Darth Jadus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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sekkritaus2019-03-02 12:22 pm
jadus) wrote in sekkritaus2019-03-02 12:22 pm
What if SWTOR was canon, AKA Poe vs. Miniature Cthulhu
He had read the signs, seen the inevitable diminution. Could he rule such a galaxy? Perhaps. But it would break him to try, and he would not permit this. Remaining in the shadows too would be pointless. Instead, he would travel to a most secluded vault, hidden on a planet deep within the Stygian Caldera, the dense and treacherous nebula that had once protected the Sith Empire.
He left final gifts to his most faithful, and then sealed himself in, alone. His armor joined with the machines within. Cold, stinging fumes hissed into his mask, and every breath came slower. His heart beat twenty times in a minute.
Twelve.
Two.
None.
His mind persisted. It was almost free of his body, almost what it should be, but the cold still touched it as well, slowing his thoughts to the scale of decades. The galaxy seemed to roil with life and pain and fear, shimmering with ceaseless change. At first, it was overwhelming.
But there were patterns. He could not yet describe their form nor predict their course. They were intriguing. And he had so much time to study them.
He was oblivious to the smaller, briefer things around him. He stared unblinking through three and a half thousand years. His presence in the Force seemed to almost have melded with the land itself, his presence had so thoroughly tainted it over the centuries. But he remained at its center, deathly still yet somehow living.
No one had found him since his servants had departed, and so undisturbed his meditation could persist for eons more.
In this millennium, a new speck of nothingness swallowed the foundations of Light and Dark alike, returning them to primordial flux. He watched the remains, but there were few stirrings in the darkness to explain it. An event in passing. But it slowed his thoughts with consideration.
In this century, he watched the formless Light rise in brittle spires, rot through, and suddenly shatter. A mass of Dark spilled forth curling into grand but overwrought and fleeting designs.
In these twenty years, something died. It did not collapse into void, it did not let out the long cry of grinding, cruel downfall. It flashed, its scream so brief he only heard its echoes. The Dark around it fed mindlessly on it, but there was no will to shape it further. He was now so vast and uncaring, but even he could reach out with slow sieving grasp and catch those echoes, draw them out into filaments of pure, glimmering fire. In its glimmering, he saw the forms of great and distant things.
In this year, the fire flared again. It sang a chord for only the briefest moment, and again, echoed. In this flash he saw again, and it was as he had desired.
In this month, the shock of seeing had been too much to sustain. He reeled back into cold, into something forgotten.
And in these lengthening days, he grew to dim awareness: something crawled along his surfaces.
He did not see the smooth black curves of his vault, or hear the voices it stole to whisper with. It had done this before, and each time it brought conflict and ruin to the bare rock above, the caves it nested in, the door it had refused to open.
He left final gifts to his most faithful, and then sealed himself in, alone. His armor joined with the machines within. Cold, stinging fumes hissed into his mask, and every breath came slower. His heart beat twenty times in a minute.
Twelve.
Two.
None.
His mind persisted. It was almost free of his body, almost what it should be, but the cold still touched it as well, slowing his thoughts to the scale of decades. The galaxy seemed to roil with life and pain and fear, shimmering with ceaseless change. At first, it was overwhelming.
But there were patterns. He could not yet describe their form nor predict their course. They were intriguing. And he had so much time to study them.
He was oblivious to the smaller, briefer things around him. He stared unblinking through three and a half thousand years. His presence in the Force seemed to almost have melded with the land itself, his presence had so thoroughly tainted it over the centuries. But he remained at its center, deathly still yet somehow living.
No one had found him since his servants had departed, and so undisturbed his meditation could persist for eons more.
In this millennium, a new speck of nothingness swallowed the foundations of Light and Dark alike, returning them to primordial flux. He watched the remains, but there were few stirrings in the darkness to explain it. An event in passing. But it slowed his thoughts with consideration.
In this century, he watched the formless Light rise in brittle spires, rot through, and suddenly shatter. A mass of Dark spilled forth curling into grand but overwrought and fleeting designs.
In these twenty years, something died. It did not collapse into void, it did not let out the long cry of grinding, cruel downfall. It flashed, its scream so brief he only heard its echoes. The Dark around it fed mindlessly on it, but there was no will to shape it further. He was now so vast and uncaring, but even he could reach out with slow sieving grasp and catch those echoes, draw them out into filaments of pure, glimmering fire. In its glimmering, he saw the forms of great and distant things.
In this year, the fire flared again. It sang a chord for only the briefest moment, and again, echoed. In this flash he saw again, and it was as he had desired.
In this month, the shock of seeing had been too much to sustain. He reeled back into cold, into something forgotten.
And in these lengthening days, he grew to dim awareness: something crawled along his surfaces.
He did not see the smooth black curves of his vault, or hear the voices it stole to whisper with. It had done this before, and each time it brought conflict and ruin to the bare rock above, the caves it nested in, the door it had refused to open.