Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, I'm just messing around. ;)
This short fic is intended to be set in canon but there are some changes to the timeline (Qui-gon's death) intended to set up the muse. This interaction was just begging to be written and so I wrote it. Not sure this would have ever taken place in the canon universe, but here's my take on it anyway (Mace is in his early 30s, Dooku in his late 50s). Enjoy!
Warning: this is a fairly dark fic that is meant to be realistic instead of hopelessly optimistic (it is my personal opinion that far too many stories end with some version of a 'happily ever after' - I am guilty of this too). I wanted to write something that highlights the struggles that people face. Hopefully those are obvious in the struggles of the two main characters presented below.
While I haven't made any allusions to Jesus Christ, Ephesians 6 was in my mind as I wrote this. He is the only means we have to stand against the forces of evil in our current world. My hope is that all of you come to realize this. Now, without further rambling on my part, enjoy the fic. :)
"The fear does not come from fairy tales; the fear comes from the universe of the soul." G.K. Chesterton
The hour is exceptionally late when Yan Dooku arrives at the Temple steps. It is the first time in three years, seven standard months, and eighteen days that he has laid eyes upon the sacred home of the Jedi, and yet all he feels is a staggering new bout of heaviness settle upon his frail shoulders. This mission had been unsurprisingly difficult and he feels… tainted. Poisoned. As if he's some newly mutated disease about to be unleashed on the unsuspecting Order.
He is unbalanced and he hates it.
Scowling beneath his dark robes, Yan trudges up the steps. There is only a whisper of noise as he passes and even that is faint, so when the sentry on duty finally notices his approach the man can't quite contain a jolt of surprise at the sudden closeness of his fellow Jedi. This is nothing new to Yan, but while he would normally smirk at such a reaction, this time his scowl only deepens. The sentry meets his eyes long enough to offer a greeting ("Evening, master.") before facing the night once more. Yan merely nods before entering.
In the grand entryway of the Temple, he feels even dirtier. The ceilings are high, the halls are quiet, the lighting is warm, and it seems as though every marble bust of the Order's past legends is stripping him bare with their flinty gazes. It's a ridiculous notion, that crafted stone can think or do anything, but for a moment he believes it.
You don't belong here. It's even more ridiculous that one of them speaks and this he doesn't believe for even a second, because he recognizes that voice. It's oily, hoarse, and it scratches as if its owner is choking on his own phlegm and has been choking on it for some time. It's disgusting.
Yan has heard that voice for exactly three years, seven standard months, and eighteen days. It appears that the blasted creature (surely it is some kind of creature, right?) has followed him back. Knowing that talking to it won't accomplish anything, the Order's consummate Jedi Sentinel stalks down the corridor to his left, melting into the shadows with startling ease.
***oo***
In the training rooms nestled deep within the Temple's lower levels, a young Korun knight runs through the beginnings of an imagined sequence of vicious thrusts, sweeping cuts, and savage bare-fisted blows. Had he been dueling an actual opponent, there is little doubt that he would have just incapacitated the unfortunate being for the next six months, so forceful and so precise are his attacks. Brown tunics cling to his damp skin, the sheen of sweat visible only by the violet haze left in the wake of his weapon. It is well past midnight, but he doesn't care. He has mastered Djem-so and Ataru; he is proficient in Soresu's defense; he acknowledges the mastery that his fellow Jedi have shown in the other forms. He meant no disrespect to any of them when he told his former master that they were inadequate ("They are not enough. My darker tendencies cannot be tamed, master.")
Yoda reluctantly, with as much hesitation as he had ever shown, offered Juyo as an option. He had only laughed. ("Only if you want me to turn into a savage.") No. He didn't need a means to indulge. He needed flow, an outlet, something that could turn his inner demons into a weapon. The Order had nothing to offer in this sense and if he had been honest with his old master, he would have asked him how close the Council was to dismissing him altogether. Very few Jedi were from Haruun Kal, after all, and for good reason.
