Post by Darth Kairos on Jun 28, 2015 12:23:00 GMT
The diary of Lady Vidia was originally recovered by Darth Rayden when Union forces retook the Maw Installation from the remnants of Lady Vidia's Wachetroopers. It is being reposted here as it provides important insight into Vidia's motivations in killing Xaos and attempting to seize power.
Inside the safe were a number of personal items – some personal holograms, jewelry, a bracelet, a few Lightsaber crystals, a long, thin cylinder that tapered to a point from which a small, needle-like extension extruded, and, underneath a white glove with a blue-black stain on one side, a small brown rectangular object. The object caught Rayden’s attention; reaching in and pulling it out, he realized the surface was tough leather – and then, as he turned it on its side, he realized he was holding a book. Flipping it around in his hands, he spied the words "Journal – Coruscant Publishing House Ltd" along one edge and determined that was the front. Gingerly checking the sides for any possible traps, he eased it open and flipped through a number of blank pages until reaching the first entry, beautifully inked in flowing blue handwriting. Scanning the date at the top, a quick bit of mental arithmetic placed it as having been written about four months before the Second Union Civil War. First puzzling out individual letters, then words, then sentences, he adapted to the unfamiliar style of lettering and read.
How many others can write? Xaos is the only other one I know of. In a galaxy of quadrillions, a scant few billions have the skill to put pen to paper. It is a long-dying art, reserved only for the educated, capable of training their hands to precise, delicate movement instead of simply striking keys. My data discs are stored safe. I will write here from now on. What I ponder oft borders on treason – I cannot risk the information being sliced, or intercepted. My safe is the most secure storage I have, in the most secure location I have. They will not find it there. I may write in peace.
The next entry, dated a few days later, read:
I spoke with Xaos today. His work keeps him busy, often late into the night. We lie with each other little. But it is perhaps fortunate – I have my own tasks to occupy my attention. This installation is operating at full capacity, and its produce will be needed when we march on the Alliance again. I have kept it secret from even Xaos, so that we may have a safe haven should the worst come to pass – and in the meantime, its production lines complement my forces. The Wachetroopers can already match an army thrice their size – I intend to have them be the vanguards of our next offensive. It cannot be long now – Teth and Yaxon taught the Alliance to fear us, but the longer we sit and wait, the more likely the chance that they will marshal their full might and crush us. We cannot stand against such an attack, not yet. We must strike, and soon. We must remind them to fear the Union, show them that we can and will be everywhere they are not, slice away the limbs of the Alliance one by one until the head and heart are undefended. The initiative is ours – but it will not be forever. We must strike soon.
The next set of entries were either blank, or contained more of the same – mentions of Xaos’ actions and her brief interactions with him, ideas for Alliance targets, developmental plans for the Wachetroopers, notes on the Maw Installation’s capabilities. Finally, a rough month after the first entry, Rayden found another one of particular note:
Xaos grows more and more distant. We have not spoken in almost a week. When we do speak, it is always official business. There is always a reason, of course – an immortal man has many plans to keep check of, many apprentices to train, and a Union to govern – and his body needs what rest it can take, even if his spirit does not. I realized today that he was planning something. Either it is not military, he intends to take personal charge of strategizing, or he is still conceptualizing – else he would have told me. I am his Executor. I equal, perhaps even surpass him, in the field of military strategy and tactics. That is what I have trained for. He must not yet have determined the full breadth of his own plans – but their scope must be enormous, for him to have taken such time.
A week of empty pages followed, and then another entry:
Does he not trust me? He knows of my skills. He knows I know more of him than any other. I walked into Chaos for him. I grappled with his own desire for mortality given form. I know of, even if I do not know, his desires, his thoughts, what he knows of his past. Have I not earned his trust with my service? Is my love not proof enough of my loyalty?
Two more days, then:
I will not believe it. My agents lie. I train apprentices for him. I lead armies for him. I stand in for him to listen to the shouts of politicians. I have slain Jedi for him, and all manner of enemies. He would not cast me aside for some shapeshifting little schutta.
The next entry came four days afterwards:
What could he need her for? Does she have something he requires? But what does she have? A worthless backwater, full of the same mindless beasts found everywhere in the galaxy? A primitive tribe of shapeshifting zealots? True, Shi’ido shapeshifters would be indispensible as assassins and spies – but how indispensible?
Turning over the page, Rayden found that the entire next half month of entries had been replaced with a cross over each page. The entries finally resumed two months before the Second Union Civil War.
