Author's Story Note: I thought I put this at the beginning… some of the elements in this story are from the tabletop game Warhammer, including the extremely unpleasant corpse cart, and some of the characters you'll meet later on. It's sort of a crossover, I guess, but I don't actually play Warhammer and know very little about it; the Muse was simply inspired by some of the figures and concepts. Hope that's okay…? Also please remember that the rating is partially for disturbing imagery: this one's not for squeamish.

Thanks in advance for reviewing! (hint, hint. lol)

Brink

By: Syntyche

Eleven: Turn Off the Sun

They had been plodding along for hours - or maybe days - when Obi-Wan heard:

"The name of this place, tasty one, is the Hunger Wood. Do not let your guard stray; the woods are always famished for fresh blood … "

Barely roused from his apathy by the Corpsemaster's voice directly above him, the Knight lifted dull grey eyes to listlessly survey the shrouded trees surrounding them on all sides as the moaning cart ambled on toward its destination; a place that Obi-Wan did not yet know, but if the manner of transport to get there was any indication, it was somewhere he wanted to be even less than the Hunger Wood.

As more of his intentionally deadened senses roused themselves now that he had allowed some small awareness to creep back in, Obi-Wan swallowed hard as he registered the sound of the heart still beating sluggishly in the rotting chest pressed against his ear: one of the many twisted bodies composing the frame of the cart on which he was currently bound. Ropes were tight against his neck, looping through the patches of exposed ribcage beneath him, and more thick twining around his slim waist and knees was wound within the Undying groaning and whimpering as they staggered along under his added weight.

Obi-Wan had glanced down once to see that rope binding his ankle was pulled taut through a bloody, gore-filled eye socket; he had dry-heaved wretchedly, then promptly shut down as much of his senses as he was able. It was the only thing he could think of to keep his mind from fragmenting into a million horrified pieces.

The Knight had also noticed flashes of misty white dancing around his vision, and he recalled seeing the same spectres when he, Qui-Gon, and Anakin had first trekked to the isolated village where their troubles had begun. At the time, Obi-Wan had brushed it off as fatigue and his imagination, but he saw now that he had not been hallucinating: wight was the word applied by the Corpsemaster to the wraithlike spirits darting through the shadows. Every so often a wisp of a spirit would settle on one of the bodies speared to the cart - excited, perhaps, to have found a fleshy host in which to dwell, but an agonized wail would inevitably screech from decaying lips as the wight discovered the body it now inhabited was inescapably tethered to the grotesque cart of dead. One ambitious wight darted for Obi-Wan, but a snap of the whip and a few hissed words from the Corpsemaster sent it skittering away again.

Obi-Wan tried not to reflect on what the words: "This one's for the Master!" meant.

At some point the road began winding upwards, and deep within Obi-Wan's fettered mind it registered that they had reached the mountains he had looked on from the distance a few nights before. Pockets of warpstone littered the ground sporadically, sucking any traces of light in their vicinity into vapid pools of blackness. The higher they ascended, the louder the moans of the Undying, and the fear in the air became so palpable Obi-Wan felt he was suffocating under the weight of dread being heaped upon his own carefully but barely controlled terror.

Too much, this is too much, he heard himself say, and the voice in his head that generally sounded quite reasonable to him now held an edge of unraveling to it. Not good.

An eerie greenish glow began to infiltrate Obi-Wan's line of sight, like a gangrenous fog rolling in, licking at the rocky ground beneath the slowly shredding feet of the Undying. The Corpsemaster clicked his tongue in satisfaction and the bound Knight risked a glance up - and up - and immediately realized that the fact that was absolutely cliché did not make the large, imposing fortress swelling out of the mountainside ahead of them any less unsettling.

Obi-Wan swallowed a shaky breath, still attempting to distance himself from where he was.

Distant from the soft give of putrid flesh beneath him.

Away from the unremitting groaning of the already dead and wails and whimpers of the still dying.

Far from the overpowering rot clinging to his senses as he tried not to dwell on the horror all around him.

He wasn't quite successful in his efforts, so the Knight blacked off another tiny part of his soul to compensate. Don't think. Don't feel. Don't care.

