There is no Emotion, there is Peace.
There is no Ignorance, there is Knowledge.
There is no Passion, there is Serenity.
There is no Death, only the Force.

There is no Death, only the Force.

Chapter Two

The Jedi Knight

"The Force is with me."

With a cry, Amrell sat bolt upright. As the echoes of his voice faded in the cold, silent cabin, he strained his ears to hear something that would hint to something—anything—amiss.

The starship Greenblade was, mercifully, still; Amrell's heart began to settle in his chest even as Kira began to stir beside him. "Amrell?" she murmured sleepily. "What's going on?"

Amrell sighed. "Nothing." He swung his legs over the side of the two-person bunk and stood. He stretched and looked over at the human woman—his wife—sprawled among the covers, her nakedness hidden by the sheets. "Just a dream," he said, more to himself than to her.

She frowned, meeting his eyes. Whatever she saw there spurred her to sit up. The covers fell away from her torso, settling over her belly and lap. "Then come back to bed," she said cautiously, knowing his answer already and wanting a reason.

He shook his head, reaching for a robe to cover his own nudity. "I need to think," he told her. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of his—their—room. The dim light of the plasma power-lines through the ship lit his way to T7's workspace in the lower decks.

Amrell smiled as the ever-chipper astromech beeped cheerfully at his arrival. Of course T7 was still working; droids had no need for sleep. "Sorry to bother you, Teeseven," he said, gently rapping the droid's rotating headpiece in a show of affection. "I had a nightmare and needed to take a walk."

T7 chirped an affirmative. Amrell's nightly vigils were not common, but nor were they unheard of. T7 had been his host more than once.

Still, they hadn't occurred even once since the wedding. Amrell had thought Kira's soothing presence was keeping them at bay.

It seemed he had misjudged the tenacity of his curse.

Amrell realized then that Kira likely did not know about his occasional excursions. He'd never found her awake when the nightmares hit him before now.

This realization was accompanied by the sound of footsteps in the passage he'd just vacated. He turned.

Kira met his eyes. "Hey," she said. "What's up?"

She, too, had donned a simple robe—not the armored affair she wore on missions, but rather a much more simple affair fit for the interior of a peaceful starship and not much else.

He smiled at her. "Nothing, Kira. Just a bad dream. Go back to bed."

"I heard you scream," she told him flatly, making no motion to leave. "That sounded like a really bad dream."

Amrell found himself looking away. "It was," he replied after a short pause.

"So tell me about it," she prompted, sitting down on a table.

T7 chirped reproachfully at her, and Amrell grinned at him. "Thanks for the defense, Teeseven, but it's all right." He looked back at his wife, met her deep blue eyes. "It's nothing new," he told her honestly. "I've had them on and off since I left Tython, all those months ago."

"I've never noticed them." Her voice was pointed, but double-edged: It reproached him for not sharing this with her, and herself for not seeing it.

He shrugged. "Sorry. They don't happen often, and it never seemed important."

"I've told you about everything from being a Child of the Emperor to that time I nursed a Tuk'ata cub with a broken leg back to health," she told him, smiling sardonically. "Trust me, Amrell." She stood and stepped closer to him, and her hands reached up to his face. "If it's enough to keep you up at night, it's important."

Amrell looked down, his brown eyes meeting her glimmering blue ones. He sighed and bent his neck down, bringing their lips together gently. "Thank you," he murmured as they broke apart. "That means a lot."

"So talk," she said, stepping away and sitting back down. "What did you dream about? Was it the Force—a vision?"

He sat down beside her. "I hope not," he said quietly. "They're never quite the same, and none of them have come true, but they're always bad."

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and spoke.

Amrell was kneeling on the dark floor, his eyes downcast. The Presence stood over him, studying him as a scientist studies an interesting specimen undergoing vivisection.

"Look at me, Acolyte."

The words of the Presence—his Master—brought Amrell to heel and forced his obedience. His eyes looked up and met the blood-red orbs in the aged, shrunken face that had haunted his dreams for so long.

The Emperor held his gaze, and the searching look was like a lance into Amrell's soul. "Recite your code," he commanded.

Amrell's tongue and lips moved without his mind's intervention, not that his mind would have done anything else. "Peace is a lie," he croaked, and his voice was raspy and broken from disuse. "There is only passion."

