Undistinguishable voices slipped into her awareness, followed by a sense of sudden excitement that was not her own. A swift and a powerful command to the Force rushed through her and faded.

In the recesses of her own mind, Vythia started to come back to herself. She recognized that the Sith woman had been on the hunt, had caught up with her prey – and was now waiting for the prey to notice her and fight back.

Vague pictures shifted into her stifled imagination, images and impressions of the quarry Zenaya was watching – the Jedi, and the four mercenaries who were likely not mercenaries at all.

Her perception faded, returned, and faded again. Time had passed – how much, she did not know – since she had tried to leave a message for Quinlan on the Phoenix. It was the last thing she remembered doing. . .

It was?

Vythia cut off her own thoughts and then let them return. They felt strange and distant and unfamiliar, and although she was half-aware that her body was breathing and moving, she couldn't quite feel it. And she couldn't see through her own eyes, not yet.

A rush of dark energy, fueled by desperate anger, swept towards her.

It was deflected with a single motion, but Vythia scarcely noticed. At the violent touch of panic, the deep, slow-moving weight that was centered on her own emotions and thoughts began to shift.

She remembered the desperation that had prompted her to beg for help even though she had no reason to hope that Quinlan would follow. Even if he does, even if he hears my message, he has no reason to help me.

That had been Vythia's last clear thought before Zenaya punished her for breaking free. All she remembered now was splintering pain, followed by absolute terror as she felt herself being crushed slowly away into nothing.

She had thought Zenaya was killing her. Instead, she had been suppressed, almost until her thoughts were not her own. But now, Vythia knew that the pain and panic had been worthwhile. Because of them, she had learned some things that Zenaya never intended for her to learn.

Now, Vythia not only knew how to keep her intentions hidden from Zenaya, at least partially, but she was beginning to understand the Sith's impressions and emotions the way Zenaya had understood her own all that time before she was released from the kyber crystal.

Most importantly, Vythia understood that Zenaya would not kill her. She could not, unless she wished to lose her host, or at least her host's abilities.

It had been a year since Vythia first learned that some of the spirits of dead Sith had been able to slip into the bodies of others as though they were clothes. Now, she also knew how hard it was to wear the body of a dead person. A dead body was a clumsy puppet which, even when possessed, was without the strength and abilities of a living person. It could not heal itself of injuries, or speak easily, or even move without conscious and constant effort on the part of the Sith.

A living victim, though . . .? If the Sith was capable enough, the subjugated soul could offer no true resistance. It could only keep the body alive for the possessor's use, becoming itself only a shadow behind transparent bars.

And that was what Vythia was now. A mere whisper of existence, trapped in a tiny prison no matter where in the galaxy she went.

The sudden, sickening horror at the thought of living as a spectator within her own body, year after year, was so strong that Vythia almost tried to resurface, to tear control from Zenaya – no matter how briefly – like she had in the Phoenix. But she resisted the impulse.

It was good that she did; the next instant, she felt Zenaya quelling the flash of desperation as though it were her own.

Recognizing that the ability to detach from her emotions was a two-edged sword, Vythia latched on to the Sith's calm and took it with a silent effort, using it even after Zenaya had gone back to ignoring her.

She had to keep herself in check, keep herself hidden from Zenaya as much as possible – for now. Perhaps later there would be some way in which she could act.

More likely, there would not.

Vythia remembered grabbing the knife from the altar as Zenaya's spirit clutched at her, entangling her soul behind dark webs. Vythia had wanted to kill the Sith; only afterwards did she realize that in trying to kill Zenaya, she had been pointing the blade at her own chest.

She had observed, as though from a distance, someone else moving her limbs and making her stand and removing the Force-shield and disarming Hunter with scarcely an effort.

Then, Vythia had watched through her own eyes, hearing her voice, but not her words, as Zenaya looked at the others.

Her mind slipped easily back into memories, far more easily than it ever had when she was fully herself.