How does a Queen become a player? It doesn’t. It never can. No matter what its power, it is still a piece on the board, to be moved at the player’s whim. Powerful, yes. Indispensable, yes. But the player can always start another match if he loses his Queen.
Half a week later, the next entry simply read as follows:
He wants to die. He always has. Does he intend for me to kill him?
And another entry, the very next day:
We still sit on our hands. We could attack at any time. Our power is as solidified as we can make it. The longer we wait to build up the fleet, the larger the Alliance fleet grows in turn. We need action, before we lose what little momentum remains to us and the Union begins to stagnate. What is he waiting for?
A week and a few days of blank pages, and then:
He does not plan. Is this all he wants? To cavort with that braying Dubesor? To wipe away those fat crocodile tears of hers as she recites, endlessly and mercilessly, about how powerful her goddess is? How pristine her planet, how harmonious her people, how horrific her past tragedies? I take solace in the fact he likely cares nothing for it – even if he truly cares for her, how many times must he have heard the same story in his life? An uneducated, self-obsessed schutta – if that is his choice, I will make him live with it. But he has chosen her over the Union. We built it through fire and blood. We took what is ours from the fools that oppose us through force, through intellect, through cunning. He may choose to discard it, but I will not let it crumble in his absence.
The next entry was penned two days afterwards:
Is my duty to rise up and take his power for myself? Certainly, it has been tradition for a thousand years under the Rule of Two; and before that, it was standard for the stronger Sith to rise in ranks by slaying their superiors when they were no longer strong enough to suppress them. Xaos himself seized power from Groznii and killed him in the first Schism. Sith history is one of blood and betrayal. Am I to be the next in that line?
Still he does nothing. Still he is content to sit and entertain her while the Union falters. I could provide the action we need – but does he expect that? Is that why he has turned away from me? Is he trying to spur my hand? But this Union was built on the unity of its Brotherhood, and were we to turn against each other the Alliance would swiftly exploit and destroy us.
And yet, were to stay as we are, they shall simply siege us as they normally would.
The next entry, five days later, gave Rayden an oddly chilling sense of finality as he read it, and recognized it to be the turning point in the dead Sith Lady’s thoughts:
He has sent her away, to cower in her backwater. He has not come to me. He has the time, but he does not. I do not know what it is that he does. If he makes plans, he does not share them. He trains little. The momentum of the Union is all but finished. He has made his choice. He has chosen her over the Union. He has chosen to seclude himself rather than continue to build. Perhaps he has decided he is tired of this latest distraction from his own mortality; perhaps he intends to lull the Alliance into a false sense of superiority. But if that is the case, he has told no others; not his brutish ‘old friend’, not his protégé farmboy, not his pet Admiral. We sit and wait under the guise of consolidating borders, negotiating alliances, or building resources.
The Union is stagnating. Does he mean to force my hand? I do not know. Perhaps I never shall. It is no longer relevant. If he means for me to force his next death, then I shall do so. He would cast me aside. He would cast aside the Union. I will not let that happen. The Union must prevail – and I know now that it can no longer under him. He has built something mighty, but the blacksmith does not wield the blade he has forged. I will do what I must.
Rayden flipped to the following entry a week after, a month before the Civil War – then flipped past it, noting that the handwriting became even more exquisite the closer to the war they got, and the entries slowly came faster and closer together. Returning to the entry, he continued reading:
Xaos must die a true death. He remains the same man, regardless of his body. Were I to kill him, he would simply return, strike me down, and resume control of the Union. I could never hope to match him directly – I can match the strongest Jedi Master, but none save Skywalker could ever equal Xaos. He commands the love of the Union, he commands all of its people, its soldiers, its machines. But therein lies his weakness – he commands everything. Remove him from command, and it will leave a void behind. But how do you kill a man who cannot die?
In Chaos, I confronted his shade: the manifestation of his desire to die. Before I struck it down, it spoke to me. Among other laments and pleas, it mentioned Ziost. It never said the significance – but surely there must be some. Does his mortality lie locked beneath its frozen wastes? Why else would the shade have spoken of it? Perhaps I will not find the key there, but surely there must be some form of clue. The Dark Side did this to him – even on a dark, ancient planet such as Ziost, I am powerful enough to locate anything that there is to find. I leave in the morning.