"Through passion I gain strength," he continued. As he spoke, he heard a strange struggling sound over to his right and behind him. Some tiny compartment of his mind—age-old instinct, perhaps—wanted to turn and look, but his consciousness repelled the notion. His Master had not given him permission to look away.

"Through strength I gain power." The struggle became louder in his ears. Someone was being dragged across the floor, kicking and flailing about; they were gagged, he knew,because only small noises escaped their throat, but from their pitch and timbre he knew the captive was a woman.

"Through power I gain victory." The struggle continued, but its approach ceased; whoever was dragging the gagged woman and come to a standstill beside him, just out of the range of his vision. The Emperor gave no sign that he had noticed; he merely held Amrell's gaze as steadily as ever.

"Through victory my chains are broken." Amrell finished.

"Good," the Emperor nodded. "Rise, my acolyte."

Amrell did, and suddenly he was aware of his garb. He was clad in black and red robes; hooded and armored, with sharp angles. It was the armor of a Sith Lord.

Fitting, said a voice—his voice—and he realized with some tiny portion of his mind that it was not some foreign mind but rather his own thought.

"This Sith has brought a prisoner," said the Emperor. "Look."

Amrell turned and did, and his eyes met Kira's. Her hands were cuffed, and she was kneeling on the floor. She met his gaze, and her eyes were full of tears. She tried to speak, but the gag kept her silent.

"And she is not alone," the Emperor said, and his voice seemed to flow into Amrell's heart and mind like honey.

At once, the door into the hall opened. Amrell had not been ordered to look away from Kira, so he did not, but out of the corner of his eye he saw faceless men in masks and black armor dragging others—familiar faces. There was Lord Scourge, bound into immobility, carried by three Imperials; there was Sergeant Rusk, walking beside his captors with a slave collar around his neck; there was Doc, his hands and feet tied, being dragged like a sack; and in the rear was T7, an ugly, black restraining bolt effectively neutering his capabilities as he was carried in a soldier's arms.

And there were others, too. Master Vanna, of the Jedi Council, was being dragged alongside Doc, and Hethus, Amrell's smuggler friend, was walking alongside Rusk, likewise collared. Shepard, the indomitable trooper who had worked with them on so many missions, was there too; she had been tied, armor and all, into a kneeling position and was being carried as Scourge was.

The lot of them were deposited before Amrell and his Master and the soldiers who had brought them were forgotten.

"Look, Acolyte, at the gifts I have been brought," the Emperor's voice was silky.

Amrell did as he was commanded, meeting the eyes of each of his former comrades in turn. Each one met his gaze with the same betrayed, defeated gaze.

"Do you know how they came to be captured, Acolyte?"

Amrell shook his head mutely.

"Turn to face me and reply with words, Acolyte." The Emperor's voice had become stern now.

Amrell turned. "No, Master," he said, and his voice was still hoarse.

"You brought them to me, Acolyte," the Emperor told him with a smile that engendered a strange duality in Amrell—one part of him thought it was a sick, horrible grimace of a smile, but a larger part felt elated at having received the gesture of approval.

"I brought them to you, Master," Amrell agreed dutifully.

"I have decided now what must be done with them," the Emperor told him.

Amrell waited in silence for his Master to elaborate.

"They will die," said the Emperor, and his voice was quiet. "As befits all enemies of my seat."

"Yes, Master," Amrell agreed. It was only fitting, after all.

"The difficulty comes in choosing their executioner," said the Emperor. "It must be done with a lightsaber, of course, but there are so many eager Sith to choose from."

Amrell was silent.

"The honor must be given to someone whose loyalty to me is unflinching," the Emperor continued, studying him, "someone who wishes only to please me. Only a Sith who truly loves his Emperor should be allowed the honor of destroying such heinous enemies as these."

"Master," Amrell said as the Emperor paused. "Let me be the executioner."

"You?" the ancient Sith's eyes gleamed as he laughed. "You? A former Jedi? You claim to be as loyal to me as my Hand? As my Wrath?"

"Your Wrath is a traitor, Master," Amrell pointed out, "And there can be no Sith who loves you as I do."

"You are a former Jedi, Acolyte," said the Emperor dismissively. "Their Code has poisoned you."

