Breathes there the man, with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim—

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentered all in self,

Living, shall forfeit far renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

— My Native Land by Sir Walter Scott

Remnant of None

Aglow.

The city of cities is aglow. The people are aglow. Even the very stars seem to have been lent a voice louder than usual.

But I am silent.

This is the hour in which all sapients with some sort of idea of sanity or rhythm of life lay themselves to rest for the next day. There are many, however, who forsake that idea tonight, taking the occasion as a marvellous excuse for wanton inebriation.

I stare out, through the pane of near-impenetrable transparisteel, to the buildings, lights, and noises of revelry beyond. No, I am awake for different reasons. My mind is sober, alert.

Confused and heavy.

The chair I stand beside is not the discomforting seat of waking that was in my flagship when I was but a lord. This chair is furnished lavishly, just as everything else, so soft one could lose himself in it forever.

That seems too good an idea to be true. Likely because it is.

I sigh and turn to sink into it anyway. This room houses not only me and the chair, but dozens of the many trifles bestowed upon me by the thousands of worlds within this Empire. Each one gave what they could to this wretch sinking into a ridiculously soft chair.

I struggle to gain some sort of posture, shifting my position until I am seated upon the very edge, the only reasonably firm part of the thing. Is that the idea? To give a new emperor such a comfortable chair that he loses himself in it for all eternity and someone else, preferably the chair-giver, takes on the throne?

My mind runs around, smashing through too many trivial concepts. I shake my head. Perhaps all I need is a cup of hot caf. But if I ask for one, the servers will go into a fuss, making one as quickly as possible, presenting it upon an embossed silver tray in an embellished golden mug while a dozen others swarm about with embroidered napkins and whatever else at the ready, and while they think this is ridiculous they believe the Emperor might think otherwise, and so to keep their station as well as their lives—

I hammer my fist down upon the end of the armrest in frustration, startling an ungainly squawk from one of my presents.

What…?

I let my eyes wander over them until they arrive at a simple, elegant cage, and within it perches a small bird of prey, ceaselessly watching me with one of the penetrating bronze eyes.

I get up, walk closer to the caged animal, and crouch beside the table it rests upon. Trapped within finery and out of your natural settings, yes? I reach out, find the little door's clasp and swing it open, bringing my hand into the cage centimetre by centimetre. The birdhawk eyes my hand, then suddenly hops upon it once it's close enough. I bring the creature out of the cage and stand, holding her up not far from my head. All I can do is bring you out of the cage. You wouldn't last a week on this world, tame as you are.

She spreads out one wing after the other, shifting her weight to one leg while moving the other underneath the spread wing. The talons, while small, are sharp and draw tiny beads of blood from my skin as it leans. I sigh and move the bird to my shoulder, draped in a plain but thick woollen robe I chose from the closet, a welcome piece of clothing to contrast all the detestable gaudiness. "You, my friend, are a harbinger of both doom and freedom," I say quietly, my voice drawing the hawk's attention. She ruffles her mottled feathers, and seems to listen attentively.

I pace the room and its thick carpet slowly until I reach the transparisteel window once again, and this time I look at my reflection and the bird upon my shoulder. "I wonder if your breeders ever heard the myth of Harat. It's Alderaanian, you know, just as yourself," I add, somehow not feeling silly in the least for addressing a simple hawk. "Harat, the spirit that is the company and occasionally the solace of the damned."

Harat leans forward, digging her front talons into the thick robe, testing the odd surface.

"You know, Harat, this was the night of my coronation. The celebration is scheduled to continue for the next week. Why do the people take so much delight in crowning and reverencing a complete stranger?"

The sharply streamlined head bows to investigate and nibble at a particularly interesting hem.

"I suppose I'm creating a different ear, aren't I? You are to replace any erstwhile listeners I might have once had. You'll be a better keeper of secrets, at any rate. Or perhaps I'm simply going mad from it all. But that's not such an awful thing, is it?" I ask her, turning my head to gaze straight into that eye, so close I cannot focus upon it. There is a wildness in that eye, despite the several years she must have been in training. There is a purpose and knowledge of being, an unconscious wisdom and ferocity.