On the fourth day after that entry, Rayden found the next one:
I have it. On a moon, hidden in a cave, among the bones of a Noghri tribe – the remains of a Sith device. I do not know the secret of its workings yet, but I shall soon. The device seemed to hold some religious significance for the tribe – their bones still guarded it, risen by their spirits. I lost several men before I ended them personally.
Flipping the page over, Rayden found the next entry had been written the following day:
I have it. I have Xaos’ death. I found it quickly; a lesser person would call it chance, but I knew what I was searching for. A ritual, the undoing of both a Dark Lord and Jedi Master – such a thing has happened once before. What I must do now is determine how to end him. His death will not come swiftly – in the time it would take for his soul to finally unravel, he could more than strike me down. He must be fought – perhaps even to another death. I cannot say for certain if he will waste, or if he will simply become as a true mortal. Whatever the truth, I have only one course open to me. I could, perhaps, hold him for a time, but I could never kill him outright, and I cannot even say if I could hold him long enough for him to waste. I cannot risk it. There is only one person who can match Xaos. Perhaps the Force will smile on me, and both will die at each other’s hands.
Two days later came the next entry:
But what to do after his death? The military will follow their Executor, yes. And if that Executor is the Consul, they will have no choice. The politicians will protest, but they will fall into line if the Chair orders it, and the military demands it. The people may resist – but in new hands, Xaos’ own propaganda machine will tell them what they wish to hear. He will die a hero to them, fighting heroically against an oppressor. The true obstacle is the Brotherhood. They must not fracture, or else the Alliance will split us. As the Brotherhood is the heart of the Union, so is the Dark Lord the heart of the Brotherhood. Were I to simply have Xaos killed and take his position, they would attempt to strike me down in turn and brand me a traitor. I must have them support me. This above all else is crucial.
The next day, the next:
If Xaos were to die now, the Union would be his legacy. It would be foolish to assume he does not know this. Even for an immortal man who does not concern himself with his own end, for a mind such as his he cannot help but wonder what would happen if he were to die now. I wonder: would he so long for death if I were to take away his legacy when he dies?
And after the next day, the next:
I have speculated since my last entry. Many ways are closed. Were I to claim rights to the throne, the other members of the Council would oppose me. Military might alone could not crush the Brotherhood, they would simply hide – and even if I succeeded, I would only break the Union in so doing. Were I to claim the throne under the principles of the Rule of Two, or cite any amount of Sith history, they would cry havoc; they believe that because we are a new Brotherhood that the old ways are no longer valid.
Fools. Who are they, who shun their own history?
Two days, then:
The key is Lucifer. The apprentices, were the Council to be removed, would fall into line. The Knights in turn would follow. But, as it stands, the Masters will always oppose me, no matter my course. And all the Masters would stand behind Lucifer.
I cannot help but laugh at the thought of the brute ruling. His hubris blinds him – he thinks that because he can kill a man, he can kill a government, and kill the concept behind that government. He thinks that because he can scare an enemy, he can win their hearts, their minds. He thinks that because he can win a battle, he can win a war. He is a cruel jape beset upon this galaxy. Were he to assume power, his reign would be marked by power struggles; he lacks Xaos’ charisma, the strength of will to keep them all in line, and to command their respect, their fear, their admiration, and their dedication. But the Council would flock behind him. The Witch would never support me; such is her way. And I would sooner see her dead than retain her position as Overseer, to squander Union resources on her pathetic veneer of civilization. The farmboy would always stand behind Lucifer. He can command, but he will never lead. He lacks the will, and the drive. The Tusken does not care who the Council supports, only that they support them. And even if the Pureblood were to drag his focus away from his planet and to the galaxy beyond his pitiful ‘empire’, he holds no power with which to sway change either way. Lucifer must be removed. Exile would never work – he would simply launch his own self-righteous crusade, and the Council would seek him out and march behind him. He must die. How?
The contempt seemed to drip out of the page like a viscous liquid. Two more days passed, and on the third:
Lucifer must die at my hand. It is the only way. I can secure military command, political command, and propaganda command; all that remains is command of the Brotherhood. Skywalker could match Lucifer – but even with his desire for revenge, the brute would not seek to hunt Skywalker until his own power was consolidated, and he would not leave the Union unheaded for long to seek him. I must kill him myself. Even despite our desire to be a new Brotherhood, the old adage is still true for us – the strongest rule. If I show I am stronger than Lucifer, I will show myself stronger than all who might challenge me, and show that I have the strength, the drive, the power needed to rule. What members of the Brotherhood do not bend, I will break in turn.
