Blood Art
Summary: To Sidious, the slaughter of hundreds was not horrific. It was art. RotS Vignette
Timeframe: RotS – jumps from the Temple after the slaughter to Vader on the operating table
Archive: In the unlikely event that someone would actually want to archive this – ask and I'll say yes. Just let me know where it's going.
Disclaimer: All things recognisably Star Wars belong to George Lucas. I just like making up my own stories. ALL HAIL LUCAS!
A/N: This is a fairly dark fic, in Sidious' point of view. It's a bit of an experiment – I wasn't sure how to write such an evil person, and I hope it turned out well. Again, this is another fic that was the result of an odd conversation with friends - and a milestone, because it is the only fic I've written that is under a thousand words. Please R&R.
He had waited long for this.
It had taken years – years of intense training, years of careful planning, years of lies and deceit. It had taken a long time, but now the wheels were in motion. Now all his efforts had come to fruition.
He walked almost silently to the Jedi Temple, his dark cloak swirling and his hood concealing his face. He paused just before the entrance, mouth stretching in a wide, grotesque smile. The temple – once beautiful and sacred – was burning. The old, weak, foolish symbol of false peace was burning away. Nothing in this place was sacred anymore. The only thing commanding respect and reverence now was the Sith. He stepped inside and was immediately pleased at what he saw.
There were bodies everywhere, young and old alike, some still clutching lightsabers they had wielded in a pathetic, futile attempt to stop the inevitable. Dozens of clone troops lay dead as well, but Sidious simply dismissed their ignominious deaths with little more than a glance. The troops were dispensable; more could be manufactured whenever he wanted. They were no loss – especially in the face of this glorious victory.
He cast a sweeping glance over the fallen forms. Their blood stained the floor, their bodies and their clothing in a perfect symbol of the might and power of the Dark Side. The perfect display of the strength of the Sith. A wonderfully twisted work of art. Yes – to Sidious, this slaughter was nothing short of art. A painting masterminded by him and repeated in many variations across the galaxy as more Jedi fell to Order 66. And this grimly beautiful artwork was his to frame, his to name for the rest of the galaxy to see in the proper light.
His plans were falling perfectly into place, as the Jedi had fallen to the ground, dead.
He watched the medic droids whiz around Darth Vader's maimed form. There lay his prodigy – no, his pawn, the second most powerful man in the galaxy.
Sidious gazed triumphantly at the wounds, burns, scars and cuts that disfigured his young apprentice's formerly handsome features. Every one of those injuries criss-crossed in a pattern that spoke of Vader's commitment to the Dark Side. Each mutilation combined to give a picture of the life he would now lead as a Sith. Each deformity only ensured his transformation from the weak Jedi Anakin Skywalker to the powerful Dark Lord of the Sith.
Thought they would be hidden behind a black mask and suit, those injuries and bloody scars would serve as reminders to Vader what the Jedi had done – and didn't do – for him. They would keep him ensnared in the Emperor's iron grip – a puppet, a pawn.
Yes, to Sidious, the cruel slaughter of the Jedi and the vile mutilations of his apprentice were not horrific or disgusting. To Sidious, they were beautiful – bloody symbols of a victory long planned and waited for.
They were artwork.
Fin