"Are you to be my guide through the lands of the dead?" I ask to a quietly savage mind that will offer no answer. "Or did the Organas present you as a cleverly hidden suggestion? Small, tame, but ready and willing to kill?" I lower my voice to a whisper, turning my stare back through the window. "Then you will be with me at all hours, even while I deliver my proposal to them."

Upon one shoulder rests an Empire, and upon the other, a hawk. Yet somehow I do not feel out of balance.

Now I can escape.

There is a passage out of that terrifyingly opulent room that is hidden from the casual observer, but one I discovered nevertheless. A thin passageway between the walls, comprised mainly of dusty stairs and passageways. The lighting still functions, and I meander down its steps, having shed the woollen robe for the drab tunic and trousers beneath. Harat still perches on my left shoulder, unfazed by the tight spaces. Seldom have I heard of a bird unaffected by claustrophobia, though I wonder if she truly is the house pet she seems to be.

Tonight we travel together, for I am determined to find once again the site of the Jedi Temple.

I walk for the better part of an hour before reaching the very base of the passage. There are many doors along the way, but I was curious to see exactly how long it would go. This far down, I should be able to travel nearly unnoticed. I'm surprised Palpatine never put a turbolift between the walls; he was getting on in age and must have rarely if ever needed to come down this way.

Harat shifts to one leg, leaning away from me and toward the wall on that side, eyeing it.

"What are you up to?" I ask.

Her head swivels smoothly, the right eye focusing on me, and her hooked beak opens slightly to emit a shrill whistle.

I look down the point of her aquiline head and see a door there. A chill grips my spine. "There?"

She turns her attention to my hair, delicately picking at a strand with her beak and seeming to pay no attention to what I do next.

I sigh. Perhaps I am going mad. But what of it? I'm alone, and there's no one present to account for my folly. I take the remainder of this flight of steps down to that small platform. The stairs continue past it, but only for one more flight.

"We've nearly reached the bottom," I whisper.

Harat tugs gently at the single hair clenched in her beak.

"Very well." I slide open the lock of the door, swinging the old-fashioned thing open. "I hope we'll be able to get back in."

Only now do I give any thought to the possibility that Harat might seize the chance at her freedom and soar off my shoulder into the busy sky. But she remains where she perches and blinks lazily, leaning forward to look into my face.

Do you hold more secrets than I?

I wonder silently, and switch off my voice. The noise of my breath is something I will be able to do without, especially in these mid- to under-levels of Coruscant. I speculate, also, if the dwellers of these netherlands will recognise my face.

This level, while not the dirtiest, is dark and sullied enough to suit my purposes. I slip out the door, closing it quietly and opening it once experimentally with one of the palace's security codes, just to be sure I'll be able to get back in upon my return. The dimly glowing keypad is connected to the silly old deadbolt within the structure of the door, and I remember the appropriate code well enough.

Satisfied, my hand leaves the keypad and shuts the door once again. I breathe deep in the air. My air. My skywalk. My buildings, my sky, my planet.

Or so the emperor mindset within me believes.

Reform, I think to Harat without actually sending it as I wander into the shadows, senses on high alert. That's what this government needs. And now that I'm the Emperor… Although, it might be more difficult than it seems.

She trills a surprisingly flute-like, pleasant warble, and shuffles a little to a more comfortable and stable position as I walk on.

Even though I am the head of this Empire, are there hidden rulers? Bribery could even play a large factor in who is the real power here. But I must do my best to reinstate a democracy, a republic of some sort. I owe that much to the Order.

The Jedi Order. Now that is a place I wish to return to, more than anything else. But Anakin said it no longer exists.

I shake my head. I am a part of that Order. Therefore, even if I'm the only one left, it still exists within me.

Though they think me a Sith.

Harat looks me in the face again, and I imagine I see a note of sympathy dancing in her savage bronze eye.

I return her gaze, stopping in my tracks for just a moment. It's time to revisit the Temple, Harat. Even if all that's left is the shattered foundation.

That is the point in which we truly begin our journey into the depths of Coruscant.

Turbolifts, stairs, spiralling walkways, hairpin turns. Skywalks, bridges, air-ferries. And no one notices my passage. I've become exceedingly good at hiding myself.

