A/N: Sorry for the long delay. And thank you to all who read and comment for sticking with this thing. 3


"Whom shall we send
In search of this new world, whom shall we find
Sufficient?"

- John Milton, Paradise Lost


CHAPTER 50

One week earlier, on Moraband…

"We have a problem."

"Oh?"

"You have sensed it."

"Yes."

"Yes, I know—"

"It is the boy—"

"The Force—"

"Abomination—"

"Fools!"

Dust settles in the tomb. The voices of a dozen dead Lords settle after. Millenia of knowledge and power reduced to unheard whispers. It is a tragedy that trounces all over that of the hubristic Darth Plagueis the Wise.

Wise? There was wisdom once. A simple system and supremely elegant for it. Strength came through secrecy and patience and humility even, yes. One rule for all to follow.

But now that rule has been broken. The Rule of Two failed when it multiplied. Desecrated. Once a tool to ensure the survival of the Dark Side, the Force has mutated. Evolution decrees that it must. No more Jedi. Without Light, power hungers.

"My generosity was in error," Darth Bane decides.

The Lords all murmur. They are tired in their deaths. Spirits without occupation. There was a chance. Not long after Vader. A single breath in the scheme of wretched life. Eternity is too long an existence to waste any more time.

"Wake him."

A body rests on a stone dais. Scarred and dusty, it has slept for a year. Preserved, the strange patterns are still there, signs of Dark and Light, confusion when order had once reigned supreme. But there is use to this flesh. A chance for exploration.

"What is his name?"

"What does it matter?"

"Wake him."

Shadows swirl and draw the cobwebs back like lace sheets, remove the blanket of dust. Rise and shine, faithful servant. Boy of Dark and Light. Do not be confused. I will tell you. Yes. You will do my bidding. You and I. One and two.

It will work once more.

"Rise—"

"What is his name?"

"Rise—"

"My Lord—"

"You."

The floor of the chamber trembles. The body moves. Involuntarily at first, but arms lift, the chest grows. Lips part to drawn in breath, stale and putrid. Yes, my boy. Rise.

The body does. A man. Ugly and forgotten.

He is perfect, Darth Bane thinks.


Ben is pulled from the dream.

Wrenched violently. The Force is punishing him. The blasted Force. There is clear sky overhead, so bright it glows white; it blinds him. He gasps and his head bumps against sand, a rhythmic thudding. He has a headache. And his leg, the good one with its original parts. Something twists and clamps around it, keeps hold of his ankle.

He is being dragged.

"Are you awake?" The voice is gruff. It grunts, keeps tugging him. "No matter. Though it was better when you slept."

Ben's body slides over dunes, sand chaffing and getting in his eyes and his hair. The sky is still too bright. "Who are you?"

"I must take you to Moraband."

"Moraband?" Ben chases a memory that won't return. "What is Moraband? Why did you—?"

A particularly violent thud and his mouth in full of sand.

"You should speak less," the voice advises.

"Do I know you?"

Another grunt. "I know no one."

Rey, Ben thinks. He must find Rey.

Another desert mouthful; Ben coughs and splutters. He thrashes about, attempting to dislodge his foot from his captor. He only succeeds in loosening his boot. "Let go!"

"They said you were a man."

"I was—I am!" Ben is indignant now.

"You are a corpse."

"Then leave! I must find—"

"I have my orders."

"Who are you?" Ben tries to struggle. His leg is dropped and the voice looms close.

"I can make you sleep." A large glowing saber like a club; Ben blinks into its light. A saber, he thinks. Where is my saber?

His hand reaches out and the Force obeys. An object spins and slices through the sky into his palm. He hits the button.

Hissing, happy creature. Old friend. The saber clashes with the club. Ben struggles to stand. A large man, tattooed and muscled, frowns at him.

"You really don't look well," he says.

Memories still evade him, cloud his head like fog. They pull back from the edges, unwilling to come forward. I know you, Ben thinks. The blue-marked beast tilts his head, as if considering him.

"Malaak?" Ben says, not quite sure where the word comes from.

The man only grimaces. "Speak clearer. Or Basic. I do not know this tongue."

The fog recedes, and the man is there. Younger, hopeful; they are sitting beneath a large tree. Students. A temple burning. Servants of Light, then Darkness. Until the power was theirs. A new empire.

A friend.

"Malaak!" Ben drops his guard, only to have his shoulder nearly whacked off. He blocks the club on instinct. "I thought you must be dead. How did you find me?"

"My master sent me."

Another whack. "What master? I was your master."

"I know you not."