Wrecker stared back at her, worried and upset. "What'd you do to her?" he demanded.

Wrecker knew she was gone?

Vythia struggled to reach for him, but her body would not respond. Despite the panic encompassing her soul, her heart rate remained steady and calm, and her voice sounded amused when Zenaya spoke. "Vythia was wrong, then . . .? Unsurprising. She was wrong about many things."

A mere flicker of power made Wrecker drop to his knees, and Hunter struggled against the tight grip she had on his wrist. Zenaya's will clamped down to keep him immobile, then focused on Crosshair. Her mouth smiled.

Vythia flung herself against the tendrils of shadow that quenched her; she tried to make Crosshair see that she was still there. But even his strangely sharp eyes couldn't pierce through to Vythia's soul – or, if they could, the furious glare he aimed at her was intended for herself. It would be understandable. Why would he, or any of them, want to help her?

They would not.

Vythia faltered and gave up trying, almost not hearing how the Sith woman mocked Crosshair for obliterating Ghant's eyes.

Hunter was staring at Quinlan, who still lay crumpled near one of the massive pillars. Vythia tried to follow his gaze – the Jedi was the only one with a hope of defeating the Sith. But she couldn't look at him, because Zenaya was moving, her eyes tracking elsewhere.

"And you . . ." She observed Tech, whose expression was peculiarly blank as he slid one hand towards his pistol. "You knew a good deal, and yet you connected nothing. I am intrigued by your lack of understanding. Even now, you have not learned."

As Tech's hand was yanked away from his pistol, Vythia grew more aware of the fear that sounded around her.

Quinlan drifted, somewhere in the dark eddies of the Force, momentarily free of emotion . . . but Wrecker, Crosshair, and Tech were consumed by alarm and even panic at their own helplessness. Zenaya's delight at this was too keen to be ignored, and soon, Vythia thought it was her own.

It had been so long since she had been able to truly feel the fear of victims, and theirs was exhilarating.

But the leader of these men . . . she would not allow him to feel fear. Fear clouded thought, and she wanted to touch his thoughts. Despite the hours since the ritual, she still did not fully know how many of her abilities had come safely through death. The reading of minds was difficult, but the test need only be brief and surface-level.

Vythia's – Zenaya's – hand tightened around Hunter's wrist. He glanced up; the slight confusion in his eyes shifted to understanding. He knew, now, that she was not allowing him to feel fear, and why. His thoughts were clear to her. Not as clear as they should be, but she would regain the skill with time.

Pleased that her chief abilities seemed intact, Zenaya touched his cheek. "You are correct. . . for once. You should have left when I gave you the chance."

Then she raised a hand and drew on the Force. It surged through and around her, flung Hunter back against the pillar and pinned him. He was still struggling when Zenaya turned to the others. As they were pushed against three more pillars, Vythia retreated in on herself. The Sith woman would kill them, using their deaths to increase her own strength, and Vythia wasn't willing to see it.

As she started to draw back, though, Zenaya's thoughts and emotions seemed to come forward, making the Sith woman stronger.

"You would have made an excellent Sith," she told the Jedi.

Vythia had to let herself see. . . . Quinlan was her only chance. But he was lying on his left side, utterly expressionless – except for his eyes, which reflected the dark all around them.

Zenaya noticed it, too, and was pleased, maybe because of his seeming lack of fear. She considered, then spoke again. "Despite being a Jedi, you did manage to resist me. It is truly a pity that you refused to use the dark."

Panic flickered in the Force.

So . . . he was afraid, after all.

Zenaya stepped forward and ground her heel into the gash on his forearm.

Suddenly jerking into awareness, Vythia cringed, revolted by the way the Jedi struggled, even though it was she who had cut him. She hadn't wanted to, but it had been necessary . . . necessary to obtain the Force. . .