I reach up to stroke Harat's wing while we plummet within one of the turbolifts. She croons and picks at another strand of my hair.

I think we've reached an understanding.

I purse my lips thoughtfully, and consider another experiment. One that will, no doubt, turn out to be fruitless, but interesting to conduct nonetheless.

Probing the space about me, I discover Harat's Force-signature. For animals, of course, the identity is more nondescript, but it's a bright pinpoint I can detect easily. I brush it lightly.

Harat continues to nibble at a strand of hair, unprovoked.

I probe into it, finding her instinctual yet trained mind running steadily in the background, and step into the current. Harat.

She pauses, and crooks her head to look into my eyes again.

Harat? Blink.

Harat blinks.

Speak.

A piercing cry shoots from her throat.

I smile in amazement, wondering just how much she's able to comprehend. Touch my face.

She brings her head close, nudging my cheek with her wickedly curved beak and starting to croon again.

I can hardly believe my success. Undoubtedly she was trained to obey some spoken commands, but I can communicate to her in more than words, in a way her non-sentient mind is able to understand.

The turbolift comes to a gradual halt, the doors hissing open at the desired level, which is far down indeed.

I exit it, peering curiously into the isolated murk while Harat shifts her weight anxiously. All right, Harat, I think, we're close now to the Temple's location.

"Closer than you think, and still farther."

I start at the unexpected voice, and Harat squawks in surprise, flapping her wings several times to regain her balance at my unexpected movement.

Slowly bringing my hand up to my throat, I switch on my voice. It's a surprise to me that I can't sense the presence of whoever uttered those words. It was a young voice, male and likely humanoid. Close by. "Show yourself."

He does, stepping out of the shadow that hides him into a ray of light cast through an air shaft stories above us. The face that shows under the brown, unruly mop of hair is haggard, looking too emaciated for such a young voice. The eyes glare at me from shadowed pits. Overall, he seems wraith-like, as if he took a long break from existence and only now decided to return. "What are you doing here?"

Affecting just a hint of imperious posture, I advance cautiously. "I'm looking for something. You shouldn't be asking questions."

"He's right, you know," drawls a familiar voice behind me.

I spin about, and the shock nearly takes my breath away.

She grins at me, the same sinister expression I'd seen in the hut all those years ago, and the lone canine tooth is still missing. Then her eyes flick to the youth, and she speaks to him: "Why are you still hanging around here? You should be coming with me."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to. I don't believe in that."

I feel frozen, stuck in the middle of their conflict, and take a step backwards, out of their way. Harat warbles low in her throat, eyeing the woman. I'm surprised the birdhawk can see her at all, noting the general characteristics of visions.

The woman's smile turns to a disarming expression as she approaches me. "Come now. Surely you remember."

"I remember you all too clearly," I state resolutely.

The smile remains. "Good. I thought you might." I feel the heat of anger rising as she reaches out and strokes the side of my face. "Still a child, after all these years. Still so…" Her eyes flash maliciously. "…malleable."

I flinch away. "I didn't—"

"Stop making excuses," the youth snaps at me. "You're a traitor still, same as she is."

The woman rears up angrily. "I'm your mother—"

"You're a liar!"

Then I realise belatedly that this seemingly impetuous youth used to be the baby clutched within her arms, the infant wailing at the murder of the grandparent, the toddler fleeing down the hall from the spite directed at him by Good Friend. Though, surprisingly enough, he's still a youth and not a grown man as the years that have passed would dictate. But then, is it really that much of a surprise, considering the nature of visions? Perhaps it has a significance I've missed. "What's your name?" I ask, on an impulse.

He stares at me in surprise. "I don't have one yet."

I turn and face the woman. "And what's yours?"

She smiles. "It's the same as Good Friend's, the same as dear Anakin's, the same as old Palpatine's, the same as yours."

By the feeling beneath my skin I know my face has drained of all colour. Harat pecks my cheek questioningly as I reply: "I'm not Sith."

"Remember what your old Master once told you?" she mocks in a sing-song tone. "'Once a Padawan, always a Padawan.' There's an application for that turn of phrase in other areas, you see. Come now, it's the principle of the thing. No one cares what your individual name is. Not anymore."

"I am not Sith," I repeat stubbornly. "I belong to the Jedi Order."