"Of course you do." Malaak swings and Ben blocks. "Stop this. We are wasting time. I need to find Rey."

"You are to come with me."

"Where? To Moraband? Is she there? Tell me!"

"There is no time."

"Why don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

"I will not fight you, Malaak. Not like this."

"Then you will come with me!"

"No!"

Sabers clash. The impact makes Ben stagger. Malaak is strong, as strong as ever. A huge fist collides with Ben's jaw. It breaks and hangs from his skull. He cannot speak. He can see stars. Ow, he thinks. Ow! Not pain but that hurt. My pride is sore.

"Do not resist again."

He lies on his back. He does not remember that he fell. But Malaak takes hold of his ankle, the bad one this time, the false leg of reused flesh and recycled gears and wire. Malaak pulls and he drags.

"You are light."

He drags only the leg away.

Taking his chance, Ben crawls. He hurries after, waiting for a moment when Malaak will look back.

There is a roar when he does. "What is this?!" Ben throws his arms around the great man's ankles, squeezes until he crumples to the sand. An ungainly heap of broken men; Ben is punched and kicked. "Let go!"

A paw against his face pushes hard until Ben's jaw threatens to come fully off.

Just go to sleep, Ben thinks. Sleep! He shouts at the Force until it obeys. Lazy, good for nothing… now you bother? Malaak slumps, unconscious in the sand. Ben slumps too, his head landing against Malaak's chest, where he can hear the steady beating of a heart.

I am sorry, my friend. I am sorry, Ben thinks, then pulls himself back together.


Strong arms hold her.

Kira pushes them away, fighting to escape the monster.

"Shh," a voice whispers. "You're safe now. I'm here."

She opens her eyes. The blue eye of her Beloved stares back. His metal one too. They hold her in place; they ground her.

"Alec," she cries, confessing his name as she collapses in his arms. She lets herself be held as she sobs, and is cradled like a child.

"You're safe," he whispers again. The arms around her tighten. "Was it the same dream?"

Was it? she thinks. The same shadow but with a mangled face, a mutilated form. A grotesque monster, far worse than anything the darkness could imagine. It had stalked her through a forest like a hunter. Prowling, determined to catch her scent. If only she'd had a blaster, if only—

"It was worse," she says.

"You can tell me," Alec breathes the words against her hair and she does. Recounts in vivid detail the moments of their encounter, of the monster's desperation to attack, of her determination to get away. She tells him everything, right to the point where he called her—

"Kira?" Alec pulls back. "What is it?"

There is something that gives her pause. A weight to this word. Rey. She does not wish to share. It feels too secret; too profane. She is ashamed of it. She makes the decision in a heartbeat, the only evidence a flicker of uncertainty across her face.

"Nothing," she lies. Her first with him. Her first ever, for all she knows. Alec hesitates, as if he saw something for a moment only to have it disappear. A tremor flows between them; the bond is disturbed. She feels his pull to follow the mystery, and she does not want him to. For reasons she cannot explain, she does not want the bond to follow here, does not want to lay all her thoughts and feelings bare.

Another voice enters her mind. Not with words but with instinct; a primal order she obeys before giving herself a chance to question.

Kira licks her lips. Slowly.

Alec's eyes follow the movement and the myriad of emotions inside him shift in unison and focus on that point. Then his eyes stray lower, to where her nightgown has slipped from one shoulder.

They have not been intimate since the Ordeal. Since before she can remember. And Alec has never pressed her, never so much as for even one kiss. She understands that he has been waiting for her to be ready; she appreciates his patience. But there is no denying the emotion inside him now.

It would be so easy, a part of her thinks. To seek solace and comfort. Be a woman again, a wife in every sense. But the monster's face hovers between them and so she pulls back.

Alec does too, shaking himself out of that fearful reverie. "I shall have Ursa stay in your rooms at night. You should not be alone—"

"It is not necessary," she argues.

"It is. I will not have you live in fear."

"But—"

"Please," he says. "Unless you'd rather have someone else?" Hope creeps into his expression, even though she can feel him trying to claw it back into place.

"Ursa is fine."

Alec nods, his smile containing only the faintest hint of disappointment. "Your wish is my command."


The Unnamed Servant of Darkness and Scion of the Great and Terrible Sith Lord Darth Bane (of Moraband) wakes to find himself in a cave.

No, not a cave, he decides, blinking as his eyes adjust. There are durasteel beams that curve along the edges, the ribcage of a fallen beast. Holes pepper through it and form an especially large opening through which he can see his ship parked in the far distance, rendered against the setting suns in dark silhouette.

