A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for another long delay, I've been a little busy, with school and everything! So ummm here's chapter (what is it now? Something like 7 I think…) Seven! Enjoy!


Stowing his lightsaber away, Revan pulled out his wand. Pointing it towards the ship, he uttered some of the Jedi's most hated and feared words, and some of the Sith's most revered. "Sententia Letum Navitas," Revan murmured, as he created the powerful weapon of the Sith, known as the Thought Bomb. Taking one last look at the enormous bubble, Revan smiled again. Concentrating with all his might, Revan pictured his personal quarters in his mind. Closing his eyes, he let out a deep breath, then apparated with a loud crack.

The sound waves caused the thought bomb to continue to follow down the service corridor, where it eventually came to a stop in the bridge. One of the curious Mandalorians fearfully unbuckled himself, and placed his hand upon the bubble.

It exploded, vaporizing all life aboard the ship within a matter of seconds.


"Why? Why matters not. There is no why. There is only a Lord of the Sith, and his apprentice. Two Sith." Yoda leaned close. "And two Jedi."

Obi-Wan nodded, but he still couldn't meet the gaze of the ancient Master. "I'll take Palpatine."

"Strong enough to face Lord Sidious, you will never be. Die you will, and painfully."

"Don't make me kill Anakin," he said. "He's like my brother, Master."

"The boy you trained, gone he is—twisted by the dark side. Consumed by Darth Vader. Out of this misery, you must put him. To visit our new Emperor, my job will be."

Now Obi-Wan did face him. "Palpatine faced Mace and Agen and Kit and Saesee—four of the greatest swordsmen our Order has ever produced. By himself. Eve both of us together wouldn't have a chance."

"True," Yoda said. "But both of us apart, a chance we might create…"


Chapter Seven:
Emergence of the Emperor


There was a grand parade the following day of Mandalore's defeat to publicly recognize the newfound celebrities Revan and Alek, who had labored and sacrificed so much during the war effort, and to also honor those who had fought to secure the galaxy's freedom. Crowds lined the streets of Coruscant as columns of Coruscanti and Republic soldiers rode through the city to the sounds of cheering and singing. Fambaa lumbered down the avenues, draped in rich silks and embroidered harnesses, heads weaving from side to side on long necks. Here and there, a captured Mandalorian tank hovered amidst the marchers, Republic and Revanchist flags flying from cannons and hatchways.

The Supreme Chancellor and several Senators, along with Jedi Masters from the Council stood at the top of the stone steps in the central plaza, watching the parade approach. The Chancellor's head of security uniform was creased, metal insignia on his epaulets gleaming, proud and strong.

Then the news reports started to trickle in—only rumors at first—that Revan and all that had followed him were lost into deep space. Most likely dead, if not worse.

Revan, the most admired man in the galaxy, whose unmatched strength and diplomatic skills have held the Republic together. Whose personal integrity and courage proved that the Mandalorian threat against the Republic wasn't such a big threat after all.

Across the remnants of the Republic, stunned beings watched in horror as the story unfolded live on the HoloNet. Everyone knew the war was over. Everyone knew that the Jedi and soldiers were coming home soon. But this—

How could this happen?

What had gone wrong?

Sorrow and fear crept into the many beings' hearts. If Revan was gone… who would protect them the next time they were in trouble?

All across the galaxy, beings gazed up at the now frozen image on the HoloNet.

One specifically, had to steady her gaze upon the monitor. A single tear slid down her pale, slender, human cheeks, as she gripped the sides of the table she was sitting at. "Revan…" she whispered softly. "Why?"


C-3PO identified the craft docking on the veranda as a DC0052 Intergalactic Speeder; to be on the safe side; he left the security curtain engaged.

In these troubled times, safety outweighed courtesy, even for him.

A cloaked and hooded human male emerged from the DC0052 and approached the veil of energy. C-3PO moved to meet him. "Hello, may I help you?"

The human lifted his hands to his hood; instead of taking it down, he folded it back far enough that C-3PO could register the distinctive relationship of eyes, nose, mouth, and beard.

"Master Kenobi!" C-3PO had long ago been given detailed and quite specific instructions on the procedure for dealing with the unexpected arrival of furtive Jedi.

He instantly deactivated the security curtain and beckoned. "Come inside, quickly. You may be seen."

As C-3PO swiftly ushered him into the sitting room, Master Kenobi asked, "Has Anakin been here?"

"Yes," C-3PO said reluctantly. "He arrived shortly after he and the army saved the Republic from the Jedi Rebellion—"

He cut himself off when he noticed that Master Kenobi suddenly looked fully prepared to dismantle him bolt by bolt. Perhaps he should not have been so quick to let the Jedi in.

Wasn't he some sort of outlaw, now?