For this reason. He has no fetter, he has no answer to the ferocity that tends to consume him during combat. And so he must create an answer. Disengaging, he takes a moment to settle himself again. That had been borderline dark. He forgets sometimes that even though the Temple Jedi raised him, he will always be Korun, a man whose nature is born of wild jungles and incomprehensible chaos. When he remembers this, he wonders if darkness is truly defined by fury and wildness or if that is just a label for emotions his masters are too afraid to express.
Coolly collected once more, he presses a button on the remote hanging from his belt. Two training droids hum to life and engage him immediately. With an inarticulate cry, Mace Windu leaps into the air and turns himself into a whirling dervish of pure Force energy. The droids, as if sensing their imminent demise, up the tempo of their firing mechanisms. Mace is engulfed in plasma stun-bolts, but he feels none of them. Spinning wildly, blade dancing to an impossible tune of sheer aggression tempered by hidden defense, he captures every bolt and redirects them to the droid on his left. The droid's squeal is cut off by sixteen stunners turned lethal as every last one targets the same protective panel. Brutal vivisection resulting in smoking carnage is the droid's end and the corner of Mace's mouth ticks up a little as he lands, purple fire glinting in his dark eyes. When the second droid targets him with a scattered burst of desperate bolts, Mace bats away two of them, steps forward and bisects the droid with a single, angry swipe.
He sighs, suddenly tired. He realized a while back that the darkness and aggression within him is something that he can control, but it's the passion of the moment, the darkness of his enemy that is dangerous. Mace has never fought a Sith and hopes he never has to, but he has fought rebels, bounty hunters, and untrained Force-wielders. Even in them there lies a temptation to let loose, to destroy, to decimate and to revel in it.
Mace doesn't want to be a killer. He only wants a means to face down that temptation and stand firm.
"Perhaps a capable opponent would prove helpful?"
So lost in thought is Mace that he can't restrain his sudden jolt of surprise, nor can he keep himself from flicking his blade towards the door. It's open, obviously, but the man standing there is the last man he had ever expected to walk in on a private training session. The lights are still off, but Master Dooku's noble features are visible in the dim, purple light. Brow furrowed, Mace stiffens. Immersed in the Force as he is, it's not difficult to sense the slimy currents of some sort of dark energy peeling off of the man and flitting around him like ants swarming around their queen. Dooku has always been a shadow and Mace has never once considered trusting him, but right now the man is beyond simple distrust. Whatever he is sensing from him right now is pure darkness.
"Master." He greets him evenly, voice level, revealing nothing.
Here is an opponent worthy of his creation. Never mind that Yoda trusts this man. Never mind that as a Sentinel certain missions are bound to leave marks (and the man had been gone for over three years). Never mind that this man trained and had a hand in raising his best friend. Never mind the haunted, guilt-ridden look in the man's eyes that dispels any notion of evil. Never mind that Mace briefly considers that the tendrils of darkness might just be separate from the man himself.
Here is darkness. Darkness worthy of Vaapad.
***oo***
Yan had intended to attempt meditating in one of the Temple training salles. The lower-level rooms were less convenient and very out of the way, which made them a prime spot for someone seeking solitude. He had gladly taken the extra twenty minutes to navigate the narrow corridors of the basement floors in order to get to his destination and had been surprised to see dim, violet light flashing in the only occupied room. Knowing immediately who he would find in that room, he had walked over and peered through one of the small viewing windows.
After watching only a single exchange between the young Korun man and two horribly dimwitted droids (he made a mental note to talk to Cin about upgrading the training droids later), Yan had set aside his quiet brooding in order to focus on more immediate needs.
He had stepped through the doorway just as the second droid had met its pathetic end. Silently observing for only a couple of minutes, Yan quickly came to a decision.
"Perhaps a capable opponent would prove helpful?" he suggests. In the darkness, his falling cape goes unnoticed. He'd unclasped it as he'd stepped inside.
He waits patiently as young Windu pivots, blade bathing the both of them in dim light. The knight is taut, coiled in the Force like a cornered akk pup, but his narrowed eyes glint in warning. Mace Windu is assessing him and not liking what he finds.
Despite his recent brooding, Yan smirks, amused. It's not mine, he wants to say, but Windu's features are lighting up with anticipation and he checks himself. Perhaps he is more worthy than he'd thought, and for all of the wrong reasons.