He would seek me out across any battlefield, so I must prepare to face him as such. There is only one way I could match him. Twenty years ago, the Disciples of Ragnos discovered the Scepter of Marka Ragnos. With it, they could siphon the Force from strong concentrations and imbue it into single beings. The Scepter has been lost – where it is, even the Jedi do not know. It slipped from their hands when they fled in terror from the Yuuzhan Vong advance. I do not know where it might be, but I must find it. With its power, with the Force concentrated in me, I could swat the brute as I might a fly. There will even be a ready-made source of power for me to draw on. I must begin to prepare. Xaos’ pet admiral has already been sent away to guard a dead rock; in his absence, I can move freely and gather the support of the military. Everything must be in place before Xaos dies. I do not know when, but I must be ready. I cannot afford to risk my hand being forced prematurely. We will find the Scepter, and as we do so, we will prepare.
The next week-and-two-days of pages were blank. When he finally found the next entry, Rayden could almost feel the triumph radiating out of the page.
This is my destiny. It must be. The galaxy repeats in cycles. The Jedi rise. In turn, the Sith rise. They clash. The Jedi fall, and the Sith rise higher – and, at the apex of their glory, they are extinguished, allowing the Jedi to rise once more, as the Sith recover in the shadows. So it has been for five thousand years. So it has been for the empires of history. The galaxy is cyclical.
I have found the Scepter. The same place where the Disciples found it – Commenor. What more proof does one need? Millions of worlds, and it is found there; I was meant to have it. The galaxy cycles, and I am meant to cast down Xaos and take his position. Will I be cast down in turn? Perhaps – but only if I do not break the cycle. The Union, the Brotherhood, already we fight to cast of the chains of history and remake ourselves anew. Were I to cast down Xaos, were I to take his place – at the head of the Union, at the head of the New Sith Brotherhood, I would be a Dark Lord unlike any other before me. If that alone does not end the pattern, I will find some other way to shatter it. I will not be cast down. I cannot. The Union has been forged, and now it needs its wielder. There is none better than I. When I grip the handle, I will grind a new edge – and those who protest, I will hone back into line. Perhaps I shall have to sharpen a new point – some changes may need to be made, even if they are reversed later. The Hutts would support me were I to quietly give them a new source of slaves and turn a blind eye. I wonder: how much would the versatility of a shapeshifting slave be worth?
Another day passed, and then, on the second:
I am ready. Within the week, Xaos dies.
How long is his life, I wonder? How long has he longed for the freedom of mortality, for the taste of death? He does not understand. How can an immortal man understand what it is to die? He wishes for the taste of true freedom. I shall show him its bite. I can do nothing now but wait, and let Skywalker do as he will.
The next sets of pages were blank. Flipping through them, Rayden found the next entry – a week and a day before the Civil War began. It read simply:
It is done. My only regret is that I could not choke the life out of his latest Queen before he died.
The next day’s entry was more descriptive:
They have his body. I estimate a week. They will entomb him on New Bethrezen, and then they will deliberate. They will debate, they will talk, they will determine new positions, and they will decide how to approach the rest of the Union with their choices. In the end, they will elect Lucifer. Reaver would suit the throne more. No – Marda would. Perhaps, were Marda here, this would be different. But even I do not know where he treads now. Reaver will decline the throne, and Lucifer will seat himself upon it, declaring himself worthy.
Pitiful fool.
At the end of this week, I move. I will recover Xaos’ body – I know the secrets of the catacombs. I had a passage constructed myself, unknown to even him. The Scepter is damaged, but repaired enough to function correctly. All that remains is the battlefield for this coming war.
Three days between that and the next.
Korriban. It will be the key. With his people dead and his planet scorched, Lucifer’s rage will draw him straight to me. I will bring the Brotherhood there – but I will be merciful. There is no need to cross blades when words will suffice. All of them will be given the same offer: prove their loyalty, and bow to me. If they do, they shall come to no harm. If they do not, they will bend when I break their Lord. And if they do not, I will break them in turn. They will come to Korriban, so arrogant in assuming they know my intent, my plan. My best men will keep the Scepter safe, and warn me if it is in danger. So it will be with Xaos’ body. They will come to Korriban, and then flee when they realize they stand on the field of my choosing. When they learn the fleet is mine, they will flee to New Bethrezen, and attempt to hold and kill me.