"I, ah, I should—" C-3PO stammered, backing away. "I'll just go get the Senator, shall I? She's been lying down—after the Grand Convocation this morning, she didn't feel entirely well, and so—"

The Senator appeared at the top of the curving stairway, belting a soft robe over her dressing gown, and C-3PO decided his most appropriate course of action would be to discreetly withdraw.

But not too far; if Master Kenobi was up to mischief, C-3PO had to be in a position to alert Captain Typho and the security staff on the spot.

Senator Amidala certainly didn't seem inclined to treat Master Kenobi as a dangerous outlaw…

Quite the contrary, in fact: she seemed to have fallen into his arms, and her voice was thoroughly choked with emotion as she expressed a possibly inappropriate level of joy at finding the Jedi still alive.

There followed some discussion that C-3PO didn't entirely understand; it was political information entirely outside his programming, having to do with Master Anakin, and the Republic having fallen, whatever that meant, and with something called a Sith Lord, and Chancellor Palpatine, and the dark side of the Force, and really, he couldn't make sense of any of it. The only parts he clearly understood had to do with the Jedi Order being outlawed and all but wiped out (that news had been all over the Lipartian Way this morning) and the not-altogether-unexpected revelation that Master Kenobi had come here seeking Master Anakin. They were partners, after all (though despite all their years together, Master Anakin's recent behavior made it sadly clear that Master Kenobi's lovely manners had entirely failed to rub off).

"When was the last time you saw him? Do you know where he is?"

C-3PO's photoreceptors registered he Senator's flush as she lowered her eyes and said, "No."

Three years running the household of a career politician stopped C-3PO from popping back out and reminding the Senator that Master Anakin had told her just yesterday he was on his way to Mustafar; he knew very well that the Senator's memory failed only when she decided it should.

"Padme, you must help me," Master Kenobi said. "Anakin must be found. He must be stopped."

"How can you say that?" She pulled back from him and turned away, folding her arms over the curve of her belly. "He's just won the war!"

"The war was never the Republic against the Separatists. It was Palpatine against the Jedi. We lost. The rest of it was just play-acting."

"It was real enough for everyone who died!"

"Yes." Now it was Master Kenobi's turn to lower his eyes. "Including the children at the Temple."

"What?"

"They were murdered, Padme. I saw it." He took her shoulders and turned her back to face him. "They were murdered by Anakin."

"It's a lie—" She pushed him away forcefully enough that C-3PO almost triggered the security alert then and there, but Master Kenobi only regarded her with an expression that matched C-3PO's internal recognition files of sadness and pity. "He could never… he could never… not my Anakin…"

Master Kenobi's voice was soft and slow. "He must be found."

Her reply was even softer; C-3PO's aural sensor barely recorded it at all.

"You've decided to kill him."

Master Kenobi said gravely, "He has become a very great threat."

At this, the Senator's medical condition seemed to finally overcome her; her knees buckled, and Master Kenobi was forced to catch her and help her onto the sofa. Apparently Master Kenobi knew somewhat more about human physiology than did C-3PO; though his photoreceptors hadn't been dark to the on-going changes in Senator Amidala's contour, C-3PO had no idea what they might signify.

At any rate, Master Kenobi seemed to comprehend the situation instantly. He settled her comfortably onto the sofa and stood frowning down at her.

"Anakin is the father, isn't he?"

The Senator looked away. Her eyes were leaking again.

The Jedi Master said, hushed, "I'm very sorry, Padme. If it could be different…"

"Go away, Obi-Wan. I won't help you. I can't." She turned her face away. "I won't help you kill him."

Master Kenobi said again, "I'm very sorry," and left.

C-3PO tentatively returned to the sitting room, intending to inquire after the Senator's health, but before he could access a sufficiently delicate phrase to open the discussion, the Senator said softly, "Threepio? Do you know what this is?"

She lifted toward him the pendant that hung from the cord of jerba leather she always wore around her neck.

"Why, yes, my lady," the protocol droid replied, bemused but happy, as always to be of service. "It's a snippet of japor. Younglings on Tatooine carve tribal runes into them to make amulets; they are supposed by superstitious folk to bring good fortune and protect one from harm, and sometimes are thought to be love charms. I must say, my lady, I'm quite surprised you've forgotten, seeing as how you've worn that one ever since it was given to you so many years ago by Master An—"

"I hadn't forgotten what it was, Threepio," she said distantly. "Thank you. I was… reminding myself of the boy who gave it to me."

"My lady?" If she hadn't forgotten, why would she ask? Before C-3PO could phrase a properly courteous interrogative, she said, "Contact Captain Typho. Have him ready my skiff."

"My lady? Are you going somewhere?"

"We are," she said. "We're going to Mustafar."


From the shadows beneath the mirror-polished skiff's landing ramp, Obi-Wan Kenobi watched Captain Typho try to talk her out of it.