The young knight is – put in raw, uncivilized terms – itching for a fight, and not with a fellow Jedi.
Yan's eyes narrow, making assessments of his own. He is utterly disappointed by what he sees, but he also understands. Reaching to his hip he unclasps the elegant, curved hilt that's resting there and brings his own weapon to bear with a tight flourish. Exhausted from years of hunting demons on a planet rife with the hopelessness of a broken people, Yan feels an unexpected spark of warmth and he smiles. Yes, he seems to have brought one of those creatures back with him, but right now he finds relief in the eyes of this young Korun. Eyes that are not hopeless, but frustrated. Not despairing, but searching. Not empty, but distrusting. Yan welcomes the distrust with an open palm and a gesturing blade.
Right now, in this moment, he is not hunting demons and he is not sleeping under the heaviness of darkness. He is not on a Force-cursed mission.
Right now, Yan silently mocks the merits of meditation and settles into a more natural role.
He teaches.
***oo***
Mace narrows his eyes even more when Master Dooku's blade comes to life in a crackle of blue. The haunted look is still in the man's eyes, but when he smiles it seems to fade a bit. The smile doesn't match what he is sensing. Mace is confused.
Nevertheless, Dooku still feels dark. So dark that Mace can practically see it. Force, he almost looks like a Vaapad! And it's true. The Jedi's signature is a mass of shadow, tentacles of darkness lashing out at Mace so quickly that he has no time to react. He winces when one touches. It burns without leaving a visible mark. Dooku's eyes glint with something close to anger, but only for a moment.
Enough.
Mace attacks silently. There is no inarticulate battle cry this time, only focused aggression. When Dooku angles his blade to parry his first thrust, Mace instead directs all of his strength into a single, upward swipe. The two lightsabers meet with a single burst of light, violet forcing blue towards the ceiling while its wielder twists into the older man's body. There is no subtlety or grace in the move, only violent intent. Even as Dooku moves away, Mace hears the older man grunt in exertion. It's a tired sound.
Mace smiles.
He is still smiling when a dark tendril flicks out from Dooku's signature and makes to latch onto his own. Mace momentarily panics before realizing that this is the test, but before he can harness it and use it, the energy is being withdrawn. Dooku has pulled it back as if sensing Mace's intent.
Smile fading, jaw hardening, the young knight zeroes in on Dooku's signature. There is power there. There is a lot of power there.
Use it.
Mace blinks, but before he can consider the words, Dooku's blade is flicking towards him like a rabid sand adder. The older man is striding forward, purposeful intent written all over his face. Black-booted feet are dancing towards him, their graceful steps transitioning into lethal blade work in the space of a second.
Mace is having none of it. Parrying the first few thrusts, he tucks into a roll and switches off his blade. The action takes him to the far corner of the room and gives him a few seconds to consider his next move. Dooku pivots smoothly, staring into Mace's corner. As he moves forward, darkness lashes out again. This time it slams into Mace and sends him to his knees.
Use it, Jedi. Accept it and use it. You are capable. Mace tries desperately to clear his head and think for a moment, but he can't. The words don't stop and he's not sure whether the Force is telling him to do what he's always wanted to do, needed to do, or if it's something else. The words are sweet, spoken to him in a smooth timbre that draws him in and holds him. It's not an uncomfortable embrace.
Far from it.
"Perhaps a capable opponent would prove helpful." Capable. Capable of what?
You are strong enough, Mace of the Windu. The Korun Jedi cringes, feeling terribly off balance and yet wanting so desperately to pass this test that he reaches out, tentatively touching the dark energy. He tells himself that he is confident that it won't taint him, that the Light will help him only channel and redirect it. That he is in no danger of falling.
Such a brave little Jedi.
"Foolish boy!"
Mace's eyes blink open in surprise (he never realized they were closed), and the sweet voice disappears under a barrage of swift jabs and cuts. He scrambles to his feet, barely getting them planted in time to meet the jagged edge of sapphire lightning that is Dooku's blade. Eyes narrowing once more, Mace flicks his blade this way and that, intercepting each attack with practiced movements. One glance at Dooku's face makes him flinch. The noble countenance is twisted up into an expression so ugly that he's absolutely certain the man has finally been pushed over the edge. This time, when he senses dark tendrils reaching for him again, he doesn't hesitate.
