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VI: The Force Shall Free Me
"Evil is a word used by the ignorant and the weak. The Dark Side is about survival. It's about unleashing your inner power. It glorifies the strength of the individual. Because who else do you have?"
– Darth Zannah
Myrtenaster didn't feel comforting. Streaks of almond light came through her small window, and their soft, faded reflections on the blade did their best to make it feel homely and nostalgic. It wasn't enough. The blade was cold to the touch as Weiss caressed it in her hand, and just as emotionally biting. This time, it didn't remind her of the good times at home. It didn't remind her of her achievements and successes. It reminded her of everything else.
Just a few sniffles, at first. Then the tears.
Myrtenaster couldn't save her from her thoughts, from reality. But it was always there for her regardless. She gripped the handle ever tighter.
No. I won't. I promised.
The procession went through her mind. The timeline of her life; the dreams and their undoings, the bursts of success and their closing failures, the attempts at confidence and their humiliations. The pain was quicksand, unescapable once sunk into.
Of all addictions, pain was the worst to have. To ruminate. To wallow. To contemplate how far she had fallen short, over and over. She could describe the feeling as suffering, but there was far more to the emotion than that. It wasn't that it felt good. Maybe it was cathartic – but not truthfully, for relief only came when she would just exhaust the feelings. Really it was a draw, a pull, a gravity that couldn't be escaped, couldn't be denied.
Because, after all, reality couldn't be denied.
Her eyes darted around her room. It felt neutral, and like a prison cell, and safe, and neutral, and just-is, and constricting, and unnecessarily large, and meaningless, all in quick succession.
But she was here. She wasn't on Remnant, being a huntress and doing...whatever she would have been doing had she become a full huntress. She was here because she failed, over and over.
And every time she had failed, she had gone back to the planning table. She schemed and planned and thought over every obstacle, created contingencies as quickly as things went wrong, re-oriented when opportunities came up; anything to keep the plans on track, the timelines reasonable, the life milestones on schedule. But the harder she fought to keep her plans on track, the more disastrous and wasteful the ultimate failures were.
There was the dissonance. The question. She was smarter than those around her. She planned more carefully, thought further ahead. She was capable in school and combat. She was usually ahead of peers. She did everything right. She should have succeeded. She should have won. That was how the system was supposed to work. Why didn't it?
It was a confusion as much as a sadness, the discomfort of feeling one's brain try to wrestle with something that cannot be comprehended, not even enough parametrize and classify it. It was something that was just there, in her brain; a brick wall in the middle of her head for her mind to bash into without getting anywhere at all.
It could mean life, the system, didn't work as she understood it. But that couldn't be. The rules of reality would have to be fundamentally different from all she had ever seen, which made no sense. But then, again, she did everything right, and couldn't win. So maybe it meant that she had done something wrong, but then, she knew she had made the most optimal decisions, so that would mean the system didn't work as she thought it did, because she did everything right and it didn't work.
Confusion. Why couldn't she ever succeed?
But then, reality. She couldn't. Nothing she did could succeed. No matter what. It didn't matter if it was because life just didn't work or because she was a failure. It didn't matter if it was because the system couldn't be understood or because she wasn't good enough to understand it. The result was the same.
The reality was that she was here. She was just as powerless as ever, just as alone as ever, with fewer prospects than ever, with no plans for the first time in ever.
On time, her ambition flared. The problem-solving part of her roused, turned her mind to how to optimize her situation, to how effort and creativity would make everything work.
She put her arm on her leg, and turned her palm up. The emotional play always went the same way.
Weiss Schnee was a singer. But she had a violin.
She raised Myrtenaster over her arm, resting its long thin blade over her wrist.
She stared at her forearm. Violently glared at her skin. The system worked. Maybe if she had been better, she would have had what she wanted. She wanted to punish herself, for not being ambitious enough, for not being aggressive enough, for not thinking ahead enough, for not being quick-thinking in social situations enough...for not being enough.