"My lady," the Naboo security chief protested, "at least let me come with you—"

"Thank you, Captain, but there's no need," Padme said distantly. "The war's over, and… this is a personal errand. And, Captain? It must remain personal, do you understand? You know nothing of my leaving, nor where I am bound, nor when I can be expected to return."

"As you wish, my lady," Typho said with a reluctant bow. "But I strongly disagree with this decision."

"I'll be fine, Captain. After all, I have Threepio to look after me."

Obi-Wan could clearly hear the droid's murmured "Oh, dear."

After Typho finally climbed into his speeder and took off, Padme and her droid boarded the skiff. She wasted no time at all; the skiff's repulsorlifts engaged before the landing ramp had even retracted.

Obi-Wan had to jump for it.

He swung inside just as the hatch sealed itself and the gleaming starship leapt for the sky.


Darth Vader stood on the command bridge of the Mustafar control center, hand of durasteel clasping hand of flesh behind him, and gazed up through the transparisteel view wall at the galaxy he would one day rule.

He paid no attention to the litter of corpses around his feet.

He could feel his power growing, indeed. He had the measure of his "Master" already; not long after Palpatine shared the secret of Darth Plagueis's discovery, their relationship would undergo a sudden… transformation.

A fatal transformation.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

And yet…

He couldn't shake a certain creeping sensation… a kind of cold, slimy ooze that slithered up the veins of his legs and spread clammy tendrils through his guts…

Almost as though he was still afraid

She will die, you know, the dragon whispered.

He shook himself, scowling. Impossible. He was Darth Vader. Fear had no power over him. He had destroyed his fear.

All things die.

Yet it was as though when he had crushed the dragon under his boot, the dragon had sunk venomed fangs into his heel.

Now its poison chilled him to the bone.

Even stars burn out.

He shook himself again and strode toward the holocomm. He would talk to his Master.

Palpatine had always helped him keep the dragon down.


A comlink chimed.

Yoda opened his eyes in the darkness.

"Yes, Master Kenobi?"

"We're landing now. Are you in position?"

"Yes I am."

A moment of silence.

"Master Yoda… if we don't see each other again—"

"Think not of after, Obi-Wan. Always no, even eternity will be."

Another moment of silence.

Longer.

"May the Force be with you."

"It is. And may the Force be with you, young Obi-Wan."

The transmission ended.

Yoda rose.

A gesture opened the grating of the vent shaft where he had waited in meditation, revealing the vast conic well that was the Grand Convocation Chamber of the Galactic Senate. It was sometimes called the Senate Arena.

Today, this nickname would be particularly apt.

Yoda stretched blood back into his green flesh.

This was his time.

Nine hundred years of study and training, of teaching and of meditation, all now focused, and refined, and resolved into this single moment; the sole purpose of his vast span of existence had been to prepare him to enter the heart of night and bring his light against the darkness.

He adjusted the angle of his blade against his belt.

He draped his robe across his shoulders.

With reverence, with gratitude, without fear, and without anger, Yoda went forth to war.


Eighteen years have passed since the disappearance of Revan, and the emergence of the Dark Emperor Revan, with his apprentice Darth Malak at his side.


That night Revan stood alone on his flagship's bridge, a shadowy figure amid the multitude of twinkling lights, his visage dark and angry as he contemplated the future of the empire he envisioned. Years of training had gone into the preparation of Darth Malak as a Sith Lord. He had been more than equal of the Jedi Knights he had faced and should be able to hold his own with Revan there by his side. However…

His brow furrowed. It would be necessary to replace Darth Malak. He would need to train another apprentice. Such a one would not be easy to find, but Malak was showing signs of betrayal and rage towards Revan.

Revan walked to the railing and put his hands on the cool metal. One thing was certain. Those who had opposed him would not be forgotten. All would be made to pay.

His eyes glittered. Still, he had gotten what he wanted most from this business. Even the loss of Darth Malak was worth that. He would bide his time. He would wait for his chance. He would lay the groundwork for what was needed.

A smile played across his thin lips, his yellowed eyes gleaming with an evil light. A day of reckoning would come about soon enough.

And the Dark Side would destroy any who stood in his way.


A silvery flash outside caught Darth Vader's eye, as though an elegantly curved mirror swung through the smoke and cinders, picking up the shine of white-hot lava. From one knee, he could look right through the holoscan of his Master while he continued his report.

He was no longer afraid; he was too busy pretending to be respectful.

"The Separatist leadership is no more, my Master."

"It is finished, then." The image offered a translucent mockery of a smile. "You have restored peace and justice to the galaxy, Lord Vader."

"That is my sole ambition, Master."

The image tilted its head, its smile twisting without transition to a scowl. "Lord Vader—I sense a disturbance in the Force. You may be in danger."

He glanced at the mirror flash outside; he knew that ship. In danger of being kissed to death, perhaps…

"How should I be in danger, Master?"

"I cannot say. But the danger is real; be mindful."

