Sith Lords didn't always leave a lot of blood in their wake. They shared one opinion with the Jedi, and that was the belief that the lightsaber was an elegant weapon for a civilized age.

But there was nothing civilized here. Just darkness, and durasteel walls, and

"An...akin," she pleaded.

"No," said the voice. The red blade flashed. For a moment, she blacked out.

Then: "Anakin Skywalker is dead."

Streaks of tears down her face, carrying salt and grit into her mouth.

"Ahsoka Tano is dead," the voice continued.

"Dead," she repeated.

A warm flood of relief brought her to look up into the red, insectoid lenses that hid his eyes, had reduced her to nothing. It felt, if not good, then a relief--death, an end. "Yes," she said in a hollow whisper. "I'm dead."

"No. Ahsoka Tano is dead. You still remain. The Emperor can still use you."

She almost convulsed as the image of their meeting on Malachor broke through the smog of her mind. Anakin had been destroyed, and the destroyer had taken the shell that was left; now the destroyer had emptied her, too.

"Who..." she said in a small voice. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

Another memory surfaced. Once it had been a rich memory; now it was weaker than a flickering shadow, flat and lifeless and outside of her, happening to a stranger. A small Togruta, only a few years old, taken to safety by the Jedi Master, Plo Koon; an orphan only hours before, she'd become a child of the Jedi overnight. And her savior and teacher had been like a father to her.

Her next teacher had been the Hero Without Fear, Anakin Skywalker. Master Plo had been like a father, but Anakin had been like a brother to her. He'd taken her as his apprentice; taught her about life outside of the Temple, where things were different and the war spread everywhere.

But this thing, the one with the red glare and the red blade, had brought her to a dying world, a planetary lake of fire, and pulled her deep into the crags under the monolith built on its blackened rock. This thing was her former master--or had been, once.

Anakin is dead, she reminded herself. When she studied the red blade, the thought gave her peace. This creature could never be Anakin.

"Who am I?" the voice repeated above her, as if it detected her thoughts.

She tried to speak and choked. He had nearly killed her voice, in the endless nights she had cried for help--calling for Master Plo, then Anakin. For Obi-wan and all the dead. But no one had heard her, no one had stopped him.

"--you--killed Anakin here--?" she forced out.

"Anakin Skywalker was weak," the voice said. "I had to destroy him."

"Weak," she echoed faintly.

"The apprentice Ahsoka Tano was also weak. Tell me you've killed her."

"No," she said hoarsely. "You killed her." She coughed. Her muscles gave out and she crumpled in a pile on the floor. "You."

"So Ahsoka Tano is dead?" Vader prompted.

A last wash of tears spilled down her face, which she buried in her forearm. It's over. She's dead. Anakin's dead. It's over. Almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Yes."

"And you," the voice said, drawing closer, saber humming. "Do you want to live, or do you want to die as well? It is your choice. Your last chance."

He'd told her that before. "Last chance." But how many last chances had there been? Or was all of it one test, and now he expected the answer?

Ahsoka would have been grateful, had she still lived; grateful that it was not her who crawled to him, who attempted to kneel but sank back to the floor, unable to hold herself up with her remaining arm. "Please," she wanted to say, "tell me what to do." But her throat ached. If she was lucky, the damage would be permanent, and she'd never have to speak again. She let down what was left of her control in the Force, the thin shield between herself and him. Tell me what to do, she begged silently. Tell me what to do, like before.

"Swear your allegiance to the Emperor," he said, "and to me. Denounce the Rebellion, and give yourself to the Dark Side of the Force."

She nodded heavily, acquiescing as best she could.

He sheathed his lightsaber. The room fell into almost complete blackness. Kneeling in front of her, he lifted her head and touched the cooling hilt to the space between her montrals. It was the most soothing sensation she'd felt in what seemed a lifetime.

"Then you are my Apprentice and Inquisitor," he said. "The only Inquisitor left. You will serve the Emperor through me until death."

A memory flickered briefly between them, before she could withdraw back into the Force: "You are reckless, little one. You won't make it as Obi-Wan's apprentice. But you might make it as mine."

Abruptly Vader turned and left the room. Almost immediately, two droids entered, their optical lenses glowing, one extending a syringe. She barely recognized them as medics at first. One of her eyes was burned shut. The other could barely focus.

The needle broke her skin and something numbing and heavy spread through her arm, then her shoulder and into the rest of her body. It numbed everything, silencing even the remnants of her thoughts and memories.

Anakin was dead. Ahsoka was dead.

But she wouldn't leave. She couldn't leave.

She'd promised.

...

The Apprentice flexed the fingers of her right arm; the synthetic cords under the metal skin stretched and retracted as well as real tendons and muscles would have. Examining the dull metal, recognizing it as hers, as a part of her, still pulled her into a sort of trance.

The Force did not flow through the arm. She'd lost that piece of herself, and its communion with the Force had been cut off as well. The rest of her flesh was alive and warm but this prosthetic was like a dead limb, barely a part of her. Even though it had was designed to be as functional as any natural limb, and connected with her body through a remarkably realistic neural connection, the Force itself did not live inside of it.