And she had obtained it, she could use it –

For a brief moment, only, and then another soul had strangled her own, clutching at every connection and point between itself and Vythia's soul and her body and weaving them into a pattern she could not understand.

She drifted, not wanting to see through her eyes again. Since leaving Trayus, she had scarcely been able to think; all of her energy was expended in physical motion, her mind held under exceptionally tight control while Zenaya grew reaccustomed to existing in the physical realm.

As the hours passed during the flight to Aantonaii, and Vythia had time to reflect in the safety of her half-guarded thoughts, she had gradually come to realize that her first impulse upon being possessed had been accurate. There was no way out of this, except for death.

And yet, much as she wanted to kill Zenaya, she was not willing to kill herself. At first, she was angry at her own perceived cowardice; but even stronger than her instincts of self-preservation were her feelings of anger and betrayal.

On her first visit to Malachor, she had discovered the huge kyber crystal from which Zenaya's crystal had been broken. From there, everything she had done – working her way to a position as the Prince's second, studying, planning, risking her life time and again in the search for more artifacts that would teach her the secrets of rituals, learning to have the mental discipline of a Force-user without the aid of the Force – she had done it all with the intention of becoming a Force-sensitive.

In effect, though, everything she had done was so she could be forced into slavery of the worst kind by a woman she had admired for her resolve but would never have dared to face.

It was all for nothing. Despair edged her thoughts with tinges of black and purple smoke. Everything I did was useless.

It was not useless. Zenaya's cool voice – her real voice, not how she sounded when speaking through Vythia – was suddenly audible through her mind. It was low and almost gentle. You served my purpose, and you served it well.

Her amusement at how easily Vythia had fallen into a trap set thousands of years earlier was plain.

Anger returned, edging cloudy despair with red streaks and sparks of lightning, then died away.

The Sith woman was visible now, if only mentally. Her eyes, which were an icy silver-blue, observed Vythia's surging emotions with cool detachment. I understand your anger. You thought to gain what was not yours; instead you lost everything . . . But your anger is misplaced. It was not I who chose to complete the ritual.

Somehow, the knowledge that her words were true hurt worse than the blade of the Sith dagger Vythia had used to slice her hand. She could not physically cry, but her humiliation and fury were so great that it would have been a relief.

Unable to remain passive any longer, she hurled herself against the barrier of clutching tendrils that continually seeped and swirled into her thoughts and heart and mind. I never intended to free you! she screamed without a voice. I didn't know!

Nothing she did made even a dent in Zenaya's defenses. The Sith woman's silent disregard for her terror and fury was so complete that finally Vythia crumpled in on herself, whispering to nobody. I never meant to free her, I never wanted her to come back, I didn't know . . .

The worst of it was that not knowing was her fault.

For her to have studied the arts of the Sith for so long, to understand their culture of death, to know how the apprentices were encouraged to gain power at whatever cost, using everything at their disposal, including the lives of their fellow Sith and even their own masters . . . to be aware of all that, and yet to be blind enough to assume that Zenaya's scrolls spoke the truth? To believe that the Sith woman had actually left her powers bound to a kyber crystal, to be gained by any strong enough to earn them . . . ?

Many people presume that it is they who have the strength, Zenaya said. Particularly those who do not let fear stop them from seeking power. I knew that, eventually, one fascinated with the Sith would come to Malachor, though it was ravaged beyond repair.

Vythia had no answer. She did not understand why Zenaya would bother explaining anything to her, and for some reason that made her afraid.

You spent over a year of your life studying and working to free me, Zenaya answered, inclining her head but not her eyes. Unknowingly, but I thank you all the same.

There was a silence in her mind while Zenaya focused her attention elsewhere, but it was only brief. Then the Sith was back, asking her in a thought tinged with contempt, Tell me, Vythia Archane. . . Having seen a small fraction of the true power of the Sith, are you still so eager to obtain the Force?

Uncertainty struck. But I have the Force. . .