Be mindful, be mindful, he thought with a mental sneer. Is that the best you can do? I could get that much from Obi-Wan…

"I will, my Master. Thank you."

The image faded.

He got to his feet, and now the sneer was on his lips and in his eyes. "You're the one who should be mindful, my 'Master'. I am a disturbance in the Force."

Outside, the sleek skiff settled to the deck. He spent a moment reassembling his Anakin Skywalker face: he let Anakin Skywalker's love flow through him, let Anakin Skywalker's glad smile come to his lips, let Anakin Skywalker's youthful energy bring a joyous bounce to his step as he trotted to the entrance over the mess of corpses and severed body parts.

He'd meet her outside, and he'd keep her outside. He had a feeling she wouldn't approve of the way he had… redecorated… the control center.

And after all, he thought with a mental shrug, there's no arguing taste…


The Burnished conference table was as soulless and unyielding as the mood of the eight Republic Senators and Dark Jedi ranged around it. Imperial troopers stood guard at the entrance to the chamber, which was sparse and coldly lit from lights in the table and walls. One of the youngest of the eight was declaiming. He exhibited the attitude of one who had climbed far and fast by methods best not examined too closely. He was a General, who did possess a certain twisted genius, but it was only partly that ability which had lifted him to his present exalted position. Other noisome talents had proven equally efficacious.

Though his uniform was as neatly molded and his body as clean as anyone else in the room, none of the remaining seven cared to touch him. A certain sliminess clung cloyingly to him, a sensation inferred rather than tactile. Despite this, many respected him. Or feared him.

"I tell you, he's gone too far this time," the General was insisting vehemently. "This Sith Lord inflicted on us at the urging of Lord Revan will be our undoing. Until the Star Forge is fully operational, we remain vulnerable.

"Some of you still don't seem to realize how well equipped and organized the Republic is. Their vessels are excellent, their pilots better. And they are propelled by something more powerful than mere engines: this perverse, reactionary fanaticism of theirs. They're more dangerous than most of you realize."

An older officer, with facial scars so deeply engraved that even the best cosmetic surgery could not fully repair them, shifted nervously in his chair. "Dangerous to your Starfleet, General, but not to this battle station." Wizened eyes hopped from man to man, traveling around the table. "I happen to think Lord Revan knows what he's doing. The Republic will continue only as long as those cowards have a sanctuary, a place where their pilots can relax and their machines can be repaired."

The General objected. "I beg to differ with you. I think the renovation of this station has more to do with Lord Revan's bid for personal power and recognition than with any justifiable military strategy. Within the Empire, the Republic will continue to increase their support as long—"

The sound of the single doorway sliding aside and the guards snapping to attention cut him off. His head turned as did everyone else's.

Two individuals as different in appearance as they were united in objectives had entered the chamber. The nearest to the General was a tall, fully robed and armored man, with only his gleaming yellow eyes visible from the helmet beneath the hood. Lord Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith, and Emperor of the Sith Empire. Standing next to him was the broad, armored bulk of Lord Darth Malak.

The General, unintimidated but subdued, slowly resumed his seat as Revan assumed his place at the end of the conference table. Malak stood next to him, a dominating presence behind the Emperor's chair. For a minute Revan stared directly at the General, then glanced away as if he had seen nothing. The general fumed, but remained silent.

As Revan's gaze roved around the table a razor-thin smile of satisfaction remained frozen in his features. Not that anyone could see them. "The Republic will no longer be of any concern to us, gentlemen. I have just received word that the attack on Telos IV was successful."

A ripple of astonishment ran through the assembly. "Soon," Revan continued, "The Republic will finally be swept away."

"This is impossible," the General interjected. "What of the Jedi?"

"If the Republic somehow managed to gain access to a complete technical schema of this battle station, it is remotely possible that they might be able to locate a weakness susceptible to minor exploitation." Revan's yellow eyes gleamed with mirth. "Of course, we all know how well guarded, how carefully protected, such vital data is. It could not possibly fall into Republic hands."

"The technical data to which you are obliquely referring," rumbled Darth Malak angrily, "hasn't been leaked, and—"

Revan shook the Dark Lord off, something no one else at the table would have dared to do. "It is immaterial. Any attack made against this station by the Republic would be a suicidal gesture, suicidal and useless—regardless of any information they managed to obtain."

Darth Malak stared at Lord Revan for a moment, before speaking. "After many long years of secretive reconstruction and searching," he declared with evident pleasure, "this station has become the decisive force in this part of the universe. Events in this region of the galaxy will no longer be determined by fate, by decree, or by any other agency. They will be decided by this station!"

A huge metal-clad hand gestured slightly, and one of the filled cups on the table drifted responsively into it. With a slightly admonishing tone Revan continued. "Don't become too proud of this technological terror we've spawned, Malak. The ability to construct entire armies is still insignificant when set against the Force."