Drawing them close before Dooku can yank them away, Mace harnesses their energy and –
Keep it.
Stops. His arms are still moving, still fending off Dooku's attacks, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Maybe he should keep it. There is always a chance that Dooku could recapture it if he sends it back.
You are capable.
Yes. Yes he is. That is what he has been trying to tell everyone around him. That he is capable of controlling his own aggression and battle fever and that he can mold them both into tools for the Light.
Mace smiles.
***oo***
Across from young Windu, Yan watches the exchange through the Force. For only the second time, he thinks that he can actually see this creature that has doggedly shadowed him for the past three years. Right now, its dark presence sits firmly across Windu's strong shoulders, multiple arms flitting haphazardly in every direction, one arm firmly latched to the side of the young man's head.
Enough. He has quite simply had enough.
Snarling in the Force (and possibly out loud), Dooku flicks Mace's next sweeping blow (it's Force-fueled and a tick stronger than the others, but he's experienced worse blows from men far darker than this Jedi) aside with an irritated flick of his wrist (also Force-fueled, but with far more focus than this child is using). The knight is still smiling (there's a touch of madness there, and isn't that familiar?), when Dooku whips his blade around with practiced precision and slices into the man's shoulder.
Both Jedi and creature are momentarily distracted and it is enough for Yan to thrust his other hand forward and blow the thing off Mace's shoulder with a ball of sheer energy. Where it goes, he isn't certain, but there is no longer a tendril of slimy shadow attached to the younger man's head and that is what counts.
He can actually see Mace's vision clear and his thoughts come back into focus. It's evident in the way his narrowed eyes widen slightly to allow for extra peripheral sight and in the way his taut body relaxes just a touch so that his movements are no longer labored but flow smoothly and with far less effort.
It's evident in the way the knight's next attack looks like five attacks at once, the violet blade becoming almost too fast for Yan's experienced eyes to track (faster than a normal Juyo practitioner). But track it he does, and before the creature can return, Yan steps smoothly out of the way of one swipe even as he's lowering his head to avoid the next. Parrying another thrust, he smoothly transitions into an attack of his own and catches Mace's wrist with just enough of a skim to cause his hand to open. The violet blade retracts, leaving the young knight weaponless, bewildered, and at Yan's mercy.
Yan stares at him before growling, "You imbecilic, foolish, foolish boy! Who do you think you are?"
All this earns him is anger manifesting itself in the knight's twitching brow and clenched jaw. "You feel dark, master."
Yan scowls, suddenly furious not only at this young man, but at the Order that's failed him so spectacularly. "Force blast it, boy. It's not mine."
And finally, finally, something seems to click in the younger Jedi's mind. The anger fades from Mace's dark eyes and his body seems to melt, going completely slack. All that's left in his dark eyes is confusion and fear.
Yan's shoulders sag in relief (thank goodness this young knight is willing to be vulnerable). His lightsaber dies at the twitch of a finger and the training room's lights flash on with another subtle movement. When he catches the faint glimmer of shock in the young man's eyes, he wonders if he should have let them remain in shadow.
***oo***
Mace wonders how he didn't notice before. Yes, the room had been dark and visibility had been extremely limited, but this is almost incomprehensible. There is too much that even the dim lighting of their lightsabers should have uncovered. Either he had been sorely unobservant or Dooku was just exceptionally gifted at deception.
He has a feeling both are true. The nature of Dooku's occupation necessitates deception and he himself had been too busy trying to overcome his own demons to pay attention to anything else. The haunted look in Master Dooku's eyes is now accompanied by black tunics that are riddled with tears and dark stains. His black leather boots, always polished to perfection, are so dull that they barely reflect light. There are numerous scratches covering their surface. Dooku himself seems to have aged another decade. Dark circles lay under both eyes, depicting a clear lack of sleep.