"My mind is clear of the Jedi," Amrell argued. "Even before I came to you, I violated their Code. I allowed emotion to color my actions, in violation of their Code. I behaved in ignorance, in violation of their Code. I was passionate, in violation of their Code. I dealt death, in violation of their Code."

He blinked, and when his eyes opened, the world was subtly different, as if a weight had left his shoulders. He felt powerful. "I am yours, Master."

The Emperor smiled at him again, and this time there was no disgust. "So be it, then; you may proceed with the execution."

Amrell turned and proceeded to do so.

Lord Scourge, as a direct traitor to the Emperor, came first—his head was, without ceremony, removed from his shoulders.

Next was Shepard, the soldier of the Republic. Again, there was no lengthy torment—Amrell just sent his red blade through her skull.

After that, he dispatched Vanna with a bit more flair. His lightsaber swept in a uppercut, neatly bisecting her in a line connecting her groin to the tip of her skull.

After that, he came to Hethus. A single spearing jab into the heart ended him.

Doc followed, his head shorn in two along a diagonal so that his mouth remained on his neck but both eyes and brain were dropped.

Sergeant Rusk was next, and he was slashed apart in a line from his left shoulder to his right hip.

Then it was T7's turn, and here Amrell got creative. He brought his lightsaber to bear directly about the center of the astromech's cylindrical body and stabbed down.

Then he turned, at last, to Kira. The tears were flowing freely now, and her blue eyes were pleading, begging him. Stop this, Amrell! they seemed to cry. Come back to me!

So he did, lightsaber-first. The woman's eyes were making him feel things that made him uncomfortable, so he went for them first; the very tip of his red blade entered her sockets and incinerated the orbs.

As he attacked the left eye—the first, Kira bit her gag and squeezed the other shut. As he struck at the right, she began to scream. The cries were nonverbal—the gag saw to that—but that made their nature all the clearer. They were the bestial cries of a sentient being tormented past the limits of reason.

They were beautiful.

Amrell came closer. Gently, he brought his lightsaber to her left arm. Slowly, glacially, he began to sink the weapon into her shoulder

The process seemed to take days, and all the while Kira's screams grew louder. At long last the arm finally gave up the fight and fell from the cauterized stump.

The same treatment was then delivered to Kira's other arm.

Then Amrell stepped back for a moment, to allow Kira's scream's to die down—not completely, but at least to decrease in volume. Then he struck at her legs.

He cut at them in the same slow way, starting from between them this time in a macabre parody of sex. Her screams redoubled with each instant, and there were many.

In the end, the woman lay before him, utterly broken, surrounded by her own limbs. She should have been unconscious by then, but was somehow still aware, and the scorched holes in her face where her eyes had been almost seemed to be looking at him, and their gaze was horrible.

In the face of that gaze, the two parts of himself united—one in fear and one in pity—and the brutalized head was removed.

And in that moment, Amrell awoke.

Amrell opened his eyes as he finished and found that Kira had wrapped her arms around him and that T7 was standing sentinel at his legs, pressed gently—comfortingly—against him.

Then he realized that he was shaking, and that his eyes and cheeks were wet.

Kira was crying too, he saw. For a moment he entertained a thought that she might be horrified at him for what he had dreamed, but the notion was rejected.

We broke the Code for each other, he reminded himself. I love her, and she me.

He wrapped his arms around her and put his horned Zabrak head into her pale shoulder.

T7 chirped softly, soothingly.

They stayed there like that for what felt like an age before the tears stopped flowing. Then, even after that, none of the three moved for a while longer.

Then, finally, Kira spoke. "And you dream like that regularly?"

Amrell nodded into her. "Not often, but inevitably."

T7 beeped—a question.

"That was about usual," Amrell answered him. "I've had worse."

"What is it, though?" Kira muttered. "What the kriff gets off doing that to you?"

Amrell chuckled weakly. "The Force, maybe," he said quietly. "Or my own head. Maybe whatever's left of the Emperor, haunting me."

"That last one's nathak shit, and you know it," Kira told him flatly. "You said you'd been having them since Tython. I guess they didn't have the Emperor then?"

"No," Amrell agreed. "Back then they mostly featured Masters Orgus and Satele, and the Dark Jedi I fought on Tython. Vanna was there then, too."

"You met her on your first Tython tour?"