" 'The Force,' " the General sneered. "Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, Lord Revan. Your sad devotion to that mythology has not gifted you with clairvoyance sufficient to locate the Republic's hidden fortresses. Why, it's enough to make one laugh fit to—"

The General's eyes abruptly bulged and his hands went to his throat as he began to turn a disconcerting shade of blue.

"I find," Malak ventured mildly, "this lack of faith disturbing."

"Enough of this," Revan snapped. "Malak, release him. This bickering amongst ourselves is pointless."

Malak shrugged as if it were no consequence. The General slumped in his seat, rubbing his throat, his wary gaze never leaving the dark giant.

"Lord Malak will provide us with the location of the hidden Republic Fortress by the time this station is certified operational," Revan declared. "That known, we will proceed to it and destroy it utterly, crushing this pathetic excuse for a government in one swift stroke." With that, Revan stood from his seated position, and swept out of the conference room.

"As the Emperor wills it," Malak added, not without sarcasm, "so shall it be."

If any of the powerful men seated around the table found this disrespectful tone objectionable, a glance at the General was sufficient to dissuade them from mentioning it.


The holding office of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic comprised the nether vertex of the Senate Arena; it was little more than a circular preparations area, a green room, where guests of the Chancellor might be entertained before entering the Senate Podium—the circular pod on its immense hydraulic pillar, which contained controls that coordinated the movement of floating Senate delegation pods—and rising into the focal point of the chamber above.

Above that podium, the vast holopresence of a kneeling Sith bowed before a shadow that stood below. Guards in scarlet flanked the shadow; a Chagrian toady cringed nearby.

"But the danger is real; be mindful."

"I will, my Master. Thank you."

The holopresence faded, and where its huge translucency had knelt was now revealed another presence, a physical presence, tiny and aged, clad in robes and leaning on a twist of wood. But his physical presence was an illusion; the truth of him could be seen only in the Force.

In the Force, he was a fountain of light.

"Pity your new disciple I do; so lately an apprentice, so soon without a Master."

"Why, Master Yoda, what a delightful surprise! Welcome!" The voice of the shadow hummed with anticipation. "Let me be the first to wish you Happy Empire Day!"

"Find it happy, you will not. Nor will the murderer you call Vader."

"Ah." The shadow stepped closer "So that is the threat I felt. Who is it, if I may ask? Who have you sent to kill him?"

"Enough it is that you know your own destroyer."

"Oh, pish, Master Yoda. It wouldn't be Kenobi, would it? Please say its Kenobi—Lord Vader gets such a thrill from killing people who care for him…"

Behind the shadow, some meters away, Mas Amedda—the Chagrian toady who was Speaker of the Galactic Senate—heard a whisper in Palpatine's voice. Flee.

He did.

Neither light nor shadow gave his exit a glance.

"So easily slain, Obi-Wan is not."

"Neither are you, apparently; but that is about to change."

The shadow took another step, and another.

A lightsaber appeared, green as sunlight in a forest. "The test of that, today will be."

"Even a fraction of the dark side is more power than your Jedi arrogance can conceive; living in the light, you have never seen the depth of the darkness."

The shadow spread arms that made its sleeves into black wings.

"Until now."

Lightning speared from outstretched hands, and the battle was on.


Padme stumbled down the landing ramp into Anakin's arms.

Her eyes were raw and numb; once inside the ship, her emotional control had finally shattered and she had sobbed the whole way there, crying from the relentless mind-shredding dread, and so her lips were swollen and her whole body shook and she was just so grateful, so incredibly grateful, that again she flooded with fresh tears: grateful that he was alive, grateful that he'd come bounding across the landing deck to meet her, that he was still strong and beautiful, that his arms still were warm around her and his lips were soft against her hair.

"Anakin, my Anakin…" She shivered against his chest. "I've been so frightened…"

"Shh. Shh, it's all right." He stroked her hair until her trembling began to fade, then he cupped her chin and gently raised her face to look into his eyes. "You never need to worry about me. Didn't you understand? No one can hurt me. No one will ever hurt either of us."

"It wasn't that, my love, it was—oh, Anakin, he said such terrible things about you!"

He smiled down at her. "About me? Who would want to say bad things about me?" He chuckled. "Who would dare?"

"Obi-Wan." She smeared tears from her cheeks. "He said—he told me you turned to the dark side, that you murdered Jedi… even younglings…"

Just having gotten the words out made her feel better; now all she had to do was rest in his arms while he held her and hugged her and promised her he would never do anything like any of that, and she started half a smile aimed up toward his eyes—

But instead of the light of love in his eyes, she saw only reflections of lava.

He didn't say, I could never turn to the dark side.

He didn't say, Murder younglings? Me? That's just crazy.

He said, "Obi-Wan's alive?"

His voice had dropped an octave, and had gone colder than the chills that were spreading from the base of her spine.

"Y-yes—he, he said he was looking for you…"

"Did you tell him where I am?"