For not being perfect.
She deserved it. She deserved to be perfect. She deserved to bleed for falling short. She deserved the anguish she went through. She deserved to suffer.
She squeezed the sword's grip. The blade was sharp. Her skin was thin. It just took a slight movement to play the violin.
She didn't move.
Through watery eyes, she watched the strands of light around her slowly change color. Yellow, then orange, then grey, as the vibrant colors of Kar'yith's sun finally surrendered to twilight.
She was frozen. She didn't know for how long. She didn't know why.
In her indecisiveness, emotions came back. Debates raged.
She felt so powerless. She had no ability to control her life, her trajectory. No agency.
Frustration came. Then, anger. Anger was quick, quippy. Then it slowed, like lava after an eruption.
When anger slowed, it seethed. In the transition stage, it boiled. Foamed. But then it matured. Built up into something deeper, quieter, longer. More subdued. Yet even hotter. Heat beyond boiling and churning. Energy beyond sparks and light and noise. Rage.
But this time, her rage wasn't impotent.
The Force crashed into her, erupted through her. It flowed through her, cooking her body in the heat of her emotions. She felt her eyes glow, yet they did not burn.
She lowered Myrtenaster by her side. Her previous debates and concerns and worries disappeared. They didn't matter. They weren't meaningful. How could they be? Look what was inside her.
In was that moment, that she knew.
The Force was meant to be used.
She didn't know how long she sat there.
As night fully enveloped, she pulled herself together.
She stood up and composed herself with a few deep breaths, then moved to the room's entrance. She compressed a button in a panel, and the small, bulkhead styled door slid open. She moved down the hallway purposefully, pointedly.
The door was open. She stepped partially in and knocked as courtesy.
Darth Phage looked up. The green holograms that had been his previous focus disappeared from his desk with a subtle wave of his hand.
"Mmm? It's rather late-"
"I really need to talk to you."
After a pause, he nodded. She stepped through the doorway, shaking her head when he motioned towards one of the simple chairs on the other side of his desk.
Uncomfortable silence. "I...don't really know where to begin." She didn't glance up. "I guess..." She sighed. There was no procrastinating, no escaping. She knew what she needed to say.
So she told him. She told him what she often told him, but with all of the details, all the things she left out because they were too emotional. She told him about her childhood. About her family. About how she felt growing up, about her ambitions and dreams and how each one was slowly crushed. She told him about Beacon, about her team, about her classmates, about her hopes, her plans, her feelings. About the day it all disappeared. About how she ran away, how she had to go back.
She told him how she used to cry, and hope no one would hear. How sometimes she cried and hoped someone would.
She told him because he was a stranger. She told him because he had never been on Remnant, because he had never met anyone she spoke of and, conceivably, never would. But mainly she told him because she needed to tell him; because she needed to tell, and because he needed to know. She didn't know if he cared. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that was better. But he listened. Stoically, motionlessly, unemotionally. He listened.
"…and that was what Jacques Schnee did to me," she finished. She took a deep breath, placating herself.
He leaned forward, scratching his chin.
"And your sister was gone by that time?"
Weiss wiped her eyes.
"Yeah. She was almost through Atlas Academy. Everything got worse when she left. Mother started drinking more, became even more distant. I didn't see her much at all. Winter…Winter broke free. He thought he could control her at Atlas but he couldn't. She wanted nothing to do with him…so he turned on me. He wanted to make sure I wouldn't get away like she did. The pressure increased. Every time I messed up he was there to lecture me. Sometimes even when I didn't. He just wanted me to know how much of a disgrace I was. The physical abuse got worse. It was awful. I had to get out."
"Were these beatings severe?"
"They weren't really beatings, he would just hit me a few times." She sniffled and wiped her nose. "It wasn't about hurting me. It was about power and control. It was about making sure I was under his heel; making sure I felt like I could never be anything without him.
