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Old 10-21-2011, 12:45 AM   #1
The Rhythm Schism
The_Catto's Avatar
Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: New South Wales, Australia.
Posts: 1,200
Current Game: KotOR
Contest winner - Fan Fiction 
[Shortie] - A Tired Enquire to a Satire Type Entree.

If the title is anything to go by, I have nothing for when it comes to this piece of .... writing..... I guess you could call it.

I won't keep you any longer. Read and make of it what you will!

================================================== =========

In death,
Shall walk,
Free from sight.

Twas with,
Clear heart,
Thee shall fight.

In Force,
And sense,
Of what to come.

In death,
Shall walk,
Free from none.

Zara walked down the darkened hallway and shivered at the thought of what was coming.

It seemed fit, she thought, that the end would be where it all began; where the cliché road of bittersweet memories cross with deluded perception of a realists train of thought gone horribly wrong. It was always a dream, she realised. Of what she thought she knew, of whom she thought had walked alongside her. It was all fake. All surreal.

Sacrifice was something she knew of not. It was a gift to some, but to most a curse. A curse in which Zara suffered most of all, but gave no heed to the thought.

Perhaps in that is what gave her strength. Some may speculate; others sneer, but one thing cannot, and will not, be taken for granted.

Zara was going to die.

She knew this. She knew that with every step, her doom came closer.

But still she walked onwards.

“Alas it is time, though not for the wine,” she whispered as she stepped into another hallway.

This one was darker than the last, but it seemed to her that the darkness gave itself light.

In how this thinking she could not understand, but with one swift flick of her pale white hand, she lit the torch of that to see, and what she saw gave shivers. To her. To you. To me.

The walls were of grime. No shape, no rhythm, no voice and no rhyme. Just dirt and muck.

Her footsteps echoed loudly amongst the acoustics of the hall. It sounded ominous.

Lately, her thoughts drifted on this place, and she knew that somehow she would have to come back. Kreia had been right all along. About some things at least.

“I knew not then as to what I know now,” said Zara, “but the reason as to why I not know how.”

“You seem to be lost,” came a voice from shadow. It was a dark voice. A voice that belonged in the deep, deep below.

“My path is hidden from me,” said Zara, “please forgive the pun. I hope comedic release does not deter you from your fun.”

Sion stepped out of the shadows and eyed her with distasting admiration.

“No,” he said. “For you, Jedi, Exile, my fun will not be deterred. I, unlike you, cannot die if you care to have remembered.”

“Oh I remembered,” said Zara, igniting her bright blue blade. “You tell me every time we meet, but just remember this: no assassin’s now shall come to your aid.”

The red and blue clashed in a deathly hue. Sion stared at Zara.

“Need them, I do not,” he replied as he struck the first blow.

* * *

The fight lasted only twenty minutes. It seemed an Age to the two combatants, but alas, it was not so. Sion, the Sith Tragedy, and Zara the Jedi Exile, fought against each other for the love of but one master. Neither knew this, for both seemed keenly intent on just striking down the other, but if one was to look closely, one would notice the subtleties in how they matched and complemented each other’s movements.

An ironic thing love is. It can build empires, topple governments, and given the chance, love will give its final gift and spill the blood of the Galaxy into a black hole, forever lost.

But to lose in love, is to lose one’s sense of self.

“No- this…cannot…be!” stammered Sion as he fell to one knee. He clung to his breast, trying to breathe his last breath, not wanting the Exile to see -that for all of his power; his spirit would begin to cower, for Death had finally come back for him to take him into eternity.

“You forget Lord Sion, Dark Lord of the Sith,” said Zara, “that these words will strike down with all of your beloved tears of hate and still this! for life outside will go on, but for you it will abate, and I will be here to witness.

“Your time is ended, you are about to be blended with the thing that you despise the most. I feel sorry for you, and I will honour you with Love, not lost within a soul and no cost. Go now, be at peace, but still remember this: You will die, but we shall meet again in due course. In the nothingness. In the black. In the Void. In the Force.


Sion’s Will faded into the past and no victorious tunes came to mind. Because for Zara, this was not a victory, nor was it a loss, it was a sad beginning of an end of everything that she cleaved to most. For Zara, it was standing in front of a mirror, a future reflection of what she will turn to be, if she could not stand strong.

That realization in itself is just so wrong.

“If I am to die,” she said, “then I die with peace upon my heart and soul. I am sorry, Sion. I am truly sorry.”

* * *

Zara stood and watched the body fade away. Bearing it unto the demise.

It seemed so long ago where she stood at the entrance to the Ebon Hawk on Dantooine. Watching the blades of grass ripple in the soft wind. It was peaceful there. Serene.

Now, her surroundings were anything but.

Death. Destruction. Fire. Truth.

It was as if everything that bore down upon her shoulders had suddenly lifted, but instead of disappearing, it resolved in a reality and tore at her in every which way until she wanted to scream. This place, these people, they were nothing to her. The universe is power, and she was the epitome of it all, but lo! With a crack of a whip, a tremble of her lip, it was all gone. She had nothing.

Was nothing.


“There, there, Exile, all is not lost…”

Zara looked up and noticed she had finally found her way into the Throne Room. And there stood her old master. The strongly frail frame of Kreia was standing in the very center, staring at her with those lifeless eyes.

Zara tilted her gaze. “I thought I said for you to get out of my head, because if not I would strike you down one of these days?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Kreia with a wave of her hand, “but if I do that however will I stand to hear you go on and on again! I know all the answers, I know all the riddles, and I know what lurks in your broken black heart.”

“For you to know that, you’d have to have felt the same for before the very start.” Zara countered.

“Maybe,” said Kreia. “But as one would say to the teacher to a pupil, a mother to a daughter, an atom to atom; we are not so different, in every way possible, but still one thing is amiss. We may share thoughts, we may share pain, but you are to me, like a snake is to its hiss.”

“Meaning we are but one thing together?”

“Of course not, foolish child. Demented and twisted thoughts unbound! You are nothing to me but a tool. A means to an end.”

“And a fitting end it is,” said Zara.

Kreia stared at her and smiled. “Indeed,” she said.

Blades were unsheathed and sparks crackled and all was lost to sound. For tempers at seethed, chains unshackled and any and all thoughts of injury were thrown to the ground.

The master was launched into the very core of the planet in which had spawned her. And to make matters sore, her face was no more and her voice would forever go unheard.

A fitting end.

A tragic end.

Just another bittersweet memory.

And now thou must ask thee…..

Picture this ghastly attempt at poetical bliss.
And delve into the twisted realm of perpetual reminisce.
To consider, you may be mad as a Hatter they’d say,
But of course that doesn’t matter,
As it stems from the liquid of day.

In Malachor,
Where Hope hides.
Where shadows rule,
Entwined with evermore,
Where fear, hate and Death reside.

In death,
Shall walk,
Free from sight.

Twas with,
Clear heart,
Thee shall fight.

In Force,
And sense,
Of what to come.

In death,
Shall walk,
Free from none.


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