He is bound with durasteel bands as well. Six of them fashion a crude cage around him, pinning his arms to his torso and his legs together, positioned so that he is forced to sit up and watch as the Corpse paces before him. His doing, no doubt, the Unnamed Scion thinks; it reeks of the Force, of unspeakable Darkness and the power of the dead, things the Unnamed Scion is not familiar with.

The Corpse pauses mid-stride, sensing that his audience is awake.

"Malaak?"

"I know not that name."

"You are that name," the Corpse says. "You have merely forgotten." He kneels down until their eyes (or what eye the corpse has left) are level. "What happened to you?" he says. And then, with urgency: "Where is Rey?"

"I know not of this Rey."

"I left you to protect her!"

Winds howl and the metallic shell rattles. The Unnamed Scion just stares back. Bane cannot hold him responsible if the prize has gone mad, he thinks. Mad and rotted, like a piece of rancid flesh. Energy is spiking across the Corpse now, an unsatisfactory reaction and the Unnamed Scion thinks that Bane will most certainly be displeased if he can't deliver the Corpse without killing him.

(Or if he wont shut up about someone named Rey.)

"Who is this Rey?" the Scion asks.

The Corpse makes a face; the Scion hopes he never does it again. "You should know. She once beat you within an inch of your life for kicking her."

The Scion scowls. "She? A she would never do such a thing. There is no one who can beat me." At the Corpse's raised brow (his only good one), the Scion shrugs. "I let you capture me."

"It was very convincing."

"You are wanted alive."

"By whom?"

"My master."

"And who is that? Hux? Magess?" The Corpse's good eye is spitting fire now. "What have they done to you? What have they done to her?!"

"I know not of those you speak. I serve only the most powerful. I serve the Lords of Moraband."

The Corpse scoffs. "The Lords of Moraband are a myth. We used to read them as bedtime stories, Malaak. Don't you remember?"

"I remember only my mission. The Rule of Two has been broken. You have upset the Force and must be examined. My master would have your power."

The Corpse stares at him for a long time. "Plagueis is dead. I consumed him."

"Plagueis is not my master."

"Bane then?" The Corpse is mystified. "He's real?"

"His spirit is strong."

The Corpse appears mildly impressed. "Remarkable," he says. "And Bane sent you here."

The Scion—Malaak, he reminds himself, for it would be best to humor this strange, dead creature—shifts uncomfortably in his bonds. "Yes. And if you'd release me I can take you to him and fulfill my purpose."

The Corpse sits crossed-legged before him. "Not a chance," he says. "You interrupted something important."

"Concerning this Rey of yours?"

"Yes, concerning Rey. She is all there is. The only concern you once knew. And if you aspire to live any longer, you would do well to remember."

Malaak decides to play along. "Who was she to me? What did I used to call her?"

"My Lady," the Corpse replies.

"And what should I call you? My Lord?" Malaak wants to laugh.

The Corpse is sad for a moment. "Call me Ben," he says at last. "Call me Ben, my wayward Malaak, for there is no one else to."


Ursa snores.

Kira thinks she doesn't mind until the second hour and it feels like her brain is rattling around her head from the force of the noise. She retreats to the balcony, where the air is cool and blessedly quiet. Where the stars shine bright over the city of Theed. She curls up in a blanket and leans against the wall and counts them, sensing as she does that this is somehow tradition, that it comes from a place buried deep inside.

She cannot say the exact moment she falls asleep. She cannot say but she knows, for she is traveling; a long journey she takes without moving. A desert. A helmet. Propped against a great steel beast. She counts stars here too. Marks on walls. She blinks, and the desert is gone. She stands in a room in a castle with bathtub the size of a bed. There are drops of water in the tub and she reaches out to touch them. The scene changes again. A blood-red room and the sense that she has been left behind. She must escape; she wrenches the door open, runs down flights of stairs until there is no light, only darkness and the cold stone beneath her bare feet. Her eyes close and when they open, she is in a dusty, cavernous room. A library. She stares at its fire. The nightgown she wears is white and thin and there is much less to it than the one she normally wears. She feels a presence behind her and she knows. She just knows. She grabs the brass poker and spins on her heel.

The monster sits on the room's long sofa. His cloak is drawn; he is more shadow than creature in this light.

"Don't move," she says.

He tilts his head. "You have no need of that with me."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He says nothing, and a thought beats in her heart, floods through her veins; she cannot resist it.

"You will tell me something," she says.

"I will tell you anything."

She is shaking. The words escape in a rush, before she has the chance to stop them:

"Who is Rey?"