The macabre procession slowed and Obi-Wan looked up against as the structure grew larger, and he tried not to shiver at the dark winged shape overhead, its cackling cries ripping into his ears even over the constant crying all around him. In a moment of naivety he allowed himself to wonder how places, how creatures, like this could exist under the watchful eyes of the Jedi, but his pragmatic brain reminded him that those in the Order were few, far too few, to be and see everywhere.

The jagged tip of a splintered rib bone, coated in turgid black blood, split from the quivering flesh below him, popping up before his horrified eyes like a spring and the accompanying odor of decay made him bury his face into his shoulder with a sob. His frantic movement jostled the grating ends of his humerus and Obi-Wan clenched his teeth shut against a moan, unwilling to join the unending cacophany all around him.

Perhaps there was something to be said for Qui-Gon's stubborn insistence that the Order's current Initiate acceptance policy was too harsh, too short-sighted. Obi-Wan certainly found himself wishing right now that there were more Jedi to patrol the galaxy.

The thought of Qui-Gon almost made him moan again and Obi-Wan hastily closed off more of himself, trying weakly to keep his memories and emotions - his sanity - under tight reign. Stop it! he snapped at himself harshly, jamming his bottom lip between his teeth against a whimper that rumbled in the back of his throat.

Behind him, sensing - feeding off of - the Knight's mounting distress and horror, the Corpsemaster chuckled lowly.

"We're almost there, tasty one," it said, in its odd, reed-thin whistle.

"I'd actually like to get off now, please, if I could," Obi-Wan managed to mutter back, not bothering to turn or even lift his head. The creature behind him only chortled again and leaned forward to rake hungry, pleased fingers through Obi-Wan's damp ginger hair. The Knight shuddered at the long nails scraping across his scalp but tried to keep his body apathetically still, to betray none of the horror and hopelessness crashing over him.

"The master will be pleased with you, I've no doubt," were not comforting words he wanted to hear.

The gritted-teeth-inducing, laboriously advancing cart hit a bump in the road, severely jolting the bodies staked together to make the cart's frame, and the howling that rose up to surround Obi-Wan nearly deafened him. He would have slapped his hands against his ears had they not been bound tightly behind him. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to hide his mind deep within something, anything, any part of his training that could help shield him …

There is no emotion, there is peace.

The first stanza was the hardest to swallow, and Obi-Wan knew that didn't bode well for him, but it was really becoming quite difficult not to be emotional after what he'd been through, beginning not with Qui-Gon rightfully choosing Anakin to save so Obi-Wan could dutifully stay behind to die (which apparently was now a little less imminent than the Knight had thought, as he was still alive to experience … whatever this was,) but on Naboo…

Obi-Wan swallowed, pushing the memories away, and tried to focus.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

He'd memorized the Code years ago - both the one the current Council mandated all Jedi learn, and the version he'd discovered long ago, tucked away deep within the Archives: the original, he'd learned, and he often wondered why it had been changed...

Emotion, yet peace.

Ignorance, yet knowledge.

Passion, yet serenity.

Chaos, yet harmony.

Death, yet the Force.

To him - and to Qui-Gon, he knew - the original Code spoke more to his life, his heart, to his work and what he had done under the auspices of trying to keep peace.

Another section of splintered ribcage broke through, jabbing into his side painfully. Obi-Wan gritted his teeth.

There is peace.

He felt a small trickle of his own blood dribble lazily down his flank where the bones beneath had pierced his skin.

There is peace.

He couldn't get past that line. Couldn't say more of the Code when the very first sentence was ringing so hollowly through his mind.

Overcome, the Knight demanded of himself sharply. Believe it! There is peace.

Say it again:

There is -

The cart rolled to a stop.

OoOoOoOoOo

Obi-Wan Kenobi would soon be tasked with reading to his new master, recounting events and the history of places, and within those hated books he would learn that the mountain they had climbed bore the name Cripple Peak, and the fortress city was called Nagashizzar.

The mountain itself was formed of jagged and unnaturally twisted spouts of rock that greedily and incessantly tore scraps of decaying skin from the feet of the Undying tethered to the Corpsemaster's cart. Gloomily foreboding, the mountain overlooked a black lake that glinted dimly in the moonlight, still and unmoving and undisturbed even by the breeze that ruffled Obi-Wan's sweaty hair and brought the unending odor of putrefying rot to his nostrils. None lived in or touched the black lake, though small figures could often be seen swarming its shores, chipping away at the warpstone deposits that littered the ground there, and dragging their haul back inside the winding labyrinth of passages that made up the lower levels of Nagashizzar.