"And," she sighs, "you're the Emperor of all the known galaxy. But that doesn't help to keep you from being a oafish idiot, when you want to. Remember what Good Friend told you all those years ago? He was right about there being only two choices. Turn, or die. Guess which one you picked." She sounds smug, like a little girl taunting her classmate.

I back away from her, my breath catching.

"Leave him alone," the youth shouts at her. "He's suffered enough at your hands. There's nothing you can teach him."

"And you can?" she shoots back.

As I lock eyes with the youth, I am turned once again into a mere Padawan before him, far from the fifty-seven year-old Emperor the public supposes me to be. "Show me, then," I tell him.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, turning once more to glare at the woman as if to declare to her her failure.

A rattling growl, not unlike that of a sabercat, escapes from her throat before she slinks off into the shadows.

I resolutely walk toward the youth. "What do you have to teach me?"

He turns around, and motions for me to follow him.

We pass between buildings, through stinking alleys, past bodies in all stages of decomposition, farther still than I'd thought of travelling.

I spare a glance at Harat while we walk. Her feathers are flattened against her body, her eyes darting warily about. I send soothing thoughts to her, but it takes time before she begins to absorb what comfort I have to offer, and relaxes somewhat, her feathers puffing out again.

The youth walks with a gait nearly gliding in motion, a certainty to his posture, a hand at his belt. I discover an object clasped there that I'd missed before: a lightsaber, though it seems incomplete. Half the casing is missing and I catch a look at the interior when it swings into view; the crystal casing is empty.

Interesting.

And I follow on.

His path is relatively straight, taking turns and curves only when it has to in order to continue. Then, just when it feels as if we've nearly walked to the other side of Coruscant, he stops, and stands perfectly still for a moment.

Curious, I come up close behind him, waiting for a signal of any kind.

Abruptly he starts forward again, and points to the wall before us. "Cut through that."

I withdraw my lightsaber from my belt, snapping the crimson blade on and sinking it into the durasteel. It makes very slow progress; the metal is thick and nearly unyielding. I've never heard of a building needing such a reinforced wall as this…and thoughts of what might be behind it scurry through my mind.

Harat croaks, shifting her head to peer at the youth before returning her gaze to watch my actions.

Five entire minutes pass, certainly long enough for a lightsaber to cut a simple hole into a wall. Presumably this is very dense material. I extinguish my blade without flourish, wiping the sweat off my forehead before looking to the youth.

Ignoring the still red-hot edges, he ducks into the dark interior.

This, I think, is proving to be a most interesting night. And I follow him in, Harat shifting uneasily at the sudden vacancy of light and looking longingly back toward the hole, while remaining faithfully on my shoulder despite it all.

Before I've gone far into the black depths of the building, he arrests my progress with a hand to the shoulder, and pushes something into my right hand. "She wanted you to read this before," he says in a low voice, "but you never gave her enough time. That was probably a mistake on your part, I think."

"Who?" I ask. But there's no response. I reach out around me with the Force, and sense nothing. I brush the air in front of me with my hands, and encounter nothing.

"He's gone," I whisper to Harat, and bring before me the item in my hands. It feels like a datapad of the most recent make we used to use in the Temple. Remembering the location of the controls, I flick on the screen, blinking in the sudden glaring brightness as the main command menu flickers on, and tells me of the lone message stored upon the device.

Tentatively, I select it, and read.

Little Padawan, why did you refuse to listen? Why did you refuse to do what must be done? Now will you face the consequences of your dream.

A solitary, long-unprecedented tear rolls down my face.

Courage, little Obi-Wan. I want courage. Go despite fear.

Go.

I lift my eyes from the datapad to pierce the darkness of the interior of this desolate building. There isn't a complete absence of light, after all, and in here I can make out a massive, hulking shape, linear edges meeting at a point on top.

I walk forward numbly until my feet hit resistance, and reach out with my hand.

The surface is cool and incredibly smooth, feeling like seamless stone. I run my fingertips up and down, and find that while it seems to be perfectly flat, it isn't vertical. Rather, as I move my hands up, it tilts away from me. That, along with the faint triangular silhouette, convinces me this gargantuan structure must be in a pyramid shape.