And when they do, they will realize how much stronger I have grown since they fled from me. And in the sight of all the Union, I will rip out the Brotherhood’s chosen heart, crush it, and show them the true power of the Dark Side.
The final entry came the day before the Civil War began. It read as follows:
It is time.
Inside the safe were a number of personal items – some personal holograms, jewelry, a bracelet, a few Lightsaber crystals, a long, thin cylinder that tapered to a point from which a small, needle-like extension extruded, and, underneath a white glove with a blue-black stain on one side, a small brown rectangular object. The object caught Rayden’s attention; reaching in and pulling it out, he realized the surface was tough leather – and then, as he turned it on its side, he realized he was holding a book. Flipping it around in his hands, he spied the words "Journal – Coruscant Publishing House Ltd" along one edge and determined that was the front. Gingerly checking the sides for any possible traps, he eased it open and flipped through a number of blank pages until reaching the first entry, beautifully inked in flowing blue handwriting. Scanning the date at the top, a quick bit of mental arithmetic placed it as having been written about four months before the Second Union Civil War. First puzzling out individual letters, then words, then sentences, he adapted to the unfamiliar style of lettering and read.
How many others can write? Xaos is the only other one I know of. In a galaxy of quadrillions, a scant few billions have the skill to put pen to paper. It is a long-dying art, reserved only for the educated, capable of training their hands to precise, delicate movement instead of simply striking keys. My data discs are stored safe. I will write here from now on. What I ponder oft borders on treason – I cannot risk the information being sliced, or intercepted. My safe is the most secure storage I have, in the most secure location I have. They will not find it there. I may write in peace.
The next entry, dated a few days later, read:
I spoke with Xaos today. His work keeps him busy, often late into the night. We lie with each other little. But it is perhaps fortunate – I have my own tasks to occupy my attention. This installation is operating at full capacity, and its produce will be needed when we march on the Alliance again. I have kept it secret from even Xaos, so that we may have a safe haven should the worst come to pass – and in the meantime, its production lines complement my forces. The Wachetroopers can already match an army thrice their size – I intend to have them be the vanguards of our next offensive. It cannot be long now – Teth and Yaxon taught the Alliance to fear us, but the longer we sit and wait, the more likely the chance that they will marshal their full might and crush us. We cannot stand against such an attack, not yet. We must strike, and soon. We must remind them to fear the Union, show them that we can and will be everywhere they are not, slice away the limbs of the Alliance one by one until the head and heart are undefended. The initiative is ours – but it will not be forever. We must strike soon.
The next set of entries were either blank, or contained more of the same – mentions of Xaos’ actions and her brief interactions with him, ideas for Alliance targets, developmental plans for the Wachetroopers, notes on the Maw Installation’s capabilities. Finally, a rough month after the first entry, Rayden found another one of particular note:
Xaos grows more and more distant. We have not spoken in almost a week. When we do speak, it is always official business. There is always a reason, of course – an immortal man has many plans to keep check of, many apprentices to train, and a Union to govern – and his body needs what rest it can take, even if his spirit does not. I realized today that he was planning something. Either it is not military, he intends to take personal charge of strategizing, or he is still conceptualizing – else he would have told me. I am his Executor. I equal, perhaps even surpass him, in the field of military strategy and tactics. That is what I have trained for. He must not yet have determined the full breadth of his own plans – but their scope must be enormous, for him to have taken such time.
A week of empty pages followed, and then another entry:
Does he not trust me? He knows of my skills. He knows I know more of him than any other. I walked into Chaos for him. I grappled with his own desire for mortality given form. I know of, even if I do not know, his desires, his thoughts, what he knows of his past. Have I not earned his trust with my service? Is my love not proof enough of my loyalty?
Two more days, then:
I will not believe it. My agents lie. I train apprentices for him. I lead armies for him. I stand in for him to listen to the shouts of politicians. I have slain Jedi for him, and all manner of enemies. He would not cast me aside for some shapeshifting little schutta.
The next entry came four days afterwards:
What could he need her for? Does she have something he requires? But what does she have? A worthless backwater, full of the same mindless beasts found everywhere in the galaxy? A primitive tribe of shapeshifting zealots? True, Shi’ido shapeshifters would be indispensible as assassins and spies – but how indispensible?
Turning over the page, Rayden found that the entire next half month of entries had been replaced with a cross over each page. The entries finally resumed two months before the Second Union Civil War.
How does a Queen become a player? It doesn’t. It never can. No matter what its power, it is still a piece on the board, to be moved at the player’s whim. Powerful, yes. Indispensable, yes. But the player can always start another match if he loses his Queen.