I wasn't allowed to have anything to of my own, without his interference. Not life goals or dreams, not hobbies or things I enjoyed. Not even my personal privacy."
He raised an eyebrow. "Did he violate you?"
Weiss leaned against the wall, crossing her arms.
"No, I didn't mean it that way," she said, gently shaking her head. "You don't understand. I was worthless. I always felt like nothing. I wasn't even good enough to be molested."
She tried to smile, to turn it into a morbid joke, but her face's attempt was pained. It didn't hide how much it hurt.
Nothing could.
She noticed his gaze - always hard, but not really harsh - on her, his eyes piercing directly into hers, studying, searching for something, but she didn't care. She just looked away.
"...and what does all this mean to me?"
She glared at him. They both knew what it meant. But she knew she had to say it.
"I want power."
He raised his brow.
"Do you know what that means?"
No games. "I want power," she repeated. Steady, firm.
A pause. Once again, he studied her. His eyes were heavy, calculating.
"Very well."
They left his quarters and went to the training arena, stopping just inside. With a faint wave, Phage activated the lights inside – though at their dimmest setting. Pale, languid beams fell from the six equidistant light strips that surrounded the ceiling's center dome. The arena filled with the ambient moonlight.
They stood together, watching the pallid glow of the room in front of them.
He crossed his arms, straightening his posture.
"When I found you and brought you here, you had no other options. But liberation, autonomy, empowerment…they are an individual's choices alone. They cannot be made for you. The time has come for you to choose."
"Haven't I already chosen?"
"You have to understand everything you're getting into. I can give you a fair amount of credits – enough to purchase a good starship. You're intelligent. I'm sure you'll be able to find your way back to your home planet, or do whatever else you'd like to endeavor.
"But you've already started training me."
He motioned dismissively. "I have not begun to train you. I merely provided you with the knowledge and perspective necessary to make an informed decision."
"You showed me Sith secrets."
"Secrets? What Sith secrets? History lessons? Philosophy that most would consider the ramblings of a mad man?"
Weiss said nothing.
"If you choose the Sith, know that your choice is final. The power of the Sith is too great, too important, to be played with. This has been a vacation for you so far. A leisurely little tour. If you choose power, I will be your Master. You will do as I say. I will test and push you. If you fail or disobey me, I will punish you however I see fit. If you try to abandon the arrangement, I will kill you."
Weiss was silent. She imagined herself leaving, flying off who knows where, having to start over, optimize all over, play the game all over, risk everything all over. She was tired of others dictating her life, that was true. But the Dark Side was real. The power she felt coursing through her, the sheer potential. She would do anything for it.
He continued. "I offer you power. I offer you freedom. Power over yourself first, and power over the Force through it. That will translate into power over those around you, and, ultimately, over everything. But it will not be easy. I will not cushion or coddle you; I will throw you upon tests and challenges that will push you to your limits and beyond. Nor will I rush to save you if you fail. There is a distinct possibility that you will die, and if you do, it will be solely the fault of your own weakness. If you succeed, however, you..." He paused for effect. "You will be free."
Weiss looked down, her body still softly shaking from her emotions. She was tired of being helpless and impotent. She was tired of being afraid. She was tired of starting over. She was tired of running away.
She was tired of crying.
"I want power."
He gently nodded. "Go to the center of the room."
She walked to the center of the room and swiveled to face him.
They looked at each other for several seconds.
He cocked his head towards her. "Are you sure?" One final chance.
Weiss nodded. "Power."
"Then kneel, and swear yourself to the Order of the Sith Lords."
She lowered herself to one knee, folding her hands deferentially over the other.
After a pause of staring off into space, she bowed her head.
"I swear myself to the Order of the Sith Lords."
He didn't say anything. The room was still and quiet.
She waited.
Then a chill came over her arms, and another flushed over her bent legs shortly after. They were like gusts of muted breeze on the top of a mountain, freezing zephyrs gently stealing her body's warmth.