When he raised his eyes into the darkness, the Knight could see the silhouettes of hundreds of towers erupting against the darkness, and he would learn that these housed libraries and laboratories, and barracks for the great army soon to be amassed therein.

The monstrous creatures guarding the ebony gates he was pushed through would tell him - if they could speak - that they were called 'golems', created from rock and bone and nearly invincible. Obi-Wan shuddered as he passed the soulless creatures, using his good arm to clasp his dirty and tattered tunic tighter against his shaking body. Though the Knight was dismayed he felt this way, Obi-Wan found himself welcoming the pain from numerous injuries inflicted upon him; for now, it was all that was keeping him grounded as he was prodded through large halls filled with creatures and beings of darkness. It reminded him, in a way, of his own encounters with the Dark Side - on Naboo with the Sith, but even more so when he'd been tested on Dagobah. He'd been sent, literally, into Darkness then, and that's where he was again: submerged, choking, drowning in so much darkness.

Hold on. Keep it together.

Obi-Wan tightened his grasp on his damaged arm, the blinding shockwave of pain erupting from the wound there swiftly clearing the panicked thoughts crowding against his brain.

Focus. Wait for your opportunity.

They hadn't brought him here to kill him, he was slowly becoming certain of that.

What they had brought him here for, however, wasn't a thought he wanted to dwell on.

The loud clanging of the huge doors closing behind him, sealing him in, was like someone had finally turned off the last of the weakened, struggling light of the sun, submerging him in blackness and trying to unravel his forced calm, but Obi-Wan clamped down hard on the terror winding in past his defenses, setting his jaw firmly and straightening his aching shoulders.

He did not have access to the Light, but he would not be ruled by Darkness.

Keep it together, Kenobi, he repeated to himself. Focus.

He hugged his horribly injured body a little tighter, gasping under his breath as tears sprang to his eyes. Dark shapes skittered along in the shadowy recesses of the corridor, whispers and snarls, filling Obi-Wan's ears with guttural and unfamiliar mutterings and hissing. It was a frightening place, rank and vile, and Obi-Wan was grateful that Anakin was not here in his place.

He realized as he trudged onward that he subconsciously expected it to be frigid, as cold in temperature as his joyless surroundings. Instead, the heat was stifling, and the Knight could feel beads of sweat rolling down his slick skin, dampening his clothes and stinging scrapes and cuts and gory tears in his flesh.

His footsteps were loud in his ears even though he trod on a runner stained deeply crimson. At first Obi-Wan's carefully distracted mind thought that the fabric had been purposely dyed, but as his eyes adjusted to the oddly emerald-tinted darkness and he nearly tripped on an outstretched hand still sluggishly shedding its lifeblood onto the carpet, he realized there were small spots of cream color visible here and there, and it dawned on him that at one point this runner must have been taupe.

Oh, Force. What kind of hell is this?

The doors before him were pulled open, and Obi-Wan soon learned the answer.

OoOoOoOoOo

Sitting quietly in the shadows, he watched from darkness as the Jedi was led in: watched, weighed, and measured. And although this Jedi was good … although he was strong …

His fist clenched, cracked and crumbling nails digging into his palm. He had been too weak to know for certain until the Jedi was right before him, but now he could clearly assess the man before him, and his withered heart tripped in his chest in despair:

He was the wrong one.

This one was a fighter. A negotiator. A man of many strengths, but not the Weakness he sought. The Weakness he knew was here, nearby, within his grasp: the One of the Prophesy. He had mistakenly assumed that either of the Light users would do, and now he bitterly saw his flawed miscalculation.

This Jedi could amuse him, yes - and he would - but it was the other he wanted, needed, to achieve his end. He cast out his senses, drawing on his network spread vast and wide, and was ruefully pleased to see that the other Jedi was already moving, isolated, determined and worried; he would be easily apprehended, and a swift mental message was immediately sent that the Jedi be collected and remanded to Nagashizzar.

He turned his attention to the Jedi standing quietly flanked by his guards, the man's face a delicious mask of taut pain and hastily buried acknowledgement of the horror and death all around him.

A smile twitched at his lips, his plans already mutating, changing, evolving into something far better than he had even originally planned.

And this Jedi was already infected.

Excellent.

OoOoOoOoOo

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