"No, Anakin! He wants to kill you. I didn't tell him anything—I wouldn't!"

"Too bad."

"Anakin, what—"

"He's a traitor, Padme. He's an enemy of the state. He has to die."

"Stop it," she said. "Stop talking like that… you're frightening me!"

"You're not the one that needs to be afraid."

"It's like—it's like—" Tears brimmed again. "I don't even know who you are anymore…"

"I'm the man who loves you," he said, but he said it through clenched teeth. "I'm the man who would do anything to protect you. Everything I have done, I have done for you."

"Anakin…" Horror squeezed her voice down to a whisper: small, and fragile, and very young. "…what have you done?"

And she prayed that he wouldn't actually answer.

"What I have done is bring peace to the Republic."

"The Republic is dead," she whispered. "You killed it. You and Palpatine."

"It needed to die."

New tears started, but they didn't matter; she'd never have enough tears for this. "Anakin, can't we just… go? Please. Let's leave. Together. Today. Now. Before you—before something happens—"

"Nothing will happen. Nothing can happen. Let Palpatine call himself Emperor. Let him. He can do the dirty work, all the messy, brutal oppression it'll take to unite the galaxy forever—unite it against him. He'll make himself into the most hated man in history. And when the time is right, we'll throw him down—"

"Anakin, stop—"

"Don't you see? We'll be heroes. The whole galaxy will love us, and we will rule. Together."

"Please stop—Anakin, please, stop, I can't stand it…"

He wasn't listening to her. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking past her shoulder.

Feral joy burned from his eyes, and his face was no longer human.

"You…"

From behind her, calmly precise, with that clipped Coruscanti accent: "Padme. Move away from him."

"Obi-Wan?" She whirled, and he was on the landing ramp, still and sad. "No!"

"You," growled a voice that should have been her love's.

"You brought him here…"

She turned back, and now he was looking at her.

His eyes were full of flame.

"Anakin?"

"Padme, move away." There was an urgency in Obi-Wan's voice that sounded closer to fear than Padme had ever heard from him. "He's not who you think he is. He will harm you."

Anakin's lips peeled off his teeth. "I would thank you for this, if it were a gift of love."

Trembling, shaking her head, she began to back away. "No, Anakin—no…"

"Palpatine was right. Sometimes it is the closet who cannot see. I loved you too much, Padme."

He made a fist, and she couldn't breathe.

"I loved you too much to see you! To see what you are!"

A veil of red descended on the world. She clawed at her throat, but there was nothing there her hands could touch.

"Let her go, Anakin."

His answer was a predator's snarl, over the body of its prey. "You will not take her from me!"

She wanted to scream, to beg, to howl, No, Anakin, I'm sorry! I'm sorry… I love you…, but her locked throat strangled the truth inside her head, and the world-veil of red smoked toward black.

"Let her go!"

"Never!"

The ground fell away beneath her, and then a white flash of impact blasted her into night.


In the Senate Arena, lightning forked from the hands of a Sith, and bent away from the gesture of a Jedi to shock Redrobes into unconsciousness.

Then there were only the two of them.

Their clash transcended the personal; when new lightning blazed, it was not Palpatine burning Yoda with his hate, it was the Lord of all Sith scorching the Master of all Jedi into a smoldering huddle of clothing and green flesh.

A thousand years of hidden Sith exulted in their victory.

"Your time is over! The Sith rule the galaxy! Now and forever!"

And it was the whole of the Jedi Order that rocketed from its huddle, making of its own body a weapon to blast the Sith to the ground.

"At an end your rule is, and not short enough it was, I must say."

There appeared a blade the color of life.

From the shadow of a black wing, a small weapon—a holdout, an easily concealed backup, a tiny bit of treachery expressing the core of Sith mastery—slid into a withered hand and spat a flame-colored blade of its own.

When those blades met, it was more than Yoda against Palpatine, more than the millennia of Sith against the legions of Jedi; this was the expression of the fundamental conflict of the universe itself.

Light against dark.

Winner take all.


Obi-Wan knelt beside Padme's unconscious body, where she lay limp and broken in the smoky dusk. He felt for a pulse. It was thin, and erratic. "Anakin—Anakin, what have you done?"

In the Force, Anakin burned like a fusion torch. "You turned her against me."

Obi-wan looked at the best friend he had ever had. "You did that yourself," he said sadly.

"I'll give you a chance, Obi-Wan. For old times' sake. Walk away."

"If only I could."

"Go some place out of the way. Retire. Meditate. That's what you like, isn't it? You don't have to fight for peace anymore. Peace is here. My Empire is peace."

"Your Empire? It will never have peace. It was founded on treachery and innocent blood."

"Don't make me kill you, Obi-Wan. If you are not with me, you are against me."

"Only Sith deal in absolutes, Anakin. The truth is never black and white." He rose, spreading empty hands. "Let me take Padme to a medcenter. She's hurt, Anakin. She needs medical attention."