I walk along the side, keeping my hand upon the stone face. Never do I encounter a seam. The smoothness continues for a long, long time…and then I reach the corner, investigating it with my fingers. It is as if the entire pyramid was hewn from a single block of this stone. What's more, I can't sense what's inside it, as if the stone itself prevented the Force from reaching in or out.

I frown, and keep walking along the edge. It doesn't seem long before I'm back where I started, and upon no corner did I find a seam. How could someone form a pyramid from such a giant block of flawless stone? If such a block could even exist!

I stumble over something, then, and barely manage to keep myself from falling facedown onto the floor. Harat is forced to launch herself off my shoulder, and I can sense her wheeling overhead, screeching in surprise and dismay.

Curious to find what I tripped over, and wanting something for Harat to find her way back to me, I ignite my lightsaber carefully off to the side, washing my immediate area with instantaneous red light.

"Harat?" I call, squinting overhead. She circles down to land on the ground beside me, squawking a complaint.

I bring my attention to the object before me.

Bones. A pile of bones, roughly in their intended arrangement, except for the broken spine and the arms drawn over the head with the face turned to the side.

I drop the datapad in disbelief. These are the bones of a Chadra-Fan. And the unmistakable scoring of a lightsaber makes itself clear against the frail skeleton.

Beyond that skeleton is another. And another. And another.

Now I face the consequences of my dream.

Dropping to my knees, I close my eyes, unable to shut out the horror of a fragment of loosed memory brought about by this terrifying conclusion.

I killed them, Harat. You keep the company of a murderer.

My birdhawk suddenly shrieks, a heart-rending sound, and pushes herself into the air, flying rapidly up the side of the immense pyramid and coming to a rest on the top.

I blink in sudden puzzlement, the confusion shaking me out of a grief too deep to bear tears. Suddenly I realise: I can see Harat, atop the pyramid, where I could barely make out the tip before.

Dawn breaks.

I fumble with my lightsaber, clipping it hastily to my belt before rising from the spot. The night has passed too quickly. I have a feeling the visions warped my sense of the passage of time. Harat, come.

She obeys the command, cutting down through the air to swoop up just before hitting the floor and lands neatly upon my shoulder. Once I'm sure she's securely there, I hasten for the hole I cut. If I wait too much longer, the palace is certain to note my absence, and the instabilities the reaction might create is something I can do without, especially this early from my coronation.

The stone pyramid seems to bid me farewell, I feel, and I catch one last glimpse of it before I duck outside. The stone is glossy black, mottled with streaks of gray. Beautiful.

Then, as I run through the depths of morning city, the tears begin to flow.

"Your Highness?"

The voice intrudes upon my solitude, perhaps the one thing I truly have remaining to myself at times. I don't respond, perched upon the edge of the man-eating chair, gazing out the transparisteel window to my waking Coruscant.

I sense the attendant wishes to inquire as to my presence once again, but holds her tongue out of a healthy sense of fear.

And rightly so. I've killed before.

I wearily thumb on my voice after a long wait. "Yes?"

"The morning meal is…" She trails off as I stand and turn about to face her.

I cannot help but gape for a split second before controlling my expression, and I count myself fortunate that her gaze was modestly dropped to the floor. The word escapes unbidden from my mouth: "Sola?"

She starts, looking up at me in sudden fright before shaking her head once. "She was my mother, your Highness."

"Was?" I ask, with perhaps too much dismay. Rumours spread, and sooner or later the people will start asking questions, but I brush that off.

"Yes, your Highness. She's dead."

"Oh," I say inadequately, my hand making a valiant search before finally discovering the back of the chair to lean against. "My condolences. Your name?"

She evidently doesn't know exactly what to think about this, and her fingers start to tremble. "Ryoo, your Highness."

"Ryoo." I think for a moment. "Did your mother ever tell you about a young man named Kenobi?"

Ryoo pales. "Once, your Highness."

"What do you remember of her? Was she well?"

"She was well, your Highness."

"And…" I do not allow myself to falter. "How did she die?"

"She passed away after my father died, your Highness." Ryoo shakes her head nervously. "We weren't sure why."

I pause. "I will breakfast in here today, Ryoo."