She raised her head to look up. Darth Phage was staring at her with such intensity she felt his glower would simply pass through her, yet his face was totally void.
The silent, gelid winds came again, and in greater intensity; etheric tides that chilled the entire chamber but left no other trace of their source or existence. They carried with them malice and foreboding, a frisson imparted directly into her mind as they washed over her body.
Fear sparked in her eyes, then rippled out over her face, muscles contouring and cheeks losing color. Cautiously, deliberately, she rose to her feet.
Darth Phage's passionless glare followed her up, and she caught a faint glister in his eyes. It was cobalt blue, something fixed in place yet lambent and flickering like a flame. It was something…
She recognized it.
She felt it…the Dark Side…it was here!
She heard sheer power crash upon the walls behind like waves hurled against a coastal cliff, their cacophony inspiring terror as it smashed its way closer to her along each side.
From the corner of her vision she saw them: spectral currents and tempests flowing along the room's confines. Dark blue eddies competed with azure streaks of energy riding over them; they appeared as living, fish-like veins of fluid jostling one another in haste and fury.
The two deluges rushed past her, racing along the walls until they clashed behind Darth Phage, at the point antipodal to where they both originated. Roaring noise filled the space; a shattering thunderclap reverberated from the arched ceiling to surround Weiss in echoing gunshots. As quickly as they collided, one flood overcame the other in the titanic conflict, rushing over and consuming the wall the defeated tide had come from.
The now unified surge circled around her; the room became the eye of an ethereal hurricane. She swung her head, but there was nothing immediately where she looked, though all around she saw the tidal chaos. She pivoted her body to face the opposite side of the room and witnessed the same result. Wherever she looked directly, there was only empty space and the blank face of the wall behind it, yet in her peripheral vision she saw the raging cascade whipping over everything.
Tumultuous clamors assaulted her ears, vying from all sides to knock her off balance with their arrant force. As the incorporeal typhoon reeled and whirled around the room, new sounds joined the oceanic uproar. Remorseful, doomed shrieks and wails emerged from the refrain, some of them shrill like banshee screams and others repentant, flagellating howls. Still other voices rung out over the abyssal bass: stentorian bellows of triumphant conquerors and contented, domestic songs and hymns from feminine ensembles. The noises were turbulent and disordered, colliding and interfering with one another.
From above, choral music from a final cast descended; orchestras declared their presence with divine symphonies. Pelagic choirs ordered and harmonized the noise they mingled with; their angelic notes merged and integrated flawlessly into the discord. Chaotic no longer, the entire uproar coalesced into a breathtaking opera. Earthshaking sounds of natural, primordial might gave backdrop to perfervid librettos for every facet of sentient experience; every possible course and outcome of life was professed and glorified. All of it existed as a narrative melody, an empyrean consonance of all reality to embody and express a single concept: power.
In the center of it all, Weiss shook and shuddered, overwhelmed by the onslaught on her senses and the forced enlightenment it couriered.
And then, suddenly, there was nothing.
The room was silent and empty, save for the two beings there originally. The sparkle in Darth Phage's eyes was gone.
Eventually, he spoke.
"So be it." His voice was deep, ancient, final.
Terror was already molded onto her face, but it became a little more intense.
He raised his arms and aimed his hands at her.
She took a step back.
Then lightning erupted out of his fingers.
Instinctively, she raised her meager aura, but it was overwhelmed in an instant. The burst knocked her off her feet, throwing her a meter back onto the floor. She rolled and pitched, helplessly writhing in torment. Her skin charred and burned as the energetic blue threads passed over it; her bones painfully tingled as it wrapped around them. Every nerve in her body was electrified, screaming at her in ultimate agony.
Her muscles convulsed uncontrollably, splitting bones and causing her body to thrash around on the ground. Blood boiled where the streaks of lightning passed near it, bursting veins and arteries and occasionally exploding out of her skin. Red, watery fluid dripped out from under her fingernails, and filled her mouth and nostrils with the unmistakable flavor of salt and iron. She screamed and screamed, but he didn't stop.