Vythia remembered freeing Quinlan from the altar, and automatically moved her hand the same way she had then – or she tried to. She couldn't even move a finger. But she'd had the Force – she had it –

Zenaya's amusement grew, and she smiled a little. Do you?

Vythia had no answer. Zenaya vanished from her imagination as they approached Aantonaii, but Vythia hovered, surrounded by a pulsing fear. She caught a glimpse of her own wrist at one point, as Zenaya started to land the Phoenix, and noticed that her commlink was gone. Even if it hadn't been, she couldn't call for help. And even if she could call, who would come?

A flicker of realization shifted aside the suffocating hopelessness. If Quinlan and the others wouldn't come to help her, perhaps they would come to kill Zenaya. . .

Zenaya looked down at the steering yoke of the Phoenix, and Vythia stared at her own hands as though they were someone else's. But they weren't Zenaya's, they were still her own – and Vythia knew that she had a chance to imprint a memory where Quinlan would have the most chance of finding it. She had one chance, if she could break free for a few seconds only. . .

Her resolve grew, and without thinking further, she acted. She thought she succeeded, but she could not know for certain, especially when Zenaya suppressed her, crushing her into unconsciousness.

No. That had already happened.

Vythia shifted closer to awareness. Everything since the ritual kept repeating in circles as her mind drifted, and she knew she had already lived and relived this particular memory more than once. She didn't want to, not again.

Maybe that was what it was like to be psychometric . . . only she did not have to touch anything to read the memories, because they were her own.

Outside of her limited perception, voices were speaking.

For the first time since leaving her call for help on the Phoenix, Vythia allowed her soul and mind to reconnect to her senses, until finally she could see what was before her.

She was standing in a circular room, studying three of her companions. Tech and Crosshair, hands hanging at their sides, stood numbly behind Wrecker, who was staring back at Vythia as though waiting for an answer.

"Because I do not require you," her voice said in reply. "It is only the Jedi and Hunter whom I need."

"Zenaya –" That was Quinlan, voice tight with repressed fear. Vythia couldn't see him from the angle at which she stood, even though she tried.

But the Sith woman ignored him completely, instead turning towards the door and the stone Twi'lek statue which was chained beside it. She gave a thoughtful hum, held out a hand, and clenched her fingers.

The prisoner statue shivered as though returning to life, then crumbled abruptly into miniscule bits that poured to the ground. Dust drifted up, then settled.

"As I said previously, Jedi," Zenaya explained, approaching the pile of rubble. "I already gave you the chance to leave."

"But you knew we'd follow." Quinlan sounded numb. "That's why you let us go."

"My plans were not dependent on your choices, but yes; I assumed you would follow." Zenaya brushed absently at the cuffs which had held the Twi'lek, freeing them of the gritty remnants of stone. "And understand, Jedi: your decision to attempt my death was not without my influence."

There was no response, only a fearful silence that reverberated in the Force.

Vythia withdrew slightly to avoid the emotion. She understood all too well the sickening realization that the choices you had thought were yours were, in reality, not entirely your own.

Her right hand reached out again, fingers closing around the delicate-looking gold chains that had held the Twi'lek. For a moment, she sent a quick glance toward the others' position near the door, as though considering whether she should replace the Twi'lek statue with one of them.

"Zenaya," Quinlan said. A clink of chains sounded along with his voice, which was under tight control. "You said you don't need them."

"I do not."

"Then – let them go."

Faint surprise and amusement overlaid Vythia's worry for a moment, and at last she was turned to face the Jedi.

Quinlan stood upright against the wall, hands clenched around the chains that kept his cuffed arms over his head. The symbol of the Jedi Order, which he wore on his shoulder piece, had a black line burned through its center – but it didn't look as though the burn had extended to his arm.

Vythia felt herself speaking again. "You make demands. You are either more arrogant than I first thought, or you have a reason to believe I would release them. Which is it?"