As if the man's appearance isn't already pathetic enough, Dooku's shoulders suddenly tighten and then sag a touch. Dark eyes flutter closed before opening to stare at Mace with a gaze that has sharpened in intensity and glitters with cool determination. The haunted exhaustion is still there, so he wonders why the man suddenly looks as though he's just been cornered and only has a very slim chance of escape.
Then Mace feels a familiar burning sensation and he looks at the Sentinel with the Force, bewildered by what he sees. There is a clear distinction this time even though Dooku looks the same. Darkness writhes and twists around him, but its arms are jerky and seem to be fighting their own battle. If he listens closely, Mace can hear a faint hissing sound. One of the tendrils is pulling back from where it had just touched his own signature. Did Dooku pull it back? Is that darkness a living thing?
A million questions are suddenly begging to be answered, but Mace settles with the most important one. "What is it?"
Dark, haunted eyes (Mace wonders if he is the only one who's never noticed) glance at the lightsaber still lying on the floor. It rises smoothly to hover in front of Mace's chest and he takes it with a nod of thanks. "What do you call it?" Dooku asks, ignoring his question. Or answering it. Mace can't tell.
"Call what?"
"Your new form that you're working on. What is it called?"
So he'd noticed. Mace shouldn't be surprised. He's been around this man often enough over the years (trying to keep Qui-gon sane) to know how observant he is. "I call it Vaapad. It's still a raw development, as you can see." (Which is hard to admit since he's been trying to perfect it for a few years now…)
The corner of Dooku's mouth twitches in amusement. "An apt name for such a ferocious display of aggression." Mace winces. "I have seen such a creature only once. You are a credit to its character."
Now he frowns. "Most would not admire such a quality."
A single gray brow ticks upwards. "No I suppose they would not, and yet a powerful enemy requires more than simple survival." He gestures towards the remains of the two droids that have been pushed to the side of the room. "Those are a poor imitation of the enemy you seek to subdue."
That much is obvious. Mace is beginning to suspect that his enemy is the oily, quick-striking mass of darkness currently flickering about Dooku's weary frame. "Have you tried to kill it?" he asks quietly.
Dooku smiles thinly. "Many times."
You will fail too, Mace of the Windu.
Mace flinches and he notices his elder do the same. Where he feels cold tendrils of fear snake up his spine, though, Dooku's smile only grows wider. Is the man not afraid of that voice? Of that thing that surrounds him? "Perhaps Vaapad can kill it," he proposes. After all, creating Vaapad is his way of fighting the enemy. Particularly this enemy. By beating it at its own game.
This draws a heavy, ancient sounding sigh from the other man. "Vaapad nearly destroyed you only minutes ago," Dooku counters. "You failed to recognize how the enemy fights. It is not with blades, I assure you. It is not even with the Force." Mace frowns. "It is with desire, my friend. With passion. Do you truly believe that you can kill that?"
He did believe it once. Very recently. In fact, he still believes it. "Yes. I do."
"Then you are a fool's fool. A dimwitted Jedi with misplaced zeal that is doomed to failure. You are already a killer. It is with but a simple exercise in manipulation that the enemy will turn you into a murderer. You are trying to counter your own violent intent by harnessing something that will only enhance it." Dooku's dark eyes flash and in them Mace sees thousands of days spent in futility. Millions of hours spent researching ways to kill an enemy that still sits snugly on his shoulders whispering words of tantalizing promise.
"The Light is greater than the darkness. More powerful, more pure, more –"
A single, heavy step forward and Dooku is in his face. "Yes, but what is this light you speak of, Mace? Do you truly know, or are you simply reciting a mantra that's been indoctrinated into you? This thing held out a small piece of meat and like a starving womp rat you grabbed it, ate it and had I not intervened you would have let it consume you. What defense do you have against the sweet seduction of evil if you can't recognize it when it's right in front of you? What then is Vaapad if not another weapon that the enemy can use against you?"
Mace visibly recoils, scrabbling for traction that isn't there. Dooku has savagely ripped it from his feet. Staring at the master's face, though, he finds what he's been looking for. There are dozens of invisible scars there, wounds that are half-healed and still susceptible. The creature is twisting and jabbing, irritating the old wounds and seeking to inflict new ones, but its efforts are all in vain.