Half a week later, the next entry simply read as follows:
He wants to die. He always has. Does he intend for me to kill him?
And another entry, the very next day:
We still sit on our hands. We could attack at any time. Our power is as solidified as we can make it. The longer we wait to build up the fleet, the larger the Alliance fleet grows in turn. We need action, before we lose what little momentum remains to us and the Union begins to stagnate. What is he waiting for?
A week and a few days of blank pages, and then:
He does not plan. Is this all he wants? To cavort with that braying Dubesor? To wipe away those fat crocodile tears of hers as she recites, endlessly and mercilessly, about how powerful her goddess is? How pristine her planet, how harmonious her people, how horrific her past tragedies? I take solace in the fact he likely cares nothing for it – even if he truly cares for her, how many times must he have heard the same story in his life? An uneducated, self-obsessed schutta – if that is his choice, I will make him live with it. But he has chosen her over the Union. We built it through fire and blood. We took what is ours from the fools that oppose us through force, through intellect, through cunning. He may choose to discard it, but I will not let it crumble in his absence.
The next entry was penned two days afterwards:
Is my duty to rise up and take his power for myself? Certainly, it has been tradition for a thousand years under the Rule of Two; and before that, it was standard for the stronger Sith to rise in ranks by slaying their superiors when they were no longer strong enough to suppress them. Xaos himself seized power from Groznii and killed him in the first Schism. Sith history is one of blood and betrayal. Am I to be the next in that line?
Still he does nothing. Still he is content to sit and entertain her while the Union falters. I could provide the action we need – but does he expect that? Is that why he has turned away from me? Is he trying to spur my hand? But this Union was built on the unity of its Brotherhood, and were we to turn against each other the Alliance would swiftly exploit and destroy us.
And yet, were to stay as we are, they shall simply siege us as they normally would.
The next entry, five days later, gave Rayden an oddly chilling sense of finality as he read it, and recognized it to be the turning point in the dead Sith Lady’s thoughts:
He has sent her away, to cower in her backwater. He has not come to me. He has the time, but he does not. I do not know what it is that he does. If he makes plans, he does not share them. He trains little. The momentum of the Union is all but finished. He has made his choice. He has chosen her over the Union. He has chosen to seclude himself rather than continue to build. Perhaps he has decided he is tired of this latest distraction from his own mortality; perhaps he intends to lull the Alliance into a false sense of superiority. But if that is the case, he has told no others; not his brutish ‘old friend’, not his protégé farmboy, not his pet Admiral. We sit and wait under the guise of consolidating borders, negotiating alliances, or building resources.
The Union is stagnating. Does he mean to force my hand? I do not know. Perhaps I never shall. It is no longer relevant. If he means for me to force his next death, then I shall do so. He would cast me aside. He would cast aside the Union. I will not let that happen. The Union must prevail – and I know now that it can no longer under him. He has built something mighty, but the blacksmith does not wield the blade he has forged. I will do what I must.
Rayden flipped to the following entry a week after, a month before the Civil War – then flipped past it, noting that the handwriting became even more exquisite the closer to the war they got, and the entries slowly came faster and closer together. Returning to the entry, he continued reading:
Xaos must die a true death. He remains the same man, regardless of his body. Were I to kill him, he would simply return, strike me down, and resume control of the Union. I could never hope to match him directly – I can match the strongest Jedi Master, but none save Skywalker could ever equal Xaos. He commands the love of the Union, he commands all of its people, its soldiers, its machines. But therein lies his weakness – he commands everything. Remove him from command, and it will leave a void behind. But how do you kill a man who cannot die?
In Chaos, I confronted his shade: the manifestation of his desire to die. Before I struck it down, it spoke to me. Among other laments and pleas, it mentioned Ziost. It never said the significance – but surely there must be some. Does his mortality lie locked beneath its frozen wastes? Why else would the shade have spoken of it? Perhaps I will not find the key there, but surely there must be some form of clue. The Dark Side did this to him – even on a dark, ancient planet such as Ziost, I am powerful enough to locate anything that there is to find. I leave in the morning.
On the fourth day after that entry, Rayden found the next one:
I have it. On a moon, hidden in a cave, among the bones of a Noghri tribe – the remains of a Sith device. I do not know the secret of its workings yet, but I shall soon. The device seemed to hold some religious significance for the tribe – their bones still guarded it, risen by their spirits. I lost several men before I ended them personally.