Amrell nodded. "We worked together on a few jobs."

There was silence. "I don't think it's the Force," said Kira eventually. "I think they're real dreams, but I've got no idea why you'd dream something like that."

Amrell shook his head mutely. The tears were starting to come again.

"You didn't sleep well last night, Jedi," Scourge informed Amrell flatly the next day at breakfast.

"If that's true, I think I'd be able to figure that out for myself, Scourge," the Zabrak Jedi told his Sith friend.

"There, you see?" Scourge cocked his head slightly. "That cynical tone. It's not usual with you, Jedi. Did you suffer a vision?"

Suffer. The word echoed in Amrell's head. When speaking of Force-induced visions, two words were generally used: receive and suffer.

That fact said something, he just didn't know what.

"Maybe," he replied to the former Emperor's Wrath. "Or a nightmare."

"You should determine which," Scourge chided him. "If a vision, then it's important that we act on it."

Amrell stilled. After a moment he looked over to the Sith. "Fine," he said. "I'll act. I need you to make me a promise."

Scourge frowned. "Why? Was I featured in your vision?"

"Yes." Just not in the way you're thinking.

"If I betray you, Amrell," Scourge told him, leaning forward across the table, "I will have a very good reason, and for more than either Empire or Republic."

"I never said you betrayed me."

Scourge's frown deepened, and he sat back. "Speak, then."

Amrell cocked his head, his eyes meeting his ally's. "If I show a sign of turning to the Dark Side—the Emperor's Dark Side—throw me out the airlock," he instructed flatly.

There was silence.

"I was featured," Scourge said slowly. "How?"

"You were alive at the beginning, and dead at the end," said Amrell, standing up. "And you weren't the only one."

With that, he strode away. Scourge was not a man to speak with when emotionally unstable. Amrell needed to meditate.

When Amrell finally found a quiet corner of the ship to meditate, his thoughts drifted into memory.

The young Zabrak was a child of the Order; that is, he had been brought into the Jedi Order at an age so young that he remembered nothing else. In recent years, especially following the Sacking of Coruscant and the catastrophe that had been the Great Galactic War, the Jedi had begun recruiting ever more apprentices and Padawans even as late as very early adulthood. Amrell was not such a recruit, however.

Amrell remained an apprentice and Padawan for many years and saw many planets as he learned. Even so, there was little to remember of those years, and less to tell. He had known some happiness, perhaps, but more than that it had been idyllic, untouched by pain. Without that pain, how was he to appreciate the joy?

From his early training, it had been apparent to all his instructors that here was a Jedi who was made for the lightsaber. As such, they pushed him to learn the arts of swordplay early.

He had rapidly achieved proficiency in the Shii-Cho kata, and had eventually even reached something akin to mastery.

It had been to test his skill in the final, great examination of knighthood that he had gone to Tython. Then the Flesh Raiders struck, and such things were forgotten.

He had been raised to use his sword, and so he did, but he had not been raised to make other sentient beings bleed and die, and he found that on Tython he did that too. It was an uncomfortable experience.

He might have had much more difficulty adapting, had he not had help.

Amrell tensed as his training saber clashed against the Flesh Raider's vibroblade, bracing himself against the impact. He spun away rapidly, deflecting a blaster bolt another had sent his way right back at the sender.

It tried to dodge, but its own rotund bulk prevented an effective withdrawal. It gave an animal wail as the blubbery flesh of its side was cooked by the superheated plasma. The sound made Amrell grimace.

He continues his spin and brought his blade about in a low sweep, sinking it, sizzling, in the body of another assailant, which screeched and fell.

The sword, however, did not cut through cleanly, and was stuck in the body for a moment. Force-damned training saber! Amrell thought, fear spiking in him.

He subdued the unwanted emotion and, even as he tugged on the blade, turned to the first, vibroblade-wielding Raider, which was already charging him.

I'm not going to make it in time.

The realization hit him like a Coruscanti bus. He clamped down on his fear, though, and called on the Force—not for power, but as a cloak. It might shield him enough to survive the blow, though the vibroblade was moving quickly.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a boulder flew into the beasts head. Its skull caved into the blunt trauma and it fell to its side.

Amrell's sword came free and he turned to face his savior.