There is power there. A lot of power.
Use it. Keep it. You are strong enough.
Mace trembles.
Dooku withdraws, nodding. "The form itself is good and you are well-suited to it, but its state of mind is flawed. Your state of mind is flawed. You cannot use it. You should not keep it. And you are most certainly not strong enough. I have seen many supposedly strong beings turned into crippled madmen by the temptations that evil offers."
Slowly, Mace nods. "Then what do you suggest, master?"
Dooku smiles and this times there is a touch of warmth in it. "Recognize your enemy for what it is, and resist."
It sounds so simple, but with what he's seen tonight he knows it's not. It is possible, though. This man standing before him is proof of that. No, his signature is not that of a Jedi, but it's not consumed by darkness either. Merely surrounded by it.
Mace attempts a small smile of his own. "I will try."
Do or do not, there is no try. Yoda's words and this man was trained by Yoda, so Mace expects to hear them. He doesn't.
"Good," Dooku says. "One more word of advice…" When Mace remains silent, he continues. "Yoda has spoken to me of your unique gift. I have no doubt that you have already seen my shatterpoint with how often we have seen each other over the years."
He has. But only now does he see it in its true form, sitting on Dooku's shoulders and whispering lies. Mace feels a small pang of pity for the man.
Dooku seems to sense this and looks away, looking even older and somewhat hollow. He doesn't meet Mace's eyes again. Turning to leave, he stoops to pick up his cape that lies puddled on the floor. Unfurling it and scowling at the wrinkles and tears, he swiftly clasps it across his shoulders once more. "My shatterpoint is not yours, child," he mutters (and Mace thinks, I am not a child, but then remembers that age is only a number). "The enemy will target your greatest weakness. Make sure you know what that is."
Mace watches him leave, involuntarily shuddering at the ease with which the darkness of the hallway accepts him. With a sigh, he flicks his blade back on and is bathed in violet light. Flicking his fingers, the room is once again lit only by his blade, but he reconsiders (he won't easily forget Dooku's haggard appearance) and turns the lights back on.
***oo***
Yan reaches his quarters and discards his cape, outer tunics, and boots by the door. Within minutes, he has a fresh cup of brewed tea in one hand and is standing on his balcony gazing at the stars (one couldn't see them on the planet he returned from).
You cannot resist forever, lightsider.
He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn't. By force of will alone, he keeps them fixed on the pinpricks of light dotted across the sky. For now, he still has an advantage over the sinister creature settled on his shoulders. Knowing that for all of its dark powers it cannot read his mind, Yan smiles. I am not a lightsider. I am not good. You have me pegged for the wrong man.
The night is silent, the stars are twinkling, and for now Yan will revel in it. Because even though it deals mostly in lies, every now and then the demon speaks a truth.
You cannot resist forever.
Yan stares unblinking into the heavens, wondering if he'll ever find a power great enough to cure the evils that devour men from the inside out, and great enough to annihilate the demons that dog their every step. He knows he's operating on borrowed time, for he should have succumbed long ago.
Lodging the image of the night sky deep in his memory (it is these sorts of images that fend off the nightmares), he limps back inside to begin writing up his report (no one knows he has a limp).
Six hours and twenty eight minutes later, in the early hours of the morning, Yoda stops by to inform him that Qui-gon has been killed by a Sith on a mission to Naboo. Yoda's ears are drooping heavily and Yan doesn't miss the fear hiding behind the ancient master's sorrow.
You're angry again, Jedi. (I am no Jedi and I haven't been for some time now. You are still mistaken.)
He killed your boy. (No. The Sith did that.)
Be angry at him. (I am.)
Yan shuts the door quietly in Yoda's face and returns to his balcony to watch the sun rise. Exactly two hours and eleven minutes later, he reports his findings to the Council: the planet is overrun with darkness (he can't say demons because none but Yoda would understand) and the people are beyond hope; they've all gone stark raving mad (and it's true because he saw the look in their eyes), and there are powers at work there that far surpass the Sith (but they won't understand or believe that either). He leaves the Council chambers feeling absolutely ticked.