"She stays."

"Anakin—"

"You don't get to take her anywhere. You don't get to touch her. She's mine, do you understand? It's your fault, all of it—you made her betray me!"

"Anakin—"

Anakin's hand sprouted a bar of blue plasma.

Obi-Wan sighed.

He brought out his own lightsaber and angled it before him. "Then I will do what I must."

"You'll try," Anakin said, and leapt.

Obi-Wan met him in the air.

Blue blades crossed, and the volcano above echoed their lightning with a shout of fire.


C-3PO cautiously poked his head around the rim of the skiff's hatch.

Though his threat-avoidance subroutines were in full screaming overload, and all he really wanted to be doing was finding some nice dark closet in which to fold himself and power down until this was all over—preferably an armored closet, with a door that locked from the inside, or could be welded shut (he wasn't particular on that point)—he found himself nonetheless creeping down the skiff's landing ramp into what appeared to be a perfectly appalling rain of molten lava and burning cinders

Which was an entirely ridiculous thing for any sensible droid to be doing, but he kept going because he hadn't liked the sound of those conversations at all.

Not one little bit.

He couldn't be entirely certain what the disagreement among the humans was concerned with, but one element had been entirely clear.

She's hurt, Anakin… she needs medical attention…

He shuffled out into the swirling smoke. Burning rocks clattered around him. The Senator was nowhere to be seen, and even if he could find her, he had no idea how he could get her back to her ship—he certainly had not been designed for transporting anything heavier than a tray of cocktails; after all, weight-bearing capability was what cargo droids were for—but through the volcano's roar and gust of wind, his sonoreceptors picked up a familiar ferooo-wheep peroo, which his autotranslation protocol converted to DON'T WORRY. YOU'LL BE ALL RIGHT.

"Artoo?" C-3PO called. "Artoo, are you out here?"

A few steps more and C-3PO could see the little astromech: he'd tangled his manipulator arm in the Senator's clothing and was dragging her across the landing deck. "Artoo! Stop that this instant! You'll damage her!"

R2-D2's dome swiveled to bring his photoreceptor to bear on the nervous protocol droid. "WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU SUGGEST?" it whistled.

"Well… oh, all right. We'll do it together."


There came a turning point in the clash of the light against the dark.

It did not come from a flash of lightning or slash of energy blade, though there were these in plenty; it did not come from a flying kick or a surgically precise punch, though these were traded, too.

It came as the battle shifted from the holding office to the great Chancellor's Podium; it came as the hydraulic lift beneath the Podium raised it on its tower of durasteel a hundred meters and more, so that it became a laserpoint of battle flaring at the focus of the vast emptiness of the Senate Arena; it came as the Force and the podium's controls ripped delegation pods free of the curving walls and made of them hammers, battering rams, catapult stones crashing and crushing against each other in a rolling thunder-roar that echoed the Senate's cheers for the galaxy's new Emperor.

It came when the avatar of light resolved into the lineage of the Jedi; when the lineage of the Jedi refined into one single Jedi.

It came when Yoda found himself alone against the dark.

In that lightning-speared tornado of feet and fists and blades and bashing machines, his vision finally pierced the darkness that had clouded the Force.

Finally, he saw the truth.

This truth: that he, the avatar of light, Supreme Master of the Jedi Order, the fiercest, most implacable, most devastatingly powerful foe that darkness had ever known…

Just—

Didn't—

Have it.

He'd never had it. He had lost before he started.

He had lost before he was born.

The Sith had changed. The Sith had grown, had adapted, had invested a thousand years' intensive study into every aspect of not only the Force but Jedi lore itself, in preparation for exactly this day. The Sith had remade themselves.

They had become new.

While the Jedi—

The Jedi had spent that same millennium training to refight the last war.

The new Sith could not be destroyed with a lightsaber; they could not be burned away by any torch of the Force. The brighter his light, the darker their shadow. How could one win a war against the dark, when war itself had become the dark's own weapon?

He knew, at that instant, that this insight held the hope of the galaxy. But if he fell here, that hope would die with him.

Hmmm, Yoda thought. A problem, this is…


Darth Malak stepped out of the long, cylindrical elevator into what had been the Star Forge control room, and now was the Emperor's throne room. Two Dark Jedi stood either side of the door, robed from neck to toe, helmets covering all but eyeslits that were actually electrically modified view-screens. Their weapons were always drawn.

The room was dim except for the light cables running either side of the elevator shaft, carrying power and information through the space station. Malak walked across the sleek black steel floor, past the humming giant converter engines, up the short flight of steps to the platform level upon which sat the Emperor's throne. Beneath this platform, off to the right, was the mouth of the shaft that delved deeply into the pit of the battle station, down to the very core of the power unit. The chasm was black, and reeked of ozone, and echoed continuously in a low, hollow rumble.