He blinked. The thrower of the massive boulder was a small human girl; she couldn't be any older than seventeen. He brunette hair hung about her shoulders, and her green eyes pierced his own.

Those eyes alone, even without the display she had given, would have told him that she was powerful.

"Hey, you all right?" The question was spoken in a smooth, cool voice, with the slightest Imperial undertone—decidedly a Republic accent, but a border one, he decided.

"Yes, thanks to you," he responded gratefully. She had likely just saved his life. "I can't do much without my saber."

"What a coincidence," she chuckled ruefully, drawing hers and twirling it idly, watching as the yellow glow streaked through the air. "I can't do much with it." She approached until she was within comfortable speaking distance and held out a hand. "The name's Vanna," she introduced. "Padawan of Tython."

He took her hand and shook it. "Amrell," he replied. "Likewise. A pleasure."

Only a Padawan? he wondered in astonishment. She's at least twice as strong as I am in the Force!

"What're you up to on this fine invasion?" she asked, drawing her hand back. "Just building up a kill count?"

Amrell barely refrained from wrinkling his nose at the distasteful thought. "No," he told her, and explained his current self-assigned mission. "The Flesh Raiders have been caging up Padawans, alive. I've been trying to free them."

"That's probably worth doing," Vanna decided, "and it puts my mission in a bit of perspective—there's a group of Padawans who got trapped up in the hills in the invasion, and I'm to locate them for rescue. I'd rather not find them caged."

Amrell nodded. "So would I," he said. "Would you like to work together? We can get those Padawans out first and then rescue the ones that have already been caught."

She grinned up at him. "Sure. Together we'll go through the Raiders like a lightsaber through nexu butter."

Amrell didn't respond to that, but the sentiment worried him.

It was only shortly thereafter that the 'squad,' as Shepard had dubbed it, organized for the first time. Whether it was Force or fate, Amrell didn't know, but he doubted it had been an accident that the four of them, along with their companions, had all been on the RSV Esseles together.

When Amrell first walked into the lounge, T7 at his heels, he had first been assaulted by the crowding. It was not that there were such a large number of people—the Fleet had been worse—but rather that they were all interacting, and not doing it well. Their personalities scraped against each other with the passive animosity of people who don't really like each other, and like each other even less because they have nothing better to do than socialize, and will continue to have nothing else to do for quite some time.

Still, some individuals stood out. Vanna was there, for one, talking with a Twi'lek woman as her Trandoshan companion, Qyzen Fess, stood over her like a bodyguard. She waved at him when she saw him. He smiled back, but did not approach quite yet, continuing instead to scan the room's occupants.

There was a blond man, probably about his age, with gray eyes that seemed to crackle with a good-humored fire as he and a younger, dark man with a rifle played sabacc with a few of the other passengers. The blond man intrigued Amrell. He was clearly winning—winning big—and yet he seemed to be the only man in the room that no one disliked. It was rather disconcerting.

His eyes moved on. In the corner, isolated from the rest, he saw two others whose presence surprised him. There were Republic soldiers on this ship, yes, but he had not expected to see a pair of commandos. One was a woman, Mirialan by species, and perhaps a few years older than he was. Her hair was red and hung to her shoulders, a curtain around her face. The other was a Cathar man, his hair cropped until his scalp was covered in no more than the same thick-but-short orange fur as adorned the rest of his body. He seemed the elder and the more experienced, yet even at a cursory look, Amrell could see that the woman held authority. There was an intriguing air of command about her.

Amrell made his way over towards Vanna, but even as he heard the tail-end of her conversation—the Twi'lek was saying something about Imperials—there was an alarm and a voice blaring over the intercom.

"Warning...!"

Amrell didn't bother to listen to the rest. He caught hold of the nearest solid object and gripped it tightly, and not a moment too soon. The explosion and rumbling that followed knocked nearly all of the passengers to their feet, but he kept himself upright.

"Well, looks like you were right," Vanna said loudly to the Twi'lek once the shaking subsided. She, along with many other passengers, had fallen over. Vanna helped her up.

"Are you all right?" Amrell asked her as he bent to assist another fallen passenger.

"I'm fine-" the woman began.

"Bridge." The voice was sharp and clipped.

Amrell turned. It was the Mirialan trooper, and she was looking at him, her assault cannon in her hand.