Flipping the page over, Rayden found the next entry had been written the following day:
I have it. I have Xaos’ death. I found it quickly; a lesser person would call it chance, but I knew what I was searching for. A ritual, the undoing of both a Dark Lord and Jedi Master – such a thing has happened once before. What I must do now is determine how to end him. His death will not come swiftly – in the time it would take for his soul to finally unravel, he could more than strike me down. He must be fought – perhaps even to another death. I cannot say for certain if he will waste, or if he will simply become as a true mortal. Whatever the truth, I have only one course open to me. I could, perhaps, hold him for a time, but I could never kill him outright, and I cannot even say if I could hold him long enough for him to waste. I cannot risk it. There is only one person who can match Xaos. Perhaps the Force will smile on me, and both will die at each other’s hands.
Two days later came the next entry:
But what to do after his death? The military will follow their Executor, yes. And if that Executor is the Consul, they will have no choice. The politicians will protest, but they will fall into line if the Chair orders it, and the military demands it. The people may resist – but in new hands, Xaos’ own propaganda machine will tell them what they wish to hear. He will die a hero to them, fighting heroically against an oppressor. The true obstacle is the Brotherhood. They must not fracture, or else the Alliance will split us. As the Brotherhood is the heart of the Union, so is the Dark Lord the heart of the Brotherhood. Were I to simply have Xaos killed and take his position, they would attempt to strike me down in turn and brand me a traitor. I must have them support me. This above all else is crucial.
The next day, the next:
If Xaos were to die now, the Union would be his legacy. It would be foolish to assume he does not know this. Even for an immortal man who does not concern himself with his own end, for a mind such as his he cannot help but wonder what would happen if he were to die now. I wonder: would he so long for death if I were to take away his legacy when he dies?
And after the next day, the next:
I have speculated since my last entry. Many ways are closed. Were I to claim rights to the throne, the other members of the Council would oppose me. Military might alone could not crush the Brotherhood, they would simply hide – and even if I succeeded, I would only break the Union in so doing. Were I to claim the throne under the principles of the Rule of Two, or cite any amount of Sith history, they would cry havoc; they believe that because we are a new Brotherhood that the old ways are no longer valid.
Fools. Who are they, who shun their own history?
Two days, then:
The key is Lucifer. The apprentices, were the Council to be removed, would fall into line. The Knights in turn would follow. But, as it stands, the Masters will always oppose me, no matter my course. And all the Masters would stand behind Lucifer.
I cannot help but laugh at the thought of the brute ruling. His hubris blinds him – he thinks that because he can kill a man, he can kill a government, and kill the concept behind that government. He thinks that because he can scare an enemy, he can win their hearts, their minds. He thinks that because he can win a battle, he can win a war. He is a cruel jape beset upon this galaxy. Were he to assume power, his reign would be marked by power struggles; he lacks Xaos’ charisma, the strength of will to keep them all in line, and to command their respect, their fear, their admiration, and their dedication. But the Council would flock behind him. The Witch would never support me; such is her way. And I would sooner see her dead than retain her position as Overseer, to squander Union resources on her pathetic veneer of civilization. The farmboy would always stand behind Lucifer. He can command, but he will never lead. He lacks the will, and the drive. The Tusken does not care who the Council supports, only that they support them. And even if the Pureblood were to drag his focus away from his planet and to the galaxy beyond his pitiful ‘empire’, he holds no power with which to sway change either way. Lucifer must be removed. Exile would never work – he would simply launch his own self-righteous crusade, and the Council would seek him out and march behind him. He must die. How?
The contempt seemed to drip out of the page like a viscous liquid. Two more days passed, and on the third:
Lucifer must die at my hand. It is the only way. I can secure military command, political command, and propaganda command; all that remains is command of the Brotherhood. Skywalker could match Lucifer – but even with his desire for revenge, the brute would not seek to hunt Skywalker until his own power was consolidated, and he would not leave the Union unheaded for long to seek him. I must kill him myself. Even despite our desire to be a new Brotherhood, the old adage is still true for us – the strongest rule. If I show I am stronger than Lucifer, I will show myself stronger than all who might challenge me, and show that I have the strength, the drive, the power needed to rule. What members of the Brotherhood do not bend, I will break in turn.