Lord Vader entered the med-room. She pulled down her sleeve and stood up. "Master," she said, as automatically as a droid might have.

"Follow me," was his only reply.

She did. The fortress that apparently served as his abode and her former prison was impossible to navigate, even with the Force. It was heavy with the Dark Side, which she still struggled to penetrate. But he stalked it effortlessly, never breaking step as he led her deeper into the monolithic labyrinth. She walked swiftly with him without falling behind, even though her legs were still flesh, and his were not. Her eyes remained fixed on him as he brought her into a dim, vault-like chamber. A tall bacta tank occupied the center of the room, providing a stark, white light from its internal source. She could feel the cold of the liquid through the transparent surface.

For the past two weeks or so, the apprentice had convalesced, and with Imperial treatment her recovery had been swift. Scars remained, but the injuries had healed and her new arm had integrated easily, despite the awkward, alien feel of it grafted onto her body. She looked at him and the tank questioningly. "Master, I don't believe I require--"

"It's not for you," he snapped. He walked up to the tank and put a gloved hand against it. Under the thick, black material, that hand was artificial, just like hers.

"No one will ever know what you have suffered," he said. His heavy voice managed to sound, if not sympathetic, then grave, and weighed down with each deliberate word. "The betrayal, the pain. The loss." His masked gaze turned to meet hers. "No one but myself. I've suffered it as well."

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

Working with the Rebellion, in her former life, she'd been briefed on what was known of Vader's mysterious injuries. The physical ruination of his body was extensive and in some ways reminiscent of the cyborg General Grievous, who they'd both battled in the Clone Wars. Similar to Grievous, Lord Vader had no natural limbs left, and no ability to breathe on his own without life support. Supposedly he couldn't see in any useful capacity without the aid of his helmet. Outwardly he was an imposing and brutal figure, a strong symbol of Imperial force, and everyone he encountered feared him. But without his prosthetics and drugs, and the respirator that took his every breath for him, even the Force wouldn't be enough to keep him alive and functioning.

But now she knew why he had been left as good as dead. It had been Obi-Wan's doing. Lord Vader had told Ahsoka about their last meeting, and the Force had confirmed it to be true. Maybe that had been the killing blow.

"This chamber is for you," she said.

"Two guards will enter shortly," he told her. "They will not acknowledge you. You won't acknowledge them. They will keep watch here, and you will keep watch outside. Do you understand?"

She inclined her head. "As you wish."

Vader returned his attention to the tank and seemed to lose himself in the illuminated liquid. She quietly watched him, unnerved by how still he was. She sensed him ruminating.

The silence wasn't absolute. His audible breathing filled the room, as well as the hum of the tank. In a way, it was worse than silence.

"Master?" she said finally.

"What is it?"

"When you are done here, what will you, I mean, what will we do?"

"You will retire early," he said. "I will begin your training tomorrow, and for several days after that until I return to the fleet."

"I'll stay here?"

"If I have nowhere to send you," he said.

She resisted the urge to fidget; it would be such an Ahsoka-like thing to do. But nervousness had been following her for several days. He had become strangely reserved since her transformation, not the tormentor so much as a distracted warden. She'd waited for him to take the next step, but he never did.

"You want to say something," he observed.

"Yes."

"Speak."

She tried to phrase the question as neutrally as possible. "When will you ask me about the Rebels?"

Though the Rebellion would most likely have taken extensive precautions since her disappearance, she still had priceless intel on their operations and resources. Yet her master hadn't pressed her about any of it during or after her recovery.

His answer rocked her. Fortunately, Torgrutas didn't pale or turn colors, like humans did when they experienced intense reactions. "You've already told me everything that could be told," he said.

"I have?"

"Some time ago," he said. "You've been here for a long time. Certain Inquisitors are slow to learn wisdom."

"I was--" she stopped herself. Tried to recall the days, however long it had been since their reunion on Malachor. She couldn't attempt to gauge the length of time that had passed. Maybe weeks, even several weeks. But surely not months; surely not longer. "I have no memory of it," she said finally.

"You wouldn't," he said. "Your former self was foolish. She attempted to use the Force to destroy her memory. She didn't succeed, ultimately, but there was minor damage; it was exacerbated during your reeducation, which was lengthier and more difficult than usual."

"Pain fuels the Dark Side." The words drifted into her head. Her Master's words, spoken to her...when? He must have said it to her at some point. She didn't try to retrieve that memory, either. She didn't respond. Any desire to remember was gone as he flatly related her own dissolution back to her. There was nothing to be gained in reliving it now.

"Perhaps your mind will heal with meditation in the Force," Vader said to her, "and you will regain what information about the Rebels that was lost to us. If so, you will tell me immediately."

"Yes, Master. I will inform you if that happens," she said.

The Force confirmed between them that she spoke the truth.

When the Royal Guard came, she didn't address them, only retreated from the chamber as she'd been instructed, and stood in front of the heavy door.

Ahsoka was dead, but she wasn't. And she would keep that promise Ahsoka made. She wouldn't leave him.

She'd never leave him again.

-END-