"I –" The Jedi faltered, gaze flickering between his companions and back.

She was speaking again. "You have nothing to offer in return for their lives or their freedom. . . so do not make the demand. What is it that causes you to hope I would agree?"

A sort of panicked anger chased the confusion from Quinlan's face, and he stared at her without answering.

"I see," she murmured, tilting her head. "You speak from desperation. And yet earlier, you seemed to think the risks worth the attempt. Despite knowing how deadly an opponent you faced, you chose to hunt me all the same."

"BUT THEY DIDN'T!" Quinlan shouted, wrenching at the cuffs again. His shirt was damp with sweat, and Vythia wondered why he continued to struggle when it was so pointless. He should save his strength, as she was saving her own, until there was a true chance to act – a chance to succeed.

Instead, he kept fighting, twisting against the bonds as uselessly as he had when she cuffed him to the altar. "I was the one who planned to kill you!" he snapped, voice shaking. "They weren't going to – I made the decision –!"

"You did," she agreed. "And they followed. And now you must accept the results of your actions in silence – or prevent me from acting."

Quinlan released the chains and hung his head, eyes glowing gold. Vythia knew he was reaching into the dark side, testing to see if it would respond, if he could hurl a powerful enough attack at her to kill her.

Ignoring his obvious intentions, Zenaya turned gracefully to view the other prisoners.

Hunter was kneeling in the middle of the floor, between Quinlan and the entrance, his hands clasped on his knees. There were faint red marks around his neck, and he was pale, like he'd only just returned to consciousness, but he glared back at her, jaw clenched stubbornly. Vythia was certain that his resolve wouldn't last for long. How could it, when there was no way for him to fight and nothing to fight for?

The three near the door were stiff and unmoving, except for their eyes. Wrecker was still watching Zenaya. Tech's gaze flittered from point to point, as though he were calculating every possible outcome of the situation, and Crosshair's drifted between Quinlan and Hunter.

Why had they come after Zenaya? Surely they had to have known there was no hope of success. . . But no – the Sith woman had influenced them to follow. Why? Even Vythia, who had planned carefully for another to have a Jedi come to Nar Shaddaa, could not see far enough ahead into Zenaya's intentions.

And now, Vythia was sure that they would all be killed, and that even if they were left alive, she herself would be left alone – except for the Sith woman.

Panic squeezed out all rational thought for several seconds. As though acting on instinct, both she and Zenaya focused on quelling the emotion. But just before they succeeded, Vythia noticed, with an electric thrill, that her body had responded. For the space of a few seconds, her pulse had increased and she was breathing more quickly.

She hid her new-found knowledge from Zenaya, and hid the spark of hope that burned as she realized that taking back control of herself was not entirely as difficult as she had at first believed. Zenaya's soul had not replaced Vythia's. . . And it seemed that when she was under a truly violent emotion, Vythia could still come forward.

But for the moment, she had no way of helping any of the others, and time was running out.

As though she were thinking the same thing, the Sith woman suddenly gestured to Wrecker. "Come," she said in a low voice. "Quinlan Vos is correct that I do not need you."

Moving almost robotically, Wrecker preceded her out of the room, head hung low and shoulders slumped as though a heavy weight rested on them. Vythia could do nothing but silently follow him as Zenaya directed her body to approach the staircase that wound downward in a slow, dizzying spiral.


This story was never meant to have Vythia's point of view in it, but after having started this particular chapter multiple times with different characters, and continually being stuck, I realized that the story almost didn't 'want' to be told from anyone's point of view except Vythia's. So that was fun, even if it was ridiculously complex to write.

A big thanks to Sabari, who suggested - after I complained that Vythia would NOT return to full awareness and let the plot advance - that I let the character look around and get used to the idea of being written about. It really, really worked. . . And as it turned out, the plot couldn't advance because I hadn't put all the pieces in place.

So, thank you for that! :)