At the end of the overhanging platform was a wall, in the wall, a huge circular observation window. Sitting in an elaborate control-chair before the window, staring out into space, was the Emperor himself.

The other half of the Star Forge could be seen immediately beyond the window, shuttles and transports buzzing around it, men with tight-suits and rocket packs doing exterior construction or surface work. In the near-distance beyond all this activity was the lush, blue planet Lehon, resting like a jewel on the black velvet of space—and scattered to infinity, the gleaming diamonds that were the stars.

The Emperor sat, regarding this view, as Malak approached from behind. The Lord of the Sith kneeled and waited. The Emperor let him wait. He perused the vista before him with a sense of glory beyond all reckoning: this was all his. And more glorious still, all his by his own hand.

For it wasn't always so. And Revan was ashamed to know that it wouldn't always be. Revan remembered the glory days, when he was a simple Jedi Knight, fighting for a just cause that he believed in, against the Mandalorians. He remembered being trained by one of the greatest Jedi of all time, Master Yoda, which, (if his calculations were correct) would be around 4,000 years into the future. He also remembered, when he was a simple-minded wizard, not knowing anything about the world.

Back in the days when he was merely Revan, the galaxy had been a Republic of the stars, cared fro and protected by the Jedi Knighthood that had watched over it for centuries. But inevitably it had grow too large—too massive a bureaucracy had been required, over too many years, in order to maintain the Republic. Corruption had set in.

And not only in the Senate.

Revan knew that the corruption was in the Jedi Order as well.

A few greedy senators had started the chain reaction of malaise, some said; but who could know? A few perverted bureaucrats, arrogant, self-serving—and suddenly a fever was in the stars. Governor turned on governor, values eroded, trusts were broken—fear had spread like an epidemic in those early years, rapidly and without visible cause, and no one knew what was happening, or why.

And so Revan had seized the moment. Through power plays, political maneuvering, and clever promises, he'd managed to get himself elected as the Supreme Commander of the Republic Army. And then through subterfuge, popularity, and pure, utter strength, he'd named himself Emperor.

Emperor. It had a certain ring to it. The Republic was crumbling. The Empire was resplendent with its own fires, and would always be so—for the Emperor knew what others refused to believe: the dark forces were the strongest.

He'd known this all along, in his heart of hearts—but relearned it every day: from the traitorous lieutenants who betrayed their superiors for favors; from weak-principled functionaries who gave him the secrets of local star system's governments; from greedy landlords, and sadistic gangsters, and power-hungry politicians. No one was immune, they all craved the dark energy at their core. The Emperor had simply recognized this truth, and utilized it—for his own aggrandizement, of course.

For his soul was the black center of the Empire.

He contemplated the dense impenetrability of the deep space beyond the window. Densely black as his soul—as if he were, in some real way, this blackness; as if his inner spirit was itself this void over which he reigned. He smiled at the thought: he was the Empire; he was the Universe.

Behind him, he sensed Malak still waiting in genuflection. How long had the Dark Lord been there? Five minutes? Ten? The Emperor was uncertain. No matter. The Emperor had not quite finished his meditation.

Lord Malak did not mind waiting, though, nor was he even aware of it. For it was an honor, and a noble activity, to kneel at his ruler's feet. He kept his eyes inward, seeking reflection in his own bottomless core. His power was great, now, greater than it had ever been. It shimmered from within, and resonated with the waves of darkness that flowed from the Emperor. He felt engorged with this power, it surged like black fire, demon electrons looking for ground… but he would wait. For his Emperor was not ready, and he himself was not ready, and the time was not yet. So he waited.

Finally the chair slowly rotated until the Emperor faced Malak.

Malak spoke first. "What is thy bidding, my Master?"

"Send the fleet to the far side of Lehon. There it will stay until called for."

"And what of the reports of the Republic fleet massing near Sullust?"

"It is of no concern. Soon the Republic will be crushed and young Shan will be one of us. Your work is finished, my friend. Go out to the command ship and await my orders."

"Yes, my master." He hoped he would be given command over the destruction of the Republic. He hoped it would be soon.

He rose and exited, as Emperor Revan turned back to the galactic panorama beyond the window to view his domain.


A/N: It's been a little while, hasn't it? I finally got some of the materials I needed, so that I could continue this story! I apologize again for the long wait! It's been a few long, hectic months, and I had the WORST writer's block. Hopefully, I'll start posting faster again, but… I have things to do, such as school. So while I hope that it won't be another few months before I post again… Don't expect me to post… hm… tomorrow for instance. Anyways…

Read And Review! But please no flames! Constructive Criticism is ALWAYS nice, but don't use it as a time to just bash me and my story. Because "This story sucks, k bye" isn't anything I can work on! I ask that you format your criticism, so that it goes something similar to this: "I didn't like this story, because of this, and this, and this."

Please and Thank you!

~Beggs