Yet even through her hellish suffering, she perceived and admired the sheer power that coursed through her being; it was on a higher plane of potency than anything she had ever imagined. She felt her connection to the Force rend and sever; her consciousness was being cut off from life itself. Her very soul was being ripped apart, each transcendental shard broken off and extinguished by the lightning.
Then he stopped.
Just a couple more seconds, and she would have died.
In the corner of her blood-fogged eyes, she saw his uniform boots walking away. Delirious, she heard the footsteps as if they were refracted and projected through a thick haze.
She didn't try to move. In another scenario, she would still be shaking from the savagery of the violence, but her broken body was too exhausted for such reflexes.
With great, agonizing effort, she craned her neck to examine herself. Her vantage point was too acute for any real assessment, but she could see enough. Her clothes were ruined by numerous red stains slowly soaking through. Her visible skin was either bloody or bruised and discolored. She tilted her head to look at something she vaguely noticed on her arm; a jagged bone jutted out, having been snapped and forced up through her skin by her frenzied muscles. She let her head fall back to the floor.
She relaxed. Pale rays from the ceiling bathed her in dim, peaceful light; the room was completely quiet and untroubled. The thick, viscous blood that clogged her throat was choking her, but she wasn't bothered.
She stopped feeling any pain. She didn't feel agony or panic, she didn't notice her heart's struggling beats. She didn't taste or smell the liquids in her mouth and nose, though she could feel them there: phantom lumps, blobs of mass undefined by any flavor or context. The rest of her body registered the same way; she knew it was there but was otherwise unconnected to it. She was calm. The atmosphere was restful and soothing, but her composure came from within - an inner serenity, private and content. There was no stress. There were no goals to achieve and no obligations to satisfy. No concerns and no worries. There was just drowsy emptiness.
Then her mind pulled inward, her consciousness retreating into her skull. It felt like her entire physical body was just her head, a living snapshot of the never remembered yet somehow recognizable moment one falls into sleep. Her psyche went deeper into the dreamy world, an eternal void of endless light grey mist illuminated by gentle white ambience. Her heavy eyelids started to close. The mist was irresistibly lulling, inviting her to embrace a tranquil existence of nothing. To rest. To fall asleep. After a lifetime of unrelenting, perfervid turmoil, it offered something that was so…poignantly…still.
She could end it all, right here.
Her pain. Her suffering. Her fear. Her sadness. Her loneliness. Her ambitions. Her hopes. Her dreams.
All she had to do was close her eyes, and let herself painlessly suffocate.
But Weiss Schnee couldn't do it. If she wanted to give up – if she even could – she would have done so long ago. She would have made the sane, rational decision, and accepted the comfortable life of a wealthy heiress in exchange for the relatively minor compromise of surrendering to her father. She would have abandoned her childish, quixotic fantasies about leading her own life and leaving her own legacy.
And once she gave up and capitulated to Jacques, she would end up submitting to everything else. She would become timid and subservient, afraid to step out of line. She would become a perpetual victim of circumstance, a helpless princess with no recourse but to hope a gallant hero saved her before the villain arrived. She would forever be a sheltered, coddled little girl who couldn't take care of herself, who would always have to wait for guidance and permission from those who knew what was best for her.
Just like her father wanted.
Never.
She forced herself to roll off of her back and onto her side. Her entire body protested; every joint, ligament, and organ made its misery distinctly known. Many of her muscles didn't flex or respond at all, simply ignoring her brain's commands. The motion was accomplished more by her dogged will than her body's ability to carry it out. At the apex of the movement, she allowed herself to fall over onto her chest, carefully resting her head so that the blood could drain out of her mouth.
Tonight, she was alone.
She might always be alone.
But she would never be helpless again.