Even now, my senses are steeped in her.
Her shadow nestles in my mind, a trespasser in my most sacred territory, an occupation that is so like that of accursed Kreia's, yet so utterly opposite. For the exile never teaches and never speaks as my master does. The soft stirring in the depth of my mind is mute and impassive, so much so that I have become certain she is unaware of the bond that torments me.
Why should a moment of stillness in the Force instill within me such rage and such endless fascination? It is a question that nips at my heels, that I turn over and over in my mind even as I explore her presence in my mind the way one worries a healing scar.
Imagine that you are surrounded on all sides by endless walls of stained glass, enveloped in riotous, chaotic beauty. And imagine finding, by chance, a half-inch pane missing. The first moment you put your eye to it would shock you, near blind you with the terrible beauty of the dead black space beyond. You would despise its imperfection, but it would call to you, its very emptiness a balm and a sting to your soul.
The Force is my blade, my life, and my will. To be unable to feel it, even for a moment, brings terror clawing at my temples, makes every broken bone in my body sing with agony. Even so, I cannot help but return to the stillness, again and again.
To her.
Though she says nothing, I wait for her judgement with my every action. I ache for the moment she breaks her silence and becomes acutely aware of me, as I am of her. It is not approval I crave, nor censure, simply . . . acknowledgment.
I hate all Jedi, wholly and without reserve. To break them, to feel a ripple in the Force as it stains black with innocent blood, that is my only pleasure. I hunt and kill, never allowing myself to consider what will be left of me when I've completed my task and choked the life from the last Jedi. It is my strength, and my gift to the unfeeling Dark that has given me life and purpose.
The hate I hold for the Exile is of a different breed.
How dare she slink through my consciousness day and night as if it is her own? How dare she remain deaf to me even as I cannot rid myself of her? How dare she give me a single glimpse of a peaceful oblivion that will be forever lost to me?
Our paths will cross again. The Exile will stand before me, close enough to touch. I will see my bitter hatred reflected in her eyes.
Then I will carve the truth of my devotion into her flesh, and her blood will bathe my hands in heat.
A/N: Just a super short ficlet from months ago, when I was still pondering whether or not to go for a full-length Sion/Exile fic.This was one of my experiments in trying to figure out what goes on in that messed up, crackly old head of his.Here's hopingsomeone else finds this pairing as fascinating as I do.