prompts:
- When you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives.
- Threshold
- The Monster You Created

What is the way of the Sith, after all?

(48 ABY; takes place in the same AU as "Break the Silence" from Lover, Hunter, Friend, and Enemy)

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Ruminations of an Alchemist

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"You wanted me, sir?"

You typically loathe interruptions. Your time is precious, a fact which no one here seems to understand or appreciate, and the nature of your work makes it even more vital that you be allowed to conduct your research in peace. Interruptions are the bane of your existence – but you are willing to make an exception for the boy.

It seems the years truly do pass in the blink of an eye. Somewhere along the way, he has grown into… well, if not quite a man, then certainly something more than the child you first met. He stands nearly head and shoulders above you now, and his broad frame fills much of the doorway as you look up from your work.

"Ah, good." You offer him a perfunctory nod and return to the specimen on the table. "Bring me another scalpel, would you? The blade on this one is quite dull."

He crosses the threshold without hesitation – Lord Malleus likes to complain that he is defiant, but all that is truly needed to curb those impulses is a deft hand and a keen understanding of the human psyche, a combination that few besides yourself possess – and retrieves a fresh scalpel for you. He doesn't flinch at the test subject's intermittent moans, which is another improvement you've grown so used to these last few years that you can hardly remember the pathetic child with his weak stomach and his tears and his incessant whimpering. You cannot express how grateful you are that he passed out of that stage as quickly as he did.

You extend a hand without looking up, and he places the scalpel in it. "Thank you," you remember to mutter, discarding the other instrument and lining up once again for the incision. He stands slightly behind you, silently observing your work. You have toyed with the idea of letting him assist you in a more official capacity – perhaps that would finally settle his lingering misgivings – but he is not yet ready. (What is more, you are quite certain he would botch his first several attempts at least, and while it is true that messes are unavoidable in your line of work, you would much rather deal with your own than someone else's; for all your strengths, you are not a very patient instructor.)

The blade meets little resistance as it slices through layers of tissue, and you note the eagerness in your would-be protégé's presence, like a tuk'ata pup with its first kill, anxiously awaiting its mother's approval. He tries not to let it show, but the boy has never been very difficult to decipher. He craves recognition. He craves affection, craves it so nakedly that you cannot fathom how the others have missed it for so long. But what he craves above all else is devotion, the sort that inspires unwavering and often unreasoning loyalty from those in its thrall, the sort that he himself gives without measure and sometimes without discernment. A devoted heart, you have learned, is capable of a great many things.

"Much better," you say, stopping your work long enough to glance over your shoulder and make eye contact. His are a remarkably piercing shade of blue, one of the few traits he shares with his absent brother. "What would I do without you, my boy?"

His face flushes despite his efforts to remain aloof, but even so, his gaze flits past yours to the subject on the table. Another misgiving. You may not have much patience as an instructor, but your patience for the experiment itself, for the processes that will ultimately cede the desired results, is nearly without limit. There was a time when you lamented the loss of the other – what a marvelous puzzle he was, opponent and student and specimen all intersecting in one deceptively ordinary package – but over time you have come to appreciate this boy's subtle complexity. Lord Malleus's prized brute may be the indisputable champion among his peers, but he is still hampered by the inconvenience of his conscience – the last and most stubborn holdover from his Jedi upbringing. Ridding him of it has proven more challenging than you anticipated… but you have always relished a challenge.

The boy clears his throat. "Is there anything else you need, Doctor?"

"No, no, that's all."

He nods and heads for the door, and you note with mild amusement that he has managed to slip the dull, discarded scalpel off the tray beside you and is attempting to smuggle it out in his closed fist. An adroit maneuver to be sure, but still predictable.

"If you are thinking of using that on yourself, you might as well leave it here."

You don't have to look up to know the way his fingers tighten around the blade. You don't need eyes to see the way his young muscles flex beneath his tunic, sinews traveling a path between the scars. After all, you know him more intimately than he knows himself.

He hesitates, searching for the words to refute you, no doubt. The impatient instructor wants to tell him to spit it out already, but the patient alchemist knows not to force these things.

At last, the boy shakes himself from his stupor. "It's not for me," he says in a defensive tone, fidgeting with the scalpel. You sense that it's only partly a lie. How interesting.

"Indeed," you reply, playing along. "And which of your peers has earned your ire this time?"

He doesn't answer right away. How far will he go to keep up the appearance of control, to pretend that all is well as he crumbles inside?

"I don't know," he admits with a sullen shrug. "Too many to count."

"Quite the conundrum. But I trust you will make the right choice." You glance up to see him watching you, puzzled. "Well, run along then. Come see me when it's done."

He doesn't meet your eyes, staring instead at the table. "Yes, sir."

The boy bends down slowly to slip the scalpel into his boot; then without another word, he turns his back to you and crosses the threshold, and the door closes behind him. You stand there for too long a moment, gazing absently at the space he occupied, only to be pulled back to the present by a faint moan. Your current test subject starts to convulse, and you reach out with your free hand to pry one of his eyelids open.

"A devoted heart," you mutter, leaning in close to observe the eye's erratic movements. "He won't want to leave me, you know. No matter how often he might consider doing so. And he won't want to disappoint me either."

Another moan. Though you know it is nothing more than an involuntary reflex at this point, for a brief second you allow yourself to imagine it a form of agreement, a confirmation that your analysis is sound. You release the subject's eyelid and continue with the procedure. "I do wish I could be there to see him choose. But I suppose I shall have to satisfy myself with the knowledge that I was right about him."

The others fail to understand. It is not enough to simply dominate or bribe or threaten or deceive or manipulate. Anyone can do those things, and indeed, your compatriots fancy themselves quite adept at all of them. But they only see in part. They still have so much to learn. The way of the Sith isn't treachery. The way of the Sith is dissection, and study, and reassembly, creating new entities from the old. The way of the Sith is transformation, and what could be more natural and more beautiful than to see a thing transformed?

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