He would seek me out across any battlefield, so I must prepare to face him as such. There is only one way I could match him. Twenty years ago, the Disciples of Ragnos discovered the Scepter of Marka Ragnos. With it, they could siphon the Force from strong concentrations and imbue it into single beings. The Scepter has been lost – where it is, even the Jedi do not know. It slipped from their hands when they fled in terror from the Yuuzhan Vong advance. I do not know where it might be, but I must find it. With its power, with the Force concentrated in me, I could swat the brute as I might a fly. There will even be a ready-made source of power for me to draw on. I must begin to prepare. Xaos’ pet admiral has already been sent away to guard a dead rock; in his absence, I can move freely and gather the support of the military. Everything must be in place before Xaos dies. I do not know when, but I must be ready. I cannot afford to risk my hand being forced prematurely. We will find the Scepter, and as we do so, we will prepare.
The next week-and-two-days of pages were blank. When he finally found the next entry, Rayden could almost feel the triumph radiating out of the page.
This is my destiny. It must be. The galaxy repeats in cycles. The Jedi rise. In turn, the Sith rise. They clash. The Jedi fall, and the Sith rise higher – and, at the apex of their glory, they are extinguished, allowing the Jedi to rise once more, as the Sith recover in the shadows. So it has been for five thousand years. So it has been for the empires of history. The galaxy is cyclical.
I have found the Scepter. The same place where the Disciples found it – Commenor. What more proof does one need? Millions of worlds, and it is found there; I was meant to have it. The galaxy cycles, and I am meant to cast down Xaos and take his position. Will I be cast down in turn? Perhaps – but only if I do not break the cycle. The Union, the Brotherhood, already we fight to cast of the chains of history and remake ourselves anew. Were I to cast down Xaos, were I to take his place – at the head of the Union, at the head of the New Sith Brotherhood, I would be a Dark Lord unlike any other before me. If that alone does not end the pattern, I will find some other way to shatter it. I will not be cast down. I cannot. The Union has been forged, and now it needs its wielder. There is none better than I. When I grip the handle, I will grind a new edge – and those who protest, I will hone back into line. Perhaps I shall have to sharpen a new point – some changes may need to be made, even if they are reversed later. The Hutts would support me were I to quietly give them a new source of slaves and turn a blind eye. I wonder: how much would the versatility of a shapeshifting slave be worth?
Another day passed, and then, on the second:
I am ready. Within the week, Xaos dies.
How long is his life, I wonder? How long has he longed for the freedom of mortality, for the taste of death? He does not understand. How can an immortal man understand what it is to die? He wishes for the taste of true freedom. I shall show him its bite. I can do nothing now but wait, and let Skywalker do as he will.
The next sets of pages were blank. Flipping through them, Rayden found the next entry – a week and a day before the Civil War began. It read simply:
It is done. My only regret is that I could not choke the life out of his latest Queen before he died.
The next day’s entry was more descriptive:
They have his body. I estimate a week. They will entomb him on New Bethrezen, and then they will deliberate. They will debate, they will talk, they will determine new positions, and they will decide how to approach the rest of the Union with their choices. In the end, they will elect Lucifer. Reaver would suit the throne more. No – Marda would. Perhaps, were Marda here, this would be different. But even I do not know where he treads now. Reaver will decline the throne, and Lucifer will seat himself upon it, declaring himself worthy.
Pitiful fool.
At the end of this week, I move. I will recover Xaos’ body – I know the secrets of the catacombs. I had a passage constructed myself, unknown to even him. The Scepter is damaged, but repaired enough to function correctly. All that remains is the battlefield for this coming war.
Three days between that and the next.
Korriban. It will be the key. With his people dead and his planet scorched, Lucifer’s rage will draw him straight to me. I will bring the Brotherhood there – but I will be merciful. There is no need to cross blades when words will suffice. All of them will be given the same offer: prove their loyalty, and bow to me. If they do, they shall come to no harm. If they do not, they will bend when I break their Lord. And if they do not, I will break them in turn. They will come to Korriban, so arrogant in assuming they know my intent, my plan. My best men will keep the Scepter safe, and warn me if it is in danger. So it will be with Xaos’ body. They will come to Korriban, and then flee when they realize they stand on the field of my choosing. When they learn the fleet is mine, they will flee to New Bethrezen, and attempt to hold and kill me.
And when they do, they will realize how much stronger I have grown since they fled from me. And in the sight of all the Union, I will rip out the Brotherhood’s chosen heart, crush it, and show them the true power of the Dark Side.
The final entry came the day before the Civil War began. It read as follows:
It is time.