They will fall, Jedi. (I am no Jedi.)
Every last one of them will fall. (I know.)
But he won't be around to watch it happen. Exactly ten hours and two minutes after Yan Dooku arrived at the Jedi Temple, he packs up a small bag of belongings (it really only consists of some tea and extra tunics), and descends the sacred steps for the final time. The accusing gazes of ancient stone masters bore into his back, but he pays them no mind.
Fools.
The heavy gaze of an ancient master still living bores into him as well, but Dooku doesn't turn.
You are the greatest fool of them all. He's told Yoda this in so many words before, and telling him once more will change nothing.
Yan doesn't turn. He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't say a single word. He just leaves, images of madmen dancing in his head while his dark companion continues to hiss lies.
***oo***
Mace Windu is slightly baffled by the swiftness by which this servant of darkness has cut down his fellow Jedi, but he doesn't show it. Instead, when Palpatine – Sidious – turns to face him with a red blade and a maniac's grin, Mace raises his own weapon and steels himself. Tendrils of darkness lash out, causing a familiar burning sensation where they touch.
We will feed off you, Jeedii. (No. You won't.)
Mace allows a dark smile to peek through and he secretly chuckles at the surprise that briefly flashes across the Sith's face. This man has a thousand shatterpoints and Mace intends to hit every last one until he lies broken and unable to serve the dark any longer.
You cannot resist forever.
No, Mace concedes, perhaps not. Right now he will, though, because he knows his own weaknesses and every now and then he's been tested by them. He's been on the brink of falling into a sheer well of power before (war tends to make men desperate and he is no exception) and has turned away every time (he's seen what that does to a man and he won't ever forget it).
He leads this duel. He doesn't even give the Sith a chance to grab control. Arms flashing so fast that he's not even thinking or planning anymore (no need to plan when you've done this hundreds of times before), he brings the full brunt of Vaapad to bear on this man who thinks he's the epitome of darkness (poor Palpatine doesn't realize he is merely a tool, but Mace feels no pity). And once they are balancing on the edge of a dizzying drop, once the Sith grows desperate enough to unleash a sizzling bolt of dark energy upon him, Mace seizes it and throws it right back in his face. Literally. Palpatine's face is shifting apart and being shoved back together until he begins to resemble the demons he's become so fond of.
Keep it, keep it, KEEP IT!
But he won't, because he's seen what that does to a man (he's never stopped pitying Dooku). Mace grabs it and immediately lets it go, turning the dark's own weapon against its willing servant. Palpatine is defeated and broken (he never stood a chance).
Mace stops, blade still angled to defend himself if necessary (but it's not because this man is prostrate and frail).
"Help me, Anakin. Help me," the man croaks. Mace only just now realizes that the young Jedi is also in the room and that he's been witness to at least the latter half of their duel. He glances sharply at Skywalker's face and doesn't like what he sees there.
"Don't listen to him, Anakin!" he shouts, noticing a new shatterpoint coming into play that hadn't been there before. "Don't listen to him!" he repeats ("Foolish boy!").
But Anakin isn't distracted (Mace wants to utilize Dooku's preferred method of distraction, but his blade is currently holding down a Sith).
Mace, growing desperate, turns back to Palpatine. "I'm ending this," he mutters. Palpatine looks frightened on the outside, but Mace feels something shift. It clicks into place right as a flash of blue steals into his peripheral vision.
Pain makes everything clear. The new shatterpoint is his, having morphed from a desire for power into intent to eliminate. Instead of a threat from within (he had learned how to resist that desire shortly after Dooku emerged as a new Sith), it had now become a threat from the outside (after all, if the creatures can't manipulate, then they have to eliminate).
He knows he is screaming, but the screaming ends when lightning rips into him, frying his nerves and leaving him numb. Absently, as his feet begin to leave the floor (a frightening sensation that he has no energy to be frightened by), he finds a small measure of peace in this.
You will die, Mace of the Windu.
He would have smiled if his muscles hadn't just been burned to shreds. Yes. But I am not yours. You lose.
"There, peeping among the cloudwrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach." J.R.R. Tolkien (Return of the King)