grabbing his chin. Behind her, Perrathor stands with folded arms, shaking his head.
Evren tries to wrench his face away. She shifts her grip, takes him by the throat, squeezes ever so slightly—the heat of her palm, the prickle of her nails digging into soft flesh and scar tissue, it all registers dim and insignificant alongside the slow, inexorable tightening of the Force. His breath goes raspy and thin. He stares at her, holds very still.
She smiles. "Always."
o.O.o
"If you cannot take a life, a sentient life, then you will never be Sith," she said. "Get out of my sight until you've managed that much."
Very well.
The door hisses open and Perrathor frowns at him. "What do you want?"
"M-may I come in?" Evren says, hiding neither his nervous trembling nor the training blade in his hand.
Perrathor sighs. "Fine." He gestures, turns his back on Evren as he steps deeper into his quarters. It is the last mistake he ever makes.
o.O.o
Sick and dizzy after the ritual, he shoves himself to his feet. He does not fall. Fists clenched, knees locked, shivering and swaying and trying not to vomit—but he's standing. He won't give her the satisfaction of seeing him fall.
He looks her in the eye and sneers. Her lash of hate-disgust-contempt nearly drives him to his knees again. Everything is too raw and too much and she's dragging him out of the ritual chamber and her grip on his arm is tight enough to bruise but he can barely keep his balance, much less free himself—
It takes weeks for the taste of their mingled blood to fade. Longer still for him to stop flinching at the sight of his own face and hands, marked with jagged red.
o.O.o
Being near her is like standing next to an unending lightning strike. She is static crawling under his skin, burrowing deep, a slow cold splintering of bone. There is a connection between them that goes beyond anything he's ever felt before, and it frightens him. He knows when she is displeased, or amused, or furious, and she makes no effort to hide her emotions—they hum at the back of his mind, rising to a thunderous roar when he incites her wrath.
And it's—yes, it hurts, but—it's electric, in every sense. Her power, part of him, crackling through his veins as lightning snaps and burns and screams. Overwhelming and agonizing and—and exhilarating. He's almost grateful for the pain. At least he exists to her, at least he feels alive.
Without her, he's nothing.
And maybe, maybe if he obeys, maybe if he makes himself into exactly what she wants him to be . . .
It would be so easy to let go. To slip under and never wake up again. Her apprentice, her weapon, hers—it would be easy. He wouldn't have to be afraid—
But. But if he stopped fighting, he'd—it would kill him, more completely than a lightsaber to the heart, he would be nothing but an extension of her will and he can't, he can't, he hates her, he can't stop, he will never ever stop hating her and fighting her and—and if she wants him alive so badly then fine, fine, he won't kill himself just to make the pain end. He'll make his life into her nightmare. She can hurt him all she wants; the ugly thrill of her rage in his head will only make it easier to bear.
He will make her pay.
o.O.o
He tries to kill her. He fails.
"Oh, Evren. Poor, deluded child." Her Force stranglehold shifts, bends his neck until he has no choice but to look up at her, his shameful tears in full view. She smiles indulgently. "You think yourself special for wanting to kill your master? You are nothing if not predictable. Your hatred has given you strength, but you are hardly the first apprentice to try, and only the latest to fail."
"Perrathor?" Evren chokes.
Meliah blinks, then raises an eyebrow. "What about him?" she says in mild tones, loosening her grip enough for Evren to wheeze in breath to speak clearly.
Hate makes him reckless. He doesn't care. "Did he try and fail, only to be felled by the weakest and least of your house before he could make another attempt? Or were you merely too soft to kill your own precious son?" he spits out.
His throat closes again. Meliah pulls him upright, then an inch further. The edges of his vision waver, grey and indistinct. He wants to laugh. He can't, but he can still grin—bare your teeth little monster you're still leashed broken weak pathetic—
"He was wise enough to know the cost of defiance," Meliah says calmly. "And that obedience would be rewarded accordingly. His only failing as my apprentice was in underestimating you—and, of course, he paid for it with his life. Do not make the mistake of believing I will not extract a far heavier price from you, for your failures."
She gestures sharply to throw him aside. He crumples, can't suppress the cry of pain as impact jars his bruised ribs.
"Stand up."
Evren giggles into the floor. "Make me." Kill me.
Lightning. He convulses, screaming and laughing through the haze of shrieking blue-white electricity. He can still hurt her. He can still fight. He has to—has to—
"Stand up, Evren."
o.O.o
He stops fighting three years after Perrathor. He stops fighting on a fevered morning, every breath pooling sticky and hot in his lungs, the air so still and humid that even the beasts and experiments in their cages can't bring themselves to snarl at his approach.
He stops fighting when she calls an end to the test just as he's about to kill the alchemical monster she's set against him. He kills it anyway, and feels nothing as it cries out in pain, clutching at his robes as if in supplication until it goes limp at his feet. He's so tired.
She doesn't say a word. She only smiles.
Evren feels nothing. And that is when he knows that she has won.
o.O.o
end