"Come on, Jedi," she said shortly. "We don't have all day. We need to get to the bridge."

"On it, soldier," said the blond man with a chuckle. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

The commando glared over at him, and Amrell followed her gaze. The man was now wielding two pistols which had been concealed.

"Can it, 'slinger," the soldier said shortly. "If you're in, you're in. We need to move."

"Right," said Vanna, joining them. "We'll talk while we move. I'll take point."

"You sure, miss?" the gunslinger's rifle-wielding companion asked her worriedly. "I wouldn't mind."

Vanna grinned wolfishly and activated her new green saberstaff. "Can you deflect blaster fire?" she asked him with a wink. "Didn't think so."

The young man blushed. "Sorry, miss."

"The walking paragon of chivalry here is Corso Riggs," said the gunslinger, stepping forward and studying Vanna with an odd look in his eye. "I'm Hethus, Captain—eh, former captain—of the Kestrel."

"There'll be time for introduction's while we move," the Mirialan trooper instructed pointedly. "Walk."

So they did; Amrell quickly activated his lightsabers, including the new offhand one he'd gotten on the fleet, and they lit the floor up with a blue glow.

"I'm Vanna," Amrell's sister-in-arms replied to the blond man as they jogged along the passages. "Jedi Padawan. This," she gestured to the Trandoshan, who nodded without really looking at the man, "is Qyzen Fess, a... friend of mine. Nice to meet you, Hethus."

"Same," said Hethus, and there was an odd note to his voice.

Then droids attacked. They were put down.

"I'm Amrell," said the Zabrak into the sudden silence. "This is Teeseven."

"Lieutenant Shepard, Havoc Squad," the Mirialan commando replied. "This is Sergeant Aric Jorgan. Now can we move?"

Amrell nodded and followed Vanna, who was already moving.

Amrell opened his eyes and smiled. Shepard, Hethus, Vanna...

The 'squad,' Shepard called them. Not Havoc Squad—her own force. Just the squad. The Esseles was the beginning. Since then, they'd gone on every mission imaginable, from capturing starships to full-scale invasions; they'd even rescued Darth Revan himself from the Emperor.

More importantly, there was not a single moment Amrell had spent with the squad that he looked back on with anything but fondness.

He stood, and on impulse left the quiet room and made for the ship's holocommunicator.

Kira, who was leaning against the console while cleaning her lightsaber hilt, saw hip approaching and smiled. "Feeling better, Amrell?" she asked.

Ha grinned at her. "Much. I'm going to call Shepard—see if she's got anything for us to do."

Kira's smile widened. "Oh, good!" she said, pushing off the console. "I was getting bored with all these regular jobs."

Amrell smirked. He punched Shepard's holo signature into the console and stepped away from the projector, waiting.

The call connected, but it was Jorgan, and not Shepard, who picked up. "Master Amrell," he said cordially in his rough voice. "What do you need?"

"Jorgan," Amrell gave the man a familiar nod. "I was wondering if Shepard had a mission for us."

"See," said Kira, entering the projected area, "we're in the unfortunate position of having free time, and Amrell was hoping the Major could help us out."

Jorgan chuckled. "I understand, Jedi, but I don't think we can help you. We're currently on free time, too..."

"...And we're enjoying it very much, thank you," said Shepard in her striking voice, striding into the projected area from behind Jorgan. "Sorry, Amrell; you want to get the squad on a mission, it's your problem. I'll join in if it's a big one, but I'm not putting in the work. Not now."

Amrell raised a brow. "Busy?"

Shepard winked at him and gave Jorgan a quick peck on the cheek. "A bit."

Amrell laughed slightly at Jorgan's surprised and slightly awkward expression. "Understood, Major. I'll try to be patient."

"Thank you," said Shepard, and cut off the call.

Amrell stood for a moment, thinking. Then, just as he was about to turn away and go find something else to do, he felt Kira's arms snake around his shoulders from behind. "You know," she said quietly, "I think Shepard and Jorgan might have the right idea. I'm certain I can keep you entertained until the Council decides on a job for us to do."

Amrell smiled and breathed in deeply, inhaling his wife's intoxicating scent. "I imagine you can," he said softly; lowly. "Do you aim to try?"

"I don't try," she said, swinging around him and bringing his lips down to hers.