"Yes, your Highness." She bows and leaves the room quickly.

I switch off my voice and allow myself a long silent sigh, glancing across the room to Harat, who perches atop her cage, watching me mournfully. Returning to the man-eating chair, I perch back on the edge, once again keeping vigil over the accelerating bustle outside.

Harat?

I hear her launch herself from the cage, pushing up strongly with her legs and flapping several times before gliding over to land upon the back of my chair, and from there she takes the liberty of hopping onto my shoulder.

I keep my gaze riveted outside to nothing in particular, and keeping my thoughts to myself. Why is it, Harat, that I leave no legacy? That it deserts me?

Harat screeches and leans forward, seeming to give me a chastising stare with that bronze eye.

I cannot help but smile. Besides you, I mean. Force, you nearly looked like Qui-Gon just then.

She cocks her head inquisitively, still staring into my eyes.

I return the gaze. Are you being strict with me?

Harat then directs her own attention outside, seeming to ignore me.

You're reproving me for feeling self-pity. Are you certain you aren't the true Harat, the spirit from the myth? Am I certain you haven't been conspiring with Master Jinn while my focus wanders?

She warbles as if amused, still looking outdoors at the various transports and speeders rapidly moving along far below.

I bring my hand up and transfer her to perch upon my knee, so I can begin to rub the back of her head beneath the feathers. She half-closes her eyes in enjoyment.

Strange, I think, that such a creature as you gives her trust fully to one she's only known for half a day. And you seem to know me as if we've been together for years.

She shrills a staccato peep as I move too close to her ear, and I wince in sympathy for the irritation.

Only then do I catch myself with my other hand halfway up to rub my own ear. I freeze in astonishment. What?

Harat croons in annoyance at the pause in rubbing and rotates her head to mock-bite my finger, nipping it between her beak. I tug it out and resume stroking her head. Sithspawn. I can muse over the occurrences of empathic connections later.

As if cued, the door chimes and I sense Ryoo's nervous mind once again. Somehow she has a way of spreading out her tension to the very air about her, it seems. Harat twists about to look, and I remove her to sit up on the chair's back once again as I rise.

Ryoo pushes the breakfast cart forward a little bit more and bows.

"Were you selected as a personal servant for your perception, Ryoo?" I ask, suddenly curious.

She studiously keeps her eyes averted from mine. "I am known to pick up on obscured cues, your Highness, but not nearly as well as yourself."

I smile. It feels wonderful to smile. Perhaps that is what the Sith have been missing all these millennia. "Thank you, Ryoo. That will be all for now."

She bows once more, and leaves the room.

Harat trills at me from her perch atop the chair.

"All right, all right." I study the food atop the tray for a moment, and select a piece of meat, then toss it to her. She snares it out of the air with a quick snap.

Harat trills again, but not for food. She stares at me directly, as if to pierce through my skin.

I frown. "What is it?"

Then the communications centre in the corner of the room buzzes softly. I spin around, and sure enough: there's a caller.

Harat warbles, an uncertain sound.

"It's all right," I reassure her, rubbing my eyes several times to make sure I don't look half-asleep. Then I pace over and accept the signal.

A holo of a skeletal, aged, sallow-faced man vaults from the projector and bows at the waist. "Your Majesty." His words are concise, bitten off in the manner of a man used to issuing orders more than taking them. A narcissist? I wonder.

"Tarkin," I acknowledge with a nod, and suddenly realise I haven't an idea where that name came from. At least it came, I tell myself, keeping a neutral face. Be grateful for that.

He straightens. "It came to my attention that your Majesty has not yet called upon the completed battle station project."

"That's true." Battle station? Was this what the inspection order was referring to? "I shall arrange a visit within the standard week. Was there anything else?"

"No, your Majesty." He bows once again, and I let the holo fade away.

Harat trills triumphantly, flapping her wings a couple of times while still clutching at the chair.

Right, I think. Perhaps I'd better postpone contacting the Rebel Alliance until I'm finished with this battle station. I pause for a moment, then turn back for my chair and tug the food cart along, glancing at the fare upon the tray. The sight and smell of it finally wins me over and I feel hunger as I've not felt for weeks.

Years, I correct myself dryly, and start eating.